The Crankshaft Cantina

The ground was sandy and slid beneath the traveller’s feet, proving itself strenuous to walk in and constantly sapping away his strength. His pace was slow, his breathing laboured as he pushed onwards, the sands swallowing his feet and releasing him only reluctantly. He was exhausted, cursing the sand under his breath, though it was still a vast improvement over the swamp he’d crossed prior.

The swamp had taken him the best part of a week to traverse, the ground perpetually wet, most of it underwater. He’d lost his footing many times, the terrain uneven and littered with roots that caught and grabbed at his feet, or hidden pitfalls that threw him off-balance without warning. His pack of provisions was thankfully waterproof, but he’d grown tired of the clammy feeling of the water slipping between his layers of clothing and the taste of wet dirt in his mouth. He’d brought a couple of walking sticks to help him scout out his route as he moved, but whilst they’d helped him avoid some of the larger dangers they were far from foolproof. He’d nearly lost one when he pitched forward into a soft spot that had subsided under his weight, and another had bent badly when he’d managed to get it caught in a twisted root cluster and had to wrench it free.

In comparison to the swamp, the crossing of the sand dunes was a leisurely stroll. He reckoned in the last hour he’d crossed more than twice the terrain of the sand than he could have of the swamp. Resolving to consult his map and check his bearings at the crest of the next dune, he pushed forward and began the climb, sand flowing away beneath his feet as he moved. This dune was higher than most and he hoped to be able to pick out a landmark from its peak, something he could use to reassess his heading.

As he approached the top, and a halo of light began to peek over at him, he realised with a smile that he wouldn’t have to; he’d made better progress than he’d thought. Standing atop the crest of the dune, he gazed across the water at Crankshaft.

A mismatched blob of buildings that looked as though they’d been dumped on the land with little planning or fore-thought, Crankshaft glowed dimly in the evening light, the purple, red and white of its neon lights gaudily beckoning in visitors of all creeds. Sitting squat and heavy in its centre, lending its name to the ramshackle settlement that clumsily surrounded it, was The Crankshaft Cantina.

The Crankshaft Cantina was born out of the remains of an aeroplane, a relic of the old age of flight, predominantly consigned to the history books when spacecraft had begun to slip free of Earth’s atmosphere before dipping back in for landing and reducing global travel times to just a couple of hours regardless of destination. From what the traveller had heard, the aircraft that lay in Crankshaft was an old cargo plane, its cavernous belly stripped clean and haphazardly retrofitted with a bar, some tables and booths, a pool table, and an antique jukebox that was loaded up with an eclectic mix of country music and electro-swing.

The Cantina was owned and operated by an ex-gun runner and bootlegger by the name of Dexter. A burly man with a gleaming bald head, legend had it that in his time he’d transported enough weaponry to handily equip several small nations. The plane had apparently been the main tool of his trade, and it had been dubbed ‘Crankshaft’ because one of Dexter’s favourite jokes was that it was so old it had practically required one to get it up and running for every flight. When it had finally approached the end of its lifespan Dexter had supposedly been so unwilling to part with it he’d instead evolved his operations and turned it into a base of sorts.

Thus, The Crankshaft Cantina had been born; a den of iniquity catering to smugglers, mercenaries, assassins, pirates and outlaws. Around it had quickly sprung up a cluster of shady retailers of various goods and services, ranging from weaponry to prostitution and everything in between. It had nothing in the way of law and order, though it still managed to hold itself together on the general principle that if someone committed something truly heinous they risked being outlawed from one of the few places that otherwise generally accepted them.

Officially, Crankshaft survived because it operated outside of most governments’ jurisdiction. Unofficially, it survived because no matter how high and mighty an authority may be, it inevitably required the services that Crankshaft could provide. People would preach, and cluck their tongues, but when dirty was the only way to get the job done they all either turned a blind eye or found themselves hushed by someone several pay-grades above them in the pecking order.

Staring at its neon glow, the traveller adjusted the pack on his back and began the slow descent down the other side of the dune. He’d need to skirt the lake ahead, but he should be able to reach Crankshaft on the far shore before the night grew too dark. At the very least he should be able to find himself a decent meal and a bed, and wouldn’t have to spend another fitful night out in the wilderness, constantly half-awake and scanning his eyes across the darkness surrounding him.

Not all visitors to Crankshaft would have these problems of course; it would be bad for business if the only way to reach it was to trek across the land as he had. The majority of Crankshaft’s patrons were able to hitch a ride into the settlement, a dilapidated landing pad established on its outskirts allowing for small flyers to dock with relative ease. A jamming system supposedly helped protect Crankshaft from unexpected visitors, and the lake had no doubt tasted its fair share of those who’d outstayed their welcome.

However, as pleasant as a short stint on a flyer would have been, ferrying him to the settlement in moderate comfort in a trice, the traveller could not have afforded such a luxury; a flyer would have attracted attention. He’d likely secure one’s services when it was time to depart, but for now he was coming by land specifically so as to be able to slip in under the radar.

Some came to Crankshaft to sell themselves, some came to sell others; the traveller had come to buy. He didn’t want his quarry to be alerted and slip away before her compatriots had the opportunity to sell her out.

If there was one thing you could count on in Crankshaft, it was that honour among thieves only extended as far as their greed…