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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
'Actus reus' or 'the guilty act' and 'mens rea' or 'the guilty mind'—the two raw elements of crime and criminal law, Dawson had long studied and practiced these fundamentals, able to deconstruct it to a near molecular level. It was a science, his ability to dissect, decipher and manipulate both categories positioning him as one of the greatest attorneys in the country. But, perhaps most terrifying, it also made him one of the best, most elusive criminals. His belief, however, was neither of the two elements applied to his actions, for he was the judge, jury and executioner. He punished the guilty, which, in turn, rendered his 'mens rea' nonexistent. As for his 'actus reus', there was no guilty act without a guilty mind. The guilty were sat beneath his throne; those who did most of his dirty deeds until he felt it was their time for judgement. A roster of the finest criminals in America, ranging from enforcers and hitmen, to traffickers and dealers of arms or drugs, to blackmailers and thieves. Even inside men were part of his army, those working in hospitals and law enforcement, where his burgeoning political career and massive celebrity status could be leveraged if need be. He was an incredibly dangerous, Machiavellian mind, charming and cunning as a fox. And his power only seemed to grow.

Likewise, it came time for expansion of his roster, Dawson having lost some of his most faithful accomplices: Sebastian Kane, Nicholas Milano… Bobby Carter, his favorite underling and his ultimate betrayal. But as his Gucci formal footwear batters against the floor—the Olympia royal marching toward the interrogation room of the Olympia Police Department, with an officer holding position to his left—his primary objective was the recruiting of an odd fellow, who he was secretly given intel on by a member of the force. "I'd like to see Ira Brennan," Dawson commands the door guard, the fluorescent lighting strobing as it clings to its final breath. "I'm his lawyer." The pair of machismo men exchange polite nods following the falsity, before the guard steps aside to allow access.

As Dawson locks sight upon the man of the hour, his green eyes widen and bow shaped lips curl into a tiny smirk, the meaning behind it which he was careful not to decode. Ira was long and lean, with raven hair and narrow eyes, dressed in a dishevelled button up shirt and loose tie, which contrasted Dawson's strategically 'laidback' attire in lieu of his campaigning. There was no telling what this figure had been up to, but there was an undefined trait that was roping the ruler of the criminal underworld in. He turns to the reflective glass and raises an arm, signaling his dismissal of the detectives outside, then takes a seat before his newest prospect. "Hello there..." he purrs, one of his two thick eyebrows lifting slightly whilst he stared inquisitively through his brow bone.
MONTY
@Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

It had really only been a matter of time, Ira supposed. He'd been in this position more times than he'd like to admit. Men like him didn't have "get out of jail free" cards. Didn't have more than just their wit and their luck in most cases. And his luck had about run its course. That just left wit— and he wasn't feeling particularly witty.

The police had dragged him in on some trumped up charges. Possession of a firearm. Criminal Mischief. Anything they could think to slap at him to get him booked.

He'd probably pissed somebody off, come to think of it. Well, good for him. If a nobody like him had caused enough mischief to land him in an interrogation room then he must be doing something right. After all, he was careful. He didn't dabble in drugs. Hated alcohol. Only gambled in favors and morals. Any debts he had were the kind that would land him in a ditch, not a jail cell.

No, it seemed that his little hobbies had finally caught up to him. And he hadn't been able to stop smiling once he realized they were the only likely culprit for his current predicament.

He'd been all cheers when the cruiser came around one of his usual corners. Laughed even when they slammed his fragile ass into the pavement as they cuffed him. Joked with the detectives who came to interview him, no matter what they tried to say. It was funny, really. All his hard work and effort to make a splash and he'd gotten his wish. Just not in the way he'd hoped.

He was leaning up on the back legs on his chair when the suit had walked in— legs crossed under the table with his arms propped lazily behind his head. It didn't matter what the cops decided to hassle him about, after all. He was a poor, uneducated immigrant— too low on the totem pole to fight anything. So he just relaxed and waited for the book to be thrown at him.

He didn't expect the book to wind up being Dawson-Fucking-Clarke, however.

He looked the man up and down as he entered, crooked smile forming. He snapped his chair's two front legs back to the ground and tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. A chuckle in both disbelief and amusement escaped him as Dawson found his seat.

"An' to jus what do I owe this pleasure, then?" He asked, words licked by his slight Irish brogue.

