Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Joker's Wild ❯ 2 ( Chapter 2 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Faia Saiyajin 
Anime/Manga: Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Adventure / Action | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.15.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 2.0K | Visits: 301 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Adventure / Action | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.15.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 2.0K | Visits: 301 | Status: Completed
"I really don't think this is going to work, Jet." Spike grimaced. He leaned forward on the Swordfish's controls, tapping his fingers against the dash. "This is a wild stunt, considering it's coming out of you and meant for me to pull off."
Jet merely chuckled. Waiting beside him, in the red-velour roped line, was Ms. Valentine, looking as glamorous as ever. Clinging to her like a second skin, the shimmering silver dress, with its slit up to her hip, and plunging neckline, attracted the eyes of all the men in line. Her white stiletto sandals added a good 5 inches to her height, the slit of the dress hanging in just the right way to show off more than just her nice calves. Looking elitist in the only way Faye could, she was poised, playing her part of a spoiled playgirl very well. One red-nailed hand rested against the curve of her hip, holding the white clutch bag firmly, the other twisted the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. Her lips hadn't left the tight rosebud pout, and she stood unusually close to Jet.
He had forgone the classy white suit he reserved for dressing up occasions. Despite his strange clothes, Jet looked as if he had been born in them. They screamed 'Pimp-in-training'. They weren't exactly the typical boisterous getup of outrageous colors and diamond-studded jewelry that came to mind with the word pimp. It came close, though. Black trousers, in a more modern, loose cut, slouched over white wingtips. His white shirt, with a narrow collar, was baggy, the cuffs insisting that they wanted to reach his knuckles, instead of staying put at his wrists. The top three buttons were undone, and he wore no tie, to show the gold costume cross on a thick gold chain. Over that he wore a long coat of decent-looking imitation leather, the collar a fuzzy leopard print. On his head was a black fedora, the band matching the leopard-print collar on the coat. He stood half-slouched, his cybernetic hand in his pocket, the other hand twisting a heavy signet ring of costume jewelry around his forefinger. An arrogant smirk was comfortably resting on his lips, and he kept glancing at Faye, looking possessive and amused, over the dark sunglasses that rested low on his nose. All in all, Jet pulled off the look very well. To everyone in the crowded rope line, he was a high roller out to play with his favorite young toy.
Slick Mr. Black lifted the hat off his head to smooth the hair at the back of his head. "Can it." He nearly growled into the mic concealed behind the cuff of his right wrist. Spike had complained the same way, before they'd left the Bebop for the hip nightclub on Mars.
"You could at least let me do it. You look funny."
Jet was standing in the center of the room, Faye tugging at his clothes, making sure they fit properly. She shot him a look over Jet's shoulder, as she arranged the collar of the jacket. "I told you. They didn't have anything in your size. Besides, Jet looks like a pimp. You look more like a punk. No one would believe it if you two switched."
Both men were scarlet, either from embarrassment or anger. "You know…" He raised a finger, and getting ready to shake it angrily at Faye, when Jet cut in. They'd used the last of their stash to purchase the new duds they would wear. This had to go off without a hitch, or, to coin the phrase; they'd be up shit's crick.
"She's right. If we're going to get this guy," He set the hat on his head, practicing his look, with a grin. "We gotta play it cool, baby."
Grumbling curses around the cigarette in his mouth, Spike unfolded his lean frame from the Swordfish's cockpit. Tossing the key to the valet, he glared at everyone he passed, which included his partners. Faye was the prostitute, Jet the pimp, and he… well, Mr. Spike Spiegel was the diversion. Black boots, pleather pants that were almost as tight as Faye's dress, and, the crowning glory, the item that Spike hated most of all in his wardrobe, a tight black, sleeveless, mesh shirt. He was even forced to brush and slick his hair back, and wear a black bandanna. Actually, it was the front to a t-shirt. A normal bandanna wasn't big enough to contain his mallard-green hair when it wanted to do its own thing. It was his job to get into the club, and lay low. Jet and Faye would get chummy with the bounty, a Mr. Jesus Silver, in their own ways, until the given signal. Then Spike would start his diversionary tactics. A drunken, lecherous, violent young customer would make several passes at Faye, trying to secure her for his own ways and means. Of course, by then Jesus would have put up for advance payment for Faye. If things went well, not only would they have a few extra Woolongs, but also the fight Spike would start would create enough mayhem for Jet and Faye to grab Jesus and run.
"This isn't worth it…" He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling more than exposed. He scowled at the heavy gothic-styled rings that were on almost all of his fingers. He did some more scowling, over the rims of his black wire-frame glasses, complete with blue lenses. Even if he didn't want to be, Spike was playing his character perfectly well. "Not even for the 60,000." Taking his place at the back of the line, he waited with the other eager patrons for Lyon's Den to open.
