11-09-2013, 04:15 PM
OOC: This is kind of an essential read to understanding this part.
God damn, it feels good to be a gangster. Or at the very least; it would were I actually a fucking gangster. Now, it just feels kinda weird, seeing as though I'm whiter than a scarf and a pair of Uggs. The last drop of overpriced piss water falls down my throat, leaving me once again wondering why I even drink. Then, I remember that it really doesn't matter why I do, because I'm going to. Fuck it, YOLO, right?
Tossing the can onto the ground, the silence around it causes the sound of its cylindrical metal sides skidding across the ground in a circle to be amplified to the point of deafening static. Scratching metal fingernails against the tile chalkboard, it causes me to drop down onto my knees, hands covering my ears. Fuck! Make it stop!
Finally! It collides with the bottom of the counter, coming to an abrupt, incredibly welcomed stop. But wait a minute, that fucking sound is still here! Grabbing the can off the ground, I crush it in my hand and toss it into the garbage, the sound all the while plaguing my ears. I, got to get out. Walking out of the kitchen, and grabbing a jacket; more accurately a fucking flannel shirt. Fuck buttoning it, it's just to look snazzy.
Fuck, a flannel shirt looking snazzy? When did I become Jessie Diaz? I rip the shirt off of my body, I throw it onto the ground and stomp on it a couple of times. A vibration comes from my pants pocket, where I slide my hand and slowly pull out the source. Now vibrating in my hand, I look down at the glass screen of the phone, to see a string of numbers, vaguely familiar.
Reluctantly, I answer.
"Luca?" the anxious voice on the other end of the line mutters right as I put the phone up to my ears. Despite the anxiety, despite the obvious aging prevalent even in the voice, I recognize it immediately.
"Wow, you finally found my number after all these years."
"Please, don't be like that."
"Be like what? Oh, I'm sorry; congratulations for finding the person who's made it pretty fuckin' clear that he wants nothing to do with you!"
"Luca, please..."
"What the fuck do you want?"
"I, I just want to see how you are." The voice on the other end begins to sniffle, slight sobs coming over the receiver. Fuck that, you should've expected this, after everything you've done.
"Oh, is that it? You want to see how I am? Sure didn't seem that way when you couldn't even take me home from the god damned courthouse. Getting away from me seemed to be your primary concern, but now you want to see how I'm doing?
I'm just fucking dandy! I got a wife and a kid, neither of which you're ever gonna meet. A big house with a white picket fence, I'm living the god damn American dream you and dad couldn't accomplish!
How the fuck do you think I am?"
My own voice wavers, tears welling up as the last words leave my mouth.
"I'm, I'm sorry."
"You think that sorry cuts it? You think that sorry makes me any less of a fuck up? That somehow, it nullifies the years I had stay with Heiman, who now wants me dead? Sorry doesn't solve shit."
"It was all his idea."
"What?"
"Heiman. It was his idea, he forced me to leave."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Luca; I'm your mother!"
"Funny. Sure never seemed like it."
She starts to speak, but I end the call and throw the phone at the wall. It bounces off and lands on its back, the screen cracked to shit. Oh well, I can just buy a new one.
That's the good thing about being in bed with the owner of the company you work for. The paychecks you get can pay for anything. Now, if I could only find a store that sells some god damned self esteem.
Enough fucking moping, pussy.
***
Some fucking convenience store. Awesome. How did I even get here? Fuck it, it doesn't matter. It's time to be the bad guy again, I guess. Walking down the aisles of the small store, scoping it out for any witnesses, my mind begins to wander once again.
This is all so fucking routine. I mean, look at this set up. Disheveled twenty something walking down the aisles of the inside of a gas station, hand gripping and ungripping the pistol hidden in his fuckin' waistband. It's like a continuous loop of the first twenty seconds of your typical episode of Flashpoint. Then it hits me.
My life is like a TV show. Written by a talentless hack and enjoyed by a witless audience who applauds any stupid line of dialogue coming out of my fucking mouth. Fuck, maybe I should say that in a promo. Maybe that would attract some of those "Pipebomb" loving smarks who love to say that my entire life is scripted for their entertainment. Maybe when one of these fucking bullets shatters their knee, they'll know I wasn't firing blanks.
Nope, no witnesses. Good. I take a deep breath, pushing past the nosy shelf stocker that literally stopped working to watch me. He mutters something, not too nice, by the looks of his reserved, albeit angry demeanor. I almost spin back around and slap his vaginal lips back down where they belong, but something stops me. Not a thought, mind you me. Just, something.
I reach the counter, and lay my left hand flat on the top, flashing a smile at the woman standing on the other end.
"What can I get you?" her apprehensively delightful voice chimes in, waving her hand almost like Vanna White (is that the bitch's name? No, it's Pat Sajak! Whatever the fuck, it's one of those two at least) to showcase the boxes of cigarettes and canisters of chewing tobacco that littered the wall. No, what I needed was some green to buy a different kind of green.
"Yeah, I'd like to make a withdraw." Because I'm totally in a bank, or anywhere where that remark would make sense.
"What?"
