The villagers had not been thrilled to give him the jeep. Then again, their concern seemed to be more with the fact that their source of money wanted to strike out into the jungle than with the jeep. It was rather dangerous out there, and dead fools didn’t sign valid checks.

Once they saw the man who was accompanying him, however, they relented. Or, at the least, they backed away. ‘Edged’ away? Perhaps. Slate had called in Giant’s Bane to help. The man’s real mission was to take place in the next few days; fortunately, that put him in the country already for Slate to call upon. He did not think that Sebastian, Lee, or Tarin would be particularly appropriate for this outing.

While healing the locals—and ensuring that the more troublesome of them suddenly felt the urge to obey him completely—Slate had come across a man who shared a mutual acquaintance with him. One who had been missing for quite some time. One who Slate would very much like to talk to, about matters of cat girls and cages and paintings undelivered. This required the man to be alive.

That required them to move quickly.

The teenager:s foot hovered over the gas pedal, waiting only for Giant’s Bane to get in. If anyone was going to have the head of Roland Turpit, it was going to be Slate.

The symphony of insects gave Roland something to listen to. His Spanish wasn't that great in the first place and separating himself from the men outside, even if only inside his head, brought a measure of relief. He imagined that they were all tuning their legs for a perfect biological opus, just for him. Roland scratched at a few itchy spots as he scooted up to the small hole in the door. The slightly less humid version of a fresh breeze wafted to his face.

He could see that there was only one guard. One guard within sight. There could be fifty more behind the box. He doubted it though. He suspected that they were unaware of his genetic status. Keeping them in the dark probably kept Roland alive longer. Or not. One could scarcely grasp the motives of jungle guerrillas. The one that was half watching seemed to be smirking and motioning to someone outside of the current field of vision. Roland found out why as a rifle butt came sailing into view. The reverberation of aluminum and skull was enough to send him back to his delusional slumber. Their chaotic laughs and guffaws vanished and muted in the background.

Roland stood at a podium, dressed in a tailored coat with tails. He found he had a small stick in his hand, like that of a conductor. Before him his orchestra made ready. Mantises on percussion, spiders on strings. Aphids using maracas and a lone mosquito played the tuba. He raised his hands and the cacophony of sounds quietened. He tapped the little stock against the podium and raised his hands in anticipation of the first movement. He was interrupted by a fresh bucket of water.

Coughing and gagging, Roland looked up to see Porky looking down on him, a wide smile on his semi toothless mug. " What, no blindfold?" It was surprising to Roland how scratchy and alien his own voice sounded to him. Porky looked down and chuckled at him. " There are no more need for blindfolds, friend. Today is your day of liberation." Only the naive or the stupid could miss that verbal clue. Gershon was done with him. By the end of the day, he would be dead.

Letting out a loud yawn in his slightly altered form Bacchus ran his fingers through his hair and put on his “Lucky Aussie Hat” a long with his aviators as he walked through the pathway to the jeep Bacchus realized that people were avoiding him. Which only made sense to him seeing as he was standing at seven feet tall with a four-foot machete strapped to his back along with a large bowie knife strapped around his belt that held his flask inside the buckle.

Muscles bulged through the shirt he was currently wearing, it was an extra large but that didn’t mean anything in giant size. Sure he could make his shirt bigger, but he was going for intimidation seeing as he was going with the boss man to retrieve something. What that something was Bacchus wasn’t exactly sure but if Boss man needed the Giant, he’d get one. Bacchus’s loyalty was about ninety-five percent to Slate at the moment. He had a great thing going with him and a bullet to the boss’s head would put a damper on this great gig. So Bacchus chose to go for the giant bodyguard look, one that he perfected in his jeans and construction boots.

Although he didn’t know what this job required of him, Bacchus knew he had an important job later down the line, smashing. He was going to do it anyways in New York but with Slate he gets paid for it. Not to mention all the amazing sites he would be seeing, like the two foot spider he happened to step on killing it instantly. “Third one in an hour…” despite the enormous bugs this was a beautiful place. Despite everyone gross body odor Bacchus could still smell the fresh scent of dirt and clean air.

