InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Jayne, you'll scare the women!"

Shirai Reizo | 白井雷三 (some_other_dog) wrote in disappear_rpg,
@ 2009-06-25 05:29:00

Entry tags:

keiichi, reizo, shin

I should really figure out the name of his gang.
Who: Reizo and Shin and Keiichi and anyone else
What: He's got his business face on, you should meet him with that on.
Where: Iburi sidewalks and streets
When: Nightfall, saturday?
Why: I'm a loser, duh.

Something thrums through the streets of Iburi, something dark and sleek and dangerous. A chorus of motors washes over the street like a tidal wave, drowning out anything that is not the thunderous roars of revving motorcycle engines. They are fanned out in formation, taking up as much of the street as they can-- and why not? It’s theirs. The young toughs straddling the bikes are all dressed in grim black, all swaddled up in their precious leather jackets-- some are decorated with patches and all have their gang’s logo emblazoned proudly on the back-- with expressions as dark as their clothes. It’s not a joyride, but a show of power and an intimidation tactic.

It is almost a wasted effort. The gang that had crept into their territory is in shambles now; Reizo is upset because Sojiro refused to let him tie the gang’s leader to the front of his bike and parade him around for the remnants of his pathetic gang to see. Humiliation is one of his favorite hobbies, after all. He is also jonesing hard for a cigarette, but smoking one while riding is so damned difficult: it’s hard to keep speed and dig around in your pockets for your lighter and favorite brand of cancers ticks. He has learned this the hard way, and stubbornly learned it again and again. After nearly totaling his bike the last time it finally sunk in, so now he sits atop his bike, trying to keep the adrenaline high enough to stave the craving off.

The sun looms ponderously on the horizon, and they pick up speed, racing the tail end of daylight to their headquarters. The dying rays of the sun heliograph off the chassis of their motorcycles as they blur through the streets, breaking file and their reckless speeds only to keep from becoming street pizza when they do find traffic; they flank the cars they pass, boxing them in with some reaching out to bang on the trunks and hoods of them. It’s a common harassment trick, and one that shows their moods are lifting as they get closer to base.

Base is a squat little one-story garage sitting at the corner of a nice, well-to-do neighborhood. A high wood fence rings it entirely, taller than the neighboring building’s fences. One wouldn’t expect to peek over it and find a junkyard behind, stray motorcycle and other miscellaneous parts clustered around in the building in mismanaged piles, but it’s there. Of course, one wouldn’t really expect to find a gang like theirs anywhere near this neighborhood either.

The direct neighbors have gotten used to the noise, or come to accept that the police won’t touch the gang with a ten foot pole. Fines for illegal mufflers and disturbing the peace are paltry compared to the money the gang makes from gambling and racketeering. A good thing since their hobby is expensive, and the ties to the yakuza even more so.

The bikes are lined up in an orderly fashion and driven into the lot in twos, the maximum number of bikes that can fit breast-to-breast through the door in the fence. The grim, dour mood fades and the toughs waste away the twilight of the evening laughing and joking and drinking. Reizo refrains the latter, he cannot handle his alcohol well, but he doesn’t need it to smile and laugh easily around these people. He considers them true peers.

A fleeting twinge of disappointment hits him when they all start to disperse and he realizes it’s time to leave his real world and stumble back into the civilian’s. He finds himself branding people with that word more and more lately. He also finds the corner of his mouth drawing up into a sneer whenever it flashes through his mind.

It’s completely dark by the time Reizo starts meandering on home, concentrated more on the cherry-red tip of his cigarette bobbing in front of his face than the worried looks the strays on the street gives him. The feral, wild energy he carries himself with has been replaced with the disinterested swagger of a wolf whose hunt was wildly successful, but who isn’t so full that if you catch his eye he won’t go for your throat.

(Post a new comment)

Google "Gang Name Generator," srsly.

playing_sandbag
2009-06-25 04:20 pm UTC (link)

By now, his parents are used to his requests of leaving the door unlocked, and so they just smile and tell him not to stare for too long. His father, always the joker, would warn him of being abducted by UFOs while his mother, the more practical one of the two, cautioned him of the biker gangs that would come through sometimes. Still, they never forbid Shin from going outside to "admire the stars" and they never protest him carrying out an old flattened pillow.

Though he is positive that his parents knew of his more frowned upon habits, Shin still waits until their bedroom light shuts off before lighting up. Shifting against the worn pillow, he reclines his head back and folds his arm over his stomach. Cigarette dangling from his lips and smoke trailing up to the stars, Shin realizes how he must look and yet can't bring himself to care. So what if he looked like a homeless person? It wasn't like anyone was up at this time.

Or, rather, any normal person was. Hearing the footsteps approach, Shin glances over to see who it is but makes no effort to move. Instead, he raises a hand to take the cigarette and lazily moves it to the side, tapping it to get rid of the accumulating ashes. He exhales, smoke billowing up. Just as lazily, he rolls his arm back and puts the cigarette back in his mouth. It's only Reizo-chan, after all.

"You're out late," Shin greets, cigarette bobbing up and down as he speaks.

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Re: Google "Gang Name Generator," srsly.

some_other_dog
2009-06-26 01:38 am UTC (link)

“And you’re not very bright,” the boy fires back, tone low and sure and smooth. He comes to a stop a few paces from away his schoolmate, out of his boxer’s instinct to get real extension and power behind a punch, and looks him up and down, lips pursed in a moue of distaste around the dwindling stick of his cigarette. He pinches it between two fingers, holding it out to dust off the impressive length of ash that’d gathered on the end. He looks up at dark, velvety sky overhead, lets out a put upon sigh, and finally fixes Shin in a scowl.

He leans forward to gather the boy up by the neck of his shirt and jerk him in close; the smell of copper, oil, and stale cigarette smoke are terrible staccato chords in the death march of his existence. A sharp, carnivore’s grin cleaves his face neatly in two and smoke wafts almost comically out of the corner of his sickle toothed smile. A person really shouldn’t be able to show off that many teeth, it hurts the sides of one’s mouth just looking at it.

“Cigarettes are bad for your health,” he warns roguishly through the horrible grin and cigarette smoke. He pauses just long enough for emphasis before speaking again, timbre low and sinister, “But not nearly as bad as mouthing off to me.”

He shoves the boy roughly into the face and lifts his free hand, his cigarette hand, and the item that designates it as such is thrust lazily into the boy’s face. The blazing tip is tiny, cruel meteor, falling closer and closer until the inevitable happens and it crashes onto the boy’s cheek, a burst of bright red sparks celebrating its arrival. Reizo’s overpowering junkyard scent is eclipsed briefly by the smell of burning flesh.