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hausofmamadas · 6 months

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| The occupational hazards of living |

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Narcos: Mexico/True Detective Crossover

Pairing: David Barrón & Rustin "Crash" Cohle & OC! Ziggy Morenas & OC! Ernesto "Chato" Quintana Colmenaro

For @narcosfandomdiscordNarcOctober - Day 22 - Day of Cross Pollination

Prompt: Create a fanwork that includes at least one Narcos character and at least one character from another fandom & fanwork with the plot or setting stolen from another fandom

Word count: ≈ 4.5K

TWs: Canon-consistent violence, Light Prison Racisms, swearing, racial slurs, drug use, references to trauma/domestic abuse, white supremacy ..? that’s a trigger, right?

The two most important things anyone can do is give life and take it. But with how often both happened, it seemed people didn’t consider the gravity of either near enough. Killing wasn’t a trifling thing. Barrón has had it up to here with these Neo-Nazis and Rustin Cohle is there to support his teaching them a lesson. Also a couple of notes: La Eme = the letter M but stands for Mexican Mafia carnal = (pronounced carnál) made man of La Eme, putting in work = Doing Crimes, particularly violent ones in service to La Eme, vica = vice president, usually of a prison cellblock llevero = keyholder/shotcaller, Eme carnal who oversees a specific geographic region outside prison or an entire prison camarada = non-made Eme members, affiliates crimie = (pronounced crim-ee) short for criminal contra = short for contraband la raza = literally the race, but more the community/the people (similar to gente but more exclusive)

… but first! Let’s meet the cast:

Ziggy

Chato

Ginger

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The most startling thing about prison wasn’t the violence. If witnessing his first drive-by shooting when he was six didn’t acclimate Barrón quickly, his old man’s habit of bouncing him and Matteo off the walls certainly did. So, while the tactics and flavors were new, the violence wasn’t. He likened it to living in a war zone. If you panicked about every shell that blew a road to bits, you’d drop dead of a coronary in no time.

No, the most shocking thing about prison was the tribalism. As a plebito in Logan Heights, he had friends belonging to almost every ethnic group the melting pot of San Diego had to offer. The project neighborhoods were chock full of families of different races, countries, ethnicities: Samoan, Filipino, Black, Japanese, Mexican, Guatemalan, El Salvadorian, and the like. It didn’t matter where the neighbor kid’s family was from, when all they wanted to do was play like Bruce Lee from Way of the Dragon in the scrapyard across the street.

So, when he arrived at his first Youth Authority facility, Rancho Del Campo, just outside the dirt town of Tecate, and was told by some of the older Sureños about the “rules” against consorting with Black or White prisoners, he thought it was a joke.

“Wait, you fucking with me?”

“Nah, lil homie. Deader than dead serious,” Eddie Monstruo aka Eddie the monster, Eme vica for his block, set him straight.

“Even if I knew ‘em on the outside? I can’t just eat a meal with ‘em?”

Eddie shook his head in lamentation.

“Trade contra? Say hi? Nothing?”

“Nothing. Con la raza baila el perro, sin la raza bailas como un perro. And they won’t tell you twice, te lo juro, guey.”

He remembered thinking, Are you kidding? This is America. So indignant. What he wouldn’t give to be that green again. But what really bothered him was how the rules weren’t the same for everyone. Like how the Sureños were more simpatico with White prisoners because La Eme was aligned with the AB. Aryan Brotherhood.

He rarely saw White kids on the outside save for when he sold them dope down by the boardwalk. He sure as fuck didn’t have any whiteboy homies. Shoot, on the outside, whitey was The Man. So, it was a blow when he found out the camaradas were aligned with the AB. The way it was explained to him, the Sureños did it out of “necessity” because of the longstanding alliance between the Norteños and Black Guerrilla Family. Norteños, or Nuestra Familia, were Eme’s sworn enemy. Sometime in the 70s, the top carnals saw the need to boost their profile and numbers with a similar alliance, so they took up with the AB.

Barrón never said shit, but the AB didn’t sit right with him. For guys who were supposedly the “cream of the crop,” the “superior” race, they were really a bunch of lazy, disorganized hicks. They talked a lot of shit about the white race being the “one true people,” “purest of the pure,” acted like they shit gold. But then they had to be off-this-planet high on whatever the crank of the month was, just to put in work. That, or they shot up places indiscriminately. No creep to ‘em. Worse yet, no concern for bystanders.

