(continued from the last post)
As the familiar homeboy struts from the alley, the gang lounges still, but the hollow eyes now glitter with lust unspoken. It remains so as they rise to their feet, gathering about the one who has journeyed into shadows known for sins enjoyed. Hands are stuck out; brown, crooked teeth are flashed in vulpine smiles as voices coarse echo in a confusing chorus. "Buddy!...Jose'....What...Give...Fucker hogging...Whiny bitch...GIVE IT!" The last cry is one of unanimous assent as the outstretched hands are thrust again at the newly arrived figure, demand writ plainly upon ape-like features.
"You got the fuck-up, we get the shit, remember?" The question comes from one of the unholy choir as the others echo their approval of this statement. Brows lower as they glare now, waiting with impatience for the dulling of sense and quickening of pulse...
"Step the fuck off, yo."
Deep within the soggy sponge that is Cash's brain, a foreign source of neuro electronic activity is hard at work.
Looking into our world from a watery dimension, sits an old Chinese man over a thousand years old. Chicken legs crossed and his knobby fingers grasping the gnarled end of a walking cane, Sifu Sun Fook doesn't look a day over five hundred. This altered state has been kind to him. And in the deep recesses of a parallel stream of reality, he strokes his white beard and produces a sucking sound between the gaps of his ancient teeth. The celestial lotus he sits upon offers up a jewel encrusted cup, filled with an ethereal substance that measures five thousand percent alcohol. It's sipped, he cackles, looking through a portal cut in the shape of Cash's dull eyes.
And when Cash' speaks again, wearing the skin of another monkey, he sounds utterly convincing to match the clone which his body has contorted into.
"I said step the fuck off, fuckin' vultures. This shit's on time. Boy came correct up in here. Ya'll check it." Looking about, the interloper spots the lead man on the totem to address further. A stream of Mandarin characters scrolls down his mind's eye, feeding him the secrets that were held in the dead man's skull. To the fat cat, he hands over one of the rocks, his bounty. So he may be measured and weighed. "Check this shit, top dawg."
At the words and the hollow echo that hangs for seconds upon the air in their wake, a glass tube with a rounded bowl at the end is produced from beneath leather jacket. Eyes rimmed with red and darkness flicker to one of the dark ganstas standing beside. The loyal acolyte draws a lighter from a hip pocket with a dazed smile. This action is mirrored by a hand plucking the proffered prize. The prize is lifted to the bowl and dropped into place as the iighter follows suit. A bubbling drawn from tales of Shakespeare and destinies fatal begins and a deep breath is drawn. Eyes close as muscles slacken, leaving a mask of idiocy in its wake. Silence as the eyes of all remain focused upon this still figure and when he exhales, the gang echoes the harsh rasp.
"That's good shit. Fuckface must'a been a narc. Glad ya wasted the fucker." The eyes are open now, glazed with symptoms known and settled upon the young gansta who holds the glittering treasure. "We needa show this shit to Marco. Get lots of money." The eyes narrow, focusing upon the gansta's hands as there's an addition to this statement. "We coulda be real rich. Real rich, amigo."
"Faggot said he hadda gang a this shit. But, I only found this, knaw wha' 'm sayin'. But they gotta be more a' this shizzle somewhere, believe dat." The interloper jabs at the prize with one finger from way above his shoulder. Keeping a respectable distance from top dawg, but feigning interest in the second hand effects of Pobble's uber-crack smoke, Cash lingers.
"Yo. 'M gonna check if dis boyz' address on his I.D. is fer reals. We'll come right ta Marco. Get some mutha fuckin' props up 'n here."
"Si. Stupid fuckers donta deserving it. Fuck man, we fuck Marco." The words are delivered with a slight slur as his eyes twitch from the promsing gansta and the giggling acolytes. The pipe is lifted again for another toke. An acolyte's grimy hands rise as if to take the pipe while the silver breath is savored. The hands don't make it far before a hand falls to the leader's side. It rises again in the next second, a trail of droplets flying through air as the rising hand bears a knife which steals grasping fingers from the now-marked Judas. Nothing is said as the Judas falls to his knees clutching the hand and cursing in a high-pitched voice. There is a kick then. The thud marks the change in cries from loud curse to low whimper. Blood pools beneath as Judas clutches his groin with tearing eyes and drooling mouth. The silver breath is now released, frosting the words now spoken with illogic.
Floating by, the formless embodiment of a character dreamt up in the bed of a nine year old Hindu boy swims and distracts Sun Fook for a moment. Dirty and long nails rake through the spirit matter, which feels much a spring breeze from the back of 69' Mustang. Lips smack a toothless sound, the Sifu returns to the conversation at hand. The purple lotus leans him towards the window of Cash's eyes so that he may reach through them and into the fat street urchin's weakened mind.
A handful of thoughts are pulled in his weathered and callused grasp. Those pertaining to Marco, those that describe the man and his position, and how to find them, thoughts that are inspired by the scheming mention of fuck overs and dirty dealing.
Cash, as gangsta, grins just as broad as he should, and not a millimeter more. "Yo, 'm come back in a few. We'll halla' at Marco then, see what the shit we come with."
Friday, December 19, 2003
Thursday, December 18, 2003
This Little Piggy Goes to Market
Downtown - Diaz District
-= Raven and Pike =-
It is the three-story mall that seems to beckon people from all sorts of financial incomes into the area. Its large parking lot is available for plenty of room for shoppers to fill up their vehicles with its goods and empty their pockets in one easy day. Various crosswalks and shopping centers have sprung up surrounding the mall's center of fame, seeking to draw consumers to their market as well and indeed, succeeding.
