Who: Seth Gecko and [OPEN] What: Returning to the States When: Noon Where: L.A. street(s) Rating: R, for Seth's mouth (at the moment)
Seth grunted once more as he raised his foot and brought it into the hubcap of his left front tire. The act of violence was quickly followed by another kick, and another, as he let out a string of swearing. "Stupid, motherfucking, goddamn PIECE OF FUCKIN' SHIT!" He snarled as he kicked, his mouth curling up into a sneer as he watched the hubcap pop off and come clanging to a rest by his feet. He'd considered retrieving his .44 and decorating the car with holes, but that would have attracted far too much unwanted attention. That would have been careless, reckless, unneeded - a complete waste of bullets. Frankly, it would have been a stunt Richie would have been more likely to pull.
Richie...
Seth shook the thought away, choosing to focus on the present rather than the past. A car honked it's horn behind him. Seth scowled and spun on a heel, giving the driver a middle finger salute. "Can't you see the car won't fuckin' move? Go the fuck around, you dumb son of a bitch!" He yelled. He slid behind the driver's seat, trying the engine once more before slamming his fists onto the steering wheel. "Carlos, you better pray to the Virgin fuckin' Mary that we don't ever cross paths again." He muttered, sighing. He said something else, something rather insulting to the Mexican's heritage, before getting out of the car again. Where was he, West Hollywood, East...? Did it really fucking matter? "Hey, any of you cocksuckers wanna give me a jump?" He shouted to the passing vehicles before resting on the hood of the car.
It'd been more than a month since the "incident". He'd spent most of his time - and his money - in El Rey, the days bleeding together as he'd brooded. He had surrounded himself in a sea of liquor bottles and empty cigarette packs in the motel room he'd taken up residence in, refusing to exit the room for the most part. El Rey may have offered him freedom, but Seth didn't want it. Would have been better fuckin' off back in prison. Then one morning, he'd been flipping through the channels, mumbling to himself about the shitty reception of satellites in the city when he'd saw the news report. There had been himself, glaring angrily at the camera in his mugshot, and there had been Richie, and the Fullers... and then there was Kate. Kate claimed the bar had been run by a ring of gangbangers, criminals, homicidal maniacs. She went on to mention the passing of her father and brother, and when the reporter questioned her on the Geckos, she paused. She informed the woman that the Geckos had "tried earnestly" to keep her and her family alive, as well as themselves. Then she'd mentioned that the Geckos were both dead. Seth had died in the final explosion that had taken the bar out, sacrificing himself for her well being.
"Kate, you clever little bitch!" He'd whooped, snickering. Sacrified himself, right. The move had almost caused him to regret rejecting her self-invitation, almost. The kid had just saved his ass, after all. Upon further investigation, the border patrol and the police, as well as the FBI, declared that Seth Gecko was indeed dead. It'd only taken Seth ten minutes to pack up his shit and hit the road. He had arrived back in the States less than a day later, and had hit California less than an hour ago. That's when his car had died.
The sound of police sirens shook Seth back into the present. He quickly hopped off the car and went around to the trunk, popping it open. He grabbed his suitcase, not quite as brimming with cash as it had been, and set out walking. The car had been giving him problems since it'd been presented to him, and it wasn't as though it could be linked to his name. He needed somewhere to go. The police may believe him dead, sure, but they certainly fucking wouldn't if he pranced around the city so openly. "Fuckin' Cali-fuckin'-fornia." He hissed as he walked.