He continued his lazy lounging, propping his head up on an elbow as he stole a look at the man. He tried to seem fairly nonplussed about the sudden arrival of one of the city's biggest players.

"If yer look'n for a clown 'fraid I don' do puppet shows anymore. Might try some of the detectives, though. They're right hilarious."

MONTY
@Mariah.
Edited by Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
At first amused and charmed by Ira's playful Irish accent, the quick-witted remark would trot along the straightening flocculent base of Dawson's forehead, as his heavy mind exercises amidst recognition of the challenge laid ahead of him. In his experience, it was he himself his workers often sought out, wanting for protection or guidance. In Dawson, they were seeking something of refuge from a life where they'd been left lost or adrift alone. In other instances, it was something they wanted access to, be it wealth or power or simply an enemy, to quell their own bloodlust for vengeance. He was a leader in a way he'd yet to achieve in a regular political sense; a leader which would make his former Vice President father proud, if not for the dastardly endeavors being done. Despite his young age, some even looked to him as a father figure. That he was, at just 33 years of age: a godfather.

"They are, aren't they," a snickering Dawson agrees with Ira, his glacial, intimidating gaze growing in intensity and curiosity. "Although I don't particularly require that kinda stage act, as I fancy myself as a masterful puppeteer already. For example," he'd whisper, his voice low in volume and scratching against his tight throat like ground glass, "one of those detectives is actually a trusted ally of mine and told me I might wanna stop by, as you could be quite valuable within my circle. Something about the ability to access confidential information? They also expressed that they'd have all your active charges dropped if you played along. Impressed? Or can you do me one better, Mr. Puppetmaster. That's what they call you, correct?"

It was a game of chess, evidently. But as Dawson's reputation surely preceded him—as did the one belonging to Ira, to a lesser extent—his current pursuit had to know that the man opposite him was the king on the board, while at the moment he only played pawn. And any refusal of the offer might result in the other pieces—rooks, knights, and bishops—raining down on him.
MONTY
@Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

"That so?" He whistled as Dawson laid everything out on the table. He let out another small laugh—not at the man himself, but rather at the situation. He lowered his head quickly, facing the table and bringing his hands up to try to quiet his giggling.

”Ye’ll have to-ahha-forgive me Sir. It’s jus—” He managed as his light laughter subsided. The echo of it still lingered about the room as he brought his hands together, folding them before him and lifting his head. He still had a crook of a smile on his face, but his personality had shifted well enough. The mirth and laziness thinned away just enough to allow a peek at the man behind the veil.

That man didn’t seem to be smiling at all.

But the man before Dawson was smiling. And he did seem eager, if a bit incredulous. Which could be expected, in his situation. He was a near nobody, and Dawson was well, practically the most well known name in the city, if not the country.

Ira hadn’t expected this of all scenarios when he’d been booked. And despite his cheerful demeanor, he was ill at ease over the unexpected turn. Things had been laying in his court before the door had opened. He knew where he was and what the stakes had been. Could have twisted it either way.

But now? Now he was just another pawn. And it made his skin itch.

”—jus that, well, I'm not used to being the one on the string end of things. It's a bit funny, really.” He smirked.

Ira knew he had no power here. Felt that toying with the man would be useless. No, Dawson was big game. Too big for him. So, he played it straight and laid everything back out for the man in return.

”I’m in no position to refuse ya. An’ in fact, I’ll even level with ya here. I’m not much far as totem poles go. You say ya wan’ me? Yer Dawnson-bloody-Clarke, shore thing.” He said somewhat sarcastically.

He leaned in from across the table, sliding his hands forwards until they just about touched Dawson’s. A smile was still thinly layered onto his face as he bore his eyes into him—as though probing for something just beyond the surface. A pause lingered between them until he leaned back, seemingly satisfied with something.

”Yeah, you've got me, so here it is—I deal in information, Counselor Clarke. Or do ye prefer Mister?” He thought to ask. He was an uneducated man, but he wasn't without some politeness.

”Either way, ye want something found out, ye send me. You wan something snuffed out? Ye pay me.” He stopped once more, smirk growing a bit as a chuckle escaped him.

”An, you wan’ something a bit more…..creative done with some information, well…” He leaned back into his chair once more, folding his hands over his chest as he got back to lounging. He was usually more theatrical in his presentations, but an interrogation room with the former Vice-President’s son didn’t seem to be the place for it.

