The drilling beat of techno-infused folk music droned in the background of the club, far behind the walls where a secret meeting took place. Men in thousand-dollar kilts gathered around a briefcase that was thirty feet long, leaning over it with great interest.
The man with the largest beard spoke.“Did you have any trouble sneaking those past security?”
A man in sunglasses and a powdered wig snickered to himself, sending off a cloud of makeup dust from his face. “Agents of S.C.O.N.E. aren’t all that affected by Scottish martial artists. The bouncers were no trouble for us.”
The S.C.O.N.E. agent walked along the side of the case, running his fingers along the top. He started at one side, undoing the eighty-five clasps one by one. “You know, people told me that I was insane to build something like this. They said it couldn’t be done. Well, maybe you gentlemen will feel otherwise.”
It was another ten minutes or so before the case was unlocked, and he flipped it open. Inside were a line of cabers, the bark shining white under the strobe lights coming through the office window. The men in the room started to speak amongst each other.
The agent smirked. “What good is a counterfeit caber, they asked. How do you even begin to make a fake tree to turn into a caber, they asked. Won’t they know something is instantly wrong with it once they lift it up and notice it’s made of styrofoam that your son painted to look like tree bark, they asked. Well, what do you guys think?”
One man lifted a caber up, looking down its sights. “It has a very good balance. Lightweight, yet strong.”
The S.C.O.N.E. agent walked up beside him. “Like I said, it’s styrofoam; a new material that will be the wave of the future. It’s going to go a long ways in replacing our lines of cardboard firearms and paper mache armor. You guys can get in on the ground floor of this brand new technology, right here. Right now.”
A red haired woman brandishing a cardboard assault rifle walked from the corner, glaring at each Scot in turn as she closed the case, standing beside the agent. “Bidding starts at a million sheep.”
One of the Scotsman laughed. “A million? You’re insane.”
The redhead turned the gun on him, pulling the trigger. The barrel barked, loosing the sound of someone passing gas against a hard surface as wool bullets spewed out. They tapped against the Scotsman’s chest, and at the same time he conveniently died of a broken heart.
“Anyone else have a counteroffer?”
“I have one.”
All heads turned to the sound of the monotone voice, which was followed by clunking birch and oak cogs. Smoke poured in through the open door as Wallace McBolts stalked into the room, his smokestacks belching out a dark cloud ahead of him.
The agent pointed at him. “The Bionic Scot! Kill him!”
Everyone in the room pulled out their weapons, lace shotguns and silk handguns flying into hands as cross-stitched bullets filled the air. They bounced off of Wallace’s tanned leather hide as he moved forward, pulling bagpipes from a compartment in his leg. The agent dove for cover when he saw this, pulling the redhead down with him.
The dulcet sound of the bagpipes floated out of its tubes before the missiles followed, ripping through the room and obliterating all of the resistance. With the attackers dead, he sent the bagpipes through a quick spin around his finger before returning them to their holster.
He’d done it too soon, though, and the agent stood up, a glass rocket launcher in his hands. “This is the last time, McBolts! The last!”
A toilet paper grenade shot from the barrel, hammering right into McBolts’ chest, the resulting explosion filling the room with shredded fabrics. The agent laughed, until the smoke cleared.
McBolts stood in front of him, haggis in hand. “I was a champion haggis hurler before one of your counterfeit cabers cut me to pieces and made me what I am now. Let me show you.”