#i would give a kidney to smoke a blunt with this man

[parkerscheer]

why is this the first time i’m seeing this picture? akjsksksksksksks this is awesome

#personal #jon bernthal #he looks adorable #and dorky #i love it #a sweet sweet man #the punisher #frank castle #THE SHIRT #lmao it’s so 2014-2016 #i would give a kidney to smoke a blunt with this man

[bloodredx]

Day 4: Medicine

It had been centuries since she first took up the practice, and if anyone knew the truth, one might argue that Lady Serena had invented the concept of modern medicine in Glacidea. She of course, would deny that if pressed, but fortunately no one would know to bring up the claim in the first place. One would just need to take one look around her office’s “collection of antique medical equipment” to see how things have changed over the years. Of course, these were really just a collection of favorite tools she herself used, some more delicate than others. Still, even knowing the good memories of helping people, saving lives, and removing pain from those who so desperately needed the care, the lingering knowledge of death would forever chase her.

Perhaps when she was younger, and felt more guilt over her position in unlife, particularly over the damage she had past caused, that death’s hand being right next to her own would have made her quiver. No longer, for Serena was now quite confident with the fact that Adamsa Frisay often accompanied her on her lonely walks down the hospital’s hallways. The God of the End was the most mysterious of the pantheon, but that never changed the sad kinship she felt when reflecting upon that inevitability, even for herself. Though she’d been plenty successful in not meeting him just yet.

Still, she was no god. And no matter what, people died. Her eyes scanned the test results quickly, keeping pace with the strip of paper the blood chemistry machine was printing out. “Lymphocytes dangerously low…” The doctor pulled up her patient’s chart as she remained unsurprised. His blood smelled that way, even as she loaded it into the machine. “Ketone high as well. Just into the brink of acidosis.”

The Lady took a sip from a coffee mug, cheekily printed with a label to “Donate Blood!” Of course the substance within was the result of such generosity, but the taste of good blood still didn’t overpower the smell of her patient’s blood. “Creatinine is also sky rocketing.” She tutted her tongue as she made notes in her precise cursive.

Icarus, who never felt truly comfortable in the lab, seemed able to put aside his general discomfort for once to take interest in his mentor’s work for once. “Do you always talk to yourself this much while working?”

Serena shot him a look with targeted precision. “Does it bother you?”

Her ward nearly recoiled, lifting his hands in defense. “Not at all. I meant to ask, does it help you?”

“Organize my thoughts, yes. I suppose it’s more routine at this point.” She laid her pen down on the counter, and pulled the read out of results from the printer. Another sip of her mug as she crinkled her nose. “Does the smell not bother you?”

“Of that man’s blood?” Icarus raised his brow. “A little, now that you mention it. But it’s still so intoxicating in any other way.”

“Hmm.” Serena noted his response before turning to face him, a stern expression on her face.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s dying.” She took another measured sip of blood. “Critical failure of his kidneys and liver to an extent that he would not survive the wait list for a transplant. For either organ.”

Though it had been years that he’d known the Lady now, her bluntness never sat easy with him. Even more so at the weight for a potential death. “Anything you can do?”

“An ignorant question.” She concluded quickly. “There is much we can attempt, dialysis, intense regiments of drugs that would otherwise cause innumerable side effects to his overall quality of life. But the fact remains he was rolled into my ER unconscious and so affected by jaundice that even running these tests for a few minutes has cut off the effectiveness of any treatment by hours. Days even.”

“So you’ll let him die?” Icarus stood up, feeling heat coursing through his veins. Though he wasn’t sure what the cause was, certainly the Lady could be cruel, but she wasn’t heartless. At least not to that extent.

“Everyone dies, Icarus. Even us.” Her voice was icy, flat against the sterile lab environment. “But that being said, I have ideas of options for his family. Ultimately, that’s their choice, his fate. And you had best believe I’ll go through with any plan they approve to my best ability. I’ll move mountains, drain seas, and plug volcanos for them. But I am merely a medical tool, I can no better stop the inevitable than you can stop time eroding history.”

A silent standoff went off within Icarus’s mind. She was right on one level. But she did have other choices. One that most other doctors didn’t. “Have you ever thought about embracing someone?”

He regretted the question the second it left his lips, wincing reflexively to avoid the sour expression and lecture his mentor was sure about to bury him under. But after a few moments of extended quiet, he cracked an eyelid to see what stopped her from her relentless fury.

Instead of the traditional scowl, her face was heavy with an emotion he hadn’t seen on Serena. Was it sadness? Remorse? He couldn’t tell, but her lips frowned in a softer angle than he had seen before, and for once she had broken her near constant, near dominating eye contact. No, she was staring squarely at her own wrists, eyes following the too dark veins that crossed under her pale skin. She a drew a deep breath, one that both of them knew was unneeded, but still an element to any conversation, no matter the need of oxygen, before opening her mouth slowly to speak.

“I would love to lie to you and say no, it hasn’t.” A pause, unlike her. “But I am many things, a liar is not included amongst them.” A finger traced alongside the veins as she continued. “It would be very easy, the most perfect cure to illness, and a near perfect one to death entirely. And though I am quite content with my existence, I cannot find nor guarantee that anyone else would be. To be thrust upon bloodlust without even knowing it, to be so sick and nearly gone to meet the gods again, and then be thrown back to the world with such darkness taken within them. I cannot ordain such behavior.

“There was an opportunity long ago where I could have done so to save someone I loved above all else at the time, to change the entire history of my world. But I wouldn’t, no, couldn’t do it. And the world has never been the same for me since.” She stepped away from the counter, taking a few stride to where Icarus was sitting, all in order to place a calm hand on his shoulder. “I cannot ask someone to follow me to where I am, but I have thought of it. It’s almost a feature of the blood; that we make more of ourselves to survive. However, I only ask that if you come upon the chance to find yourself in my shoes, that you won’t fall back to the easy fix, the snake oil cure. Vampire blood does much, but it takes much more than it gives. Practice good medicine in all that you do. I would hope I’ve rubbed off enough on you to leave you with that guidance if nothing else.”

Icarus felt himself frown as he tracked the glow of light in her brown eyes. What could he say in response to that? Certainly nothing snippy as he normally would, no. Heaviness sat in the air a moment, lingering like cigar smoke before he broke her gaze. “Of course, Lady Serena. I won’t do anything to disappoint you.”

Her hand dropped down to his, lifting them to chest level as she squeezed them tightly. “I know you won’t.”

The tenderness struck him, but then again so did everything else about this exchange. And he knew a little bit better the exact person his mentor was. While he could do little in the nature of medicine that she could, he could at the very least go on with the same grip on existence. “You have a life to fight for.” He returned the squeeze to her hand before letting go with a little push.

Her normal features snapped back into place, resetting the scene as if it had never happened in the first place. “That I do. Please excuse me.”

(OC-tober challenge by @oc-growth-and-development can be found here)

#Lady Serena #Icarus #vampire #oc-tober #oc tober #blood #medicine #death #dying #writers on tumblr #bloodredx writes #embrace #hospital

[izukusensei]

Double Edged Sword (part 1)

Todoroki is a visitor from a neighboring clan, a welcomed guest in Lord Yagi’s home. Bakugou is assigned as his escort, meant to not only chaperone, but to acclimate him to the ways of the Yuuei Clan. When Bakugou finds Todoroki stealing a treasured possession from Lord Yagi, his task becomes more difficult than he anticipated.

author: izukusensei pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Todoroki Shouto word count: 3000+ tags: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon AU, fighting, some adult content

“The sword of destiny has two edges. You are one of them.” x Andrzej Sapkowski 

Legend says that the Sword of Destiny will grant victory to any person who wields it. Its master will be able to turn the tide of battle… of war… of history. In the martial world, where clans have been vying for control for hundreds of years, this power is precious… priceless. 

But only the most worthy may wield the sword, as the legend goes. So, it has been passed down from hand to carefully chosen hand, from mentor to carefully chosen student, since its creation so long ago. The Sword of Destiny now belongs to Midoriya Izuku of the Yuuei clan, however left in the care of Toshinori Yagi - Midoriya’s mentor and the sword’s former master - who has promised to keep it safe while the young man completes his training.  

But it’s a dangerous time to be charged with such a task, to protect an object that holds so much power. The sword’s seventh master, Shimura Nana, has been killed in battle, Lord Yagi has been severely injured while avenging her death, and Midoriya has left Yuuei territory to complete his training, opening up a power vacuum in the martial world. 

Now, the Sword of Destiny lies waiting, ready for its new master to claim it. 

“If you come quietly, you may be shown mercy.”

“If I don’t come at all,” Todoroki replies, “then I have no need for mercy.”

Bakugou watches as Todoroki turns around to face him, the sword he has come to claim now to his back, still resting undisturbed on its pedestal. The room is dark all but for the full moon shining through the open windows, its light illuminating the sword’s wooden sheath and eclipsing Todoroki in its umbra, cloaking him in shadow. 

Neither man draws his weapon, though both are well aware that the other is armed. Bakugou is never without his sword attached securely to his hip and rarely is Todoroki seen without the twin blades upon his back.

But with any luck, they won’t come to blows. Not with steel, at least. Bakugou has never been one to back down from a fight, but that’s not how he wants this to end. Not with him and Todoroki. But Todoroki has gone this far, betrayed Lord Yagi’s trust and lied to Bakugou in more ways than one, so Bakugou knows that the other man won’t turn back now, no matter the outcome. 

“Lord Yagi invites you into his home,” Bakugou growls, “and this is the gratitude you repay him with?!”

Todoroki shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t have ever been welcomed into Yuuei territory as he was. As Lord Todoroki Enji’s only son, he’s the next in line to lead the Doryoku once his father cannot, the heir to a clan of murderers and raiders and thieves.

They’ve been terrorizing the border between the Yuuei clan and themselves for years now and Lord Yagi thought that a little good faith could change that. He and Lord Todoroki were brothers in arms once, so long ago. They fought together and lived together as comrades before Lord Todoroki decided that he wanted more than the humble life of a Yuuei warrior.

He went rogue, started his own clan – the Doryoku – taking in outcasts, criminals, and those not fit to lead a proper warrior lifestyle. The clan grew quickly and throughout the years, Lord Todoroki has made a name for himself as one of the most feared and formidable men in the martial world. 

So, when a message was sent to Lord Yagi, requesting that he take in Todoroki Enji’s only son as his ward, an offering to express his sympathies over Shimura Nana’s death and to build a bridge between the two clans, Yagi accepted with little hesitation. The younger Todoroki was sent under the guise of peace, but Bakugou now knows better. It was a ruse, all of it. And Bakugou fell for it, completely. 

Bakugou hasn’t been part of the Yuuei clan for more than a few years now, but he was quick to gain Yagi’s trust and the favor of Yagi’s student and successor, Midoriya Izuku. With Midoriya gone to train with Sorahiko Torino, Lord Yagi had assigned Bakugou as Todoroki’s chaperone, to see to his needs and acclimate him to the Yuuei clan’s ways of life. 