Less than twenty feet from the jeep Bacchus veered left to a tree and “Hit the Head” it took about a minute and as Bacchus finished up and pulled his zipper up Bacchus knocked on the tree and said, “Mine” As he turned he smiled to Slate who looked eager to go and said, “Better here then there…” now in the jeep Bacchus looked to Slate and asked, “Boss man, where we going?” Lifting his left shoe over the edge of the car he pulled out his large bowie knife and started to scrape the dead carcass of the giant spider from his shoe.

…Slate looked at the man’s foot for a moment; at the large, sharp knife posed near it. Then he slammed down on the gas. The jeep peeled out over dirt, gravel, and empty bullet casings. If the sudden acceleration ended badly for the Gaint’s foot, then so be it. Slate was a healer.

“We are going for a drive into hostile territory,” he explained, quite simply. “One of my employees has been missing for several weeks. It has come to my attention that he is being held nearby, though not for long.” No. Not for long. A rather large tree loomed ahead. Slate swerved; the jeep lurched back out of the undergrowth and onto the dirt road with a jerking clatter of rubber and metal. “We are going to extract him, and quickly. I expect heavy resistance. I wish it dealt with promptly. Do you have any questions?”

…Had the man really marked a tree? In front of him, no less. Now was not the time to address it. Now was the time to move very quickly, and—in all defiance of the laws of nature and probability—not crash the jeep. He could discuss it afterwards. If nothing else, the man needed to know that in a dog pack, it was the alpha who did the marking. Though Slate preferred something more subtle than a scent post.

The apparent animosity brought on to Roland by the men around him was business, it seemed. After he had been given a good dousing or three with water, he was given some actual food and water. It was a little gamy, but by the standards he had been subjected to, it was filet mignon. He ate slowly, chewing his food and letting the water enter his parched body in small amounts. Doing so encouraged his energy level while discouraging the need to defecate. It was quite a need, but the idea of a little blue ring beeping in the feces just didn't seem to sit right with Roland.

It appeared that number one was a rather well groomed man. Especially considering the weeks he must have spent there in the jungle. He introduced himself as Jaime Colon. (High -may Coh - lone) He seemed to be an educated man. His fingernails were clean and his knuckles had no discoloration. He gave the beating orders but did none of the beatings. This made him easier to talk to. " Senor Gershon paid us quite a bit to keep you here. You must know something quite valuable. Seeing as you never gave it up, I must assume it is something more valuable than your life or you are just stupid. You don't seem so stupid."

Roland chewed slowly on the meat and then answered. "I think it was more personal than business. I worked for Gershon long ago and we had some personal business that went unsettled. I suppose you'll be collecting the debt today." Colon nodded as he continued to write, the familiar scratching of stylus to paper that Roland had heard prior."I'm afraid so, my friend. However, we are not barbarians and now that we have been paid well, we will allow you this small bit of hospitality before we kill you." Roland nodded. " At least I'll die in a professional manner." He toasted the man before him as he had a shot of the local rotgut.

Nodding slightly as he pulled the knife from the bottom of his boot leaving a small stab wound in his favorite boots. “Well why the bloke go and do a thing like that?” Bacchus asked as he put his knife into his sheath and looked at the passing scenery as Slate was driving over everything in his path or swerving away from it. If Bacchus wasn’t sure he couldn’t survive high speed crashes with only a few scraps he would have buckled up, but Bacchus decided not to and just kick back and feel his stomach swerve left and right as obstacles were avoided.

“I assume,” Bacchus said as he opened he pulled a toothpick from his pocket and placed it in his mouth, “That I can kill seeing as it is hostile territory?” Bacchus was not a fan of the any killing policy that was issued with his upcoming mission. Obstacles from his opinion needed to be snuffed out as soon as possible otherwise they are just in the way later on.

