THE ADVENTURES OF DRAKE MANDIBLE- #11: Cursory Caution.

Although there were many adjectives one could use to describe the Marauders, imaginative was not one of them. The leader’s attire was hardly original: a tattered black jacket (sans sleeves) adorned with a small chain hanging out of each pocket on either side. A pair of shades rested upon his shaved pate, a sneer was glued to his face and a pry-bar swung lazily from his right hand. Behind him were nearly a dozen similarly attired men who were all sporting various melee weapons. Not exactly the “punk-kids” the local authorities had described them as, but not TOO formidable.

“Alright gentlemen,” called Drake from the shadows. “That’s far enough. Put your weapons down, turn around and go home.”

One Marauder flicked on his torch and pointed it where the voice had come from. Drake squinted as the light on his face, but kept still. He was reminded of how he and Jake used to drive from city to city, busting up various gangs: the West Coast Warriors, the Colchester Cannons and Detroit Bangers United, among others. The Marauders looked disorganized, had no gang colours or any real way of distinguishing them from other groups.

Taking in the man before them, the Marauders laughed at the threat. Drake certainly cut an impressive figure, but he was still only one man, dressed in a dinner suit no less. Perhaps a group of two or three might have had second thoughts about mugging him in a lone alley late at night. But as it was, he was outnumbered ten-to-one, and they were all armed.
The leader gave a nod and one of the gang members rushed at Drake, bike-chain whipping wildly about…