A Six Shooter Beats Four Aces (Part II)

Three days later, Mickey drives us to a block of flats, parks on the curb and has a short conversation with the intercom at the door. Thirty seconds later he waves us over and we follow him into a cramped elevator which takes us to the fourth floor. The hallway is bare and smells of damp carpet. Mickey leads us to a door and knocks, almost shaking the thing off its rusty hinges. The door cracks open and a bloodshot eye appears above the chain, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me you dipshit.”
“How many are with you?”
“Just open the bloody door you idiot.” Mickey’s getting impatient.
The door squeezes shut amidst a wave of muttered grumbling and cursing, followed by the sound of a chain being slid out of its lock and the door swinging open. The stench that wafts from inside is foul and I try not to gag. Romper’s covering his mouth and nose as we all file into the room. Mickey picks his way through the disaster area that was a lounge-room and opens a window. “Missed spring-cleaning this year did you Gutterball?”
The man Mickey calls Gutterball is a sallow, pinch-faced crone with stained army pants, heavy boots and dog-tags hanging from his neck. He scowls at Mickey, “I spray the carpets with a mixture of peat and vinegar. Confuses the Slopes, you know. You’d do well to do the same Mickey-boy.”
“Righto Gutterball, what have you got for us.”
The old trooper disappears into another room, grumbling unintelligibly to himself. While he’s gone a giant fat lizard lumbers out of the kitchen, dragging its stomach across the stained lino. The repulsive thing stops about a metre away and looks us all up and down with beady eyes. Mickey nudges it with his foot. “Slink he calls it. Let’s the bloody thing out and night and it crawls around the roof looking for rats. Eats all the neighbors cats too apparently.” Slink licks his lips, and I think the disgusting creature is calculating how long it would take to digest one of us. Gutterball returns from the other room, straining under a massive bundle wrapped in a blanket. He drops the pile on a mattress in the lounge room and unrolls it.
“Christ.” Billy whistles through his teeth.
Layed out on the mattress is an arsenal of destruction that wouldn’t look out of place strapped to old Sly Stallone in a B-Grade action flick. A grin spreads across Mickey’s face and he slaps Gutterball on the back then chucks us each a bag. “Go for your life boys.”
Billy the Kid picks up two revolvers, twirls them in his hands and then flips them open to take a look down the barrels and at the chambers. Satisfied, he tosses them into his bag and grabs a gun belt and halter for good luck. I pick up a shotgun and a pistol and a few rounds of ammunition then walk over to the window to get some fresh air before I pass out from the stench. Meanwhile, Midget’s picked up a handful of grenades and what looks like an anti-aircraft gun and is waving it around with a look of glee on his haunted face. None of us think the nutcase is serious until he crams the cannon into his bag and struggles vainly to do up the zip.
“Jesus.” Mutters Billy quietly to me, “He serious?”
“Fuckin’ looks like it.”
Back out in the hall and the five of us are doing our best to stay inconspicuous despite the thirty kilo’s of newly acquired hardware. “He was a munitions supply officer in Vietnam.” Mickey says as we pile into the lift. “Served with me da, damn fine man to have at your back too by all accounts. Something happened though, don’t know what but he’s never gotten over it. Don’t know where he keeps pulling these power-tools from either but I don’t ask any questions.”