The Trees, Animals, mounds of dirt and other things one would expect to see in a jungle shot by at an alarming speed. From the way Slate was driving this employee must be of some importance to call upon the boss for a rescue, either that or the Slate was a caring boss, but from the way he carried himself Bacchus wasn’t to sure if Slate was the good boss, after all what good is a hammer if it can’t kill a few nails?

It was close to twenty minutes from where they previously we stationed at and the jungle started to block more and more of the sunlight. Bacchus was about to say when he noticed something flash by his head at a fast speed giving a loud whistle sound. The whistling was followed up with a few clinks as bullet dents appeared on the hood of the jeep. “Shit!” Bacchus yelled as he grabbed the wheel and forced Slate and the wheel to go left.

The car shot off of the jungle path and landed straight into a tree, the impact sent Bacchus flying through the windshield. ‘Dropped the ball on that one…’ thought the giant as he said through the air landing on the ground into a prolonged roll into the base of a tree forcing to fall under his weight.

>> “I assume. That I can kill seeing as it is hostile territory?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Slate saw the toothpick. It emerged from a sweaty pocket; it dwelt in a hand left unwashed after a solid minute of urination; it was placed in a mouth that clearly cared little for cleanliness. He was not terribly good at multitasking on a whim. He was driving and watching the toothpick with blue eyed loathing; that left very little room in his mind to adequately process the man’s question while weighing it against the man’s criminal record. “Of course,” he answered, without properly realizing who he was saying this too. He was not speaking with a professional, who knew the line between a necessary kill and boyish slaughter. He was speaking with Bacch--deer.

Deer!

Slate swerved yet again. The twenty miles went past much more quickly than they should have. Slate got them to their location safely. And then Bacchus was possessed by the urge to drive them into a tree. The bullet dents registered, sometime later. It could have been several minutes. Perhaps several seconds. There was a slight spinning in his head and an airbag in his face. And a giant who had not been wearing a seat belt. As the tree tipped over, Slate idly thought of the later stages of his plans. Two thoughts entered his head:

It is a good thing we will be replanting the forest, and

I wonder if the toothpick impaled through his palette and into his brain?

That would be unfortunate. Very. A shift cleared the groggy haze from Slate’s mind, and snapped his senses back into working order. Just in time to see the gun being pointed at his head, by one of the men approaching them cautiously.. Ah. That shot would be unfortunate, as well.

“Out of the car,” one of the man barked, “slowly. Senor Colon is going to have a few questions for you.”

Slate slowly complied, watching from the corner of his eye as another man approached the Giant on the ground. “Think he’s dead?” The man asked, aiming a kick as Bacchus’ ribs to test this theory. That action would most likely be unfortunate, as well. But not for Slate.

Letting out a small groan as he opened his eyes in the dirt and frowned at his broken Aviators and the broken tooth pick that was fortunate enough to break one the first fall leaving pits of wood inside his mouth which distracted him from the awful taste of dirt. The wonderful taste of dirt, sadly it reminded him slightly of his childhood where his dad used to go on his drunken fits and rub Bacchus’s face in the dirt after he challenged him to a fight. Turns out Dad wasn’t lazy… he was just resting.

Groaning a little more as he felt a swift kick to his side Bacchus lifted his head and let out small chuckle, “Bad mistake Mate…” expanding his hands quickly into the ground Bacchus gave himself a push off of the ground which sent him high into the air. On the way down pulled expanded his arms, which added to the strength the hands already had, aiming them Bacchus landed on top of the man’s shoulder resounding in a loud crunch killing the man instantly.

Now standing on top of the man Bacchus slapped some dirt form his front and shoulders as he looked for the boss man to make sure he was all right. Grinning slightly Bacchus started walking over to the men who were sounded by the boss, “Nothing personal mates…” Bacchus said as he started to grow as Bacchus was drawing their attention so if Slate wanted to he could get away.