Barrón knew everyone in the game skated a line of amorality, but he drew a few more lines for himself. One from the beginning: at all possible costs, no bystanders. The other line came with time. After he’d been around the block some, he stopped getting blasted on dope and booze before a hit. He didn’t begrudge some of the guys that did and he had his fair share of early jobs where those gears needed greasing. But after a while, being spun on top of spun felt disrespectful. To the job. To his victims.

The two most important things anyone can do is give life and take it. But with how often both happened, it seemed people didn’t consider the gravity of either near enough. Killing wasn’t a trifling thing. So, what did it say about him if he tried to escape, check out by getting high? What did it say if he couldn’t, with his full faculties and finger on the trigger, look the person in the eye and feel the depth of what he was about to do?

There was no off the hook. Actions have consequences. Guilt and remorse? They were occupational hazards of living if your brain was wired like it was supposed to be. He knew there was a worthy place for him in hell. The least he could do was be an adult about it. It’s not that he fancied murder an honorable business. He just hated cowards and hypocrites. That’s why he hated the AB.

That and they just plain sucked. Best way to ruin a party? Be sure to invite the neo-nazis.

The last time he agreed to work with an AB affiliated outfit was a few years after he got out of San Quentin. The Logan Heights llevero, his old homie Mando, called on Barrón to help some biker gang take back one of their stash houses. Apparently, some AB higher-up named Geronimo Jerry was collecting on a favor Mando owed from back when they did time in Folsom. To pay up, Mando put together a team to back Jerry’s guys up, but a couple of his original soldiers got dropped by the cops and another got arrested, and he needed replacements for the six man operation. The minute Barrón heard whiteboys were involved, he tried to get out of it. But Mando was a full-blown Eme carnal by then, a made-man of the Mexican mafia.

Barrón had seen The Godfather countless times as a kid, one of his dad’s favorites. One of the few good things he could remember about the man at all. At five years old, he thought it entirely innocent when Vito said in that whisper of a voice, “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” Like Vito was offering Woltz a deal so sweet, he couldn’t pass it up. It wasn’t till later on, when Mando asked him to do this job that Barrón got what Vito Corleone really meant. When a carnal said “jump,” he had no choice. He was locked in.

Thankfully, the two others Mando put on it were Barrio LH guys Barrón already knew. He and Chato had been buds since back in YA and had already done plenty of rip-n-runs together. He’d never worked a job like this with Ziggy Morenas but Ziggy was a known quantity around Shelltown as a reliable soldado. He was also Matteo’s best friend since grade school, so naturally, when they were old enough to start puttin’ in work, they did it together. Matteo only ran with the best and taught Barrón to do just the same.

But it was tricky with Ziggy. Barrón got along with him fine but they’d never been close per se. Unofficial Big Bro Ziggy might’ve been more accurate. Still, when Matty died, they fell out for a bit. They’d only reconnected recently because Ziggy started going out with one of Cheli’s friends, Leó. Even then, the void of Matty was always there. A void they shared but could never relate to each other through. Plus, competent a soldado as he was, the thing about Ziggy? He could be a little serious even for Barrón’s liking, which was saying something. Frankly, Ziggy could be a downright prickly motherfucker. All that noise aside though, he’d take serious over reckless any day. There was no mistaking Chato and Ziggy were solid guys.

The AB crew, on the other hand. Well truly, he’d never seen a more unprofessional group of crimies, save one of their affiliates Barrón had met a few times before, a bony-faced, severe-looking guy named Rust who went by Crash. He had the rangy, haunted look of a starved alley cat and commanded an Ivy League vocabulary that, through a watered-down Texas drawl, betrayed just how whip-smart he was. He also seemed to be the only one who could hold his liquor and his crystal, a fact alone that should’ve meant he was the one calling the shots. Unfortunately for them, the actual “leader” of this mess was a brawny, bald guy with too-wide, glassy blue eyes and a long, braided, red beard, who they fittingly called Ginger.

The “safe house” they met at was a piece of shit, rundown bungalow owned by Jerry. Outside, it looked like an elementary school portable. Inside, it was a hoarder’s paradise. When Barrón, Chato, and Ziggy arrived, there were group of about nine or ten guys huddled around Ginger at a foldable picnic table in the kitchen area. Crash was the only one off to the side, smoking by himself in the corner.

