The basket was a wicker affair, replete with folded cloth of a checker striped red and white pattern which would have done a painfully traditional Libertonian household proud. The basket and the cloth had come with contents which, not to be outdone by the vessel of transport, dispersed an aroma fit to send the most hardened of souls alight.
The owner of the basket approached the honky-tonk din of one of the Freeport's moodily illuminated lower bars with basket swinging carefree at his side, cutting through the stale aroma of spilt beer like an ancient religious chalice laden with holy incense. A a neat house whiskey was ordered and carried with no small reverence to a booth at the back of the bar.
With a luxurious sigh the folds of the basket were parted to reveal a delicately piled array of baked beets. The earthy aroma demanded the senses abandon the station and pummel down the closest gravity well to a place where a man might feel the crumble of rich earth beneath his fingers. The Zoner girl who had sold them had not lied, they were worth the extra cost of the handwoven basket.
"Jose Faria?"
The owner of the basket looked up, not relinquishing another bite of the beet clenched in his hand.
"Yes?"
The man, a heavyset figure laden with Hispanic features, replied with a tone of annoyance.
"Surely you recall me. I am your uncle, Fernando."
The man we now know as Jose nodded sagely and reached into the basket again. This seemed to heighten the annoyance of his guest, who flushed a deep red and dropped his mouth like the gates of a great castle preparing to disgorge a hidden army.
"If this is about your mother's ship it's" the basket split open with a flash of light, Jose's hand buried beneath the piles of beets, slowly standing he pulled the pulse pistol into view before setting it down on the table beside him.
"Uncle" Jose began with a gently tone "It was always my mother's ship, never to be yours. Though I have brought you something else of hers to salve your loss."
The man laid gasping on his back, the effect of the pulse pistol coursing through his body, muscles twitching as his nervous system wrestled with the sudden surge of conflicting signals. The sensation of the butterfly knife pushing into his chest was confused as best, the pain was minimal, which its owner found to be a matter of intense pity.
Jose Faria stood up to survey his work and, standing, nodded once to himself as though satisfied. He reached to the sundered basket and plucked one of the remaining vegetables from its remains.
He took bit into another beet, it was delicious. He then noticed the bartender walking towards his Uncle's body with a sidearm of imposing stature drawn and trained upon himself.
"Careful Senor, that is evidence I believe." Jose spoke.