Bixson? Bixson! Son of Bix. Balkey hated the cursed moniker
and no one dared utter it for fear of his fists. You’d be a goner
if Balkey caught the name on your lips. Only the Pin, who
ran the street side and under gutter of Great Town would say it.
(‘To his face even?’) The room grew colder yet. But the brittle
knights and Coral looked fine and firm, if stiff still. Those rusty
guards, who’d found trouble stumblin in on them wanted no part
in the upcoming violence. Balkey caught eyes with the two and
surprised ‘em all by knowing some names: “Convic,” toward
the grizzled banger in the crinkled blue suit, buttoned up and
gaze down; “Helz,” he barked at the pale, gaunt white haired
geezer with the sticker knives;
“Getout out back, toward the the club hole door. Find Oro, our friend.