Walkie the Talkie

Dutch, Arthur, and Hosea, their faces alight with fascination, chatted and laughed, their conversation eventually circling back, as it always did, to the mesmerizing, borderline-insane research of Mr. Marko.

Clutching the disc-shaped communicator in his hand, Dutch felt a thrilling surge of triumph. His grand, audacious plan, the very blueprint of his future empire, could finally, truly be accomplished. In an era where communication still relied on the agonizingly slow telegraph, he understood, with chilling clarity, the earth-shattering impact of a walkie-talkie. This wasn't just a toy; this was a goddamn revolution.

It meant that short-distance maneuvers during a firefight no longer required bellowing orders across a chaotic battlefield or relying on the unreliable dash of a horse-borne messenger. When fighting on two separate hills, he could, by God, effectively command and contact the troops on the other crest from his own position, guiding them with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel.

Although it couldn't compare to a telegraph for sprawling long distances, for coordinating short-distance combat, it was unparalleled, so much so that walkie-talkies hadn't been phased out even in the far-off modern times. For instance, if they had possessed this infernal device when Colm O'Driscoll attacked a few days ago, there would have been no need for the agonizing, piecemeal relaying of messages by whistling. If they had simply used this marvelous walkie-talkie to coordinate, Colm wouldn't have been able to escape at all, the bastard!

However, Dutch knew he still needed to subtly, almost imperceptibly, guide Mr. Marko on the related research, nudging his genius in the precise direction he desired. Thinking of this, Dutch let out a dramatic, stage-worthy sigh.

"Alas, Mr. Marko," Dutch mused, his voice filled with a melancholic, almost regretful tone, "this invention is truly a great, an epoch-making invention! Your application of waves, sir, is simply miraculous! Unfortunately," he sighed again, shaking his head mournfully, "this signal transmission tower is too damned tall and requires constant power. If only a signal emitter and a small battery could be installed inside this disc, then, my dear friend, we could use it for short-distance communication, untethered!"

Dutch sighed again, placing the disc in his hand onto the table, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. He didn't even look at Marko, but his carefully chosen words, his meticulously crafted disappointment, caused a violent, seismic tremor in Marko's brilliant, fragile heart.

'Just put a signal emitter in the disc, just put a signal emitter in the disc…' Dutch's voice, like a siren's call, kept circling in Marko's mind, a relentless, exhilarating whisper. Marko's eyes, already bright, began to sparkle, growing brighter and brighter, more and more radiant, as if illuminated from within by a sudden, blinding flash of enlightenment.

Finally!

"Oh my god! Dutch! You are a genius! Friend, you are a genius!" Marko shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. He literally leapt to his feet, his eyes sparkling with mad, joyous brilliance. He didn't even have time to greet Dutch and the other two, simply launching himself into a frantic, chaotic sprint towards his laboratory, his white lab coat flapping wildly behind him like the wings of a deranged angel.

He ran, howling like a banshee, in a strange, thick accent, looking utterly, gloriously insane. "Oh, genius! Dutch, genius! I'm going to combine the signal emitter and receiver and put them in the pager, so two-way communication can be achieved! No signal tower needed! Oh! God, this is a genius idea!"

Mr. Marko's ecstatic howling made Arthur and Hosea stare in stunned astonishment, their jaws practically on the floor.

Arthur, ever the joker, nudged Dutch with his elbow, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, Dutch, your good friend Mr. Dragic seems to have gone mad as a hatter. Do I need to feed him some horse manure?"

Horse manure, believe it or not, was considered quite beneficial in the eyes of these cowboys. There were even wild rumors in the early West that it could cure diseases. When these cowboys suffered from dysentery, rashes, or injuries, some would even brew a cup of horse manure tea to "refresh" themselves or, more horrifyingly, cover their wounds with it.

(Apparently, it possessed properties for calming fright, resolving phlegm, clearing heat, and detoxifying, primarily used to treat fright, epilepsy, madness, excessive phlegm-heat, coma, carbuncles, swelling, and bleeding – a truly versatile remedy! Or so 19th century folkes thought!)

Listening to Arthur's jest, Dutch slapped his shoulder hard, a playful sting. "Sh*t, Arthur, you should be damn glad now that I didn't feed you any horse manure when you were a squalling babe."

"Hahaha, Arthur, don't mock Mr. Dragic. He might truly surprise us yet," Hosea chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he calmly downed the last of his coffee. Hosea was always so peaceful, so composed, whether laughing or fuming, always perfectly restrained. Only Dutch's truly damnable, utterly stupid plans could genuinely enrage Hosea, but now, Dutch's plans were anything but stupid.