The two of them grew close, closer than Bakugou should’ve allowed. Bakugou feels his mistake like a knife through the heart, one which will leave a scar that he knows will never fade. 

“All I need to do is raise the alarm,” Bakugou continues, trying to coax some kind of reaction out of the other man. Anything to combat this cold silence that’s surrounding them. 

When Todoroki doesn’t answer, Bakugou begins to move, taking a few small steps to his left. Not fast enough to startle the other man into a fight, but enough that Todoroki has to follow him, pivoting his body where he stands. 

As Todoroki turns, the light from the moon begins to illuminate the porcelain skin of his face, leaving the other side in shadow. Bakugou takes in the shape of the man’s rounded cheek, the silhouette of a chiseled jawline, the soft white of his pinned-up hair that seems to shimmer beneath the pale glow of the moon.

Bakugou, at one time, would picture strands of his own flaxen hair intertwined in a braid with Todoroki’s long tresses. Bakugou’s shorter hair would bear Todoroki’s mark, as well – white and red woven into blonde. This is the Yuuei clan’s symbol of lovers parted, because Bakugou knew that the day would come when Todoroki would have to go back to the Doryoku. But he never thought it would be so soon, and surely not under these conditions. 

“I’ll bring this whole damn house down around you!” Bakugou snarls. “Is that what you want, Todoroki?!”

They’re facing each other, the Sword of Destiny now to Bakugou’s left, Todoroki’s right. Bakugou’s chest feels heavy, heaving even with so little exertion. He feels his fingertips begin to itch, his body become restless. He feels wild, out of control, so different from Todoroki’s cold composure. 

Todoroki breaks eye contact with Bakugou and looks out toward the window, up toward the moon. The wind wafts in, sending wisps of white and red hair billowing across his face. “You would have done it already, if you were going to,” he replies, seemingly unphased by Bakugou’s coming undone.

“This will be a declaration of war!” Bakugou says, almost pleading, needing Todoroki’s attention on him once more. “Shouto…”

Todoroki does look back at Bakugou then, with an expression that the other man can only describe as regretful. “You don’t understand,” he replies before he takes a breath and steels himself, hardening his face like a mask. He takes a step back on one foot, bracing himself for the fight to come. “I can’t leave without the sword.”

“Tch,” Bakugou scoffs, getting into position himself. “Then you’re not leaving at all.”

Bakugou is the one with everything to lose, and he knows it. If Todoroki closes the distance between the sword and himself before Bakugou can get to him, then they will both be lost, Todoroki being quicker and more swift than Bakugou will ever be. And even if a chase does ensue, Bakugou will surely be led into Doryoku territory, which would no doubt be a deadly mistake on his part. 

So Bakugou attacks first, fists aiming at debilitating points in an attempt to end the fight fast. Nose. Temple. Kidneys. Todoroki evades all three. He counters with strikes of his own - jaw, chest, kick to the knee - which Bakugou blocks instead of dodges.

Todoroki is quick, slender, and lithe, his training obviously emphasizing grace, agility, and speed. He’s strong, but nowhere near as strong as Bakugou, who has grown powerful from years of wielding his heavy sword. In turn, Bakugou’s technique is blunt, brutal force. Slower than Todoroki, but more destructive. 

They’re true opposites of each other. Two sides of a perfectly balanced sword.

They lunge and parry. Punch, kick, and strike. With every step, Bakugou moves himself between Todoroki and the weapon he has come to claim, forcing his opponent to retreat further into the room with each charge.

Bakugou attacks with a signature move - Dragon of the Rising Dawn. Todoroki counterattacks with Winter Lotus. Back and forth, never wavering. Fanned Flame and then Frozen Tempest. Smoking Fire Flower and then…

Todoroki’s kick connects. Bakugou barely sees the man’s foot leave the ground before his neck is wrenched backward by the force of the blow to his face. He stumbles back in shock, spitting at the acrid taste filling his mouth. 

They’ve sparred over the months that Todoroki has been in Yuuei. Bakugou thought he knew how Todoroki’s body moved almost by rote now, the angle of his punches, the speed in which he can strike. He thought he knew, but as Bakugou has quickly learned, Todoroki has been hiding yet another piece of himself. Bakugou doesn't know this move. Has never seen this style. Todoroki knew - he knew he would have to use it some day.

Bakugou can’t linger on the betrayal. This fight isn’t over yet. Bakugou charges.

It’s quiet in Lord Yagi’s armory. The room is silent save for the sound of flesh on flesh when someone connects or blocks a hit, their heavy breathing, the shuffling of feet. Despite his threats, Bakugou has wanted to keep this discreet as possible, to convince Todoroki to give up and turn himself in, or to even leave and go back to the Doryoku. But Bakugou is caught off guard by Todoroki’s sudden change of style, the skills and techniques he has never before seen from the man. He knows that Todoroki will win this if he keeps fighting him hand-to-hand. 

The sound of metal against metal will surely draw a passing guard, if not rouse the household, but Bakugou pulls his sword from its scabbard anyway, whip-quick and poised toward Todoroki. 

“I’ll let you leave,” Bakugou says in an uncharacteristic display of kindness. “Just forget about the sword and go home.”

Todoroki shakes his head, eyes somber, as he reaches up and behind his back. He pulls his twin swords from their scabbards, not quick like Bakugou, but slow and steady and practiced. He’s opening himself up for an attack, and at this distance, with his speed, Bakugou could end it all now, could land the final blow to ensure the safety of the sword and the Yuuei clan’s position in the martial world.

But he doesn’t. He waits. It’s the Yuuei way to ensure that fights are fair and honorable, and even with so much to lose, Bakugou would never turn his back on the principals Lord Yagi and the Yuuei clan have instilled in him. 

And even if that wasn’t so, this is still Shouto…

They’re both without any armor. Bakugou supposes that Todoroki left his behind in favor of being silent and stealthy. Bakugou, for his part, only left his bed because Todoroki was yet to join him. He meant only to seek him out, not knowing that he would be bearing witness to that very man’s treachery.

Not knowing that not having his armor would be the difference between peace and war in the martial world. 

This is dangerous. Both men are deadly. Bakugou’s sword is large and heavy, and spans more distance than Todoroki’s shorter, thinner swords. But Todoroki’s weapons are light and swift, able to slice through the air with little effort. 

Like the ringing of a bell, sound echoes through the armory as weapons clash. Bakugou lets loose a barrage of blows, hacking-hacking-hacking away at Todoroki’s smaller swords and waning energy. The repeated impact becomes too much for him, and his sword is knocked from his left hand, leaving him with only half his defense, but double the strength to wield it.

Todoroki raises his sword with both hands, ready to deliver what will no doubt be a mighty blow. Bakugou raises his own sword to block it but is met with a kick to his unprotected stomach, knocking the wind out of him and making him stagger back in pain and surprise. Before he can reorient himself, Todoroki’s blade slices through the space between them and lands flush against Bakugou’s throat.

The blow would have killed him, should have. The speed and strength behind the strike would have been enough to cut through half of Bakugou’s neck, but Todoroki stopped just in time. He does put more pressure against Bakugou’s throat though, taking a step forward and forcing the other man back. Bakugou hits the wall, and with nowhere else to go he flattens himself against the unyielding stone. 

Todoroki’s eyes are hard and unmoving from Bakugou’s own, his hand ever-steady, but Bakugou sees the tick in his jaw before it tenses, sees the hesitation. Todoroki could still kill him. A quick slide of the sword at the right spot and Bakugou will bleed out in less than a minute.  

“Don’t show me mercy, you little shit,” Bakugou hisses, pressing the flesh of his throat further into the blade. “I wouldn’t do the same for you.”

Todoroki’s brows furrow, lips narrow. This close, Bakugou doesn’t know whether to look at his grey eye or the blue, they have both always captivated him with equal measure. But he makes sure not to look away, because his words aren’t just provoking - they’re prophetic. If Todoroki lets him live, he can be sure that their next fight won’t end so graciously.

“Drop your weapon, Katsuki.”

The hilt of Bakugou’s weapon is still clutched tight in his hand - his arm extended outward at his side, the tip of the sword almost touching the floor. His fingers clench around it and Bakugou is ready to defy him, but Todoroki’s blade cuts into his throat, shallow, but the sword is sharp and he can feel the rivulets of blood creeping down his neck. 

“Drop it,” Todoroki tells him again. 

He does then, drops his sword to the ground with a metallic clang. Without lowering his gaze from Bakugou’s eyes, Todoroki places his foot on the hilt and kicks it away, sending it skittering across the ancient tile floor and far enough away that Bakugou wouldn’t have time to retrieve it if Todoroki decided to make an escape. 

It takes a moment after, but Todoroki removes the blade from Bakugou’s throat, rolls his wrist around and back to sheathe the sword effortlessly over his shoulder. Its partner is still missing, lost somewhere in the darkness of the armory, but Bakugou will be damned if he lets Todoroki leave with it. 

Once the sword is put away, Bakugou relaxes, but not by much. He drew his weapon because Todoroki was beating him hand-to-hand, and he won’t make the mistake of thinking Todoroki’s fists aren’t as deadly as his swords. 

He can finally breathe, though, drawing in a shuddering breath. But to a man as apprehensive as Todoroki is at this moment, even that is taken as a threat. Before the exhale, Todoroki’s hand is on Bakugou’s throat, keeping him still and flush against the wall. The salty sweat of his palm is seeping into Bakugou’s cut, making it sting, smearing the blood on his skin.

They’re close. Pressed up against each other, Bakugou can feel the harsh ebb and flow of Todoroki’s chest as he breathes, the heat of his body through layers of fabric. He can feel Todoroki’s rapid heartbeat against his own chest. Still, Bakugou doesn’t move. 

Todoroki leans forward and presses his forehead against Bakugou’s. He slides his hand up from Bakugou’s throat to cup his cheek in a rough palm, thumb rubbing against the man’s bottom lip. He closes his eyes and breathes, and then Bakugou feels him retreating, the space between their bodies growing. 

Bakugou grabs him by the front of his shirt before he can get too far and pulls him forward, pressing his mouth against the other man’s in a hard kiss. Todoroki gasps, caught off guard, but quickly recovers. His lips begin to move against Bakugou’s with little hesitation, a practiced familiarity laced into every movement. 

For Bakugou, the kiss is more desperate than anything. Inelegant. But Bakugou doesn’t care about it feeling good. He just wants Todoroki to feel something. And he must, because his hands move to Bakugou’s hair, gripping the strands tight in his fist, as he deepens the kiss. 

Bakugou keeps his hands clenched in the front of the man’s shirt, holding him closely, confident enough now to touch his tongue to Todoroki’s lips. When Todoroki returns in kind, Bakugou makes a sound - small and pitiful - miserable enough to startle him.