Across the street from the mall lies a large shopping center, featuring a large movie theater in its court. Also to draw attention are large fashion stores, everything from the upper end dresses of the year to the inexpensive photography studio to show off your looks to friends and family everywhere. An interesting concept of note is the shuttle bus that moves from the mall to the shopping center across the street, allowing consumers to easily make their way from one area to the next with little effort.
===============================| +IC Time |================================
Current Time: Thu Dec 18 14:27:17 2003
Time of Day: Afternoon (Daylight) Weather: Overcast
Moon: Waxing Crescent Temperature: 45F (7C)
===========================================================================
Penny has run off to the goddamn bathroom. Girls going to the bathroom in malls is almost an hour affair. And. You guys have all her purchases. You are loaded with bags. Not just any bags - these are definitely girly-looking shopping bags. An embarrassment and an eyesore.
So. Where there's a mall, there's a food court. where there's a food court, there's cheap food. Where there's cheap food, there's McDonalds. So these three people: one Penny, Hiro, and Compton - a young lady and her disheveled gentleman callers. And they're standing in front of the McDonalds counter, right?
So - Penny's off in the bathroom, /powdering her nose/, dig, and Compton's drunk, and Hiro is arguing with the pimple-faced girl behind the counter, apparently over the contents of the happy meal. There's some contention over the toy.
"They have them in Canada," he tells the girl, glowering. "I swear to fucking god. Where's your manager? Who made you a manager? How can you NOT KNOW?"
Compton looks around lazily like a Hindu cow. MAss consumerism seems to be draining the life from him by the second, with only his belly full of liqour to numb the pain. Mall security would normally be all over this type of guy and sweeping his quietly out the door, but for some reason they haven't noticed him. Most likely a Union outfit has sway here and no one else has screamed 'BUM!' yet. So he continues as Penny's pack mule.
---------------------------------[ Glance ]---------------------------------
Mike................An introverted, wild-haired academic.
Height: 5'10 Weight: 170# Age: App: 2 Cha: 1
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Compton.............Dirty old man.
Height: 1.8m Weight: 67 kg. Age: 69 App: 2 Cha: 1
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hiro................Swine-featured asian geek. Technicolor dreamcoat.
Height: 5'9 Weight: Heavy Age: 22 App: 2 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Penny...............Tall. Hot. White hair.
Height: 5'9" Weight: %b Age: App: 3 Cha: 3
-----------------------------------[ - ]------------------------------------
Mike is all but unnoticeable in the food-court crowd. Like most Americans and most geeks he has absolutely no clue of the caloric value of a double bacon cheeseburger with biggie fries and a super-sized Dr. Pepper, and devoured them like a thirteen-year-old girl reads _Tiger Beat_. Now there are just empty wrappers, vestigal shells of the carbohydrates which they once contained, and a brown plastic tray. He finished some time ago, judging from the appearance of his small and uncomfortable food-court table, but he's still sitting there writing furiously in his notebook. And writing furiously on the inside of his burger wrapper. And writing furiously on the back of his hand. And writing furiously on... whatever it is that he's doing, it seems to involve an awful lot of writing.
Hiro comes up with this little like, piece of paper, right? Not even a piece of paper - like one of those reminder notes for UPS or USPS or PSU or whatever to tell you that you missed the package, asshole, and now it's gonna take you 3 days to find it. And he's scribbled something on the back -- looks kinda like a tamigotchi's face, like one of those little keychains. Only the face is like a symbol, right? Following? And that symbol just happens to be ole Gabe, gabby, Gabriel's name. As in archangel. And these things were on TV maybe six months ago in another country and Hiro's right now just like jabbing his finger at the piece of paper. Like - what's this. Look at it. Stop lying.
"Jerking me around," Hiro accuses, loudly. Making quite a scene.
"Hey man, it was like another country, ya know?" Compton says, his voice rolling across the gravel in his throat, "Fucking Americans thing Canada is the States. It ain't ya know? Shoulda got it the first time you saw it now leave the poor kid alone." You sense Compton isn't sticking up for the McClerk as much as he's just annoyed with everything around him right now.
Mike isn't looking at the scene, but not in the same way that everybody else is not looking at the scene. Everybody else is not looking at the scene in the way that they would deliberately not see a big gray elephant in the middle of the room. Noticing the disturbance would necessitate them making some difficult social decision, like calling the cops or telling you guys to grow up and get civilized, so it's easier to just not notice anything. Mike, on the other hand, doesn't notice anything because he's so locked away inside his own head that he probably is no longer aware of the outside world existing. At least, existing in any sense beyond "the place where I write down my stuff".
"Fine, fuck, just trying to kill the days we're waiting for mr level fucking seventeen half-elf illusionist to show up." Hiro crumples the post-it note up as he abandons McJobette, hurling the scrap of paper into the garbage. Hopefully Gabriel won't take notice. "We've been here like fifteen minutes."
"Here" says Compton as he heaves the bags towards Hiro, "Go, find a place to sit. I'll get Pizza while Shoperella does her thing."
Compton. Old hand at surviving Malls. Fuck, the guy is older than the concept of Malls.
"Don't go to Dominos," and Hiro says it like he's threatening murder. Brand loyalty enslaving us and all that. Shouldering the gargantuan burden, Pigboy hop jump skip stumbles his way right to Mike's table. "Yo," he greets, before depositing the load of crap onto his table. "Nice day out." We're inside.