As the three of them passed through the living room to join the AB guys, Barrón was overwhelmed by the stench of cat piss, lighter fluid, and an amalgam smoke mixture of PCP and cigarettes. The shag carpet was crawling with roaches and littered with cigarette butts, stag mags, and Skymall catalogs. And fuck finding a place to sit. Barrón had to slide clothes and stacks of papers off the arm of a dank couch that jutted into the dining area just to lean against it. Chato and Ziggy opted to share the edge of the coffee table facing the kitchen.

They all watched as Ginger laid out the half-assed plan they cooked up. Barrón caught Crash out of the corner of his eye, whose gaunt face seemed caught between an apology and a defeated look of warning, like he was telegraphing the breath and time he’d already wasted trying to reason with these idiots and that he shouldn’t be bothered.

When it became clear these morons hadn’t done any legwork beforehand, Barrón asked if they had an alternate route to get out of the complex they were hitting in case they got boxed in. “Only one way in and out? In only one car?”**

Eyes buzzing with a kind of feral, wildcard edge that didn’t instill the slightest confidence, Ginger nodded slowly, licking excess coke off the edge of a credit card.

Ziggy too, looked unamused, the tell-tale whites of the skin spreading over his knuckles, visible as his hands balled into fists. Chato noticed too because he and Barrón exchanged uneasy glances.

Dropping some well-timed Spanish, intended only to be understood by the three of them, “Es lo que ya les pregunté. Todo se fija a ser un espectáculo de mierda,” Crash floored the whole room before calmly taking a drag from his cigarette like an asthmatic on his inhaler.

A big guy named Mitch leaned over close enough to graze Barrón with his beard, and freebase-exhaled this poetry, “We hit trouble? Just gotta fuck it in the ass. Scoop out the soft brains and eat right out the skull.”**

One of the strangest attempts at reassurance Barrón had ever heard. Like he agreed, Crash scoffed at Mitch and rolled his eyes. Homie knew shit was about to go down. Probably because Ziggy looked like he was about to pop his lid. Barrón choked back a chuckle of surprise that Ziggy didn’t slug the fat fuck in the face, right then and there. It wouldn’t have been out of character. Or unwarranted.

Because this was typical AB. These guys never bothered to come up with a plan. They never needed one. Life cut them all the breaks and of course it did. They’d designed it that way.

But as fate would have it, Barrón was actually one to break. He’d reached his limit and put one of their guys down with a bullet in both kneecaps. It was after he questioned their exit strategy.

Some skinny dude, a guy called Whizbang, who’d been spun for probably 48 straight hours, accused him of asking too many questions. Undeniable proof he was an undercover cop. Funny thing was, this moron wasn’t even gonna be part of the actual boost.

“This spic doesn’t say shit the whole time. Now he’s askin’ about tactics? Shifty-eyed motherfucker hasn’t touched shit since we got here.” Whizbang pointed to the curated assortment of drug paraphernalia next to the assault weapons on the table. “What’s wrong? You some kinda beaner cop, ese?” He pronounced it ‘ess-ay.’

Barrón met him with a wall of inscrutable nothing.

The little creep walked over slowly. “You laughin’ at me motherfucker?” Funny, ‘cause he wasn’t even close to smiling.

Relaxed as ever, he drowned the room in a silence that put everyone’s hackles up. Especially Ginger, whose eyes couldn’t get any wider, the whites of his eyes near engulfing his eye-sockets, swallowing his irises along with those pinprick-sized pupils. The look of bored resignation Crash wore every other time Barrón crossed paths with him was now replaced with a smirk of satisfaction; someone who walked through life craving the unexpected and getting more than he’d bargained for.

“Got nothin to say, huh? C’mon Sancho, prove you’re not a cop.”

As he drew closer, he tried his level best to look menacing or as menacing as anyone named Whizbang might hope to be. Patience wearing thin, Barrón’s wall broke and he rolled his eyes and looked off to the side, muttering against gritted teeth and his better judgement, “Can’t believe we have to deal with this shit.”

Whizbang didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go Sancho, talk or take a bump. Show us you’re not a cop.”

