Re: Shiloh F + Jack P: The Capital
Honor among thieves wasn't entirely a given. After all, he'd been beaten for dead by thieves with enough payment in their pockets to make them overlook adages. Of course, most prisoners in the system long enough would beat anyone to a pulp for an early release, and Shiloh could hardly blame them. But it was safe enough here. The system sought Joseph Fairchild, and he was not that man. But he knew not to trust entirely. He hadn't done that since he was very young, and his bones ached like age now, and he had the learning to understand the world better.
Like he knew, standing at the mouth of that alley, that this deal wasn't about drugs. But he had to ask himself, did Shiloh, if that worth pushing at. Would it buy him trouble of the sort that wouldn't help him to forget his hardships? Because that kind of trouble was the only trouble Shiloh sought these days. Nepenthe, forgetfulness, something like a portable Lethe that he could put in a plastic bag and carry around on an IV pole, perpetually pumping into his veins. It was hard, knowing truths no one would ever believe. He knew better than to confide, did Shiloh.
"Better dealers down the way, friend," was what he said, all idle and with a smile cutting into his cheek as if his youthful skin was butter, and they'd done a good job fixing his face. Funny, spending all that money on a man just intended to die once more. "I piss wherever I find I need to piss," he added, committed to his fabrication so fully that he did walk over to the nearby dumpster and unzipped his fly.
He rocked on his feet as he pissed against the wall. "Do you often converse with pissing strangers in alleyways?"