Reaching into my waistband with my right hand, I pull the gun up and rest it on the counter, out of view of mister coworker, but in view to her.
"Keep quiet, give me all you got in the register, and don't call the fucking police. If I hear sirens and so much think that they're after me, I will come back here and put a bullet right in your fucking skull. Do I make myself clear?" Turning the gun upright, as opposed to lying it sideways on the counter, I flinch forward, sending her into action. Pressing on buttons wildly, she manages to make several beep boop noises before opening the tray. Nosy employee makes his way over, disturbed by the sound.
"What's going-" he doesn't even finish the question before I spin around and pistol whip his vaginal lips down where they belong. He falls to the side, landing and smashing into the display of thievingly priced knickknackery. The woman jumps back, awkwardly jamming her hand into the tray of the register. Pulling out stack of bills upon stacks of bills, she stuffs those pieces of plunder into a plastic bag. Upon loading the last of the loot into the convenient carrying case, she drops it with a thud next to my free hand. Wrapping it up in my fingers, I turn to leave the building, sprinting towards the door, when it happens.
I hear a rustling and clanking of metal against the glass display, but think nothing of it.
A click. No big deal.
Bang. A bullet flies through the air, its shaky handed and unsteady marksman sending it low. I lift my foot up in this very second, and like a homing missile, it finds its mark. Colliding and entering my foot, the pain making me wobbly, falling out of the doorway, onto the sidewalk.
Not a single cent spilled from the bag. Blood however stained the metal threshold into the establishment and forming a pool below where it rested. This bitch tried to play hero.
Keyword there being "tried."
Skank made me look unprofessional as all hell though, I'll give her that. Backhanded compliment, closest most will ever get to the latter from me. I see her, stalking my motionless body, through the glass door. A revolver, smoking from the barrel, stuck in the tight grip of her still fidgeting hands.
Rolling over to one side, I keep my gun near my waist, its blackened muzzle blending in with my hoodie and the night sky. No need to suspect a thing, bitch. Closer she comes, and I take aim. In this odd angle, I point the gun up at the door and pull the trigger. Bang back, biyatch.
Glass shatters and the crack of gunpowder laced thunder cracks the air. I can barely see through the smoke at first, but when it clears, I see her laying on the ground, a hole in her knee. Fuck.
Crabwalking and dragging the limp, useless leg behind me, I scamper into the alleyway and try desperately to get my phone.
I pull it out and dial the first number that comes to mind. The phone rings a couple of times before its answered, a fiery Latin voice snaps at me all at once.
"What the fuck do you want, Luca?"
"Oh, it's a matter of the utmost importance..."
God damn, it feels good to be a gangster. Or at the very least; it would were I actually a fucking gangster. Now, it just feels kinda weird, seeing as though I'm whiter than a scarf and a pair of Uggs. The last drop of overpriced piss water falls down my throat, leaving me once again wondering why I even drink. Then, I remember that it really doesn't matter why I do, because I'm going to. Fuck it, YOLO, right?
Tossing the can onto the ground, the silence around it causes the sound of its cylindrical metal sides skidding across the ground in a circle to be amplified to the point of deafening static. Scratching metal fingernails against the tile chalkboard, it causes me to drop down onto my knees, hands covering my ears. Fuck! Make it stop!
Finally! It collides with the bottom of the counter, coming to an abrupt, incredibly welcomed stop. But wait a minute, that fucking sound is still here! Grabbing the can off the ground, I crush it in my hand and toss it into the garbage, the sound all the while plaguing my ears. I, got to get out. Walking out of the kitchen, and grabbing a jacket; more accurately a fucking flannel shirt. Fuck buttoning it, it's just to look snazzy.
Fuck, a flannel shirt looking snazzy? When did I become Jessie Diaz? I rip the shirt off of my body, I throw it onto the ground and stomp on it a couple of times. A vibration comes from my pants pocket, where I slide my hand and slowly pull out the source. Now vibrating in my hand, I look down at the glass screen of the phone, to see a string of numbers, vaguely familiar.
Reluctantly, I answer.
"Luca?" the anxious voice on the other end of the line mutters right as I put the phone up to my ears. Despite the anxiety, despite the obvious aging prevalent even in the voice, I recognize it immediately.
"Wow, you finally found my number after all these years."
"Please, don't be like that."
"Be like what? Oh, I'm sorry; congratulations for finding the person who's made it pretty fuckin' clear that he wants nothing to do with you!"
"Luca, please..."
"What the fuck do you want?"
"I, I just want to see how you are." The voice on the other end begins to sniffle, slight sobs coming over the receiver. Fuck that, you should've expected this, after everything you've done.
"Oh, is that it? You want to see how I am? Sure didn't seem that way when you couldn't even take me home from the god damned courthouse. Getting away from me seemed to be your primary concern, but now you want to see how I'm doing?
I'm just fucking dandy! I got a wife and a kid, neither of which you're ever gonna meet. A big house with a white picket fence, I'm living the god damn American dream you and dad couldn't accomplish!
How the fuck do you think I am?"
My own voice wavers, tears welling up as the last words leave my mouth.