Almost close enough to be nose-to-nose now, he took out a dimebag of what looked like PCP from the pocket of his kutte and waved it in front of Barrón’s face. No one but Ziggy and Chato caught his hand nearing a spot at the base of his back.

Eyes blazing like molten tar, nostrils flared, it was a preamble, simple and quick. “You talk too much.”

Then before anyone could blink, two loud pops and poor, skinny-ole Whizbang crumpled to the floor, howling and clutching his knees as blood spurted out all over his hands and seeped through his jeans onto the carpet. Barrón fixed his nine millimeter on Whizbang’s face, trying to decide if he was going to let the skidmark live. But, spotting a wooden crate on the floor next to the table, he aimed there instead.

A moment of stunned silence passed, until everyone realized what he was aiming at and then all the AB guys scrambled for the weapons on the table. Everyone except Crash who was laughing at the ground now, unperturbed and cracked-in-the-head in a way that indicated the guy had seen some shit in his life. What it was, Barrón could only guess.

Crash cut through the chaos with a whistle and a, “tsk tsk, I’d think on that, boys.”

They all froze and looked at him, then at Barrón, then to the barrel of his gun, then to the wooden crate that was filled with over a dozen live grenades, then back at Barrón. Just to hammer the point home, Barrón shot right, then left, on each side of the crate.

The AB guys looked green. Chato and Ziggy looked torn between panic and hysterical laughter, though he swore he detected a hint of approval on Ziggy’s face. Crash looked on the verge of straight-up applause. Based on the sheer glee this little turn of events brought him, he couldn’t have been with the AB. That must be why he wasn’t in charge.

Looking Ginger square in the eye, Barrón explained, voice quiet and even, “We do this my way or I can nuke us all, right now.” He waited a beat but stunned-stupid Ginger still said nothing. “So Chief, what’ll it be?”

Crash ventured, smirking with an I-told-you-so superiority only somewhat softened by the drawl, “Far be it from me to speak out of turn, here, Ginger. But based on the last few months I just spent in Ojinaga and Juarez, uh– I’d say– well, yeah, just– you’d be wise to take these motherfuckers serious, right brother.” He tacked on brother like an afterthought, maybe to soften the blow or maybe just to sound like a condescending prick. Somehow it worked on both fronts.

Ginger stared at the ground and clenched his jaw so hard it looked like it might dislocate. Then spat out, “Fine. Fuckit,” rolling his head around, glaring through half-lidded eyes, “what does Big Beaner over here propose?”

And just like that, Barrón was in charge.

So, of course then, the heist went off without a hitch.

∴

After the job was done, the loot counted and distributed among all interested parties back at the safe house, everyone exchanged tense, albeit still-amicable goodbyes; good will engendered, no doubt, by fact that the whole thing went off seamlessly. Still, Crash was the only whiteboy to shake their hands.

“Nifty little stunt you pulled there. I’d call you a crazy motherfucker, if you hadn’t saved me the headache of getting my ass greased,” he turned around to look over at Ginger’s crew, back to snorting PCP off the foldout table with plastic straws, “and buried six-feet-under with these fuckin’ imbeciles.”

Barrón smiled and nodded diffidently.

Chato spoke up for the first time since they’d gotten back. “Hey, we’re ’boutta grab some grub before we head back to give the lowdown to the big homie—” Crash nodded at Chato like he knew exactly who Mando was. And maybe he did, since he didn’t seem to be rolling with the AB. Just another soldier filling out the ranks like them. “—wanna roll out with us?”

“Sheeit.” Eyes alight with a crystal-meth vigilance that would’ve been off-putting if he weren’t so devil-may-care all the time, Crash surveyed the room, and shrugged. “Beats climbing the walls here with these assholes. Yeah, lemme take you up on that, buy you friendlies a round somewhere.”

Barrón smiled at Chato, little social butterfly. He, himself, would never have thought to invite the guy, but he was glad Chato did. Following Chato’s lead, he asked Crash, “Yo, you need a ride?”

“Nah, I’ll follow on my bike. Y’all know what’s good.”

The three of them looked at each other blankly until Ziggy offered, “Stoney’s?”

“Any place with booze’ll do just fine.”

“Oh, but we gotta make a pit stop at Micky D’s.”

They all looked at Chato like he’d been an extraterrestrial this whole time, and they’d only noticed just now.

“What?” He asked earnestly. “I want a McFlurry.”