“Katsuki --”

He moves to take Todoroki’s jaw in his palms, brings him forward again and doesn’t let him go. He bites the man’s lips, his chin, his throat. Todoroki, barely taller, pulls Bakugou’s hair to tilt his head back, sucks a bruise into the side of his neck as he slots a thigh between Bakugou’s legs.

Bakugou squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his jaw to keep from calling out. He arches his back, presses his shoulder blades against the wall to tilt his hips forward and put more pressure on Todoroki’s thigh. 

Todoroki grinds against him for good measure, and only moves away to get his fingers on the ties of Bakugou’s pants and slide them down his legs. When they’re out of his way, Todoroki grabs Bakugou by his bare hips, fingernails digging into the warm and sweat-slick skin. He closes the distance again, molding himself against Bakugou’s half-nude body. 

“Shouto –” Bakugou breathes, and he’s shaking his head, willing him to stay after all of this. He would forget about this night, if Todoroki would turn back, if he would forget about the sword. They could pretend like it was just a bad dream and awake the next morning in a world where Todoroki didn’t betray him and his entire clan. They could – 

“WHO’S IN THERE?”

A voice outside the armory startles them both, and Todoroki jumps back before Bakugou has the chance to grab him. Bakugou moves forward to stop the other man’s retreat but is caught up in the pants wrapped up around his ankles. He stumbles and falters, giving Todoroki enough time to claim the Sword of Destiny and disappear into the night.

x picture credit: ig @shirogane_sama x

#bnha #bnha imagine #bakutodo #todobaku #please read this and tell me what you think

[bakatenshii]

the high denks hc WHEW!! I just know getting high with him would be amazing. I am h*rny for that man , yessir, indeeD! he’d be the one to get all riled up if his girl clears a bong perfectly- be the type of mf to take a picture of you blunt in hand smiling, high as shit, so he could have it as his background. i would give my kidney to smoke with this man.

listen, this, precisely this. If his girl doesn’t smoke? He’s ready to teach. Denki feat. corruption kink feat. a fat packed bowl is a match made in Hell, and I’m ready for it. The high sex given his cock decides to work, would be fucking immaculate. Slow and lazy and giggly and just, everything heightened?

He’s eager as hell, probs has stamina for days with his pent-up horny ass. You won’t even realize how shit his virgin stroke game is when you’re that fucked up <33

#big brain nonnie #u offer a kidney i offer a liver #<3333 #what i wouldnt give to get baked as a cake with him #fuckboy stoner of my dreams #fwb denki with a weak stroke game but best weed in town? #sign me tf up #urusai! baka #420 with baka

[wordywarriorwrites]

Chapter 5: Game

Masterlist: The Boss of Brooklyn A03 Link Author: @wordywarriorwrites Summary: When it comes to being The Boss, James Buchanan “JB” Barnes rules with an iron fist. For him, there’s no room for sentiment, and certainly no time for distraction, even if it is in the form of an old flame. Steve Rogers had bowed out of the life a long time ago, but a twist of fate brings him right back into the fold, and face-to-face with a man he once loved. When a game of cat and mouse turns into a matter of life and death, both will be forced to decide whether they’ll be loyal to the business, or faithful to each other. A/N: Bucky Barnes Mob Boss AU. Stucky. For: Star’s Multi-Fandom Follower Celebration & Sherry’s Fall Into You Challenge. Warnings: Language, violence, drug use, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities.

“You look like shit.”

Bucky grunted, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and settled into the cushioned seat. The three-piece Tom Ford hid most of the injuries, but it definitely couldn’t distract from the half-healed bruises that still marred his face, and Thor’s blunt assessment, though wholly unnecessary, was rather apt.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” their host asked politely.

While neither of them had time for dinner, the restaurant had closed temporarily for their meeting, and politeness dictated they at least have a drink. Within minutes, they were served, and the staff disappeared into the kitchen to give them privacy.

“Tell me what went down,” Thor prompted. “Then, tell me what you want me to do.”

Bucky did the same song and dance with him as he’d done with the others. He gave limited information; said not to make any moves without his permission; made it clear focus was to be on business and nothing else. Though the scotch he nursed during their conversation was undoubtedly top shelf, Bucky couldn’t really enjoy it. He’d been backed into a fucking corner, and though it had been two weeks since the confrontation, he still couldn’t shake the rage.

After Steve reintroduced himself with his fist, Bucky had been hauled to his feet, and dragged out of the penthouse. He was wrangled into the elevator and confronted by two masked men who thoroughly searched him from head to toe. Once Bucky had been relieved of both the knife strapped to his ankle and the gun at the small of his back, they’d bound his wrists in front of him, and put a black hood over his head. The only way he knew they’d taken him to the parking garage was because the elevator announced it, and as soon as they’d stepped out, he’d been forced into the back of a vehicle.

Bucky had heard the tires squeal as they went down and around and felt the slight bounce that indicated they’d hit the street. Then, there’d been a series of turns before a long stretch that suggested they’d gotten on the highway. He knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut, but he’d been too pissed off for rationality, and what had happened as a result still made him flinch…    

As soon as the vehicle was parked, he was taken out of the backseat, and the hood was removed. Military-grade body armor; Magpul FMG-9; grenade and rocket launchers; computers; blueprints; at least a dozen henchmen – it was an impressive display and he knew Steve wanted him to see it.

His two babysitters muscled him over to a wooden chair, forced him to sit, and held him in place with a hand on each of his shoulders. It was some time before Steve rejoined them and that’s when Bucky made the mistake of opening his mouth.

“Can I get a fuckin’ rag or something?” he asked tartly as he tried to stem the blood that continued to leak from his nose. “Or do you want to throw your dick around some more?”

The person to his right punched him. The individual to his left joined in not long after. From there, they took turns. They moved from his face to his ribs and kidneys, which he was able to take like a champ, but a closed fist to the solar plexus stole his breath, and made him fall sideways out of the chair.

He was kicked and stomped repeatedly while he was down, and when Steve told them to stop, they didn’t obey. Seconds later, two shots fired in rapid succession, and instinct made Bucky cover his head and stomach to protect himself. When he finally peeked out from between his arms, he saw the bodies of his tormentors slumped in awkward, macabre positions.

Blood and bits of brain matter were splattered across the concrete, but nobody said anything; the corpses were simply taken away and he was put back in the chair. Moments later, another chair was brought over, and Steve sat down across from him.

“I have a job to do,” he stated. “And you keep getting in my way.”

There wasn’t a single hint of malice in Steve’s voice, but there was an uncompromising finality to it, and the point was driven home via a gun’s safety being released. A muzzle was then promptly nestled at the base of his skull, and that’s when Bucky knew the time for posturing was over.

The man he once called his best friend had always been calculating, but never quite so viciously brutal, and there was an unyielding, steely resolve about him that hadn’t been there before. Black clothing from head-to-toe; protective vest; knives strapped to each thigh; guns on either side of his waist. Broader through the chest; longer hair; a full beard. The combination of his physicality and his dress made him appear menacing, and his sheer ruthlessness meant Natasha had been right in her assessment.

Steve Rogers had changed and he was dangerous.

Bucky carefully lifted his head and met his eyes, “Why am I here?”

“Because you’re the boss, JB, and it’s your job to keep the rest of the Families in line,” Steve stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Or can you no longer manage that?”

The insinuation made Bucky sit up a little straighter, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he asked what precisely Steve wanted from him. When he remarked he didn’t want anything, and that Bucky had already done enough damage, his curiosity was piqued. Bucky didn’t have to ask if the senator’s death had put a dent in whatever plans he had, because Steve was quick to clarify on his own.

“We’re keeping the wife for insurance and will take care of her with the job is done. In the meantime, tell Bruce to stop meddling, and keep everyone else at bay. Understood?”

The gun was pressed harder into his flesh, which made him agree to the terms, but Steve had long ago stopped taking him at his word. It wasn’t until someone brought over a tablet and Bucky was shown live footage of Natasha in her hospital bed and Bruce giving a lecture that he submitted.  

Steve nodded curtly and got to his feet, “We’re done. Now, get him the fuck out of my face.”

“Can I bring you anything else?”

Pulled out of his musings, Bucky cleared his throat, and politely declined. Thor shook his head and the server took their empty glasses.

“Remind me what we’re to donate for the fund raiser next week?” he asked as he retrieved his wallet and laid cash out on the table. “I need to write the check beforehand so Wanda doesn’t slit my throat.”

“It’s a silent auction this year.”

Thor cursed lowly, “Means I have to be there for the whole damn thing…”

Bucky stood, buttoned his jacket, and clapped him on the shoulder, “Yes, you do. So, show up on time, bid on something decent, and write a check before you get wasted, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered with a wry grin. “I hear ya’.”

After they both extended their gratitude to the restaurant’s owner, they shook hands, and went their separate ways. Bucky ran a few more errands downtown before he headed home. One glance at his inbox showed there were a million different things that required his attention, but for the moment, anything that didn’t pertain directly to business was put on the back burner.  

They hadn’t been able to keep a lid on it, and now, everyone knew Steve was back in town. They were aware of the botched take down, of what he’d done to Natasha, and how he’d ambushed The Boss. The whispers and rumors had already started and Bucky was fed up with being the punching bag.

He’d done as Steve dictated – he told the Families to mind their own and instructed Natasha and Bruce to stand down. With everyone else out of the line of fire, Bucky was finally able to focus, and the clarity brought forth all sorts of realizations.

He’d been distracted, lenient, far too indulgent, and those who worked for him and the Families had been allowed to run amuck for quite long enough. Mouths needed to be shut. Examples needed to be made. Dissention needed to be culled and it was easier to ensure cooperation when the consequences were dire. Deference was all well and good, but as Steve had demonstrated, fear was also a very powerful motivator, and could work just as well.  

In fact, sometimes, it worked even better.

Everyone could make an honest, unintentional mistake now and then – they were human, after all, and nobody was perfect. Such minor offenses would be met with an increase in dues and a hefty fine. Serious infractions would result in an immediate loss of territory, authority, and rank. The offender would be required to give restitution in whatever form Bucky saw fit, but they would never earn their way back into his or the Family’s good graces.  

Outright disrespect and disobedience – there were no second chances for that -- and anyone who wished to test him or provoke his wrath?

They’d be given a bullet and a shallow fucking grave.

Bucky had just finished putting together the missive when his cellphone rang. He recognized the number and when he answered, all he heard was a clipped, “let me in,” and then, the line went dead. This time, he didn’t allow himself to be taken by surprise, and once he confirmed it was Natasha, he disengaged the alarm, and opened the door.

“We have work to do.”

She smirked and stepped over the threshold, “Ready whenever you are, Boss.” 