Faye's irritated, yet doll-baby-innocent look matched the thoughts in her head. The people here were disgusting. All young adults, drooling like eager dogs, to get into the club. There were others like 'her' in line, pretty young things on the arms of older men, who had no interest in the ravers and clubbers around them. All they wanted to do was make sure their dates left happy and drunk. Or even better, that they left with a high-paying customer. She wanted nothing more than to get this over with. Sure, using her woman's charms to rein in a bounty was nothing new to her, but this was an all-time low. At least she didn't look as cheap as the other women. They all wore miniskirts of vinyl or pants that look like they'd been painted on. Of course, a certain pair of yellow hot pants didn't come to mind… *Well, at least I look classy…* After their slimy kingpin was sitting safely in prison, and the 60 thousand was in the bank account, would Faye be able to relax. She could already hear the click of 500-dollar chips and the crisp sound of shuffled, dealt cards. That Championship would easy money. After all, she was 'Poker Alice', wasn't she? Okay, so maybe the real Poker Alice never cheated, but then again, times had changed, and these times were trying on a girl.
The line was slowly creeping forward, as the place finally opened its doors. Jet and Faye were somewhere to the left of the middle, and Spike was surely way in the back. She sighed. It'd take another two or three hours just to get the trap set up.
An unseen dip in the pavement didn't mix well with her stilettos, and Faye stumbled, nearly going face-first into the pavement. That is, if it weren't for Jet. He caught her before she made a total ass of herself, setting her back on her feet, his hands firmly gripping her shoulders. She hoped she didn't look as disheveled as she felt. Tossing her head lightly, to fix her hair, Faye straightened her dress, avoiding eye contact with the people ahead of her. They'd turned around to eye the woman who almost toppled to the ground. Jet covered.
"Take it easy, sweetheart. I know you're anxious, but damn…" He 'dusted' off her shoulders, stepping back to admire her over his glasses. Making sure that the crowd caught the look, and the way his eyebrows vanished under his hat in a suggestive bob, Jet pulled a cigar from his breast pocket with his left hand.
If she were a cat, she would have been bristling. First she trips, and now he was making pseudo-passes at her? Even if this was just pretend, the notion of it was uncomfortably infuriating. Faye forced a sweet smile, and withdrew a shiny silver lighter from her purse. Jet lit his cigar with the flame it produced, winking. This elicited another hushed chuckle and ripple of whispers from those closest to him. She wanted to scream, but for the sake of the job, instead took Jet's arm, digging her fingernails sharply into the sleeve of his left bicep, hoping to get at some of the skin under the clothing.
When and if he felt the bite of Faye's nails in his arm, Jet didn't react. He instead stared straight ahead, watching everything and nothing at the same time, as fragrant smoke from the cigar in his teeth wreathed his head. *I have a feeling I'm going to live to regret this…*
Further back in line, Spike was enjoying his task about as much as Faye was. He blended in well with the men, save for the ready posture that Jeet Kune Do training had given him. He slumped against the wall, smoking yet another cigarette, casting a glare at anyone who dared look at him twice. Even trying to look casual, Spike had a permanent air of being always at the ready. Ready to kick ass, ready to take names, and ready to give this whole ordeal up and find some decent clothes… He rubbed his forehead frantically, his face screwed up. This bandanna was getting ridiculously itchy, the skin of his legs would peel off when he finally extricated himself from these pants, and this shirt… oh Jesus did this shirt have to go… Spike rolled his eyes, getting an unfortunate eyeful of bright blue neon from the sign overhead. Ignoring the spots that now swam in his vision, Spike dropped the cigarette, shuffling forward with the rest of the sheep. *I don't know who I'm going to kill first. Faye, for talking Jet into this, or Jet, for talking ME into this…* He growled, and scratched furiously at the itch that ran the length of his hairline, the whole bandanna shifting up and down as he tried to get rid of the annoyance. Finally, he just pulled the whole thing off, and tossed it into the street with one hand, fluffing up his hair with the other. "Good riddance to bad rubbish. Blech." Now that he was on a roll, headed for the sweet land of comfort, Spike wasn't about to stop.
Poke poke. "Pardon."
"Hm?"
WHAM!
The young man whose shirt Spike had been admiring went down without complaint, and Spike helped himself to the spoils. It was silk, now there was a perk, a pattern of stylized flames across the bottom hem. Still, overtly tacky for our conservative Mr. Spiegel, but it was better than this women's hosiery gone horribly wrong he'd been forced to wear. Exchanging one for the other, buttoning the short-sleeved dress shirt hastily, Spike ignored the unconscious, half-dressed man, as the rest of the people made a wide detour around him. When questioning looks were cast in his direction, Spike merely shrugged, as if it were no big deal. He lit a cigarette, as the line moved forward enough so that the crowd swallowed up the man whose shirt he'd just swiped.