Mike finally takes a break from writing _War and Peace_--or whateverthehell he's doing--and stares for a moment at the burger wrapper he's littered with glyphs. He reads it, blinks a few times, scowls a moment, mutters something about utter trivial tripe, and crumples the failure up just as Hiro comes over. "Uhh." Brilliant conversation-starter, isn't it? He just looks at Hiro, blinking a few times, still holding the crumpled wrapper, desperately trying to shift mental gears into something vaguely resembling normalcy. Then--"Hi."
And you know why it's been fifteen minutes? 'cause fucking Penny is taking her goddamn time. Should know better by now not to cut a woman loose in a mall if she hasn't left her bag. The one she keeps the creditcards in. This fifteen minutes will surely turn into an hour - count on it. Piggy'll remember in just a few how she couldn't put down those dumb slogan undies at Urban Outfitters until he forced her to. And at about the same time, Compton'll think "Bathroom my ass."
"Is that a tamigochi?" Hiro doesn't so much take a look at the paper as leer at it, snatch at it. Grabby bastard. Like he's gotta have it right now. Oh, and his pupils are like an animal's when your headlights hit them like right before you plow over the fucker and make roadkill burgers. Wired. Now's the time to note, when he's like a foot and loose change from your face and grabbing wildly.
Mike doesn't contest the hold on the wrapper; he just lets it go as if it's of absolutely no use whatsoever. Which, to his lights, it probably isn't; after all, it's trivial tripe, easily discarded. What's on the wrapper? Scribbled linguistic analyses of ... good lord! There's Chinese, Devanagari, hieroglyphics, an entire Comparative Linguistics thesis boiled down into tiny, terse letters and symbols. If this guy speaks all these languages, it's real puzzling that he's so lousy with English.
"HmmMmMM," Hiro spits out, like he's really pleased, interested, fascinated. So much so he crumples the wrapper up and drops it -- complete with overflow ketchup and a couple onion bits -- into Penny's bag. The one she got from that really expensive store. The stuff that's all silky and wrapped in tissue paper. "You're Mike," he accuses.
Mike shakes his head no. "My name is /called/ Mike," he answers. "My /name/ is Michael. I am neither Mike nor Michael." Okay, someone's just shown themselves to be a few flavors shy of a Fruit Loops box. He says nothing else, showing a talent for conversation that's nothing shy of autistic.
"Well the method by which I choose to identify you is Mikey Mike, or Mikeadoodleskroodle, you dig. I'm Hiro Stice. You can infer the identities and names and nicknames of my esteemed associates, right." And Pigboy here, he lays like this card out in front of you, some kind of like rave flyer, but it says THE INVISIBLE COLLEGE and it's got these numbers, names, words, ideas all over it. "Yo, call us tonight, huh? You can come by the warehouse. Meet everybody, like. We can talk shop and braid each other's hair."
Mike looks up at Mike, blinking a few times as he tries to parse out these words. "Okay," he finally says, taking the flyer from Hiro and placing it into his notebook. Quietly, he gathers up his papers and tucks them in as well, then closes it all up and returns it to his satchel. "If you'll excuse me? I've got things I really must be doing." Things in Devanagari, no doubt.
"Pleasedtapleasedta, Mikey." Hiro looks back at Compton, or at least looks for him - and kinda like, forgets Mikey Mike. Not in a rude way, but in a 'walls bleeding must stare' kinda way.
Compton's booty is held low and close to his body, by his quick movements and darting eyes you get the sense that he's up to something. "There ya go. Tacos." he says as he deposits the tray on the table. No, not pizza, tacos. Easy mistake though.
"Taco bell. You fucking swine," hisses Hiro.
Hiro steps through a void into the OOC Nexus.
Hiro has left.
Compton shrugs and retorts a 'Yeah, whatever Piggy.' and grabs up Penny's bags and makes tracks before the Taco's owners get wise to their food whereabouts. He heads towards a La Senza boutique. May contain Penny, but if not - oh well.
-= Raven and Pike =-
It is the three-story mall that seems to beckon people from all sorts of financial incomes into the area. Its large parking lot is available for plenty of room for shoppers to fill up their vehicles with its goods and empty their pockets in one easy day. Various crosswalks and shopping centers have sprung up surrounding the mall's center of fame, seeking to draw consumers to their market as well and indeed, succeeding.
Across the street from the mall lies a large shopping center, featuring a large movie theater in its court. Also to draw attention are large fashion stores, everything from the upper end dresses of the year to the inexpensive photography studio to show off your looks to friends and family everywhere. An interesting concept of note is the shuttle bus that moves from the mall to the shopping center across the street, allowing consumers to easily make their way from one area to the next with little effort.
===============================| +IC Time |================================
Current Time: Thu Dec 18 14:27:17 2003
Time of Day: Afternoon (Daylight) Weather: Overcast
Moon: Waxing Crescent
===========================================================================
Penny has run off to the goddamn bathroom. Girls going to the bathroom in malls is almost an hour affair. And. You guys have all her purchases. You are loaded with bags. Not just any bags - these are definitely girly-looking shopping bags. An embarrassment and an eyesore.
So. Where there's a mall, there's a food court. where there's a food court, there's cheap food. Where there's cheap food, there's McDonalds. So these three people: one Penny, Hiro, and Compton - a young lady and her disheveled gentleman callers. And they're standing in front of the McDonalds counter, right?
So - Penny's off in the bathroom, /powdering her nose/, dig, and Compton's drunk, and Hiro is arguing with the pimple-faced girl behind the counter, apparently over the contents of the happy meal. There's some contention over the toy.
"They have them in Canada," he tells the girl, glowering. "I swear to fucking god. Where's your manager? Who made you a manager? How can you NOT KNOW?"
