| Messy Job |
[24 Mar 2008|02:17pm] |
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[[Non Journal Entry]]
Body disposal, a messy job, but it had to be done.
Joseph had been through countless and one more wasn’t enough to disturb his calm demeanour as he washed blood from his hands. You would think that it wouldn’t be easy to get used to having another person’s blood on your hands, but it was. Always too easy.
The guy had told Joseph everything, from his mother’s maiden name to what he’d last had to eat and finally what Joseph had wanted to know: who he was and why he was watching him.
It would seem the government had their sights on him and not in a good way. Apparently that letter he’d thrown in the trash had been his ticket into something big and something that looked set to sweep over Las Vegas like a desert storm.
He’d gotten Rhiannon’s message and knew as much as he could without having been there himself to be spectator to the circus. Joseph wouldn’t join, he barely operated within the law as it was and he’d already gotten out of one organised gang he didn’t much feel like joining another.
Life would be difficult, he knew that much. He knew how these sorts of people worked; they found stuff out and used it against you. Twisted your life inside and out until everything was a mangled mess of what it had been once.
Joseph Tropiano was on their black list and he knew he had to be ready for anything including attempts on his life and attacks on those closest to him. Sure, he was part of this supernatural world that inhabited Las Vegas and he knew a lot more than most civilians, but he wasn’t a fighter for either side. He was deliberately neutral, except when it came down to the people who mattered. People like Rhiannon.
He lifted his head and looked at his reflection, catching the stain of crimson across his neck, the guy had hidden a knife in his shoe and Joseph had realised thirty seconds too late. Thankfully the guy was a piss poor shot so the knife hadn’t gone deep enough to cause significant harm.
Joseph switched the water off and reached out, dragging a towel over his hands and lifting it to his neck, stemming the flow. “Dio, odio il governo,” Joseph grumbled, reaching out to flick the light switch until his entire apartment was bathed in darkness.
[OOC: Dio, odio il governo = God, I hate the government]
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| The Bottom |
[24 Mar 2008|09:50pm] |
The alley reeked of dumpsters and the piss of the homeless and drunk. Rhiannon wasn't homeless. She lifted her second bottle of Grey Goose and stared up through the bottom.
You're gonna regret it if you drink any more.
"Cheers."
Shrugging off her inner voice of wisdom wasn't as hard as it should be. She twisted off the cap and took a hit, which would've been easily done, if she hadn't been flat on her back. It spilled down her neck, soaked through her shirt, and tracked through the dust on the car hood.
Party foul.
Alcohol seemed as good a solution to her troubles as any. This morning the papers had come. The ink pen had seemed to weigh 100 pounds while she signed her life away. Now she wanted to find out how much alcohol it took to reach a stupor of epic proportions.
A street light flickered on overhead. She squinted and let her arm flop over her face, hoping it would act as a shield. The time for sweat lamps and interrogation was still to come, she figured. The worst of it wouldn't even come from the government. It would come from her friends.
"Whistler... If you can hear me," she said, raising her bottle, "Here's to disappointment. Take a look at me now."
[Thread: Open to the Man in the Hat]
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