His cigarette waggled as he talked. "Now for some pants…"
The stranger two people ahead of him, in comfortable-looking jeans, fainted dead away.
Jet merely chuckled. Waiting beside him, in the red-velour roped line, was Ms. Valentine, looking as glamorous as ever. Clinging to her like a second skin, the shimmering silver dress, with its slit up to her hip, and plunging neckline, attracted the eyes of all the men in line. Her white stiletto sandals added a good 5 inches to her height, the slit of the dress hanging in just the right way to show off more than just her nice calves. Looking elitist in the only way Faye could, she was poised, playing her part of a spoiled playgirl very well. One red-nailed hand rested against the curve of her hip, holding the white clutch bag firmly, the other twisted the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. Her lips hadn't left the tight rosebud pout, and she stood unusually close to Jet.
He had forgone the classy white suit he reserved for dressing up occasions. Despite his strange clothes, Jet looked as if he had been born in them. They screamed 'Pimp-in-training'. They weren't exactly the typical boisterous getup of outrageous colors and diamond-studded jewelry that came to mind with the word pimp. It came close, though. Black trousers, in a more modern, loose cut, slouched over white wingtips. His white shirt, with a narrow collar, was baggy, the cuffs insisting that they wanted to reach his knuckles, instead of staying put at his wrists. The top three buttons were undone, and he wore no tie, to show the gold costume cross on a thick gold chain. Over that he wore a long coat of decent-looking imitation leather, the collar a fuzzy leopard print. On his head was a black fedora, the band matching the leopard-print collar on the coat. He stood half-slouched, his cybernetic hand in his pocket, the other hand twisting a heavy signet ring of costume jewelry around his forefinger. An arrogant smirk was comfortably resting on his lips, and he kept glancing at Faye, looking possessive and amused, over the dark sunglasses that rested low on his nose. All in all, Jet pulled off the look very well. To everyone in the crowded rope line, he was a high roller out to play with his favorite young toy.
Slick Mr. Black lifted the hat off his head to smooth the hair at the back of his head. "Can it." He nearly growled into the mic concealed behind the cuff of his right wrist. Spike had complained the same way, before they'd left the Bebop for the hip nightclub on Mars.
"You could at least let me do it. You look funny."
Jet was standing in the center of the room, Faye tugging at his clothes, making sure they fit properly. She shot him a look over Jet's shoulder, as she arranged the collar of the jacket. "I told you. They didn't have anything in your size. Besides, Jet looks like a pimp. You look more like a punk. No one would believe it if you two switched."
Both men were scarlet, either from embarrassment or anger. "You know…" He raised a finger, and getting ready to shake it angrily at Faye, when Jet cut in. They'd used the last of their stash to purchase the new duds they would wear. This had to go off without a hitch, or, to coin the phrase; they'd be up shit's crick.
"She's right. If we're going to get this guy," He set the hat on his head, practicing his look, with a grin. "We gotta play it cool, baby."
Grumbling curses around the cigarette in his mouth, Spike unfolded his lean frame from the Swordfish's cockpit. Tossing the key to the valet, he glared at everyone he passed, which included his partners. Faye was the prostitute, Jet the pimp, and he… well, Mr. Spike Spiegel was the diversion. Black boots, pleather pants that were almost as tight as Faye's dress, and, the crowning glory, the item that Spike hated most of all in his wardrobe, a tight black, sleeveless, mesh shirt. He was even forced to brush and slick his hair back, and wear a black bandanna. Actually, it was the front to a t-shirt. A normal bandanna wasn't big enough to contain his mallard-green hair when it wanted to do its own thing. It was his job to get into the club, and lay low. Jet and Faye would get chummy with the bounty, a Mr. Jesus Silver, in their own ways, until the given signal. Then Spike would start his diversionary tactics. A drunken, lecherous, violent young customer would make several passes at Faye, trying to secure her for his own ways and means. Of course, by then Jesus would have put up for advance payment for Faye. If things went well, not only would they have a few extra Woolongs, but also the fight Spike would start would create enough mayhem for Jet and Faye to grab Jesus and run.
"This isn't worth it…" He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling more than exposed. He scowled at the heavy gothic-styled rings that were on almost all of his fingers. He did some more scowling, over the rims of his black wire-frame glasses, complete with blue lenses. Even if he didn't want to be, Spike was playing his character perfectly well. "Not even for the 60,000." Taking his place at the back of the line, he waited with the other eager patrons for Lyon's Den to open.
