"I didn't take this city back to run it as a charity. Either you pay us and hire the best on the market, or fuck off and take your chances down south."


Goodtimes is the main city representative, the closest it has to an executive leader, commander-in-chief, or CEO. He’s an older man in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair usually hidden under a wide-brimmed safari hat, green eyes hidden behind a pair of Ubiq-enable Wayfarers. He’s not short, but not tall either, and seems to dress exclusively in hiking clothes he’s seemingly liberated from every outdoor shop in Colorado.

He speaks in clipped tones with a slight southern accent, but most of the Mountain Goats seem to agree he’s not former military. There was a rumor he was a poker player in Vegas when the shit went down, hence his tendency to wear sunglasses during negotiations, but you know how rumors go.


Goodtimes was in Telluride when the Recession started, either a resident or another tourist on vacation. When the Army showed up to help fend off the hordes of casualties, he helped take up arms and secure the city.

However, even the best-armed military couldn’t stand against the might of the slavers that rolled Telluride up to smoke like a big, city-sized joint. Goodtimes and a host of others escaped with their lives, but the city had fallen.

For three years, Goodtimes was a legend amongst Takers. Him and the Agaricus Eaters roamed the Southwest, taking what jobs they could. Working with the Eaters was a medal of honor, being one meant your resume was set for life. Goodtimes and his crew got shit done.

The entire time, Goodtimes remembered what he’d left in Telluride. He remembered the Mountain Goats who had help, in vain, to hold the city. He remembered the people who’d left in fear, following armed soldiers and civilians alike in the hopes they were heading toward safety. He remembered the people who’d been captured, the ones that the scouts they sent over the mountains would see penned up behind chainlink fences, both chattel and human shield in one big cage on the outskirts of town.

When you’re the kind of Taker that Goodtimes was, your reputation precedes you. Work was easy to come by. Old friends were willing to show their faces when you came through. Soldiers who’d spent the last three years as rebels would split their salavaged beans and maggoty rice with you.

And they’d all fight for you.

The Second Battle of Telluride lasted three days with the forces that Goodtimes was able to muster. Slavers were executed on the auctioneer’s stage where they’d formerly sold men and women, each hanging bringing cheers from the crowd. The stage itself was torn up, and on top of the blood of slavers and the dirt of the mountains, a new name was given to the town: Takeride.


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