Chapter 6: Set

Everything: @jennmurawski13​​ @nerdy-bookworm-1998​​ 

Steve Rogers: @patzammit @hearttoearth​​ The Boss of Brooklyn: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​​ @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety​ @captain-rogers-beard​​ @lilliannaansalla

#stucky fanfic #stucky drabble #stucky fanfiction #stucky oneshot #stucky imagine #stucky smut #mob boss au james barnes #mob boss au bucky barnes #steve rogers x bucky barnes fanfic #steve rogers x bucky barnes fanfiction #steve x bucky fanfic #steve x bucky fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #the boss of brooklyn #wordywarriorwrites

[ancient-artificer]

Bounties, Booze, Etc.

A Cowboy Bebop AU. Found on FF.net and Ao3

NEW* Fic

After a devastating break-up, Spike turns to old medicines to remedy the hurt. Concerned for her good friend's overall health, Faye strikes up a deal: if she can set Spike up with a good woman within a month's time, he must give up drinking and live a healthier life, for all their sakes. Leave it to a woman to beat around the bush...

Eventual Spike x Faye. Plot-driven.

ONE - Hangovers, Milkshakes, etc.

The majority of the household wasn't too thrilled with his decision-making skills of late.

Spike's wobbly hiccuping, coming in too late and hastily leaving too early was all beginning to cause for concern; the hole-in-the-wall pub inhabitants were ready to create for him a permanent place barside, a stock brand with his name on it if they didn't soon do something about his drinking.

Jet claimed that was just how he functioned and to let him be, the old "he'll fix himself, he always does" routine. Faye had always blatantly called him emotionally constipated, for lack of better terms, but even from her opinionated viewpoint, it wasn't that simple this time around.

It wasn't that Spike couldn't let himself feel emotions.

He felt them too much, too strongly.

It had been two weeks since Julia left. No heads up and no word since. No one understood what she had been thinking or why in the least she had not decided to tell anyone her plans. The blond bombshell just up and disappeared.

And left Spike a goddamned messed, barely able to pick up the pieces in her wake.

"What a bitch," Faye spat. She stared at the lifeless form lying on the couch and crossed her arms over her voluptuous breasts.

In front of their computer searching for the next easy, potential payload, Jet hummed, his fingers stroking his beard in thought. One of his eyebrows rose as he glanced up to her. "Way to kick a man while he's down," he monotoned.

Faye turned towards him. "No, not Spike, that damn bimbo he was head over heels for."

"Yea, well, it happens."

She snorted. "Which one, falling in love with a trash can or having it dump you?"

Jet acted as if he wasn't paying attention, but his mouth twitched up in a small smirk. "Like I said."

"I guess…" Her voice trailed off.

Her gaze returned to the dingy couch with the broken man sprawled across it. It softened as she took in his expressionless, slumbering face. "It must really suck."

"Mhm." His eyes darted back and forth on the screen as he read a profile from the bounty office site.

Faye sympathized with the man. Seeing him asleep, finally buried under consciousness after hours of fighting with himself made her glad she had never fallen in love. Of course, there was the like button, the pesky infatuation that came and went as quickly as the vast amounts of alcohol Spike had no doubt thrown back, and that was only a surface level sentiment.

What Spike tried to let go of was deeper. Scarring.

His sleeping form seemed peaceful, though she supposed it would turn one-eighty once he awoke. He had stumbled in around four-thirty that morning, sloshed beyond all hope, incoherently blabbering on. It was a wonder he had made it back to the house in one piece. Spike had easily passed out with his boots still on his feet.

She stepped to the couch and pulled the folded blanket from the recliner to spread over him. He reeked of hard booze.

"What are we gonna do with you?" She murmured to herself, giving her head a shake.

"Mm… er, do what now?"

Spike's eyes were still closed as he stirred and tried to lift his head and speak. The low, cigarette and whiskey-burned groan that escaped between his dehydrated lips sounded painful.

"You look like you were hit by a train." She was ever so blunt.

What resembled a short-lived laugh tumbled out from him, ending in a cough. He winced. "You should feel it," he mumbled.

Faye rolled her eyes and left to fetch him a bottle of water.

His liver and kidneys would be working overtime for a while until his situation leveled out, those brave, little soldiers. These days she felt more like the caretaker of a twenty-seven-year-old baby than a hard-earning, semi-successful bounty hunter.

"I think I'd rather feel the emotional ass-whooping than your kind of hangovers. It'd pass faster," she replied loudly, handing him the bottle with an added sarcastic, "Your drink, sir."

Spike winced hard as he sat up. "Not so loud, fuck…" he croaked. "Trying to kill me."

One hand took the water, the heel of the other rubbed into his forehead, seeking relief from the growing ache. The pounding behind his eyes rocked his balance and sensitivity. A queasiness hit his stomach before he brought the drink to his mouth.

He heaved into the previously placed bucket below him.

"Serves you right," Faye muttered. She walked away before she heard anything else that would haunt her later.

She had never been fond of Julia. From the moment that woman stepped foot inside their abode she could tell they were in for some bad news. Spike was only now unwinding himself from around her slender fingers.

However, Faye was fond of Spike and hoped he would learn from this rather unfortunate event and the things that spurred it. She just didn't approve of his methods. It wasn't fun to tease him when he was hurting himself. If he would let her help.

"Just give it a few more hours. His wallowing's almost over," Jet announced. He stood up from the desk and stretched, his thick arms reached above his head.

Reaching into his pocket, he tossed Faye a pack of smokes as she strolled by. "Give one to pathetic over there and then suit up. We've got a job."

"Uhh, okay, but isn't he a little useless right now?"

From the couch beside her, Spike gave a rough groan and then snarled, "Cowboy up or sit in the fuckin' truck."

Jet only smiled.

"You can't possibly know how this feels," Spike monotoned, briefly closing his eyes. He plodded after the others down the sidewalk towards the pub, which happened to be the location of their next hit.

It was a first. Strolling that day into the same bar he'd gotten plastered in the night before, still hungover as hell. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened in their shade of bluish-purple on the way over.

"Psht, yea, you're right, I can't. 'Cause I'm not a drunk loser," Faye replied in kind. She threw a glance his way.

"You're both getting on my nerves. Focus," Jet grumbled under his breath. "Faye, you walk in first. Spike and I will be in after you've had a look around."

They gave it a good thirty seconds.

Nausea hit Spike as soon as he smelled the alcohol.

The drink hall harbored few patrons in the early evening. It would later fill up to near capacity as the hours wore on. Smoke and other various and unique scents floated through the stale air. The place could have used a strong breeze.

As if not affiliated with the other two, Spike beelined it for the bartop and sank onto one of the many stools. His head hit the cool, shellacked wooden surface and he went limp. All but useless.

Mentally patting herself and feeling the weight of gunmetal beneath the ridiculous outfit, Faye easily slipped into a facade. The perfect trap laid before a hungry smuggler.

Remember he'll be armed, Jet's voice said to her through the earpiece connecting the three bounty hunters. Name's Merle. His crew smuggles drugs and other goods into the country through the underground. Not unlike them to enjoy the spoils.

He adjusted his sunglasses to sit further up on his nose and peered at their target as he sat down two stools from Spike's seemingly knocked out form. He raised his hand at the only bartender, who stood directly in front of him, looking oddly at him as he wiped down the bartop.

"Uh, what can I do for ya, sir?"

Jet nodded. "Iced tea, please."

"Is that all?"

Spike let loose a series of quiet snores. A drop of drool slid from the corner of his mouth.

"And a protein shake. If you've got them," Jet said.

The bartender shook his head. He dropped the wet rag into a sani-bucket. "Don't got those. But there's ingredients for a milkshake?"

Jet glanced at Spike, then nodded to the employee.

Faye said nothing as she roamed about the great hall, her gaze hitting everything that could be used as a weapon if the need arose, all of the exits should they have underestimated their target.

If Merle was easy to catch, he would already be in police custody. The profile stated he'd been on the run for four years, successfully evading cuffs and a comfy cell. Within that time, due to the extremely toxic purity of the illegal synthetic drugs he often smuggled and sold, many innocent lives were needlessly lost. The bounty on his head paid a hefty price, dead or alive.

But preferably alive to watch his freedom turn to cash.

Large, green eyes gave a sultry flash at the giant of a man sitting in the corner intent on the brown bottle in between his fingers.

His expression never faltered. His grip on the bottle loosened a bit when Faye swayed near and laid a hand on the only other chair present at his table. She made a point to throw her shoulders back and jut out her ample breasts barely covered in the low cut of her dress.

"May I join you?" She purred.

He stared at her. First at the twin fun sacks staring back at eye level, then up at her expectant, smiling expression. "I'm meeting someone," he simply stated, his voice gruff.

She gently pressed. "I could be that someone… if you have time," she said, the words rolling off her tongue like a satin sheet.

"Time for you to fuck off," he said, shifting in the chair.

Faye grinned.

He played hard.

She opened her mouth to respond in the same smartass, sarcastic tone when the establishment's glass door swung open once again. Her eyes darted to it.

In strode three buff, ruffian-looking men, one right after the other. The didn't try to hide their full sidearm holsters conspicuously hanging from their clothing or the fact they all knew the dark man in the back. They sneered when they saw Faye.

"Looks like Boss has a customer, heheh," one of them chuckled. With one arm in a fluid motion, he snagged a chair from another nearby table and unceremoniously sank onto it.

The second did the same, but with the chair Faye had her hand on. "A lady friend," he commented.

The remaining man still standing peered closely at her, leaning down so he could breathe on her cheek as he inspected her.

Straightening her back, Faye loosened the hold she subconsciously had on her features. She tried not to tense. She had to act like a whore, not be one. All she had to focus on was getting them happy and cooperative, Jet -and hopefully Spike- would do the rest, with her lending a helping hand should the need arise. The moment they caught wind of her unwillingness to indulge in their scumbag needs and desires, she would be outed as a cop or worse -what she really was- and the bounty-op would be eighty-sixed.

Jet's voice was low and steady in the earpiece. "Hm. This might've turned into a four man warrant..."

The man with his face next to hers smelled like tobacco and grease. A throaty hum of approval thrummed in his chest. He turned to the man who had first occupied the table. "This yours?"

Merle took a swig of his drink. He said nothing, only his dark eyes moved to inspect Faye once again, sizing her up, himself unsure of the answer.

She shifted her weight, making sure her breasts jiggled a bit to keep their attention. Her fingers pushed some of her violet hair behind her ears, her gaze quickly shifting from all four with a mysterious grin sliding up on her red lips. "Well. How about I buy rounds for you. And you can buy for me… and then we see where we stand?"

The three disgusting bastards were instantly hooked, line and all, at her innuendo. They automatically turned to each other and then to Merle, who had yet to give the okay for the extra person to accompany them for the evening.

Jet kept his head down, seemingly staring at the bartop under the dark of his glasses and intently listened in on her conversation. He breathed from his seat in surprise at Faye's words. "Geezus, you don't have to go all out," he said quietly.

At the same moment, the bartender gave him a quizzical gaze, one eyebrow raised as he set the glass full of iced tea down in front of him. "Um. Uh, w-would you also like ah, a lemon wedge? Or two?" He stuttered in his confusion.