Gunshots could be heard as the crashed upon Bacchus’s enlarged chest. Standing at eleven feet tall Bacchus closed in on his targets the bullets continued to clink and clank on his chest as Bacchus felt a burning sensation from each bullet. He didn’t know why but he loved it when he felt the burning sensation on his chest at least to the point where he didn’t feel the need to move out of the way or block the gunfire.

Picking a toothpick out of his pocket Bacchus used his power to make bigger brandishing the giant piece of wood Bacchus launched it like a spear landing directly in the chest of one of the gunman who had been pointing a gun at Slate moments before. Bacchus got his hands on one of the gunman and picked him up like a doll and threw him into a tree only to smash another with a hammer fist. Throwing a palm strike in to the man’s skull Bacchus felt the motions as the back of the skull explodes forcing out the brains and a large amount of blood.

The biggest perk was not only did it look cool in slow motion but it was also a great way to stay clean with a killing strike. The blood and brains shot out from the back of the skull which was perfect for it only splattered small bits in every direction opposed to his nifty decapitation trick he could do with a yo-yo. “You alright Boss?” Ban asked looking to the now smaller slate.

The slight buzz from whatever the drink was had Roland feeling euphoric for a change. It was a stark contrast from the box and all of its bells and whistles. Colon had been speaking to some of his lieutenants when the distinct sound of gunfire rattled away in the nearby jungle. A large crashing sound came next. Then all was quiet again. Colon turned to Roland, approaching him with a look that made Roland stand. " You don't have anyone coming to get you, do you Mister Roland?" Roland honestly didn't know. He surely doubted it at this point. He wondered if the small metallic circle in his lower intestines might have relayed a signal. " I have no friends, Senor."

After a sizing up of sorts from Colon, the camp leader seemed satisfied with this answer and turned back to his men, who seemed to be leaving into the jungle toward the sound of the mystery guest or guests. The euphoria of the alcohol quickly turned into a very sober realization. All of the guards were looking away from him. No one had any interest in the gringo who was going to catch a bullet in the head shortly. What a terrible, terrible mistake on their part.

Each guard generally had a rifle and a few grenades. The higher ups had sidearms as well. The important detail to Roland was that the majority of grenades hung on small bandolier belts. This no doubt kept them safe from accidental activation via tree branch or something similar. The perk was that this also made them quite visible, especially the pins. Roland looked around for somewhere solid to hide behind. The closest and most stable structure seemed to be the well house, made from local stone.

A few paces back in a nonchalant manner and Roland ducked down behind the well house. He opened his fist, counting the pins in his hand. Eight. Not a bad haul consideri--'BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM' Dirt and smoke covered everything. It was strangely silent for a moment, save for moaning and cursing and the occasional barrage of gunfire. Discretion would be the better part of valor in this instance.

It was a given that some of the enemy would die today. Accepting this was the only possible way of extracting Roland Turpit alive. And indeed, he had heard of the Giant's exploits. It was hard to live on the same continent as the man and not hear. His drunken romp through the city with Spider-Isabel had been the stuff of media frenzies, even if no reporters had lived to bring back clear footage. Eyewitness accounts, and the sheer amount of collateral damage in the city, were more than enough to make for several shocking news segments on the mutant problem.

Somehow, there existed a deep and unforeseen gap between knowing these facts and watching Bacchus crush a man. Impale a man. Toss one like a ragdoll, and hammer another. Use the front of a man's skull as a weapon against its back.

Bacchus' distraction was quite sufficient to take all guns off of him. The pale teenager did not run, however. It never crossed his mind. There was quite a bit of other thoughts that did. He was very glad that he had ordered Bacchus to use non-fatal means in his coming mission. It occurred to Slate to make this a blanket order, for all of the man's jobs.

>> “You alright Boss?”

That was something they could discuss later. Slate turned baby blue eyes up at the much larger employee. "I am uninjured," he reported simply.

BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM.

