Check in with the Stampede, An Equine Gang

The Stampede are mostly horses, a few bulls, and a zebra or three. They're the best **** cooks you can imagine, even if they've got a huge chip on their collective shoulders. Last time you did a job with them they got insulted by your handling of the deal and their profit margin, but they got over it. You head for the dilapidated garage that serves as their base. None of the leather-wearing horses stop you as you approach - they all know who you are. You let yourself in, heading for the office that serves as the HQ for their leaders. Both of them stare at you as you let yourself in.

"V. Rock." V is a herm, a huge zebra. She's a match for you pound for pound, all muscle and lean mass and huge tits, currently wearing a biker vest and cutoffs that outline her sheath in pornographic detail. Rock is her right hand and equal, a clydesdale that's actually taller than you and probably heavier, wearing mechanic's coveralls.

"Dealer." V nods. She's never used your real name.

"Heard you got something special you've been working on?" A second passes as the two look at each other. Rock nods. He reaches into the half-broken desk and pulls out a cheap dust filter mask with a bottle screwed into the filter cartridge slot.

"Here. Take a hit of this."