A choked sound akin to holding back a burst of laughter came from Spike. He wheezed, his lips turning up at the corners before going back to his expressionless, slumber-like state.

The bartender reappeared with a handful of lemon slices and a milkshake in the tallest glass he could find. He set the tiny fruit bowl and the shake next to Jet.

Jet slid the drink to Spike.

"Finally…" Spike uttered. He unfurled his limbs from his lap and inched the straw to his mouth and sucked down a large mouthful. He frowned. "Hmm, it's missing something… what's it missing?"

"Sour wedge?" Jet sarcastically offered. He dropped a small piece of lemon into his tea without looking at him.

Merle straightened his back at Faye's suggestion.

"You're pretty. Too pretty for a dump like this shithole," the bossman grunted. His eyes bore a hole through her dark red dress. He spat, "How do I know you're not a cop?"

Faye blinked. "I'm not," she replied as a confused question.

She didn't look like one, that was for sure. But they couldn't be too careful these days. Highly sought after criminals could not let their guards down, especially around a woman, no matter how pretty. They were sly. They were just as capable of manipulation as men.

Merle snapped his fingers and pointed. "Vic. Search her."

"Heh. With pleasure."

Faye swallowed.

Through the earpiece, Jet heard the demand. She had a Glock and a pair of cuffs strapped to the inside of her leg. If they found those, she was as good as dead where she stood.

"Ahh. I see." Spike hailed the bartender. With a raspy voice and a fake smile, he asked, "Do you have any eggs?"

"Eggs?"

"Yea. Eggs. You know. Chickens shit them out. Can I have one?"

The perpetually perplexed employee headed for the back with his strange request, oblivious to the growing tension in the place.

"What are you doing, Faye needs us. Now," Jet said. He was already turning in the stool to free the handgun at his side.

"Relax. Everything's fine." The hungover bounty hunter lazily sipped at the whipped cream on top of the milkshake, seemingly uninterested in the fate of his female friend. Or any of their fates, for that matter.

The employee came back and handed him a white egg.

Jet slid from his stool and took a long step in the smugglers' direction, in his hand a grey and silver Walther P99.

Faye backed away from the table as two of them approached her. A quick glance to the bar area at Jet and she reached down under the hem of the dress. One hand made a fist, the other gripped the black, fully loaded Glock.

She landed a swift uppercut into the soft underside of the ruffian's jaw and pistol-whipped the back of his head with the butt of her gun. He landed on the ground a shove. She shook her hand in the air and cringed.

Jet fired the Walther at the other man standing between Faye and the table, the explosion of contained gunpowder slicing through the previous quiet. As soon as the man fell to the floor with a shout, he shifted his aim toward the two still seated.

Distance offense strategy was now useless; Merle and his thug friend were already up and closing the space that separated them.

Merle rushed Jet. He knocked into him before he could bring his pistol around to aim. The Walther flew from his hand and a fist connected into the side of his face.

Throwing a glance towards Jet, Faye knew she wasn't equipped to fight like him or Spike. She wasn't trained in hand to hand, but in the close quarters of the small pub, the Glock was still her only defense. She didn't want to flat out kill them, they wouldn't get their money if the smugglers were dead.

"Spike! You idiot!" She called in frustration.

Hunched over his drink, Spike concentrated on cracking the missing ingredient into his shake. He was terrible at cooking anything, having relied heavily on Jet for sustenance for most of his adult life. He winced from the gunshot, which only added to the ache behind his tired eyes. Behind him, all hell broke loose, the sounds of struggles and gunfire ringing in the stale air.

Jet blocked another fist aimed for his gut and connected his own to Merle's temple in return. The smuggler stumbled backward. Jet shoved him hard in the chest and the muscled man toppled over the table and his unfinished beer.

"Faye!" Jet shouted in warning.

The woman turned at his voice, seeing one of the thugs ball his fist and advance to pummel her. She ducked and threw her shoulder into his gut, using the Glock's barrel to assist her in tagging him in the process.

He was out of the fight, down for the count, dry heaving with his hands on his junk.

The man she had earlier pistol-whipped rose and ran at her, the bloodlust apparent in his angry eyes. She promptly ducked again and stuck out her leg, which he ran right into. He was sent stumbling into the bar and smacked right into Spike.

The still unbroken egg slipped out of his hand to bust on the floor.

"The fuck," Spike barked. Anger boiled inside his chest.

The pub's door flung open and four more similarly dressed men ran in, all familiar with Merle and the two men sprawled on the floor. They looked around at the fray, briefly orienting themselves with the situation. It took only seconds, but Jet and Faye knew they couldn't hold off the newcomers.

"My egg! I needed that," Spike seethed. "Everything's so not fine!"

He jumped and shoved the stool away from the counter, standing up and tugging out his Jericho 941 from its holster. He snarled, racking the pistol and without aiming, started firing off round after round directly at the smugglers who had just entered the building.

They scattered to hide behind anything they could find, knocking tables on their sides to use as makeshift shields as he channeled his frustrations into the gunmetal.

Spike turned to the downed man who had run into him. He smashed the man's bloody face into the egg mess with his boot. "That's for ruining my milkshake," he hissed.

Behind him, Jet's left fist smacked into Merle's jaw, his torso bending in half at the waist with the momentous effort. He breathed out, struggling to catch his breath with the strain.

The drug smuggler bounded into the back wall. His head shot side to side, looking for a way out while Jet was preoccupied with the small group of his followers that had come in to join them.

When his attention returned to their main target, Merle was nowhere to be seen. Their intended target escaped.

Faye dove for Jet's discarded pistol as the newcomers began to retaliate. She threw herself back on the floor. With her own gun, she covered them with gunfire until she could return Jet's firearm to him. Her dress hitched up her legs, the thigh holsters now in full view. Vibrant green panties peeked out from the inside at the apex of her legs.

Spike barreled out of the way of blazing bullets zooming past. "Shit!"

Lying on the ground next to Faye, he ejected the empty magazine and inserted a fresh one into his black pistol. From his position, he spied the material. "Really. Lime green, huh," he stated casually. A smirk showed up on his mouth.

Faye pursed her lips and cow kicked him in the chest. "Stop looking, pervert."

"We gotta get, fast," Jet grunted. He caught the pistol Faye tossed up to him.

"What about the bounty-" Faye started, the surprise coating her voice.

The big man shook his head. "It's no good. Let's go before we're shot all to hell!"

With Jet laying down cover fire, Spike hauled Faye to her feet, then angled his body to pop off a few rounds at their opposition. He snatched up the milkshake on his way and followed the other two out the back exit and into the alley.

Outside next to the dumpsters, Faye watched for any signs of their fleeing quarry while Jet fetched the car parked on the other side of the alley. She turned at the door opening, relaxing when she saw Spike. He made a face as he sucked up the shake.

"You went back for that?"

He swallowed. "It's not as good without some egg in it. No tip for him."

Faye tried to hide the smile he unknowingly put on her face. Though the man liked to mess around, making light of certain situations, never mind how dire they may be, he made her heart a little lighter. Every day. His presence settled her. His lack of emotional awareness, however, would get him into serious trouble someday.

Jet drove the car up to them, skidding to a halt.

Pulling at Spike's shirt, Faye dragged him to the car, pushing him through the now open door. She shoved him further to climb in herself.

The junk car didn't look like much, though it got them from point A to B with no hesitation. The engine's rumble turned into a roar as Jet sped away. "Watch for that slimebag," Jet said.

They entered the main, busy streets, blending in with the locals. People walked along from one area to another. Other vehicles on the streets passed by in a rush. There were so many, Faye couldn't distinguish after a certain distance. "I don't know, Jet. I don't see him. Sorry."

"Hmm. Well. This blows. Not what I expected." Jet made a sound with his mouth and flicked the air freshener hanging under the rectangle mirror.

Faye nodded. "We'll try again. Another day, sometime."

"Sometime," Jet repeated. He looked at her in the mirror. "You mean another year. That guy's evaded the cops and bounty hunters alike for half a decade. He's not stupid."

There was an empty, sipping sound.

They both turned to Spike, who had finished his mediocre milkshake. He seemed to be doing a little better than earlier in the day. His eyes were a little brighter, almost back to normal.

From the other side of the backseat, Spike peered at Faye from his position, his head resting on the armrest. He took in her ragged appearance after their small bar fight.

Bounty work did a number on her.

He licked the whipped cream off the straw and said, "Yea. Next time it'll be a thousand times harder 'cause he knows who we are."

#cowboy bebop #cowboy bebop fic #spike spiegel #spike x faye #AU #bounty hunters #ff.net #ao3 #CapAleran2 #andyswrite #im terrible at tagging things

[theartist-duke-nise]

✌🏾Nise Lyfe Movie Part 1

Inspired By Real people, Real Relationships, and Fake Events

INTRO.

*Riding down the street, leaning on window smoking and driving. Credits go by. Flatbush zombies song Bumps. Phone rings, music stops*

Duke: hello??

Greg: Ayo Duke

Duke: Yo wuddup nigga

Greg: Aye bro, you got your strap??

*Duke looks down at cup holder* Duke: Always!

Greg: Listen bro, I need you to come pick me and Mark up rightnow and not ask me any questions.... you down or what??

Duke: .....................where you at??

Black screen

CHAPTER 1: The Story

Female Narrator:

Black Americans ...... Culture.... somehow, for the majority anyways, no matter how much money our parents had... no matter which City, State, neighborhood, or family you come from, our families all have things in common. Have you ever wondered about that?? I mean think about it. Somehow, weather your from Connecticut, New York, Florida, Texas, Cali, Virginia, Illinois, or the Carolinas, we all have fatal similarities without ever meeting or even knowing the same people. Our grandmothers have always told us things like "stop letting all my AC out the house, go fetch me a switch, come here baby, you know grandma loves her baby, stop running around my damn house, I'm praying for you baby" and that world famous, stand on the porch with the sun in her eyes and hands on her hips, wave to watch us drive off from her house. Grandmothers keep the world spinning!! They cook everything with love and have that magic hug and kiss that fuels us like a pump at a gas station. There is truely NOTHING like the love from an elderly women! .... for the majority

Then there are mothers and aunts. The rib of the family. Always putting on fronts when people come around. They can be both your biggest motivator and entagenizor, or both at the same time. They wake you up, get you dressed, feed you, and get you out to school on time day in and day out. They manage a very strict schedule and do it so amazingly. Weather they have a significant other or parental spousal support, they manage with grace and elegance. *Black mother cursing kids out* most of the time anyways.....

And then there are Black Men... the back bone that keeps America standing up straight. The shoulders in which a majority of Americas problems sit on. The brains behind more than 50% of American culture if you ask me. Now I'd like to break the idea if the black man down into 3 categories, which in my opinion isn't exactly fair, because I feel as if all black men share all 3 attributes if enticed to show them in the appropriate time or place.