Subtlety. It was not something he paid these particular Kabal members for. With a small rub at one temple, Slate started walking towards the sound of the repeated and nearly simultaneous explosions. Somehow, he did not expect that the resistance up ahead would be fierce. And if it was... that was what he paid the Giant for. "Our target is in his mid-thirties; Caucasian; blonde with blue eyes; slightly taller than myself. Please do not smash anyone resembling that description." It occurred to Slate that this was a wise order to give. He was a healer, yes. But after watching the Giants preferred methods... it occurred to him that some things were quite beyond his skills.

As Slate spoke Bacchus found it hard to keep focus as a mess of loud booms were sounded nearby. Letting out a sighing whistle Bacchus heard the orders to the boss once again. “Middle aged whitey….” Bacchus repeated as the words came into his ears, “Think he would stick out like a sore thumb.” Bacchus said chuckling to himself as he walked a ways into the camp.

Despite the large explosions that he pinned to the malfunctioning of a explosive of some kind Bacchus was surprised that there were so many people still alive, shrinking his body down to eight feet tall Bacchus walked into camp with iron like skin as the skin braced the on coming bullets that the residents of this quaint little camp were so generous to give to Bacchus. “Looking for a middle aged man about yay-high,” Bacchus said as he lifted his hand to a little taller than Slates level. “Have you seen him?” Bacchus asked as a man with a knife charged him.

Lifting his hand up Bacchus stopped him and looked at the man with a smile, “Your not him.” With a small flick of the wrist the man was sent into the air as Bacchus proceeded to walk into the center of the camp, every time someone approached that wasn’t the target Bacchus flicked a wrist and threw them about with non-lethal force.

Killing was easy and seeing as he was going to be faced with a large mission within the next few day that had blacklisted casualties of any kind Bacchus figured this place was as good as easy to practice not killing. On occasion someone who was thrown landed on their neck but that in Bacchus opinion was their fault.

Once at the center of the camp Bacchus grew to twenty-feet and towered over the closer tents as he looked for his target and on occasion kicking a passerby that didn’t match the description. “Really wished Boss would have given me a name…” Bacchus said allowed as he looked for the target wishing he had a name to call him out.

As the dust settled, Roland waited for the opportune moment to take a peek at the new lay of the land. His ears caught the distinct sound of carnage as the remaining guards seemed to meet the new arrivals. Whoever it was , they were large, as the sound of trees cracking and the thunderous footfalls erupted. A voice came from the direction of the event occurring behind brush and foliage. It was certainly not a local one, as the strong accent of Australia pierced the sounds of battle.“Looking for a middle aged man about yay-high. Have you seen him?” An interesting turn of events. Was this the cavalry?

The thief stretched his neck around the corner of the structure just in time to see Senor Porky land , neck first, just a few feet away. His eyes, as they dilated out, stared fixated on Roland. A jarring pain shot through his lower extremities as the communicator was on final approach. He would have to risk a stray bullet because he was not going back in the box. As the Aussie spoke again, making a query of the man's name, Roland rose slowly from his hiding place.

" I believe I am the middle aged man you are seeking." He leaned on the well, his body wracked with shudders of intestinal distress. Sweat dripped freely from rivulets of the salty stuff that flowed from his hair and brow.' I assume you are the cavalry. If not, I'd appreciate a five second head start." If it truly was the cavalry, that meant that there was a young man somewhere behind him in the brush. One who carried a look of something with a bad taste in his mouth constantly. One who would have words for Roland, who had just as much to say himself.

((ooc: Bane... how much clothes are you wearing, right now? o.O))

'A taste of something bad' implied a negative facial expression. This was not the case. Even at this particular moment, when making such an expression would be in good keeping with what he felt, the Kabal's young leader maintained an impassive look. The taste was neither good nor bad; it was white rice.

It seemed that Bacchus was practicing for his next mission, now. Slate was glad for it. He assumed these men would be glad for it as well, once they had some time to put things into context. And once they had awoken. He stopped here and there in the Giant's wake where a man was not groaning like a broken doll, but still breathing, and touched a brief hand against their skin. Unconsciousness, after all, was just as good as permission. The men would not know that they were entirely loyal to him unless they happened to involve themselves in Kabal business again. In that case, Slate would be more than willing to have their loyalty.