Faye's irritated, yet doll-baby-innocent look matched the thoughts in her head. The people here were disgusting. All young adults, drooling like eager dogs, to get into the club. There were others like 'her' in line, pretty young things on the arms of older men, who had no interest in the ravers and clubbers around them. All they wanted to do was make sure their dates left happy and drunk. Or even better, that they left with a high-paying customer. She wanted nothing more than to get this over with. Sure, using her woman's charms to rein in a bounty was nothing new to her, but this was an all-time low. At least she didn't look as cheap as the other women. They all wore miniskirts of vinyl or pants that look like they'd been painted on. Of course, a certain pair of yellow hot pants didn't come to mind… *Well, at least I look classy…* After their slimy kingpin was sitting safely in prison, and the 60 thousand was in the bank account, would Faye be able to relax. She could already hear the click of 500-dollar chips and the crisp sound of shuffled, dealt cards. That Championship would easy money. After all, she was 'Poker Alice', wasn't she? Okay, so maybe the real Poker Alice never cheated, but then again, times had changed, and these times were trying on a girl.
The line was slowly creeping forward, as the place finally opened its doors. Jet and Faye were somewhere to the left of the middle, and Spike was surely way in the back. She sighed. It'd take another two or three hours just to get the trap set up.
An unseen dip in the pavement didn't mix well with her stilettos, and Faye stumbled, nearly going face-first into the pavement. That is, if it weren't for Jet. He caught her before she made a total ass of herself, setting her back on her feet, his hands firmly gripping her shoulders. She hoped she didn't look as disheveled as she felt. Tossing her head lightly, to fix her hair, Faye straightened her dress, avoiding eye contact with the people ahead of her. They'd turned around to eye the woman who almost toppled to the ground. Jet covered.
"Take it easy, sweetheart. I know you're anxious, but damn…" He 'dusted' off her shoulders, stepping back to admire her over his glasses. Making sure that the crowd caught the look, and the way his eyebrows vanished under his hat in a suggestive bob, Jet pulled a cigar from his breast pocket with his left hand.
If she were a cat, she would have been bristling. First she trips, and now he was making pseudo-passes at her? Even if this was just pretend, the notion of it was uncomfortably infuriating. Faye forced a sweet smile, and withdrew a shiny silver lighter from her purse. Jet lit his cigar with the flame it produced, winking. This elicited another hushed chuckle and ripple of whispers from those closest to him. She wanted to scream, but for the sake of the job, instead took Jet's arm, digging her fingernails sharply into the sleeve of his left bicep, hoping to get at some of the skin under the clothing.
When and if he felt the bite of Faye's nails in his arm, Jet didn't react. He instead stared straight ahead, watching everything and nothing at the same time, as fragrant smoke from the cigar in his teeth wreathed his head. *I have a feeling I'm going to live to regret this…*
Further back in line, Spike was enjoying his task about as much as Faye was. He blended in well with the men, save for the ready posture that Jeet Kune Do training had given him. He slumped against the wall, smoking yet another cigarette, casting a glare at anyone who dared look at him twice. Even trying to look casual, Spike had a permanent air of being always at the ready. Ready to kick ass, ready to take names, and ready to give this whole ordeal up and find some decent clothes… He rubbed his forehead frantically, his face screwed up. This bandanna was getting ridiculously itchy, the skin of his legs would peel off when he finally extricated himself from these pants, and this shirt… oh Jesus did this shirt have to go… Spike rolled his eyes, getting an unfortunate eyeful of bright blue neon from the sign overhead. Ignoring the spots that now swam in his vision, Spike dropped the cigarette, shuffling forward with the rest of the sheep. *I don't know who I'm going to kill first. Faye, for talking Jet into this, or Jet, for talking ME into this…* He growled, and scratched furiously at the itch that ran the length of his hairline, the whole bandanna shifting up and down as he tried to get rid of the annoyance. Finally, he just pulled the whole thing off, and tossed it into the street with one hand, fluffing up his hair with the other. "Good riddance to bad rubbish. Blech." Now that he was on a roll, headed for the sweet land of comfort, Spike wasn't about to stop.
Poke poke. "Pardon."
"Hm?"
WHAM!
The young man whose shirt Spike had been admiring went down without complaint, and Spike helped himself to the spoils. It was silk, now there was a perk, a pattern of stylized flames across the bottom hem. Still, overtly tacky for our conservative Mr. Spiegel, but it was better than this women's hosiery gone horribly wrong he'd been forced to wear. Exchanging one for the other, buttoning the short-sleeved dress shirt hastily, Spike ignored the unconscious, half-dressed man, as the rest of the people made a wide detour around him. When questioning looks were cast in his direction, Spike merely shrugged, as if it were no big deal. He lit a cigarette, as the line moved forward enough so that the crowd swallowed up the man whose shirt he'd just swiped.
His cigarette waggled as he talked. "Now for some pants…"
The stranger two people ahead of him, in comfortable-looking jeans, fainted dead away.