Compton looks around lazily like a Hindu cow. MAss consumerism seems to be draining the life from him by the second, with only his belly full of liqour to numb the pain. Mall security would normally be all over this type of guy and sweeping his quietly out the door, but for some reason they haven't noticed him. Most likely a Union outfit has sway here and no one else has screamed 'BUM!' yet. So he continues as Penny's pack mule.
---------------------------------[ Glance ]---------------------------------
Mike................An introverted, wild-haired academic.
Height: 5'10 Weight: 170# Age: App: 2 Cha: 1
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Compton.............Dirty old man.
Height: 1.8m Weight: 67 kg. Age: 69 App: 2 Cha: 1
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hiro................Swine-featured asian geek. Technicolor dreamcoat.
Height: 5'9 Weight: Heavy Age: 22 App: 2 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Penny...............Tall. Hot. White hair.
Height: 5'9" Weight: %b Age: App: 3 Cha: 3
-----------------------------------[ - ]------------------------------------
Mike is all but unnoticeable in the food-court crowd. Like most Americans and most geeks he has absolutely no clue of the caloric value of a double bacon cheeseburger with biggie fries and a super-sized Dr. Pepper, and devoured them like a thirteen-year-old girl reads _Tiger Beat_. Now there are just empty wrappers, vestigal shells of the carbohydrates which they once contained, and a brown plastic tray. He finished some time ago, judging from the appearance of his small and uncomfortable food-court table, but he's still sitting there writing furiously in his notebook. And writing furiously on the inside of his burger wrapper. And writing furiously on the back of his hand. And writing furiously on... whatever it is that he's doing, it seems to involve an awful lot of writing.
Hiro comes up with this little like, piece of paper, right? Not even a piece of paper - like one of those reminder notes for UPS or USPS or PSU or whatever to tell you that you missed the package, asshole, and now it's gonna take you 3 days to find it. And he's scribbled something on the back -- looks kinda like a tamigotchi's face, like one of those little keychains. Only the face is like a symbol, right? Following? And that symbol just happens to be ole Gabe, gabby, Gabriel's name. As in archangel. And these things were on TV maybe six months ago in another country and Hiro's right now just like jabbing his finger at the piece of paper. Like - what's this. Look at it. Stop lying.
"Jerking me around," Hiro accuses, loudly. Making quite a scene.
"Hey man, it was like another country, ya know?" Compton says, his voice rolling across the gravel in his throat, "Fucking Americans thing Canada is the States. It ain't ya know? Shoulda got it the first time you saw it now leave the poor kid alone." You sense Compton isn't sticking up for the McClerk as much as he's just annoyed with everything around him right now.
Mike isn't looking at the scene, but not in the same way that everybody else is not looking at the scene. Everybody else is not looking at the scene in the way that they would deliberately not see a big gray elephant in the middle of the room. Noticing the disturbance would necessitate them making some difficult social decision, like calling the cops or telling you guys to grow up and get civilized, so it's easier to just not notice anything. Mike, on the other hand, doesn't notice anything because he's so locked away inside his own head that he probably is no longer aware of the outside world existing. At least, existing in any sense beyond "the place where I write down my stuff".
"Fine, fuck, just trying to kill the days we're waiting for mr level fucking seventeen half-elf illusionist to show up." Hiro crumples the post-it note up as he abandons McJobette, hurling the scrap of paper into the garbage. Hopefully Gabriel won't take notice. "We've been here like fifteen minutes."
"Here" says Compton as he heaves the bags towards Hiro, "Go, find a place to sit. I'll get Pizza while Shoperella does her thing."
Compton. Old hand at surviving Malls. Fuck, the guy is older than the concept of Malls.
"Don't go to Dominos," and Hiro says it like he's threatening murder. Brand loyalty enslaving us and all that. Shouldering the gargantuan burden, Pigboy hop jump skip stumbles his way right to Mike's table. "Yo," he greets, before depositing the load of crap onto his table. "Nice day out." We're inside.
Mike finally takes a break from writing _War and Peace_--or whateverthehell he's doing--and stares for a moment at the burger wrapper he's littered with glyphs. He reads it, blinks a few times, scowls a moment, mutters something about utter trivial tripe, and crumples the failure up just as Hiro comes over. "Uhh." Brilliant conversation-starter, isn't it? He just looks at Hiro, blinking a few times, still holding the crumpled wrapper, desperately trying to shift mental gears into something vaguely resembling normalcy. Then--"Hi."
And you know why it's been fifteen minutes? 'cause fucking Penny is taking her goddamn time. Should know better by now not to cut a woman loose in a mall if she hasn't left her bag. The one she keeps the creditcards in. This fifteen minutes will surely turn into an hour - count on it. Piggy'll remember in just a few how she couldn't put down those dumb slogan undies at Urban Outfitters until he forced her to. And at about the same time, Compton'll think "Bathroom my ass."
"Is that a tamigochi?" Hiro doesn't so much take a look at the paper as leer at it, snatch at it. Grabby bastard. Like he's gotta have it right now. Oh, and his pupils are like an animal's when your headlights hit them like right before you plow over the fucker and make roadkill burgers. Wired. Now's the time to note, when he's like a foot and loose change from your face and grabbing wildly.
Mike doesn't contest the hold on the wrapper; he just lets it go as if it's of absolutely no use whatsoever. Which, to his lights, it probably isn't; after all, it's trivial tripe, easily discarded. What's on the wrapper? Scribbled linguistic analyses of ... good lord! There's Chinese, Devanagari, hieroglyphics, an entire Comparative Linguistics thesis boiled down into tiny, terse letters and symbols. If this guy speaks all these languages, it's real puzzling that he's so lousy with English.
