Beam me up, Scotty!

[tunafish.livejournal.com]

The warehouse reeked of gunpowder and rusted metal. The air was coarse with smoke, difficult to breathe in, and the floor was littered with freshly dead bodies. Even the old man, a veteran when it came dealing in this kind of business, the scene was a gloomy sight to behold. He bats an eye, a quick glance over the place was enough to tell him the place had been deserted – that is, abandoned by the ones that weren’t so unfortunate. Well, for the most part, it doesn't seem like anyone's lurking around in the shadows trying to get a last strike. His shoulders fall into a relaxed position and he stows his gun in its holder.

Garamond wasn’t typically one to initiate turf wars, but he didn’t refuse a fight when his establishment was threatened. After a short inspection of the area, he was quickly coming to realize their rival gang had been sitting on a little gold mine. The warehouse was filled with all sorts of investments. Raw materials, drugs, weapons, typical stuff for small organized crime groups– but what mattered is that they had a lot of it. ‘Finder’s keepers,’ he supposed. He scoops up a crowbar from the ground beneath him, glancing out towards the row of crates to his front. He lodges the bar's teeth into the upper-latch of the nearest crate and he gives a shove--

The top of the crate goes flying, hitting the horizontal wall with a clatter. Turns out the thing wasn't even bolted down.

"Huh."