Somewhere, West Virginia, USA.

Skeeter was in the back of his General Store working hard on the rest of Jeb's order. He was more than happy to focus on his gunsmithing as it provided an excellent distraction to the situation with the store.

To say that this economic slump was putting a hurt on his store would be pretty accurate. Folk were pinching pennies and being extra thrifty to tide them over until it, hopefully, ended. He understood completely, doesn't mean it wasn't hurting him though.

He could get by before on the small, but consistent, customers he got. But now he was really struggling to stay in the black. It didn't help that those punks from before spread word throughout the newcomers and his store has been marked. Literally and figuratively.

He's had to devote time and money better spent elsewhere on cleaning graffiti and fixing the shop windows. But it was worth it, Skeeter thought. You stick by those closest to you. Maybe the food is starting to grow a bit of fuzz, or the drinks are getting a bit flat or ready to turn. But he'd do it again for his friends, just like how they'd do the same for him.

It wasn't all bad though, some people did come in for some work tools and supplies from the rail yard not long ago. It was a bit mixed though as they didn't pay in cash but coins. Solid gold and silver coins. He honestly wasn't sure if they were real or if he was getting conned.

He decided to take a couple to Molly at the pawnshop just to make sure, according to her they were real alright. But that still didn't help that he wasn't sure what to do with them. Will the bank even accept them? What's the conversion rate for them? Since they're real, were they stolen?

He sighed as he flipped up his mask and rubbed his eyes from welding a rifle tube. It might've not been too far back, but he missed the days when things were simpler. Now he has some punks dressed like they're extras in the LotR. People are paying in solid coin. Those little greenskinned buggers being pests. Not to mention Jeb's little lizardfolk.

The store front chimed and Skeeter groaned.

"Can't people read anymore?"

Skeeter set aside his things and made for the front of the store.

"Can I hel-"

He paused when he saw the same punks from before now standing at the front of the store. Though there weren't any of the shorter folk with them, there were more than a few others to make up for it. He'd say there were maybe twelve people glaring at him at this moment.

"Ya'll look lost."

One of the men stepped forwards, probably the same one from before.

"We know you have food! And those dwarven thundersticks!"

"I have food, and though I never heard 'em called that before yeah, I have guns. What of it?"

"We're starving in this cold backwater, and we need protection from those greenskins!"

"Well then you can pay for it like everyone else. Only select people get a freebie now and then from me."

The mob drew daggers, some wielded chunks of asphalt or broken bottles.

"We're not paying. And we're not asking. If you'll give those thieving lizards protection you'll give it to us!"

"Well then, I guess you'll just have to come get it." Skeeter stated as he stretched a bit to get the kinks from bending over a table for a few hours out.

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Despite the challenge, the mob seemed hesitant to rush him. Many side-eyed glances and murmurings were all that he was met with for a time. But hunger and desperation had a way of making fools out of anyone.

"It's just one man! And he doesn't even have the thunderstick with him this time!"

That bit of information gave the mob enough courage to break from their stalemate and rush towards Skeeter.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

As four of the mob rushed him he grabbed one of the shelfs to his right and pulled it down onto them. Spilling the last of his old food and flat pop all over them as well as pinning them under the metal shelf. He jumped onto it, earning cries of pain from the small group of attackers. He jumped once more for good measure, earning yet more yelps and cries of pain, and even a few snaps of what sounded like bone.

Skeeter looked at the rest of the mob.

"Anyone else?"

Three more advanced on him, more cautiously than his previous attackers, but kept their distance. One of them opted to hurl a piece of asphalt at Skeeter, the heavy object was easy to avoid, but it allowed one of them to rush and tackle him.

He grunted as a sharp bottle stabbed into his stomach. He gripped the wrist of his attacker, keeping the bottle's edge inside him but keeping him from getting gutted or repeatedly shanked. While his attacker tried to retrieve his weapon, Skeeter threw a fist, repeatedly, into the jaw of his attacker until he was dazed enough for him to roll off of Skeeter.

He grunted in pain as he rolled after him. He grabbed a hold of him and held the dazed man up as a meatshield to protect him from a dagger stabbing at him. His dazed comrade cried out in pain as the dagger sunk deep into his flesh, then again as Skeeter hoisted a boot and pushed his fleshy shield onto his attacker.