They all just kept staring at him.

“Well, they don’t have McFlurries at Stoney’s, obviously.” Like they were the dumbest people on the planet.

Amused, Crash chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t say I’m in a position to judge, but he’s an odd duck, ain’t he.”

“Aight.” Ziggy cracked a rare smile, the kind really only Chato or Matty could get him to do. “Let’s get the kid a McFlurry. Then Stoney’s.”

The three of them piled into Barrón’s Monte Carlo and rolled out. Crash chugged behind on his Harley.

The crowd at Stoney’s was just starting to pick up, so they opted for the open seats at the bar on the patio.

“First round’s on me.” Crash flagged down the bartender. “What’s everyone’s poison.”

Barrón put his hand on his chest, “Corona,” then pointed to Ziggy. “Y tú, qué?”

Ziggy looked up from the spot on the bartop he had been mean-mugging since they sat down, “Oh, uh—” then glanced at Chato next to him, who was gazing, lost in love, into his McFlurry cup, spooning bite after bite into his mouth, and just ordered for him. “Well, for the lady, a tequila sunrise and me? I don’t— eh, fuck it. Shot of tequila. Nothing fancy.”

Narrowing his eyes, Crash regarded them like he’d been conducting a study that yielded some unexpected results, then passed the order on to the bartender.

When they had their drinks, Crash finally asked what was probably on everyone’s mind. “So, contestame eso,” he slid into Spanish, unclumsily but not entirely without effort. “Ya tango que saberlo. Back there. That just a performance? Or would you’ve done it?”

Somewhat blindsided, less by the question than by who was asking it, Barrón struggled to hide his surprise while he tongued the inside of his cheek, searching for an answer. He got the impression for some reason that Crash could take the truth. There was a hard-lived, stretched-thin quality to him, evidence of a man, unmoored, maybe a bit unhinged, operating at the edge of life itself. But he didn’t want to spook Chato.

And the truth was well, he didn’t actually know. Not then and not now. He didn’t need to because of what he did know: things never would’ve gotten that far. It was a play and the play would’ve worked, even without Crash’s helpful advice to Ginger. Because those AB guys? They were always chickenshit.

Okay, so there. That was an answer. Why didn’t he just say that?

Maybe because of what he wasn’t certain of. That if he’d misjudged the situation, if it hadn’t worked, would he have tried their luck and pulled the trigger anyway? Nah, but he knew that too. Yeah, he would’ve. He meant it. Or at least a part of him. Had to be serious for them to take it serious.

But he settled on equivocation. “What d’you think?”

Ball back in Crash’s court, and the way his jaw cocked to the side, it was clear he wasn’t much for accepting non-answers for answers. “What do I think? Well, what’s the use in asking if I already know?”

Fair enough.

An impatient Ziggy piped up, turning to Barrón. “Quién se cree que es, este pinshe gringuillo?” But before Crash could answer, Ziggy swiveled back around and laid it out for him. “If he hadn’t meant it, we would’ve gone along with their cracked, cracker-ass plan. And if we went along with their plan, we’d either be in jail or riddled with bullets right now, probably buried in the middle of some dirt lot along with those crusty hicks. Okay?”

Huh. Ziggy, having his back like that, defending him. That was … nice, new. Unphased though, Crash put his hands up in armistice. “I ain’t complainin’ insofar as I’m curious as to the level of commitment to the bit.”

“Alright,” Barrón said in a sigh. “Yeah, I meant it. Had to, didn’t I?”

Finally, that seemed enough truth to humor Crash, as he nodded, mouth cocked up in a smug half-smirk, and took a swig of his bourbon. Barrón saw it then. Este güey knew it all along but wouldn’t be satisfied unless it was said out loud. Ziggy scowled and rolled his eyes, maybe still irritated that Crash had asked in the first place. But probably more resentful that he’d folded so quick, telling this outsider the truth.

Poor Chato seemed to be the only one taken by surprise, as he froze mid-bite, eyes wide, plastic spoon hanging out of his mouth. And all of a sudden Barrón and Ziggy busted up laughing. With less investment but still in on the joke, Crash couldn’t stop himself chuckling too. As they all sat there, in varying levels of stitches, Chato just looked at them all, confused. Until he realized the joke was how ridiculous he looked, and then he cracked up right along with them.

