| Leap of Faith |
[18 Feb 2008|01:01am] |
Every evening after dusk, old man Jim Carruthers would toddle from his trailer under the pretext of walking old woman Carruthers' toy poodle. Told everyone who listened that the 'ball and chain' was too busy drooling over Alex Trebec (maybe it had something to do with (a) Trebec was Canadian and -- unbenownst to the populace at large -- (b) a demon) and he'd taken it upon himself to ensure Cupcake didn't soil the shag carpet.
The truth was a far different story.
In fall 2004 he was diagnosed with Stage 1 lung cancer. He kept the secret from his wife, not out of guilt but of fear. Fear that the worry and strain would take its toll on her far quicker than the cancer would him. So each night, Carruthers would excuse himself from the trailer park, and along with Cupcake would take a long walk. And invariably they'd stop off at a bench, do their respective business, and the old man would have a one-sided conversation about his happiness for making it through one more day and his secret fear he wouldn't wake up for the next, and make the poodle promise not to gnaw on his scrawny fingers if that should happen.
Whistler began to feel like old man Carruthers. Just after dusk he wandered to the Nugget, ordered a slice of pie and coffee (hoping that Hannah would pop in and pinch the cook, just for fun), play exactly two dollars in the slot machine, then climb up to the rooftop at the Rock 'N Bowl and, as promised in his note, wait for Rhiannon to show.
The first three days were the hardest; since then, he'd transformed the area into a mini-trailer away from home. The Agent stole electricity from the junction box to power a string of patio lanterns and a coffee pot. Two deck chairs were unfolded and, despite their 1970s flare, functional.
It made the wait possible. But it couldn't guarantee the apology would be easy. Or accepted.
The thing about Whistler, though? He made it hard to stay angry at him, even if you were the queen of long-standing grudges.
On Rhiannon's twenty-fifth birthday, she had come home to find someone had been there. The only person who still had a key was Whistler, and he left her a wind-battered note on the door. The inside of her studio apartment had been turned into a winter wonderland. Strings of white lights, hot chocolate, fake snow, a styrofoam Frosty, and a miniature skating rink. All because she hadn't gotten a real winter in years. It was elaborate and unexpected and weird and sentimental. In short, it was Whistler.
So no, she wasn't angry. What she was, was uncomfortable.
"It's not because of what you said." Rhiannon had climbed onto the roof of the bowling alley. She stared at the back of his hat. She was sorry she had taken so many days to get there, but this wasn't easy. Tucking her hands in her pockets, she kept her distance for the moment. "It's because you hung up on me. I know it's childish, but that's..." The slayer's head shook back and forth. "You stole whatever I might've said, and maybe it was important. Probably not, but we always yell it out. You didn't let me."
"Yeah." So many words flooding his brain, and that was the best response Whistler could immediately come up with. She was right and he knew it. In their long-standing friendship, whenever an issue presented itself, they saw it through. Words would fly hard and fast, tempers flared, but they never turned away from it.
( One small step )
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| Hostile Takeover |
[18 Feb 2008|10:19pm] |
Cal Petrenko was a very wealthy man.
Six years after retiring from the ring, where he'd been a heavweight boxer, he had his fingers in a lot of pies. He started out predictably enough. He married his manager, a hell cat named Carlotta who had him by the purse strings and the balls. She was a shrewd businesswoman, and before long Cal's money was invested in a casino, a topless bar, and a string of high-profile prize fights. When the money started pouring in, Cal decided it was time to branch out and run a small fight circuit of their own. Not just any fight circuit. They went a step past knock-outs; they went to the death. They went a step past amateur boxers; they used demons, and Carlotta knew how to find them because she was a half-breed. They kidnapped humans and hedged their lives on the outcomes of the fights. It was a modern-day Roman Coliseum with a twist, operating right beneath the noses of authorities.
One year later, the Ring's reputation had grown. Hundreds of people showed up to watch the gruesome matches. Carlotta ran the money behind the scenes, and Cal took on the revered (if unpopular) role of the Overseer, his true identity mostly unknown. He hired security to guard him and his wife full-time, in order to prevent retaliations and keep public events under control.
Lucky for Darian, security could be bought.
The Dealmaker stood behind the small restaurant, waiting impatiently for things to get underway. The Petrenkos were over an hour late getting to dinner, a matter of serious annoyance. Once Cal and his wife were seated, a member of their security detail was supposed to step out back to meet him. If Darian delivered the right sum of money, security would conveniently leave the couple vulnerable to attack. So far, no security.
He fiddled with his shirt collar and paced behind the kitchen.
Grace wanted to tell Darian to stand still, that his pacing was nudging her towards a full-on bad mood, but instead she kept her mouth shut and checked her shotgun for the fourth - fifth? - time to make sure it was loaded. Let the Dealmaker stew; if it made things go quicker once they got underway, so much the better. Meanwhile, she'd bide her time.
She'd been very quiet for most of the night, a hard knot of tension in the small of her back. If the demon noticed it, she had no idea, and less inclination to discuss it. She liked Darian as much as she was capable of liking someone, but some things no one but another vampire would understand. Her mood was going to expedite things once they finally got rolling, though, because she really wanted to kill something. Someone. Anyone.
The kitchen door creaked open approximately three inches, then swung open more fully. Grace half-pointed her weapon in that direction, then made a reasonably coherent noise that comprised Darian's name. It looked like their number was up.
Until a dishwasher came out with a trashbag. The kid looked about nineteen. His apron was covered in spaghetti sauce. "Um... can I help--?"
"No, you can't." Darian had stepped into the young man's line of sight, effectively blocking the view of Grace's shotgun. Now taking the dishwasher by the shoulders, he steered him in a half-circle and nudged him towards the door. "We came out here for some privacy," he hinted, figuring it was a reasonable excuse for being behind a restaurant, if you were a nineteen year old employee who probably took smoke breaks back there and god knew what else.
"But what about the trash?"
"I'll take it." Darian commandeered the bag, only to unceremoniously drop it the instant the door closed. "Let's hope he keeps his mouth shut." Turning more fully towards Grace, he eyed the firearm. "Do you really need to stand there with it locked and loaded? We're not shooting security unless we have to."
( Waste of Bullets )
( Ready If You Are )
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