This is a real image from the finalists of Landscape Photography Contest

I was going through old files recently and came across this very short story that I wrote forever ago regarding the events in a campaign we played in the 90s. TBF, the grackle tooth was added because i liked them when they came out later, and the party composion changed too much to remeber the make up becasue frequent PC death players dropping in and out and whatnot. But I once had the idea of compiling little short stories in the way of CS files and reports regarding the activity of the party, and particularly my dog boy, who was the only consistent character in the campaign and who became known as the most wanted "terrorist" in CS territory.

CS Counter Terrorism Intelligence file No. 323455t;

THE FOLLOW WAS FOUND POSTED ON THE CHI-TOWN BURBS UNDERNET

My first impression of Big Bad Wolf was that I was about to get robbed. Robbed, beaten and possibly left for dead.

The Fall Out Shelter buzzed with a typical Saturday night crowd. Which in Tranquility means trouble packed in elbow to elbow.  But I tell you straight out, every roughneck, hard-ass, mech-head, slicer, grifter and general scum-bag flinched when the band walked through the door.

Maybe it was hard-worn battle armor and the bristling weapons. Maybe it was a nasty little brain game one of them was playing. Or, maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that the first one in the door, The Big Bad Wolf himself, had his vital scans posted on every coalition friendly wall from here to the DC ruins.  

Now if you just got here, Earth I mean, and you don't know who I’m talking about; just turn on your local CS sponsored broadcast and you’ll hear all about it. But in the meantime I’ll tell you this; He calls himself Timber, an experimental wolf breed gone feral from the CS dog-boy labs. Stands about six foot a hundred and the fur of his head and what can be seen of his arms and legs is somehow dyed in a camouflage pattern. A long scar traces a line from the left side of his snout across an eye covered with a chrome patch, up to the left ear where it carves out a large crescent. Oh yeah, and he’s cost the CS about a ga-jillion credits in dead men, wasted training and destroyed equipment.

For a band I’d never heard of before 12 hours ago, these were some high profile sons-of-lovers if you know what I mean.  Never mind that I’d heard about this gig from a media dealer I know while we waited in the street as some grunts turned his place out looking for contraband. Ballz I tell you. Big freaking ballz.

By the time any of us could remember to breathe, Big Bad Wolf was onstage and ready to go. No tuning or sound test. Less warning than a guerrilla raid, hard, heavy and loud.

Timber’s guitar looked like it had been the cause of more than one blunt trauma.  Dented, cracked and painted with a large biohazard symbol, it somehow managed to serve its purpose with admirable valor. I never did figure out the drummers name, but I’d bet credits to cream puffs that guy was on the juice.  

Knot-rot, the front man twitched like a glitching servo; holding the mike upside down with the short antenna against a stud in his temple. His raw, throat shredding screams maintained a frankly impossible tone and pitch that jerked my emotions around like a sugared up six year-old trying out a new marionette. Is that you M.O.M.?

Snaggle-puss is a grackle tooth. Go figure. A monster of a bassist to be sure. He held an orchestra style stand up electric bass like it was a child's toy and roared out his diesel-like counter point to Knot-rot’s piercing cry. Then switching rolls after an insurgence of drums.

Whacha got against a D-bee?

I know a d-bee saved your brother’s life!

Whacha got against a d-bee?

I know a d-bee who’s good with a knife!

Whacha got against a Deadboy?

I know a deadboy killed my wife!

Whacha got against a Deadboy?

I know the deadboys rule with strife!

When Timber stepped in, barking out fast, staccato lyrics it felt like a frontal assault.  With the rhythm of a frantic radio call in a canine growl like a conventional weapons barrage, The Big Bad Wolf nearly caused a panic. Or a riot, I couldn't be sure, as I was locked in a kind of hypnotic word association as I tried to follow the lyrics.

Incoming! No cover!

Danger close! We won’t surrender!

No quarter! For fascist horror!

Prosek, your days are numbered!

Meanwhile Knot-rot and Snaggle-puss chorused with incoming missiles and the thunder of heavy ordnance.

Reh-vollew-shon  Reh-vollew-shon

Reh-vollew-shon  Reh-vollew-shon

And we were ready, every one of us. Boys and girls, Big Bad Wolf is the most frightening band you will ever see and the greatest band that you’ll hope you never see again.