>> "I believe I am the middle aged man you are seeking. I assume you are the cavalry. If not, I'd appreciate a five second head start."

The blue-eyed teenager stepped out from the shadow of one towering leg. "Mr. Turpit," he stated, quite simply; "I expected my painting several weeks ago."

That five second head start might not be a bad idea, if the middle-aged man he was seeking did not have a satisfying reply for him.

“Middle Aged Seppo, blond hair, blue eyes, slightly taller than the boss. Looks like I am…” Bacchus was cut off as he heard a few loud stretches as the boss approached the called Turpit who was their target. “Shit…” Bacchus continued, as his shirt was forced apart on several locations around his body causing them to snap then fall to the ground in tiny pieces of cloth. Soon following his shirt was his belt, which luckily snapped in half before the flask and the belt would have been brought into the chaos of exploding clothes. “Thank god!” Bacchus said as he looked down at the flask relived that it was still in one piece.

Having so many at the Sanctuary made things easier for him hen one broke but seeing as he only brought two with him. It would be simple enough for him to find a flask or two here seeing as it was Columbia and the stores have yet to try and card him regardless on how big he was at the time. That was one thing that he loved about this country, not only was everything a mess but it was dirt-cheap. The only down side to by a flask here is there was always a chance there was a human tooth in it… luckily for him he had his engraved stainless steel one with him.

Two more loud tears could be heard one from his hat and one from his pants. Instinctively Bacchus’s hands shot up to his hat as he concentrated on keeping his hat in one piece sacrificing his pants in the process. He felt the pants constrict around his body as they began to shrink and then shatter against Bacchus’s thick legs. Shoes and a hat was all that Bacchus was wearing… Correction a hat was all he was wearing seeing as his feet shot through the shoes as the gave off a small exploding effect, “Shit” was all he could muster as lifted the giant hat off his “Thank god the hat is a’ight…” Bacchus sighed as he shrunk down to his seven-foot self and putting his dramatically smaller hat on.

Bending down to pick up his buck knife and his flask he grinned slightly as he tossed the flask to Turpit, “Have a drink mate, you look like you could need one…” looking through his mess of tattered bits and patches of clothes Bacchus sighed, “Lost my machete…”

The giant sideshow was amusing to watch. So amusing, with his love of hat and nudity, that Roland couldn't help but hang his head and chuckle. The chuckling continued far too long, as it merged with the audacity of the question asked by young master Slate. As he raised his head, he was sorry, considering the view of the Aussie au naturale with a knife , a hat, and a flask, which he tossed to Roland. After a healthy slug of the stuff inside, Roland was running on liquid courage. Without it, he would be a crumpled heap of ouch.

Looking up without looking, as difficult as it was, Roland nodded and tossed the flask back to the muscle. " I appreciate that, Sir." His legs began moving, the pain in them making him shiver. He walked through the grass, stepping over bodies and parts of bodies. " The painting. Well, Mr. Slate, I was making headway on that when an old employer caught me in France and delivered me to this lovely part of the world." Pointing at the small aluminum hotbox, he continued. " That was my deluxe suite while I languished here at the spa. Pardon me for not cutting my treatments short to return to Paris" He lifted the sticky film that was his shirt to reveal the multiple bruises along his ribs. The treatments were made to spoil.

A violent ripple of pain shuddered through Roland. He squatted, his palms flat on the ground as he groaned slightly. Standing again, he looked Slate in the eye." As for your questioning of my loyalty, however veiled it may be, I'd like to point out that I am about to shit out the communicator shortly. Yes, that's right. I swallowed the ring so it couldn't be found and the company compromised. So, if that is a suitable gesture, I would appreciate a ride to something less green." He walked past the naked henchman and the little tyrant, clutching his stomach and heading toward the direction from whence the two came.