'Twas the shift before
Fistmas, and all through Foulnest,
The creds were now
counted, the gangers took rest;
The rackets were
claimed, much blood had been spilt,
Rivalries kindled, and
turf kingdoms built.
The Dreadhooks held
court down at old Dogsump Dock,
And Foulnesters feared
the Rustgaters' knock,
These crews above all
were top of the pile,
Winthrop without mercy,
Ray Void with a smile.
Still, others had
prospered and plotted revenge,
(Or at least to lop off
the last limb of Jo Genge):
The Smokestack Needles
held the smuggling routes,
Which, along with the
ghast trade, filled their Escher-made boots;
The Carrion boys and
their ally stimm-lords
Offered prayers to the
Emprah for ill-got rewards;
The cold trade was run by the Veiled Cartel,
With melta in darkness
they raised merry hell;
The Guns of Jonn Gunn
some vexation felt
As they strained at
their bond to the Mercator Gelt;
And Precinct 13 were
the heroes unsung
As they upheld the law
- or elsewise took a bung.
(Doyle the captain was
pleased as can be,
For he had Gunn himself
under tight lock and key;
Now the Guns were
a-planning a jailbreak bold.
But that downhive tale
is still yet to be told...)
The pickings were rich
and the gangers felt blessed,
This truly was boom
time in New Old Foulnest!
The markets were
teeming, the furnaces lit,
The wagers and blood
filled the old fighting pit.
But for each cred the
gangs took, the Guilders got five,
There's the sour-born
wisdom running right through the hive:
From spiretop to
sumpbed, it scans e'er the same,
The Guilds grab the
credits, the gangs take the pain.
What can you do? That's
underhive life,
All scrapping and
scragging and violence and strife;
Yet there's wildsnake
to swallow and stimms to be sniffed,
Happy Fistmas to all,
and to all a good shift!