When they settled down, Barrón wiped tears from his eyes while Chato contentedly sipped on his tequila sunrise, and Ziggy flagged the bartender again for another shot.

The bartender brought his shot and Ziggy knocked it back before asking Barrón, “Yo,” voice thick as he swallowed hard, “should we work on getting our story straight? Like, what do we tell Mando?”

Chato glanced nervously at Ziggy, agreeing, “Yeah, like are we gonna tell how you kneecapped that skinny guy–“

“Whizbang,” Crash cut in to remind them his name, as if it mattered.

“–and threatened to blow the whole crew away?”

Staring ahead at all the bottles lined up on shelves, lit technicolor by the bar lights, Barrón said cooly, “Is that what happened?”

Brows furrowed, Chato looked from Barrón, to Ziggy, to Crash, then back to Barrón. “Yo, is this a trick question or—?”

“No fool,” Ziggy shot him a disgruntled look. “It’s not a trick question. And yea, fool, that’s what happened.”

“So, that’s what we tell him.”

Chato couldn’t compute, looking at Barrón like he’d sprouted a second smaller, uglier head. With an air of amused cynicism, Crash watched the three of them bickering, citizens in the town square like they were on Court TV.

“Woahwoahwoah,” Chato practically gurgled with a mouth full of McFlurry, “you forreal right now?”

“Look, Jerry and Mando go way back. He’s gonna hear about it. Best he hears direct. Besides, you can’t lie to a carnal when you go off the reservation like that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Barrón saw Ziggy’s head gravely bobbing up and down in agreement.

Chato was still in disbelief. “Dude, he’s gonna cap you right there on the spot.”

“Actions have consequences,” Barrón explained simply, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. “I’ll see that it doesn’t blow back on you. S’on me.”

Ziggy seemed comfortable in resignation at the prospect of Mando losing his shit on Barrón. Chato was still unconvinced. Pobre was genuinely concerned for him.

Assessing Chato with something like doomed admiration, Crash pointed out, “Milkshakes aside, kid’s got the kinda heart they don’t teach in school.” Then looking around at all of them like the thought just dawned on him, he asked, “How old are you guys, anyway?”

Index finger pointing at his chest, Ziggy said flatly, “Twenty one, last month,” then pointed to Chato, “nineteen,” then to Barrón who finished for him, “eighteen.”

Crash whistled, “Sheeit. And I thought I didn’t have childhood.”

Chato still looked ill at ease. In an effort to cheer him up, Barrón quipped, “No hay tos, compa. I’m living on borrowed time anyway. Shoot, I was ready to die— what,” he smirked and glanced at the clock hanging above the doorway that led from Stoney’s patio back inside, “three hours ago?”

Chato gave him the side-eye but must’ve worked a little bit because his shoulders weren’t crunched up by his ears as much.

After a few minutes of silence, something occurred to Barrón. “Hey, why’d you ask?”

Crash downed the remainder of his bourbon in one big gulp and came back up smiling like he was waiting for that exact question to be asked. He set the empty glass upside down on the bar, and pulled out a cigarette, tapping the tip of it on the bottom of the glass, before putting it to his lips and lighting up.

Through another one of those deep, asthmatic drags, voice thick, he said, “Well, I was jus’ thinking, the kinda nuts it takes, going off book like that? But the three of you still kept your cool. Level headed nutjobs are hard to find. So, might be I got another job for you boys. If you’re interested. And Mando’ll lend you.”

Well that stumped them, as they stood there, puzzled looks on all their faces because actually who the fuck was this guy? And did he know Mando? Or he was just a that good a listener?

Crash gave them a wily look through the two thick columns of smoke that poured from his nostrils. “Y’all ever heard of a guy by the name of Amado Carrillo Fuentes?”

They came back at him with nothing but crickets.

“You might know him as El Senior de los Cielos.”

That’s when Barrón knew he’d sized this guy up correct. Crash, Rust, whoever this guy was, dropping a big name like that, guaranteed he’d seen and done some shit in his life.

And now, evidently, he was looking for business partners. Or maybe a couple of suckers. Which one would depend on whatever came out of his mouth next.

═

** indicates lines robbed directly from True Detective (Because you know I wish I came up with that soft brains line but alas, I am no Nic Pizzolato)

taglist: @narcolini @narcosfandomdiscord

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