The first... of-course the typical idealistic black man that Brainwashed America would imagine at first thought. The "GANGSTA". Smh.... typical... This man isn't a bad person. He does bad things from a normal perspective, but no worst than an unordinary American would do. Don't agree?? Well check this... the gangsta sells drugs to the public. Mostly addictive substances to keep his clients hooked, squeezing every silver dime and red penny that they can get out of said person before they either die or overdose.... sound formillior?? Kind of like a Doctor without the license. Cures for things like diabetes, HIV, high blood pressure, cancers, they have been around for years, but we all know there's no economic longevity in corporations curing people. The profits comes from sustaining their illness enough to giving temporary relief of symptoms but not enough to eraticate them. The goal is to keep them coming back..... I.E. "Drug Dealers. Plus ide imagine the "typical" black man would have a bad temper and ofcourse drinks Hennessy and smokes newports all day ".

The second we'll bring up is the "Baby Daddy". Unfortunately this is a legitimate cultural problem for OUR community. Weather the man stays in his child's life as much as anyone would like is besides the point. The biggest problem is that the babies are often made at a young age of the man in which he is not ready to instantly drop the childish antics and mentality at that very moment. Which brings the conflict between said man and the women enpregnated because as females tend to mature faster than males, she is usually raised with a specific image of what a man should be. Her immaturities sway her from being patient enough to help the father of her child to grow into the man he needs to be. The conflicted situation dominos into their split up in which the mother usually takes the custody of the youth, leaving the man to continue exactly where he left off before the pregnancy, living in his immaturities.

And lastly... the comeillian. He isn't a gangster or gangbanger, he doesn't accidentally enpregnate a female before he intends to. He typically is very comfortable being around anyone of any race, religion, or sexual preference. Mentally he feels as if he is a bit of an outcast. He typically has a bit of rebellion in his blood that people find ok, only because he regularly turns it on and off, depending on the environment he is in. I personally like to think of them as an untapped well just under the surface. The possibility of this person swaying into any job, place, environment is up to them. They're just waiting for the decision to be made.

Now on first instinct, Humanity has conditioned us to always look at things as 2 sided. Either right or wrong, good or bad, black or white. But I'm here to show you.... it's much deeper than that. Bad things happen to good people that make bad decisions with good intentions.

Chapter 2: the Team

*Duke pulls up to location, cuts off music, calls greg. Him and mark come out and fast walk to car. They dap up Duke and he pulls off.

Duke: so what niggas bout to do?? We got static??

Greg: nah, but first things first, niggas need to go get some weed. Pull up at Chris crib.

*Duke pulls out blunt and lights it.*

Mark: my nigga, hahaha

*Car pulls up at Chris's house. All three get out of car. Duke pulls gun from cup holder and tucks on waist. Flips shirt over and proceeds to door. SPECIAL KNOCK ON DOOR. Chris comes to door with chinky smile, holds hand out. All 3 greet and walk in. Greg and Mark pull out money hand to Chris and he walks to backroom of apartment. In living room, Dorcey is counting pills and bagging them up. Lean bottles as well as other known drugs cover table. Dorcey sees us and daps us up while still counting, trying not to loose count. All 3 sit down. Duke pulls out another blunt and sparks it.*

Duke: so bro, what's tha move?? Why I need strap.??

*Greg and Mark look at eachother*

Greg: go on and tell him about your boy.

Mark: aight, so me and this nigga was walking down the street by my crib, by the park and we smell weed in the air, so I look across the street and we see this tall ass nigga walking, smoking a blunt.

*Greg interrupts*

Greg: bro... that nigga was tall as shit.

Mark: word, so I yell out "that shit smell good bro" and he reply "I got that if you need it homie. Just got a pack in today."

*Dorcey stops counting and looks up

Dorcey: so y'all don't know this nigga from nowhere and he stay on yo block Mark??

Greg: aye bro, I ain't never even seen this nigga before and I use to stay out there too. Maby he just moved out there or something..

*Chris comes back and hands mark and greg their bags of weed and tosses a pack of backwoods on their laps, then takes a pack of papers out of his pocket and tosses that too. Chris says jokingly*

Chris: so we gona rob this nigga??

*chris cheeses hard*

Mark: ayo, can I finish tellin the fuckin story??

Dorcey: as long as you can roll up and talk at the same time.

*Duke shakes his head and grins*

Greg: so boom. Long story short, we ask the nigga to get us a 8th. He tells us to just walk to his house to get it with him..... bro. We walk in and this nigga has EVERYTHING!!! Coke, heron, Molly, pills, x, xans, liq, syrup....

*Dorcey and Duke both focus up

Duke ashes the blunt and passes it*

Duke: GTFOH

Dorcey: well what tha fuck we sittin here for?? Let's go get at that nigga.

Greg: see y'all niggas ain't letting us finish.... so we walk in and see all the drugs, then this big ass pit runs up.

Chris: that nigga jump on Mark?? You know that nigga smell like beef jerkey.

*Chris smiles hard again. Mark rolling the blunt looks up*

Mark: nah, they had this nigga on a leash..... INSIDE THE CRIB BRO. They had that nigga INSIDE THE CRIB bro!! Like a whole bear on a leash inside the crib bro. Like these niggas had the chain wrapped around the Middle of the piece of wood going from the ceiling to the floor in the living room b. I ain't gona lie bro. That nigga was big as fuck.

Duke: damn, so what happen next??

Greg: so boom. He tell the nigga to sit and he sit instantly. Not like Boosie.... OH SHIT!!! Yea bro, so his bowls are behind him and I peep a big bloody piece of meat in the bowl, so I ask dude, "ayo, that's steak and pepper you feed your dog?" aye bro.... nigga looks at me and says "Nah homie, that's a human kidney and gun powder on that shit. I bought it using Big Coins."

Chris: get the fuck out of here bro

Greg: swear to god bro. He said it's so that nigga don't mind killing and ripping a nigga apart. Shit was crazy but anyways, so boom we walk past the dog and I think that was his pops or his uncle in the back with his girl and a few more niggas. And we meet them niggas, chop it up for about 5 minutes but we end up only buying a blunt. We told him we wanted to see if it was some flame. It was so we told him we're gona go get some more money and be back to get more than a half.

Dorcey: aye bro, please tell me y'all tryna rob this nigga bro!!

Duke: nigga, ain't you JUST come home?? your still on supervised probation nigga.

Dorcey: and I'm ready to go back so what you sayin??

Mark: Aye look, me and greg already said we GATA hit that nigga so we down.

Chris: and I'm down. Sheed lost $600 last week when somebody stole her purse so I'm down. I need a come up cuz rents due next month.

Dorcey: so Duke, you got the whip so your driver.. and I know your klizzy ass got a few masks..

Duke: you already know

Dorcey: So what you gona do?? You down or what??

*Everyone freezes and stares at Duke. He hits the blunt, looks at it as he inhales, sits it in the ash trey and blows the smoke out. Duke takes gun from pants and drops it on table.*

Duke: we gona need some more heat...

CHAPTER 3: THE PLAN

Greg: aight, so it's a lock.

Duke: aye, I just have 1 condition.

Dorcey: NOOOO NIGGA, we not wearing no super hero masks. Lol, goof ass nigga

*everyone laughs except Duke. His face is stiff

Duke: chill... but first, nobody gets killed bro!! I ain't going down for murder!! Especially if my ass ain't squeezing a trigger.

Greg: FACTS!!! If it's our life or there's, that's one thing, but I can't do life. I got daughters nigga. I can live with 5-10 though. Can y'all??

Dorcey: word! I got a seed too nigga. I GATA be here for baby girl, but I need paper for baby girl too!

*everyone nods their heads agreeing*

Duke: good. And second. We need another car. Y'all niggas tweeked if y'all think I'm using MY car to hit a lick! Like y'all really bugged out on that!!

Dorcey: nigga, shut yo ass down! Just get a rental, or a zip car or sum shit. When we get close enough, we cover the plates and the.... got damn, what you call that shit on the car... like what kinda car it is?!?

Chris: the emblem

Dorcey: YEA!!! Just make sure it's a dark color...

Duke: aight, well before we jump the gun, let's really make a plan!! Ayo, Chris, you got some paper and pencil??

Mark: so y'all niggas about to write down our plan so the boys can find it?? Smh, dumb ass niggas

Duke: chill out string bean head ass... that's why we're writing it with paper and pencil. we destroy the papers the day before we hit tha jawn kuz by then, we'll have everything in our heads. This is just so we're on the same page. And another thing... don't be stupid enough to talk or text about this shit... like EVER!!!! AT ALL!!! Any discussion we have about this is in person, face to face only! Agreed?

*everyone nods again*

Duke: ok, now first things first. Mark, why tha fuck you still ain't finish rollin up and greg what you waitin to light that shit for?? You waiting on Jesus second coming?? Lml, but on a serious note now. How big was the crib??

*greg lights blunt, takes pull and passes it

Greg: what you mean??

Duke: like what kinda house was it?? Like a 2 story?? 1 story?? Trailer?? Town house?? What??

Mark: uhhhh. Townhouse... 2 story though...

Duke: aight, how many bedrooms??

Mark: idk, prolly 2-3...

Duke: and how many couches downstairs

Mark: 2... a small one and a big one... why does that matter??

Duke. Because nigga, 1 master bed room means a dope boy prolly keeps a bitch at his crib, plus the other 2 rooms means 1 person can live in each. That's 4 people that can live upstairs. Plus 1 person sleeping on the big couch. They prolly try to keep 2 or 3 people home at all times. We need to either wait until they all leave, which might never happen, or we can get everyone out of the house. Now New Years is in 2 weeks. No real niggas stay in the house on New Years! They're either outside selling drugs, tryna get em off, OR they're out partying, using drugs. That's when we get em.... plus Erica having some kinda party for New Years. I figure we all hit that shit first. Take a bunch of pictures, give her our phones, and I'll get her to text from them and post pictures every few minutes. Perfect alliby. We have pictures and texts as proof of where we are. Plus the location on our phones to verify.

Dorcey: damn nigga... how long you been waiting to rob somebody?? Nigga already have everything planned out!

Duke: nah bro. I'm just going with this shit. I ain't never caught a lick in my life. I'm just smart enough to pay attention to how people get caught and learn from there mistakes so I don't have to make my own.

*duke points to the top of his head*

Duke: 2 steps ahead bro.... Now, we can assign jobs... I say, Dorcey, you should be the one to see if you can get some more hammers. 1 damn sure ain't gona be safe, especially kuz ain't nobody holding my shit except me. My shit is registered...

Dorcey: say less

Duke: now... Greg and Chris, y'all take Chris's car back over to fuckboys crib, park far enough to where they won't notice you but don't be hot and spook the neighbors either. Last thing niggas need is the cops called on y'all to looking suspicious. Take this paper and a pen or something and write down what kinda traffic they have. home many people come in and out. How many are plucks and how many live there. How long they stay there and how long they leave before coming back. Which ones drive and get picked up. And what time people stop coming and going. That's prolly what time they sleep. And since greg is blind as fuck, Chris your gona be the eyes so take som carrots.

