"I told you to let me go, you barbarians! Have you no sophistication or money?" shouted the man. He was an aristocrat. And he was on his knees in a damp alley with his hands behind his back. "That's just the thing, mate, we need the money," said Ian huskily. I was in a gang – the Boars. Ian was crouched and speaking into the man's ear, leaning his left hand on his shoulder. Thankfully, he was behind the civilian and not in front of him, since god knows that would make things much more complicated. I leaned on the brick wall, holding my Navy Revolver, fully loaded, in case of trouble.
Ian's appearance was a bit unnerving, to say the least. He had fairly pale skin, though he had wild grey eyes that would most likely belong to a savage animal than a London-raised citizen. He had shaggy, dark brown hair that would sometimes fall down from the fringe and cover his eyes, differentiating from his aforementioned pale skin. He always had a bit of an… odd… fashion choice. Unlike the other gang-members, who dressed like there was always going to be some small gunfight, Ian preferred to equip himself as if he was going to war. He carried a small bottle of some liquid that he refused to tell me of on a cloth sash on his waist that bubbled every time it was jostled. He also carried dual revolvers; the both of which he had decided not to talk to me about. Now that I think about it, he didn't tell anyone about any of his gear, except for the standard grey outfits that the Boars wore.
"The constables will find you, and when they do, boy, will you be in for it!" shouted the man. "Allow me," I grunted, walked towards the unnamed aristocrat. I put the revolver to the back of his head and made an audible click. The man had become nervous – I could tell. While I had made some progress, he was still the foolhardy chum-bucket that he was before, albeit to a lesser extent. I turned to Ian, him giving me a nod of approval of what I had just done. "Well, seems like this man won't be breakin' anytime soon. Right, mate?" grinned Ian. He had that even-crazier-than-usual look in his eye. "I believe so," I agreed. We both slipped a black hood on top of his head after taking his bowler cap, then lifted him up the way constables escort criminals. Both of us holding him by the underarms on each side, dragging him. Unfortunately, the man himself was rather plump and didn't seem to get much exercise which meant more effort for Ian and I. We both managed to heave him into the get-away cart we had gotten ready and bound him to the floor.
"You miscreants!" he cursed at us after we had closed the door. "Agreed. Miscreants," I snickered. I couldn't help but find that funny. "Alright – who's drivin'?" asked Ian with a nudge. "Last time I drove, the carriage was nearly split in half," I responded. Ian's face scrunched up at the memory. "Negative. You ain't driving. I'm not in the mood to nearly break my spine again," chuckled Ian. "Very funny," I rolled my eyes. I could hear muffled curses from the man in the carriage as we walked to the front. To me, this had been the perfect pick-up. Barely anybody was around, and the people who were knew better than to mess with a gang. That's why nobody had come to the plump man's aid. The victim then started to use… less-than-sophisticated words, shouting like the carriage was on fire. Ian and I merely ignored it, sliding into the seats used to drive the thing. It was pulled along by two horses, hooked up to a sort of rectangular box with windows. Ian grabbed the reigns and snapped them, signifying for the horses to start. And they did, going at a good speed. It was fast enough that constables would have some difficulty keeping up with us, but slow enough to not make it look like we were running from an earthquake, which would attract unwarranted attention; something that we did not need.
Ian settled us into the left lane on the right side of the road, slowing down a bit to match the pace of the other carriages on the street. The man's curses were drowned out by the bustle of everything. We had exited the quiet part of the neighborhood and into the more liberating part of the road system. We were currently running down an avenue that bordered a park and a sort of plaza. I was honestly a bit surprised at how Ian's 'street attire' didn't attract attention, since the way he was dressing, you'd think a clown had crashed into a dinner party. Then again, there were some people dressed even more oddly than he had, if you could believe it. On the side of the road, there was a person that had dressed in what seemed to be bottle of beer, but it was hard to make out since there were constant obstacles blocking my view.
I was pulled out of my thoughts by a sudden shift in momentum as Ian put us on the far right of the road, putting us just a few feet away from the park fence. "So, whaddya think after this. A bottle o' beer or ale?" he asked, facing me. This constantly frightened me since Ian wasn't what you would call a professional driver. In terms of handling, he was average, but attention-wise, he was worst than me. He was very cocky, which lead to many unwanted situations and dilemmas that could've been avoided, had Ian not run his mouth off or acted a bit too powerful. "Is it possible to not drink after this? I really need to rest," I deadpanned. I wasn't tired; physically anyway. I was tired of Ian constantly thinking that we needed to drink to celebrate our successful assignments. "Poppycock! Nonsense! Blasphemy!" he exclaimed melodramatically, as if I had just suggested mugging the queen rather than not drinking. I pinched the bridge of my nose in exasperation. "Life, my dear friend, is too short to be wasting time on relaxation. You've gotta live at the top! Where every day is an adventure beyond your wildest dream!" he shouted, managing to be heard by a couple of citizens on the sidewalk, gasping silently at his words. "I knew I'd regret sayin' that," I sighed. "Today, we get our pounds. But tonight, dear Adam, WE WILL DRINK AS IF TOMORROW WE DIE!" he roared at the top of his lungs.
Now all we had to take care of was our victim.