"Alright, fellas, I think it's time for us to leave. Let Marko do his research alone; he's found his muse." Dutch smiled, standing up from his chair. He reached for his hat, dusting it off with a practiced flick, and placed it firmly on his head. "And now, Davey's actions might have yielded some significant progress. I can't wait to enter Guarma. Only with firearms, my friends, can we truly be safe!"

"Alright, Dutch, as you say." Arthur also rose, putting on his hat. His main purpose in coming had been not to help with research, but simply to remind Marko that Dutch always remembered him, that he was never truly forgotten. Now that Dutch was here, there was naturally no need for him to linger and "help." The five gunmen at Vulture Ranch were more than sufficient for Mr. Marko's solitary, mad genius.

The night gradually began to fade, giving way to the first hints of dawn, as the three cowboys rode their most trusted horses towards Rhodes. Staying up all night, enduring the chill and the demands of their outlaw lives, was common for these gang members. Compared to the wretched factory workers in England and France, who slept on miserable rope beds every night, an all-nighter was child's play for these hardened cowboys.

And like them, there were many others who had also not slept a wink all night.

For example, Signor Martelli. And, more significantly, the very King of Saint Denis, the Big Boss of its subterranean forces, Signor Bronte, one of the most prominent, most ruthlessly refined figures of the Saint Denis Italian Mafia family.

The once lively and joyful Bronte Manor was now oppressively, terrifyingly quiet. The waiters, usually bustling with servile eagerness, stood rigidly, their faces pale, not daring to make the slightest sound or movement. Outside, the gunmen patrolled nervously, their eyes darting, their ears straining to catch any sound from inside the villa, terrified of a sudden gunshot, a violent, unforeseen command.

The atmosphere inside the main room was even more stifling, thick with an unspoken dread. All registered members of the Saint Denis Italian Mafia family in Saint Denis had gathered in the villa's opulent room, standing with bowed heads, nervous and reserved, not daring to even glance at Signor Bronte, who sat silently on the sofa, his face as still and as cold as stagnant water.

And Mr. Martelli, the sole survivor of Davey's brutal ambush, along with the seven other lucky, terrified souls who had managed to escape the bloody massacre, now stood trembling directly in front of Signor Bronte. Their bodies were covered in dried blood and caked mud, their clothes tattered and torn from their desperate flight. Even Mr. Martelli's once grand, large red flower, that proud symbol of his status and honor, had withered beyond recognition, looking utterly pathetic, a crushed, pathetic thing.

The eight of them didn't even dare to raise their heads. Signor Bronte's gaze, emanating from the sofa before them, was like that of a venomous snake, fixed on them, its unseen coils tightening, causing the hairs on the back of their necks to stand on end and a chilling dread to crawl down their spines.

Signor Bronte's face had turned incredibly, terrifyingly grim. He looked at Martelli and the other seven gunmen before him, the malice in his eyes almost solidifying into palpable hate.

Finally, after an excruciatingly long silence that stretched the very fabric of time in the room, Signor Bronte slowly spoke, his voice a hoarse, rasping whisper, devoid of all warmth. "So, Signor Martelli, you and the seventy-five men led by Francisco had no means of resistance whatsoever, and were directly annihilated by these damned Van der Linde Gang members, is that right?"

"Yes, yes, Signore!" Martelli replied, his voice a terrified squeak, his entire body trembling. This golden enforcer of Bronte, a man whose very name made the Saint Denis elite tremble, now had a face contorted with palpable fear and lingering, traumatic dread.

"Whew!" Listening to Martelli's terrified, yet undeniably relieved, answer, Bronte took a long, deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly, before finally, deliberately, saying, "Very good, Dutch Van der Linde. Very good!"

Bronte's expression was as dark as the deepest, most stagnant water. Instead of the expected, explosive rage, he immediately, chillingly, calmed down.

"It seems Mr. Dutch Van der Linde is truly an interesting man. He wants to trap us here until we die? Yet, due to his identity, he's unwilling to kill me, hmph, a clumsy trick."

"Thump... thump... thump..."

Signor Bronte's slender fingers began to tap rhythmically on the polished table, a soft, ominous rhythm echoing in the suffocating silence. Signor Martelli and the seven gunmen standing before him had sweat beading on their foreheads, trickling down their grimy faces. The family members standing on either side of the room lowered their heads even further, lost in their own terrified thoughts.

This silent, chilling response proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Signor Bronte, having ascended to the throne of Saint Denis's underworld king, was indeed a profoundly shrewd and dangerous man. Tonight's brutal, audacious attack had, ironically, allowed him to fully comprehend the current, terrifying situation.