Greg: fuck you

Chris: carrots??

Duke: yea... good for eyesight. And greg, you just write down what you s..... well you write down what Chris sees. lol,

Greg: nigga fuck you. Give me the damn paper

*greg snatches paper from Duke

Duke: and me and Mark will pick up the clothes and masks. Here everyone write down shirt and pants sizes so we don't forget.... Everybody good??

*everyone agrees

Duke: good, now somebody help this nigga mark finish rollin up, kuz he's blowing mines.

Mark: nigga fuck up, I been done. Lol

Chapter 4: Dorcey

The next morning, Dorcey wakes up in his bed with naked female next to him sleep. He moves her hand off of him and tosses it, rolls over, and picks up his phone and sits on the edge of his bed stretching.

*Dorcey grabs bottle of Hennessy, and takes gulp. Then finds contact and calls

Kev: yo wuddup

Dorcey: Yooooooooo

Kev: wuddup fool?

Dorcey: aye bru, I need a few tools, niggas bout to build a bridge.

Kev: what kinda tools you need?? Wrenches or Drills??

Dorcey: nah , wrenches is good. It's more for emergency.

Kev: aight, you need more than 1??

Dorcey: I need 4

Kev: damn nigga! Fuck I look like?? Home Depot?? You need em for the keep or the rent??

Dorcey: the rent

Kev: for how long?

Dorcey: prolly just one night.

Kev: well this ain't no free ride homie. Ima need some collateral or sumn nigga.

*Dorcey thinks as he scans his room then stops when he locks onto the naked girls head in his bed*

Dorcey: I think I got sumn you'll like bru

Kev: aight, when you gona slide threw??

Dorcey: give me 2-3 hours bru

Kev: aight bet... just come around the back

Dorcey: aight bet

Dorcey and female walk threw cut into back of Kevs house trying not to step in dog shit. They knock on sliding back door. Kev walks up, peeps out back window with Rifel in hand.

Dorcey: yoooooo

*Kev sits gun on couch and unlocks screen door and opens. Dorcey and female walk in and close behind them.

Dorcey: aight Kev this MeeMee... MeeMee this my nigga Kev

Kev: what's up shorty??

MeeMee: hey

Dorcey: aight you can sit here for a minute. Watch out for the gun. And don't answer the door for nobody.

*Dorcey turns to Kev

Dorcey: aight, lemme see what you got bru.

Kev: aight bro, follow me

*they small talk as they walk to back room

Dorcey: yea bro that bitch ready..... Daaaaaammmmmmnnnnn.

*dorceys eyes wide and jaw drops

Dorcey: nigga..... what tha fuck you this strapped up for?? Nigga got enough guns to lock up the whole neighborhood! Every thing between 2'2s and 45s. Then machine guns, choppas, shotguns.. you got the double actions, single loads, pumps, twin barrels.... nigga got aks, m-14....ohh shit, tha m-16. Aye bro, you got tha baby K??

*kev smiles and points

Kev: yea right there by the rifles.

Dorcey: daaammmnnn, and you got the crazy ass monkey nuts. How much this bitch hold??

Kev: 200+1 in the chamber

Dorcey: this nigga said plus 1 in the chamber...

*Dorcey shakes his head*

Dorcey: but back to business. I can get 2 30's and a 9 and a pump?

Kev: gochu.. you need bullets and packs too??

Dorcey: yea. Just a clip for each tool and 7 or 8 shells for the pump.

Kev: ohh, y'all movin light huh??

Dorcey: yea bruh, hopefully we don't even GATA bust nun.. but better safe then sorry, na mean??

Kev: I feel you bro..... aye before you leave, you GATA check this shit my whiteboy just brought me.

*kev pops a lock on the dresser and takes out a RPG

Dorcey: a RPG?? Nigga, who tha fuck you got beef with?? North Korea??

*Kev smiles slyly

Kev: Better safe than sorry. Haha

Dorcey: heard you. But good looks bro.

*Kev packs guns into a bag that looks like it's used for a tent or something, then they dap eachother up and Dorcey walks out

Kev: good luck bro.

*Dorcey nods

Chapter 5: Greg & Chris

*Greg wakes up on couch, reaches on table for glasses. Get up and yawns. Knocks on Chris's door to wake up.

Chris: yea, I'm up

Greg: I can use the bathroom??

Chris: yea.

*greg uses bathroom, gets dressed. Knocks on Chris's door

Greg: you ready bro??

Chris: yea give me like 10 more minutes

Greg: aight

*greg sits on couch and lights clipped blunt and scrolls down twitter feed

*Chris comes out room and greg gets up passes blunt as the walk out house to car. They get into car and door closes. Drive to work playing music. Get out of car at work, dap eachother and walk away. *Cut To End Of Work Day*

Greg: wuddup bro??

Chris: what's up brooo??

*Chris cheeses hard

Greg: aye bro, you tryna head over to scope out that crib for a little before we go home??

Chris: yea bro, I don't care. But all the weed is at the house. You want to go get some first??

*Greg pulls jar from glove compartment

*chris cheeses hard and pulls off while greg rolls up.

Greg: so bro, I been thinking about how niggas gona split up all this shit.. or even, you know like... what if they sold everything by the time we get there??

Chris: yea bro, that would be fucked up, haha. But if they got that much stuff in their house, I doubt they would let it run out. Haha

Greg: yea, you right. But idk bro. I kinda got a bad feeling about this shit. I aint tryna jinx it or nun though.

Chris: bro, don't even think like that dude. Positive thoughts, positive vibes, you know??

Greg: yea, word... pass me the lighter

*they pull up at the end of the block.

Chris: oh shit bro, look

Greg: nigga, you know I can't see all the way down there.

Chris: ohh shit my bad bro, lol

Greg: what you see?

Chris: it's like 4 females outside

*greg starts writing on paper*

Chris: 6 cars in front. But there just standing at the car. Shit that's a really nice car bro. Ohh, wait... like 4 guys just walked out the house and got in the cars. They're pulling off now... duck down

*both duck down in seats. Greg blows smoke up

Greg: shit my bad

*both sit back up

Chris: aye bro, another car just pulled up.. it kinda looks like an über.

Greg: you sure it's an Über and not just a regular car??

Chris: we duhh it's a regular car, but it has an über sticker on the window and it's just siting outside with the car still running.

Greg: yea it's prolly an über

Chris: ok, now there's an older guy and an older chick getting in the über. And it's driving off in the opposite direction.

Greg: should we follow them??

Chris: fuck that!! I need to go home and take a shower. Get out these clothes.

Greg: it don't matter to me bro

*greg takes out his phone and called Duke

Duke: wuddup blacky??

Greg: ayo, we here now. Everybody just left the house I think.

Duke: You gona follow em to see where they go??

Greg: chris said fuck that..

Duke: exhale... y'all niggas kill me... but aight

Greg: aye, I ain't even driving

Duke: aight I'll halla at y'all niggas later

Greg: bet

*Car pulls off*

Chapter 6: Duke & Mark

*Duke is at 7-11 pumping gas. Cute women next to him pumping gas looks over and smiles. He finishes pumping his gas, puts cap on tank, gets phone out of car, cutting off music and walks around pump to her

Duke: excuse me, how are you doing today??

Lady: I'm fine.

Duke: well my names Duke. Um... would you mind if I help you pump your gas for you.

Lady: not at all

*she steps back and I squeeze the trigger of the gas pump. As I glance back I start at her feet. Pretty toes, red polish, red pumps, and long fitting red dress showing amazing curves. Going up to her amazing smile surrounded my red lipstick.

Duke: so I didn't get your name.

Lady: ohh, lol, my names Jazmine, with a Z... not a S

Duke: ok, very nice to meet you jazmine with a Z.... not an S... lol. You mind if I ask how old you are??

[jackblankhsh]

Why I Quit:  Hotel Concierge

When I took the job at the hotel I expected something more glamorous.  The day I arrived for work, finding in the parking lot a naked man in Santa beard and cap beating a pimp with a sock full of batteries – I suspected the description related over the phone might not have been accurate.

 The pool did not resemble a glittering sapphire.  Rather, it seemed to be a kidney shaped mound of dirt dotted by several tombstones for pets.  The complex of hotel suites, a hive of rooms in a horseshoe, suggested a building could get addicted to meth, suffering all the adverse physical side effects associated with such; graffiti tattooed brick; an odd implicative assortment of vehicles in the lot, from high end luxury SUVs to rust bucket sedans; occasional whiffs of fresh mint stabbing through a miasma of weed, piss, and compost… part of me wondered if somewhere in Chicago a more regal establishment existed, its own nefarious history passed on to this place like some architectural Portrait of Dorian Grey.  

 A simpler, less mystical explanation would be the Breeze Inn used to be a fine place once upon a time, but that era existed decades ago.  Before superhighways, every city owned specific streets operating as the main thoroughfares into downtown.  Other businesses gravitated to these veins, feeding off the steady flow of tourists and traveling professionals; eventually falling into the slow decay that followed the arrival of quicker, more direct routes stabbing the heart of the city.  

 Plus, gone are the days of a traveling salesperson, retiring from the road to rest in a quiet motel.  Now they arrive, and dart straight from the airport to appointments.  Whether successful or not, the modern professionals then depart – here and gone the same day – red eye on to the next opportunity. There’s no need to slip back to ersatz comforts, raiding the mini-bar on the company dime, celebrating victory, or taking the edge off failure, either way numbing to the fact they’re miles from home.  Cloisters of lonely itinerant professionals – maybe such places were always meant to die. However, it’s a slow death that the manager seemed eager to pay someone to witness.  So I settled in for the moribund days of the Breeze Inn.  

 #

 I helped Butterscotch shovel ice from the bin into a large trash bag.  She held the bag open, while I scooped in bucket loads.  

 “I tell you man, I tell you I hate this fucking guy, but he pays good,” Butterscotch said.

 Making small talk, “I wouldn’t be too comfortable with him either.”

 “I mean like it’s easy and all.  Alls I gotta do is fill the bathtub with ice, soak there a few, and lie on the bed. Don’t gotta move, or do nothing, while he does his thing.  It’s easy.”

 “And it pays good,” I said.

 “Yes, it does.” A look flashed across her eyes like a deer missing its chance to escape headlights.  Butterscotch shrugged, “Beats what I used to do.”

 “What was that?” Seeing the bag mostly full I closed the ice bin.

 “Hotel clerk,” she laughed, “I’m just playin’.”

 Chuckling too, “I know.  Have you a good time Butter.”

 She hoisted the bag over her shoulder, “You too Connie.”

 I’d long since stopped trying to correct the permanent residents.  About a week in, attempting to jazz up my job, I began referring to myself as the hotel concierge.  This resulted in customers referring to me as Connie.  

 Back in the front office I found a group of bleary eyed teens.  College kids on their first road trip, they stopped at the Breeze Inn because they couldn’t afford anywhere else.  