"I'm, I'm sorry."
"You think that sorry cuts it? You think that sorry makes me any less of a fuck up? That somehow, it nullifies the years I had stay with Heiman, who now wants me dead? Sorry doesn't solve shit."
"It was all his idea."
"What?"
"Heiman. It was his idea, he forced me to leave."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Luca; I'm your mother!"
"Funny. Sure never seemed like it."
She starts to speak, but I end the call and throw the phone at the wall. It bounces off and lands on its back, the screen cracked to shit. Oh well, I can just buy a new one.
That's the good thing about being in bed with the owner of the company you work for. The paychecks you get can pay for anything. Now, if I could only find a store that sells some god damned self esteem.
Enough fucking moping, pussy.
***
Some fucking convenience store. Awesome. How did I even get here? Fuck it, it doesn't matter. It's time to be the bad guy again, I guess. Walking down the aisles of the small store, scoping it out for any witnesses, my mind begins to wander once again.
This is all so fucking routine. I mean, look at this set up. Disheveled twenty something walking down the aisles of the inside of a gas station, hand gripping and ungripping the pistol hidden in his fuckin' waistband. It's like a continuous loop of the first twenty seconds of your typical episode of Flashpoint. Then it hits me.
My life is like a TV show. Written by a talentless hack and enjoyed by a witless audience who applauds any stupid line of dialogue coming out of my fucking mouth. Fuck, maybe I should say that in a promo. Maybe that would attract some of those "Pipebomb" loving smarks who love to say that my entire life is scripted for their entertainment. Maybe when one of these fucking bullets shatters their knee, they'll know I wasn't firing blanks.
Nope, no witnesses. Good. I take a deep breath, pushing past the nosy shelf stocker that literally stopped working to watch me. He mutters something, not too nice, by the looks of his reserved, albeit angry demeanor. I almost spin back around and slap his vaginal lips back down where they belong, but something stops me. Not a thought, mind you me. Just, something.
I reach the counter, and lay my left hand flat on the top, flashing a smile at the woman standing on the other end.
"What can I get you?" her apprehensively delightful voice chimes in, waving her hand almost like Vanna White (is that the bitch's name? No, it's Pat Sajak! Whatever the fuck, it's one of those two at least) to showcase the boxes of cigarettes and canisters of chewing tobacco that littered the wall. No, what I needed was some green to buy a different kind of green.
"Yeah, I'd like to make a withdraw." Because I'm totally in a bank, or anywhere where that remark would make sense.
"What?"
Reaching into my waistband with my right hand, I pull the gun up and rest it on the counter, out of view of mister coworker, but in view to her.
"Keep quiet, give me all you got in the register, and don't call the fucking police. If I hear sirens and so much think that they're after me, I will come back here and put a bullet right in your fucking skull. Do I make myself clear?" Turning the gun upright, as opposed to lying it sideways on the counter, I flinch forward, sending her into action. Pressing on buttons wildly, she manages to make several beep boop noises before opening the tray. Nosy employee makes his way over, disturbed by the sound.
"What's going-" he doesn't even finish the question before I spin around and pistol whip his vaginal lips down where they belong. He falls to the side, landing and smashing into the display of thievingly priced knickknackery. The woman jumps back, awkwardly jamming her hand into the tray of the register. Pulling out stack of bills upon stacks of bills, she stuffs those pieces of plunder into a plastic bag. Upon loading the last of the loot into the convenient carrying case, she drops it with a thud next to my free hand. Wrapping it up in my fingers, I turn to leave the building, sprinting towards the door, when it happens.
I hear a rustling and clanking of metal against the glass display, but think nothing of it.
A click. No big deal.
Bang. A bullet flies through the air, its shaky handed and unsteady marksman sending it low. I lift my foot up in this very second, and like a homing missile, it finds its mark. Colliding and entering my foot, the pain making me wobbly, falling out of the doorway, onto the sidewalk.
Not a single cent spilled from the bag. Blood however stained the metal threshold into the establishment and forming a pool below where it rested. This bitch tried to play hero.
Keyword there being "tried."
Skank made me look unprofessional as all hell though, I'll give her that. Backhanded compliment, closest most will ever get to the latter from me. I see her, stalking my motionless body, through the glass door. A revolver, smoking from the barrel, stuck in the tight grip of her still fidgeting hands.
Rolling over to one side, I keep my gun near my waist, its blackened muzzle blending in with my hoodie and the night sky. No need to suspect a thing, bitch. Closer she comes, and I take aim. In this odd angle, I point the gun up at the door and pull the trigger. Bang back, biyatch.
Glass shatters and the crack of gunpowder laced thunder cracks the air. I can barely see through the smoke at first, but when it clears, I see her laying on the ground, a hole in her knee. Fuck.
Crabwalking and dragging the limp, useless leg behind me, I scamper into the alleyway and try desperately to get my phone.
I pull it out and dial the first number that comes to mind. The phone rings a couple of times before its answered, a fiery Latin voice snaps at me all at once.
"What the fuck do you want, Luca?"
"Oh, it's a matter of the utmost importance..."