A little bit of backstory here.



The Dockery Dames were a traditional bunch. Back in their early days they were more of a business than an street-state. Of course, back then they still had pimps to mould them into said business.

Originally, there were three styles of service you could get from the group that would become the Dockery Dames, depending on preference and wallet size. When the Dames finally earned their independence, in a game of cards no less (a particularly deadly one too), they added a fourth. Unfortunately, creativity wasn’t really the Dames’ strong-suit at the time, so the rebranded services were named after the deck of cards.

Their first act was to make a new set of enforcers, the girls who would replace the pimp’s only useful roles: defence and contract management. These Dames were originally formed from the girls who stood up and fought the old regime, and brought about the card game. They became The Spades, and were pretty skilled when it came to combat. Not armed forces standard, but more than adequate when compared to the usual street thug.

The second group were the niche markets, the kinky stuff. This was, for the most part, the stuff that involved leather and whips and other terrifying things. These Dames were mostly shunned before the reforms, and not much changed after. They enjoy the protection of the Spades, but they are very much a fringe group. They are known as The Clubs.

Group three bring in the most money, and were treated well by the pimps. The upper class escorts, the girls who like the lifestyle of the rich and famous but aren’t quite committed enough to be trophy wives. They never really cared for The Spades’ attempts at rebellion, but they brought in so much money that no-one was willing to kick them out. The other girls call them The Diamonds, but they refuse to use that title themselves.

The final group is composed of everyone else, the rest of the flock, the normal prostitutes. They are the majority of the Dames, and the primary focus of the work of The Spades. They are The Hearts, and Cassandra is a card carrying member.

This is why her marksmanship is terrible.

The Hearts spend most of their time learning the necessary skills to be a decent Dame, which mainly consists of how to lure the punters, not firearms. Technically, anyone other than a Spade caught with a firearm will be subject to the harshest punishment The Clubs can dream up which, as you can imagine, is pretty harsh. Cassandra had never been one to follow the rules, and had never really been one for lessons either, so her competency with her illegal firearm was poor.

That is probably why the shots she fired at Kenya Grove didn’t kill him. Wounded him, yes, but he was still alive.

Cassandra had never actually shot anyone before, and she was of the opinion that there was something magic in a bullet that meant they killed you regardless of where they entered the body. Her entire knowledge of guns came from television, and despite her claims to the contrary, she could be exceedingly naïve at times.

With Kenya “dead”, she was presented with the problem of getting rid of the body. The blood was easy, a quick throw rug over the top and no-one would be any the wiser, but bodies were too lumpy for that. Having never considered body removal before, she immediately went back to any reference point she could draw on, which led her to hiding Kenya Grove in the boot of her car.

When he woke up, it was dark and noisy, and it took him a few moments to realise that he was not actually dead. This was hammered home when the car went over a bump and pain shot through his body like fire. A quick self examination revealed he had a bullet hole in his left shoulder, his right hand and both his thighs. Surprisingly, he wasn’t bleeding as badly as he had expected, but then he did feel a little wonky in the head.

With his uninjured hand, he spent most of the journey trying to pry open the boot lid, and failed miserably. Then the care came to a halt and he ceased his efforts. Last thing he needed was for the psycho prostitute to come back and finish the job.

He rolled in and out of consciousness for a while after that, the blood loss finally making itself known. There was silence for a while, then gunshots, then more silence for a much longer time. Then someone got in the car, no, two someones, and they had a conversation.

Kenya couldn’t hear the words, but he could make out that one was a woman (most likely the mental hooker) and the other a man. They chatted for a minute or so, then the car drove off. The conversation continued, but Kenya was rolling into another wound-induced snooze. As he dozed off he caught the very end of a sentence, clear as a bell, as though they were right next to him.

‘–house in Coleworth St. Barley.’ said the man.  


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