"HmmMmMM," Hiro spits out, like he's really pleased, interested, fascinated. So much so he crumples the wrapper up and drops it -- complete with overflow ketchup and a couple onion bits -- into Penny's bag. The one she got from that really expensive store. The stuff that's all silky and wrapped in tissue paper. "You're Mike," he accuses.
Mike shakes his head no. "My name is /called/ Mike," he answers. "My /name/ is Michael. I am neither Mike nor Michael." Okay, someone's just shown themselves to be a few flavors shy of a Fruit Loops box. He says nothing else, showing a talent for conversation that's nothing shy of autistic.
"Well the method by which I choose to identify you is Mikey Mike, or Mikeadoodleskroodle, you dig. I'm Hiro Stice. You can infer the identities and names and nicknames of my esteemed associates, right." And Pigboy here, he lays like this card out in front of you, some kind of like rave flyer, but it says THE INVISIBLE COLLEGE and it's got these numbers, names, words, ideas all over it. "Yo, call us tonight, huh? You can come by the warehouse. Meet everybody, like. We can talk shop and braid each other's hair."
Mike looks up at Mike, blinking a few times as he tries to parse out these words. "Okay," he finally says, taking the flyer from Hiro and placing it into his notebook. Quietly, he gathers up his papers and tucks them in as well, then closes it all up and returns it to his satchel. "If you'll excuse me? I've got things I really must be doing." Things in Devanagari, no doubt.
"Pleasedtapleasedta, Mikey." Hiro looks back at Compton, or at least looks for him - and kinda like, forgets Mikey Mike. Not in a rude way, but in a 'walls bleeding must stare' kinda way.
Compton's booty is held low and close to his body, by his quick movements and darting eyes you get the sense that he's up to something. "There ya go. Tacos." he says as he deposits the tray on the table. No, not pizza, tacos. Easy mistake though.
"Taco bell. You fucking swine," hisses Hiro.
Hiro steps through a void into the OOC Nexus.
Hiro has left.
Compton shrugs and retorts a 'Yeah, whatever Piggy.' and grabs up Penny's bags and makes tracks before the Taco's owners get wise to their food whereabouts. He heads towards a La Senza boutique. May contain Penny, but if not - oh well.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Solo
(Cash starts in his effort to infiltrate the local drug competition.)
Another foggy and shitty day here in lovely Erin's Vale. A blanket of obfuscation for the seedier elements of the world to hide under. If it was ever sunny, the dealers and pimps might scatter like roaches when the lights go on. But, the lights are off. And the roaches are deeply entrenched in their hidey holes and comfortable corners of opportunity.
Enter Cash. White, disheveled, and out of place in this neighborhood. 'S a miracle he's made it this far, really. Brothers watch the semi retired video editor shamble through the concrete jungle, probably another junkie looking for the next high. His sneakers carry him towards a few gangstas patrolling the front of a liquor store. Looking for marks, johns, or victims. Cash could be any of the above. Whiskey aura just detectible, he approaches said gangsta.
"Hey, man."
Amidst the fog and human detritus that lie across broken concrete and beneath black shadows of ancient sins, the white man draws interest and hunger. Yet, there is no action taken. Those hungry eyes merely widen as the man walks without seeming care or knowledge of the dangers held within this dying land. They withdraw to hidden alleys and soft curses as the fool walks towards the lords of this realm, daring to tread where even seraphim fear to look.
The words uttered receive a look of surprise, wide eyes and dropped jaws, from those men to whom the foolish white boy speaks. There is a pause as the comical expressions refuse to leave their features before a bout of laughter wracks the group. The laughter dies soon enough as one of the crew takes a swaggering step closer to this fool as a hand slides beneath loose clothes to grasp the unseen.
"What up, holmes? Bit far from home?"
"Yeah. Totally." The slurred response of the inebriated. The picture gets clearer; this must be a bum who's lost his place in the soup line. Homeboy can smell alcohol leaking from Cash's pours. He sweats the stuff. There's even a personalized bottle tucked under layers of denim which looks just as worn as the man himself.
"Ya know, I don' even know where I am, ta tell the truth, man. Like, where cin cracker like myself score 'round here." The jean scarecrow looks about, ensuring the relative safety of their interaction. It's not safe, for him. But at least there's no pigs patrolling. That could be a good thing, or a very very bad thing. Ether way, he continues to play the part of the searching white junkie.
"Ya wanna' score?" The chorus of jeering laughter rises from behind the delegated representative of the lounging gang at the question asked. The laughter is acknowledged with a quick smile and look over shoulder. Then, with that smile firmly in place, another step is taken as the young man reaches out to lay his other hand reassuringly upon the junkie's shoulder. "Right place, wrong time, amigo."
There's a quick look about the street before attention settles once more upon the drunk with a smile grown wider by several degrees as an additional question is broached. "Got some money, amigo? 'cause if ya do, we might have the hook-up. Just gotta have the cash is all." There's another glance back towards the lounging men behind as another chorus of coarse laughter rises.
"Mmmm. Yeah. Dinero. Well... here's the thing..." Cash reaches into the greasy depths of his jacket pocket, withdrawing a handful of Pobble's primo cooked surprise crack rocks. It's held in his weathered and callused palm, jiggled within as his heavy eyelids are propped at half mass.
"I got these rocks here. 'N I don' really dig the stuff, ta tell ya the truth. I want some weed, but 'm willin' ta fork over like... two sixty bags of this shit for a good eighth of green. Or a lil' tar... Here..." Cash palms the off-white rocks over in a conspiratorial fashion. "Check that.. see if ya like it. If you gotta a rig, I'll smoke with ya. Ya know, jus' so you feel alright 'bout me, man."