He yanked the bottle out of his gut and threw it at the one who threw the piece of concrete at him. He cried out in pain as the bottle embedded itself into his shoulder and he fell to the ground. Skeeter rolled forwards into a standing position before stomping down onto the other two attackers.

He wrenched out the dagger from one and held up the bloody blade towards the rest of the mob, who were understandably hesitant. Their leader looked fearfully between those at his side, those fallen, and then at Skeeter.

"W-w-well?! What are you cowards waiting for?!"

The mob's courage, however, had run dry and they chose instead to flee instead of ending up like the others. The leader looked between his fleeing compatriots and Skeeter.

"T-t-this isn't over!"

With that he fled, almost crashing into two well dressed dwarves that were on their way to Skeeter's shop. They were curious as to what would cause the man to flee in such a haste, as they entered the store though they quickly knew why.

"Stone Father's Beard! What happened here?!"

Skeeter limped over to some bandanas and bundled a couple up and placed them firmly against his wounded gut.

"Just some folk that don't get the concept of the right to refuse service."

The two dwarves looked around at the state of the shop and Skeeter, as well as on the wounded, groaning, and whining men.

"Do you require any aid?"

Skeeter walked over to the first-aid isle and cracked open a bottle of anti-septic before pouring it on his wound, he hissed as he applied some gauze to keep him from losing anymore blood.

"Nah, I just need a bit of rest, and probably a couple staples, and I'll be right as rain."

Before they could continue, the door chimed again. Only this time, it wasn't an angry mob. Well, not entirely. One of Morty's Red Cap officers and nine goblins pushed past the two dwarves and looked around the place, and at the various wounded men. The Red Cap looked at Skeeter.

"We heard a commotion, do you need assistance?"

"Nope. I got it covered. Though nice to see Morty actually doing some public good, for once." Skeeter stated.

The Red Cap nodded before gesturing to the wounded men.

"Take them away."

The wounded men, those still semi-conscious anyway, were understandably quite resistant to being in the company of the goblins. But they were in little condition to resist much more than some weak attempts to push them or to try and crawl away, and if anything it just gave the cruel goblins an excuse to be extra rough. They snickered as they roughly hauled the men to their feet, some they just outright dragged. "Accidentally" stepping on wounds or "bumping" them into the door frame on their way out. If they hadn't just tried to gut him, Skeeter might've almost felt bad. Almost.

The Red Cap officer nodded to Skeeter before brushing past the two dwarves and leaving the store with their prisoners. The two dwarves shuddered as they watched them go.

"That's gonna be some nasty business, mark mah words."

"So I doubt you folks came by just to watch me bleed out, you want somethin'?" Skeeter asked as he looked around for a staple gun.

The two dwarves looked at one another before one cleared his throat.

"We are Allwin and Alwin. We are sons o' Ulrin! Son o' Alrin! Son o' Elrin! Head o' tha Olrin Bankin' Clan! And we are here ta inquire about tha claims you posses thundersticks?"

"You mean guns? You folks are really committed to your roles ain't you?"

"So you do have them?"

"Yeah. I do. Why?"

"We are lookin' inta acquirin' yer services."

Skeeter looked at the two dwarves.

"Not that I'm not appreciative, but I already have my hands full fillin' out an order. On top of that I'll need to clean and fix my shop. So, sorry folks. No can do."

The two dwarves huddled and talked in a tongue that reminded Skeeter of grinding stones. One of the brothers nodded before the two returned their focus on Skeeter.

"We are willin' ta provide you with both labor and security in order ta fulfil yer obligation."

"What's the catch?"

"Once yer previous obligation is complete. You will work exclusively fer us in tha manufacturin' o' tha thundersticks."

He's heard worse offers and deals, Skeeter thought as he looked around his shop. Maybe it was time to switch things up. Not like the steady work couldn't hurt.

"What's the pay?"

"You'll be payed in commission. Every weapon that passes inspection, you will be payed fer in return."

Again, he's heard worse. Skeeter chewed on the inside of his cheek in thought for a moment. This might bite him in the ass somewhere down the line, he thought. But not like he was in any position to say no now was he?

"Alright. Deal. You send some folk over to help me finish out, and I'll make guns for you."

The two dwarves nodded with smiles as they shook Skeeter's hand.

"We'll also have a contract made and brought when our men arrive."

"Sounds good."