Joseph Tropiano (luckandchance) wrote in low_tide, @ 2009-12-20 15:43:00 |
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Current mood: | working |
Seeds Of Discord
If people thought torture was a quick process then there were quite sorely mistaken - it was a matter of patience and dedicating time and effort to picking a person apart so thoroughly that they didn’t know where they began and ended, sometimes quite literally.
It was a messy business, it always was, ending the way it started. More often than not the person being tortured didn’t survive, except in rare occasions, like Joseph when he’d been grabbed a few years back and had a world of hurt carved into him. He hadn’t broken nor had he allowed them to kill him.
Shame that his latest torture victim hadn’t had the same constitution, but then Joseph wouldn’t have what he needed to know and that would have been quite unforgivable. He had names, places, times and arrangements - everything he needed to make for a very uncomfortable future for the local criminal masterminds that ‘ran’ the city.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. After all that’s what the old wives say and Joseph intended on putting it to the test.
Currently Joseph was stood beside a barrel, a cigarette clasped between his lips and hair loose and damp around his temples and cheeks, sweat had already soaked his collar and caused it to stick to skin. He exhaled smoke and turned his attention to the barrel, ignoring the slick dampness of blood that clung to the inner edges, all fingerprints and physical traces of Joseph had been wiped clean; there was no way anybody could put this on him.
Hopefully if his forward thinking was correct the murder of a well known face in one of the local gangs would be put on the other, especially as he’d left a couple clues that could be easily deciphered and a conclusion could be found if the person doing the thinking was suspicious and paranoid enough.
The lid was slid into place and secured with a chain that would withstand most anything except a pair of bolt cutters and the barrel was rolled into place, positioned exactly on the borders that separated one gang from another. It was meant as an insult, to push the buttons he knew sat well within all gangs, straddle the line and taunt them with the fact that one of theirs had been taken and left in pieces on the border.
Joseph flipped open a cell he’d bought that day with cash and made a call - to a number he’d extracted from the man in the barrel with a set of pliers - passing a tip along before ending the call and destroying the phone. Again, it wasn’t traceable. With the phone message passed Joseph turned on his heel and walked away, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake.
His work was done for now, he just had to sit back and watch what happened next.