Standard police narcotic procedure forbids partaking in controlled substances; this is an offer to show the homeboy he's not a cop. Might be a victim, but he's not a cop.
The laughter dies suddenly at the mention of a lack of green. Narrowed eyes and absent smiles greet the prouncement. Yet, the dark expressions lighten once more as huge grins spread across coarse features. The young gansta who stands before the would-be junkie blinks and then drops his hand from the junkie's shoulder to the white rocks glittering upon the proffered palm. One rock is deftly plucked from the offering and lifted to eye level. A moment's inspection returns a slight shrug as askance is looked at the crew steps behind.
"Try it!" The words are harsh as greedy eyes widen and their utterance prompts the gansta to pocket the rock before the hand rests upon the shoulder of the junkie once more. Pressure is delivered firmly as he takes a step towards a nearby alley. "Come on, amigo. There's a pipe back there. We can smoke a few and talk."
He'll find a willing subject, and Cash will accompany the gangster without abandon. A funeral march of sorts. Dead man walking. But this is Cash's game. And if there's a coffin in that alley, it doesn't belong to the wandering Jew.
"Far out." Words escapes Cash's chapped lips, and two fingers reach up behind his left ear. They're placed in a precise spot, a practiced movement he's intimate with. It's stimulates the Ki source lying dormant beneath tendons and muscle. Pressure's applied, and he adds a swig of whiskey from the bottle hiding under his denim flap. Lips smack at the sensation, and he wipes a small river of alcohol that threatens to run down his chin.
The pressure point spreads throughout his body warmly. Coupled with the rush of fire water, and an unseen hand gesture, his organs and vital points align themselves in a configuration least likely to suffer injury from a surprise attack. He prepares his mind and body for a deal gone wrong, though there are no signs of such an event.... yet.
WEATHER REPORT: The snow changes to a cold rain.
The guiding hand draws the junkie towards the alleyway as another look is shot towards the now-snickering crowd. That hand, the one kept beneath clothes slips free finally with its contents hidden from the junkie by the gansta's body. The snickering grows louder as the young gansta starts talking with a jovial air, "Very, amigo. You gringos are nuts. Ya got rocks to match the huevos swinging between yo legs. Ya got style. Shame man." The final word ends with the hand slipping from shoulder to center of the junkie's back.
There's a sharp pressure and the junkie receives a sharp shove as the gansta swings his other hand up in front of his body. The hand's contents revealed now, black steel glinting with dangerous promise. The gansta laughs and spits out, "Real shame. Bueno dias, senor."
Not that this wasn't to be expected, but perhaps Cash had thought this part would come latter on in the game. Bearing gifts of crack cocaine doesn't usually get one shot, but this is the path this unlucky gangsta has chosen.
At the edge of the cliff, Cash offers one last life line for this homey to grab, before the jagged rocks below consume him utterly. "Hey... man. You go mugging yer customers, 's bad for business ain't it? I mean.. check that stuff. It's primo. I could be a cash cow fer you." The remains of the rocks are held out for the plucking, palm open and inviting. His other hand, meanwhile, has fingered out a small red chili pepper which is placed between his teeth. The 'hotter than shit' variety teeters in his choppers.
"Shut up, fucker. Only really stupid pieces of shit just up and offer prime shit like that!" The words are uttered with the sharp taint of rage that is followed by a quick step that draws the gansta even closer to the junkie. The gun is lifted in a sharp gesture as the rant is continued, "Any last words, bitch? Like an offer to suck my dick, you fucking homo?"
The rage only grows as another step is taken and brows draw together. Lips pull back from teeth far from the color of white in a bitter snarl. "Get on your knees, fucker." The hand is lifted slightly to direct the barrel towards the ground as the phrase is repeated with a harsh jabbing motion, "On your knees!"
The snap of the chili pepper's skin starts what appears a wildly stupid move to the untrained eye. Small white boy junkie versus gun wielding gangster on his turf. But this is beyond the eyes of his croonies, and this is no ordinary shmuck. The chili is crunched between his teeth, spilling its acidic contents into Cash's mouth. The sensation fuels a strike, now that the gangster has made the unfortunate mistake of pointing the tip of his barrel at the ground. He couldn't ask for a better opportunity to end this, real quick-like. And so what appears to be a drunken stumble forward ends in the deft protrusion of a two fingered strike to the underbelly of the would-be assailant's chin.
The strike aided by the configuration of his fingers, and the tingling of chili spreading over his tongue.
There's a harsh exhalation of breath between clenched teeth at the stumbling junkie's approach and the barrel of the gun starts to rise. Yet, the motion is far too late as the junkie moves past the barrel's end and places him within inches of the gansta. There's a sharp pain that prompts eyes to widen in shock to accompany the wet tearing sound of flesh and tissue giving way before force. The junkie's fingers slip past the boundary of skin in a spray of blood.
Muscles slacken as lips part, a crimson tinged bubble growing before his lips. Fingers slide from the striated grip of the gun with a clatter of steel and broken thought.
Lazy eyes drop to the crumpled mass below, Cash shakes his head at the waist and wipes his fingers on jeans stained by thousands of miles of concrete.
"Fuckin' mushugina."
At that, he bends at the knees to place the gun in his waistline, not that he'd know much what to do with the thing. At least his face is intact, it'll make it that much easier to copy. Wallet's next. He'll know the name; he'll know the 'alleged' address. If this gangster's not connected, he'll know someone that is. And the game will continue. The puffy Phila jacket looks retarded on Cash, and it's a tad too big. But when he leaves the alley, it'll fit just right. Away from prying eyes, fingers still ripe with blood are placed on ether side of Cash's Jewish face. This will be vulgar, but he's got time to kill. A little paradox sandwich, he'll enough it with a pickle.