 The boy who fancied himself in charge, upon seeing me, angrily rang the desk bell.  I walked around, and removed the bell from the counter.

 Smiling, “How may I help you?”

 “Last night… we got no sleep.  Someone tried to break into our room.  I braced the door with a chair, and spent the whole night holding a Bible to bash whoever burst in.”

 Shocked that a room still possessed a whole Bible – guests tended to use the pages as rolling papers – I remarked, “Well, if they really wanted to break in they’d’ve probably smashed the window.  That’s happened before.”

 Looking confused the boy said, “What?  Seriously, dude, we want our money back.”

 “Dude, did you spend the night in the room?”

 He glared, “Yeah. So what?”

 I replied, “So read the sign.”

 I pointed. The group collectively turned to find a bare wall.  By the time they turned back, I held a bat wrapped with barbed wire, “You spent the night. You don’t get shit.”

 Slowly the pack of children receded to their car.  On the way out a young lady dressed like a burnt out trucker shouted, “I’m giving this place the worst review.  Zero stars!”

 Mathematically speaking that might actually improve our standing.  However, I felt no need to tell her that.  Those kids didn’t yet understand that for the low, low price of fifty dollars they experienced a story they could tell the rest of their lives. Some pay more for less.  

 Yet, I didn’t have much time to reflect on such things.  Taking the bat in hand I hurried to room 207.  At three on the dot, every afternoon, a thin envelope peeked out from under the door.  It contained enough cash for one more night, paid daily since 1987.  The manager suspected vampires resided inside.  I saw no reason to doubt that.  All I knew, if I didn’t get to the money first some resident would snatch the cash.  Sure enough, stepping onto the landing I saw Willy the Goat idling towards 207.

 Pointing with the bat, “Get away from there Willy.”

 “Fuck you, Connie, I ain’t doin’ nothing.”  Tucking his hands into his pockets, their greasiness darkening the fabric from the inside out, Willy stomped away.

 Collecting the envelope I glanced inside, a blood stained twenty, and several crinkled, gutter plucked ones.  Slipping it in a back pocket, I decided to tour the rooms quickly.  At open doors I paused to knock politely, peer in, and inquire if anyone needed anything.  

 Room 213 needed her dick sucked.  Room 108 wanted a bowl of fingernails.  Room 201 required nothing, emphasizing the fact by pointing a gun; I backed away from the nine year old girl slowly.  For the most part guests needed fresh towels, needles, and bandages, the usual assortment of necessities at the Breeze Inn; what I could handle myself, I did, delegating other responsibilities to Isabella, the head maid.  

 Isabella maintained the Breeze Inn with a stoicism rivaled by stone.  She slips into a room, tap-tap-tapping her key softly, “Housekeeping,” upon seeing a junkie on the bed, she checks the pulse.  Finding none, she flags a few strays, runaway dusthead punk rock kids failing proudly.  For the promise of a free night’s rent they drag the body to a nearby dumpster, and pitch it – out of sight, out of mind.  Tap-tap-tapping, she finds a shit coiled like soft serve ice cream in the middle of the floor.  She cleans the mess without so much as a sigh; however, should the guest return she walks casually by.  Using a knitting needle she exacts a piquerist vengeance, stabbing deep into a butt cheek.  The other two maids, a pair of ladies I’m sure should be in high school – though the education here is better than a degree – take orders in brusque Spanish. At the end of the day I pay her cash, wondering why she always smells like coconut – obviously a cream, or perfume, but why that scent exactly – I never ask because she seems the kind of person who’ll tell you what you need to know when she feels you need the info.  Then the three maids depart together in a wood panel station wagon, leaving me alone for the evening.

 #

 Every hotel possesses at least one ghost.  And frankly, given the amount of suicides, deaths, and murders which occurred here, the Breeze Inn surprising only possessed one.  Interestingly enough, though, it’s one of the more famous Chicago specters.

 On weekends, several ghost tours rolled by the hotel.  Passengers pressed their faces to windows, ogling the location, though never daring to set foot off the bus.  Seated on a chair outside the lobby, smoking and sipping whiskey, I could hear the static cracked recitation of tour guides.  The blather all sounded the same:  “This (hiss) The Breeze Inn (crack-hiss) once a premiere Lincoln Avenue stop (hiss-hiss) ’s what you see now.  In December 1980, this is where…”

 The story is myth. For those few who don’t recall, whatever reasons why, the bare facts start in December 1980, a legendary musician stopped for the weekend.  His band used to stay at the Breeze Inn as part of superstition, having stayed there during the early days touring on pennies in a van more likely to breakdown than arrive on time.  So, whenever in Chicago, he insisted on staying there.  Coming back from a radio interview the musician saw a fan waiting by the room.  The musician reached for a pen.  The fan reached for a gun.  The musician went to sign an autograph, and the fan shot.  The musician died.  The fan claimed to be an angel sent to make the musician immortal.  Like I said the rest is myth, the “real” why debated always since the plain truth is too unpalatable – lunatics don’t need reason to do crazy shit.  

 Soon as the bus pulled away, cameras flashing, the ghost peers out of the office, “They gone?”

 “Yep,” I say, cracking two beers, “Whiskey slug?”

 (Whiskey slug: personal slang for whiskey double.)

 Taking a seat next to me he says, “No thanks Connie.  I don’t feel like getting too strange this evening.”

 #

 “Hello.”

 “How do you do ma’am?”

 “I have cancer.”

 I nodded, “Not well then.”

 She smiled like a kindergarten teacher comforting a kid with a skinned knee, “I’d like a room.”

 “Okay. Sorry to be blunt, but I find it’s easier, um; there’s a thirty dollar additional fee applied to any guest we suspect is planning to, well…”

 “Suicide?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Actually, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

 #

 Marissa Oak explained things clearly, leaving no doubt as to her state of mind, intentions, or willingness to be dissuaded.  She intended to rent a room for two months.  Her doctor prophesized she would not last longer than one, but on the off chance she lived more, and for any inconvenience, she felt obliged to pay two in advance.  During that time she planned to stay in her room, allowing anyone who wished to visit her to spend however long they wished.  

 I asked, “Is it a kind of performance art?”

 She shrugged, “In a way.  More than anything else I just want some company.”

 Filling out her forms – writing somewhat escaped her since the cancer got to her brain – I asked, “What about family and friends?”

 “They’ll be here. But I kind of want new strangers too. It’s like Wilde said, something like the beauty of new friends is they don’t know the old stories.”

 “Do you have dinner plans?”

 She patted my hand, “Don’t be a cliché.”

 “Well, on that note, do you have any drugs?”

 She looked at me sidewise, “Morphine.”

 “We got junkies here.  Be careful. They’ll steal it.” I furrowed my brow, “Shit.”

 “What?” Marissa asked.

 “If you attract a crowd that means worse than junkies, fucking tourists.”

 She chuckled. I didn’t.

 #

 I swung the barbed wire bat, “Back!  Back you savages!”  

 Everyday droves of tourists arrived.  None seemed familiar with the concept of a line.  Whenever they scattered into something nebulous, the horde pushing in to watch Marissa die, I herded them back into formation with the bat.  The manager and I worked in tandem, taking turns herding and performing typical Breeze Inn duties.  When she could, Isabella lent a hand, her glare pushing the crowd from chaos to order.  

 It took three days for things to truly get out of hand.  By then news crews began arriving, spreading the word, reports drawing more and more spectators.  Members of her family did the same, dispersing word online.  Marissa wanted the company of strangers, well, she got it.

 Folks came from as far as Orlando to sit with her.  Some chatted, conversations ranging from the mundane to grasping at the profound. Others arrived to tout holistic cures Marissa politely declined.  Some stood silently, and left as quietly.  She welcomed all with a smile.  Those who held out a hand to shake she hugged.  Some kept a respectful distance, I suspected to hide their discomfort touching a wax wrapped skeleton.  Still others came to defeat accusations of pretention by leeching off Marissa’s death to seem deeper; I remember a twig like woman lying on the bed with Marissa, cuddling while the twig’s friend recorded them.  I wanted to smash the camera, but somehow sensing the intention, Marissa suggested by a subtle expression I leave them alone.  So I did.  She didn’t see what I saw -- #Idiedwithher.  She saw something positive I can’t relate because I couldn’t perceive it well enough to describe.  

 When she slept many left.  Others set up a tent city in the parking lot.  The manager, seizing on the opportunity, charged ten bucks per tent occupant.  They paid. It felt obscene, yet I still collected the cash every evening.  Though, that said, I skimmed a few off the top to bribe the worst junkies.  

 Hand a ten, “Leave her drugs alone.”

 “Whatev’s Connie. Jeez.  Acting like I’m some fucking scumbag.  I don’t rob the dead.”

 But you would. Who wouldn’t?  It’s not like they can stop you.

 By the third week Marissa couldn’t get out of bed.  She could barely speak, often just able to force a kind of gargle-cluck.  Her eyes appeared to go in and out of focus.

 The tourists stopped flooding in.  Many who stayed aimed all manner of camera at her, streaming her decline in real time.

 “We’re with her now…”

 No, you’re not, I thought, but remembering her glances I respected what would’ve been Marissa’s wishes.  I let them be.  

 Off duty hookers brought her water.  I remember Butterscotch laying a cold cloth on Marissa’s forehead.  She said, “This is how my mama died.  She went in a better place than this shit hole.  You know what I mean, right Connie?”

 “Yeah, Butter, I hear ya.”

 Towards the end the news crews departed, though reporters called regularly to see if Marissa died.  They shot enough stock footage they just needed to know when to say the end occurred. The tourists mostly left.  Even the hashtag allstars fled as reality crept in. What few remained occupied the parking lot wondering what to do next.  

 Meanwhile, in room 105 Marissa lay dying.  Her family and friends surrounded the bed.  Her breathing came irregularly, inspiring the guilty desire she die now, for her own good as well as theirs.  I stood in the doorway watching.  

 The manager approached, “Hey, Connie, since shit’s calmed down a bit, the usual stuff needs to get done.”

 Crossing my arms, “And what?”

 “And you need to do it.”

 “You’re saying I need to do my job, not be here.”

 He nodded, “Yeah.”

 “Then I quit.”

 A few hours later Marissa breathed her last.  When I walked away I saw the hookers on the second floor holding junkie candles in a vigil. The tent town broke up quickly, washed away on a flood of tears.  I saw Marissa’s younger brother disappear into 216, a heroin black hole he’d been orbiting.    

 In the office I collected my last few day’s pay.  The phone rang.  I answered.

 “Hello?”

 “This is channel {redacted for legal reasons}.  Is she dead yet?”

 Looking out the front I saw Marissa taking a seat next to the Musician.  He handed her a beer.  She smiled at me, and waved.

 I said, “Nope. She’s gonna live forever.”

#writing #honestyisnotcontagious #fiction #.suburbansurrealism #dark humor #satire #short story #weird #whyiquit #surrealism