The shifting of muscle and pigment is inaudible as he depresses portions of his skull that cause his skin to convulse. It feels right strange, but he's done it before. Cash, looking down at the dead dregs of humanity, slowly takes on the appearance of the failed criminal. Skin darkens, bones adjust. Within seconds, he's the shvatsa.
Attaining his new height, just a few inches taller, he tests his shoulders and rolls them. Knuckles crack as Cash gets used to this new form. For effect, he takes out the clumsy weapon on his waistline and points it down at the dead man's face.
*BAM*
That should alert his homies that the task is done, and when gangster runs out the alley clutching rocks and tucking away a piece, it's a good indication the white junkie will never be coming out of that alley again. The shot was placed close enough to the gangsta's face that he should be unrecognizable to forensics.
The first stage is done. Identity stolen, Gangsta Cash appears with a smile to his 'new' homeboys and takes off racing. "Fuckin' score, yo." He'll be back, to find the big fish at the end of this line.
Another foggy and shitty day here in lovely Erin's Vale. A blanket of obfuscation for the seedier elements of the world to hide under. If it was ever sunny, the dealers and pimps might scatter like roaches when the lights go on. But, the lights are off. And the roaches are deeply entrenched in their hidey holes and comfortable corners of opportunity.
Enter Cash. White, disheveled, and out of place in this neighborhood. 'S a miracle he's made it this far, really. Brothers watch the semi retired video editor shamble through the concrete jungle, probably another junkie looking for the next high. His sneakers carry him towards a few gangstas patrolling the front of a liquor store. Looking for marks, johns, or victims. Cash could be any of the above. Whiskey aura just detectible, he approaches said gangsta.
"Hey, man."
Amidst the fog and human detritus that lie across broken concrete and beneath black shadows of ancient sins, the white man draws interest and hunger. Yet, there is no action taken. Those hungry eyes merely widen as the man walks without seeming care or knowledge of the dangers held within this dying land. They withdraw to hidden alleys and soft curses as the fool walks towards the lords of this realm, daring to tread where even seraphim fear to look.
The words uttered receive a look of surprise, wide eyes and dropped jaws, from those men to whom the foolish white boy speaks. There is a pause as the comical expressions refuse to leave their features before a bout of laughter wracks the group. The laughter dies soon enough as one of the crew takes a swaggering step closer to this fool as a hand slides beneath loose clothes to grasp the unseen.
"What up, holmes? Bit far from home?"
"Yeah. Totally." The slurred response of the inebriated. The picture gets clearer; this must be a bum who's lost his place in the soup line. Homeboy can smell alcohol leaking from Cash's pours. He sweats the stuff. There's even a personalized bottle tucked under layers of denim which looks just as worn as the man himself.
"Ya know, I don' even know where I am, ta tell the truth, man. Like, where cin cracker like myself score 'round here." The jean scarecrow looks about, ensuring the relative safety of their interaction. It's not safe, for him. But at least there's no pigs patrolling. That could be a good thing, or a very very bad thing. Ether way, he continues to play the part of the searching white junkie.
"Ya wanna' score?" The chorus of jeering laughter rises from behind the delegated representative of the lounging gang at the question asked. The laughter is acknowledged with a quick smile and look over shoulder. Then, with that smile firmly in place, another step is taken as the young man reaches out to lay his other hand reassuringly upon the junkie's shoulder. "Right place, wrong time, amigo."
There's a quick look about the street before attention settles once more upon the drunk with a smile grown wider by several degrees as an additional question is broached. "Got some money, amigo? 'cause if ya do, we might have the hook-up. Just gotta have the cash is all." There's another glance back towards the lounging men behind as another chorus of coarse laughter rises.
"Mmmm. Yeah. Dinero. Well... here's the thing..." Cash reaches into the greasy depths of his jacket pocket, withdrawing a handful of Pobble's primo cooked surprise crack rocks. It's held in his weathered and callused palm, jiggled within as his heavy eyelids are propped at half mass.
"I got these rocks here. 'N I don' really dig the stuff, ta tell ya the truth. I want some weed, but 'm willin' ta fork over like... two sixty bags of this shit for a good eighth of green. Or a lil' tar... Here..." Cash palms the off-white rocks over in a conspiratorial fashion. "Check that.. see if ya like it. If you gotta a rig, I'll smoke with ya. Ya know, jus' so you feel alright 'bout me, man."
Standard police narcotic procedure forbids partaking in controlled substances; this is an offer to show the homeboy he's not a cop. Might be a victim, but he's not a cop.
The laughter dies suddenly at the mention of a lack of green. Narrowed eyes and absent smiles greet the prouncement. Yet, the dark expressions lighten once more as huge grins spread across coarse features. The young gansta who stands before the would-be junkie blinks and then drops his hand from the junkie's shoulder to the white rocks glittering upon the proffered palm. One rock is deftly plucked from the offering and lifted to eye level. A moment's inspection returns a slight shrug as askance is looked at the crew steps behind.
"Try it!" The words are harsh as greedy eyes widen and their utterance prompts the gansta to pocket the rock before the hand rests upon the shoulder of the junkie once more. Pressure is delivered firmly as he takes a step towards a nearby alley. "Come on, amigo. There's a pipe back there. We can smoke a few and talk."
He'll find a willing subject, and Cash will accompany the gangster without abandon. A funeral march of sorts. Dead man walking. But this is Cash's game. And if there's a coffin in that alley, it doesn't belong to the wandering Jew.
"Far out." Words escapes Cash's chapped lips, and two fingers reach up behind his left ear. They're placed in a precise spot, a practiced movement he's intimate with. It's stimulates the Ki source lying dormant beneath tendons and muscle. Pressure's applied, and he adds a swig of whiskey from the bottle hiding under his denim flap. Lips smack at the sensation, and he wipes a small river of alcohol that threatens to run down his chin.
The pressure point spreads throughout his body warmly. Coupled with the rush of fire water, and an unseen hand gesture, his organs and vital points align themselves in a configuration least likely to suffer injury from a surprise attack. He prepares his mind and body for a deal gone wrong, though there are no signs of such an event.... yet.
WEATHER REPORT: The snow changes to a cold rain.
The guiding hand draws the junkie towards the alleyway as another look is shot towards the now-snickering crowd. That hand, the one kept beneath clothes slips free finally with its contents hidden from the junkie by the gansta's body. The snickering grows louder as the young gansta starts talking with a jovial air, "Very, amigo. You gringos are nuts. Ya got rocks to match the huevos swinging between yo legs. Ya got style. Shame man." The final word ends with the hand slipping from shoulder to center of the junkie's back.
There's a sharp pressure and the junkie receives a sharp shove as the gansta swings his other hand up in front of his body. The hand's contents revealed now, black steel glinting with dangerous promise. The gansta laughs and spits out, "Real shame. Bueno dias, senor."
Not that this wasn't to be expected, but perhaps Cash had thought this part would come latter on in the game. Bearing gifts of crack cocaine doesn't usually get one shot, but this is the path this unlucky gangsta has chosen.
At the edge of the cliff, Cash offers one last life line for this homey to grab, before the jagged rocks below consume him utterly. "Hey... man. You go mugging yer customers, 's bad for business ain't it? I mean.. check that stuff. It's primo. I could be a cash cow fer you." The remains of the rocks are held out for the plucking, palm open and inviting. His other hand, meanwhile, has fingered out a small red chili pepper which is placed between his teeth. The 'hotter than shit' variety teeters in his choppers.
"Shut up, fucker. Only really stupid pieces of shit just up and offer prime shit like that!" The words are uttered with the sharp taint of rage that is followed by a quick step that draws the gansta even closer to the junkie. The gun is lifted in a sharp gesture as the rant is continued, "Any last words, bitch? Like an offer to suck my dick, you fucking homo?"
The rage only grows as another step is taken and brows draw together. Lips pull back from teeth far from the color of white in a bitter snarl. "Get on your knees, fucker." The hand is lifted slightly to direct the barrel towards the ground as the phrase is repeated with a harsh jabbing motion, "On your knees!"
The snap of the chili pepper's skin starts what appears a wildly stupid move to the untrained eye. Small white boy junkie versus gun wielding gangster on his turf. But this is beyond the eyes of his croonies, and this is no ordinary shmuck. The chili is crunched between his teeth, spilling its acidic contents into Cash's mouth. The sensation fuels a strike, now that the gangster has made the unfortunate mistake of pointing the tip of his barrel at the ground. He couldn't ask for a better opportunity to end this, real quick-like. And so what appears to be a drunken stumble forward ends in the deft protrusion of a two fingered strike to the underbelly of the would-be assailant's chin.
The strike aided by the configuration of his fingers, and the tingling of chili spreading over his tongue.
There's a harsh exhalation of breath between clenched teeth at the stumbling junkie's approach and the barrel of the gun starts to rise. Yet, the motion is far too late as the junkie moves past the barrel's end and places him within inches of the gansta. There's a sharp pain that prompts eyes to widen in shock to accompany the wet tearing sound of flesh and tissue giving way before force. The junkie's fingers slip past the boundary of skin in a spray of blood.
Muscles slacken as lips part, a crimson tinged bubble growing before his lips. Fingers slide from the striated grip of the gun with a clatter of steel and broken thought.
Lazy eyes drop to the crumpled mass below, Cash shakes his head at the waist and wipes his fingers on jeans stained by thousands of miles of concrete.
"Fuckin' mushugina."
At that, he bends at the knees to place the gun in his waistline, not that he'd know much what to do with the thing. At least his face is intact, it'll make it that much easier to copy. Wallet's next. He'll know the name; he'll know the 'alleged' address. If this gangster's not connected, he'll know someone that is. And the game will continue. The puffy Phila jacket looks retarded on Cash, and it's a tad too big. But when he leaves the alley, it'll fit just right. Away from prying eyes, fingers still ripe with blood are placed on ether side of Cash's Jewish face. This will be vulgar, but he's got time to kill. A little paradox sandwich, he'll enough it with a pickle.
The shifting of muscle and pigment is inaudible as he depresses portions of his skull that cause his skin to convulse. It feels right strange, but he's done it before. Cash, looking down at the dead dregs of humanity, slowly takes on the appearance of the failed criminal. Skin darkens, bones adjust. Within seconds, he's the shvatsa.
Attaining his new height, just a few inches taller, he tests his shoulders and rolls them. Knuckles crack as Cash gets used to this new form. For effect, he takes out the clumsy weapon on his waistline and points it down at the dead man's face.
*BAM*
That should alert his homies that the task is done, and when gangster runs out the alley clutching rocks and tucking away a piece, it's a good indication the white junkie will never be coming out of that alley again. The shot was placed close enough to the gangsta's face that he should be unrecognizable to forensics.
The first stage is done. Identity stolen, Gangsta Cash appears with a smile to his 'new' homeboys and takes off racing. "Fuckin' score, yo." He'll be back, to find the big fish at the end of this line.
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