”....you could call me almost a social engineer. Bit like rumors, but with more pizzazz.” He smiled lazily with a bit of a wink.

MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
"Well isn't that just adorable," Dawson condescendingly mocks his subordinate, seasoning it with a chuckle, though his eyes remain frigid and vehement. He leans forward, placing his forearms on the ice cold table, and softens his voice into an unsettling purr, as the air vents rattle and the lights above hiss. "You see, my friend, it's a little more complex than me just wanting you. Of course I'd want you, what with all that I've heard you're entirely capable of. My conflict, however, is whether or not I can trust you." The tension was tangible, forming a sinister third body in the room. As was being implied to his potential ally, Dawson had been scorned before—one time too many—and still had nothing yet to show for it. It was uncharacteristic of him to just allow for treachery and treason within his kingdom, with no beheadings. But his conflict within himself was caused by certain deeper attachments. Most of his cohorts weren't just his knights and servants; often, with time, they became his family. A family he could rely on to carry him on their shoulders. A family who could rely on him to do the same. A family he could control. The Olympia underworld, which he built in its current iteration, was in part created to give Dawson what he felt he was missing: the family he truly wished he was born into. All this to say, however, that Ira was not family just yet. Not nearly

"You see, I don't do one offs or freelancers. And I certainly don't do turncoats or backstabbers. Once you're in, you're in, and you're not permitted to leave until I say you can. Anyone who refuses to oblige by this quite simply won't make it to see another day. And if I can't find you, I'll find your family, your friends, anyone you care about. No sin goes unpunished And those who remain faithful, reap the rewards." His lips span wide, his pearlescent white teeth projecting his enthralling, bewitching, wicked grin as his demeanor chillingly changes to one more playful. "That's an Irish accent, by the way, right? I have an Irish background, as well. Lots of family in Ireland. Friends too, more so than enemies. The Clarke bloodline extends throughout everywhere." A Dawson Clarke patent: a violent, terrifying threat, laced with his delectable charm and charisma.
MONTY
@Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

Ira raised an eyebrow at the princeling waving cool threats before him, as though they were merely extending pleasantries. He had to give the man credit, at least. It was certainly something he rather enjoyed doing himself—though never much with the implied violence and viciousness that Dawson so elegantly put forwards.

No, Ira didn’t care to let any power he had be felt. He was subtle in that way. Subtle, and uneager to make himself seem like any sort or threat or target. He wasn’t physically strong. Tall, perhaps, but stretched to the sky like some kind of thin, sickly tree starving for light. Or perhaps he was more like a vine—crawling up gently like an old friend, until the embrace left one suffocated and trapped.

Either way, powerful was not something that came to mind when looking at the shabby Irishman. His descriptors lay where much of his life, his family, and his personal connections did—down in the gutters. Somewhere festering and dark where rats like them fought for scraps in the filth and spiders like him watched in their damp corners—trying to remain unseen lest they be dragged in and devoured in the fever of it all.

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, but he kept a neutral expression as the threats hit his ears. He didn’t want to seem amused, or worse yet—as though he didn’t take the man seriously. This was, after all, Dawson-bleeding-Clarke and he was…

...well, and he wasn’t. Not by a longshot.

”Aye, Cill Maodhóg. Small village in Kildare ta save you the time, though I’m ‘fraid I don’ have much in the way you could hurt that could cause m—” He began, but stopped quickly once he realized the lie slipping from his mouth.

He did have someone.

Someone he would do most anything for, without even asking for one of his "favors" in return. He couldn’t stop himself from pausing and scowling at the realization of it.

She would always be his soft spot, and he almost wanted to hate her for it.

Almost.

”—point taken.” He finally said, smile all but gone from his face. He had hunched his shoulders forwards by now, leaning over his collected hands and looking at Dawson with a quietly smoldering anger. His previous humors had all but faded, leaving only now what seemed to be a flickering hatefulness.

The hate that radiated from him was not directed at Dawson. It grew from deep within him...

...from his love for Elizabeth. From knowing their likely fate. From being reminded of his place and powerlessness. From just existing in the world in many respects.

It was that old festering kind of hate born from betrayal and loss of innocence—a hate Dawson would likely know and recognize in himself.

”I hate my family. You could fook me mum and I’d still come ‘round to do yer bidding.” He said  once he found his words again.

He let out a low chuckle, picking himself up more in his chair to look at Dawson again. He titled his head ever so slightly to the side—his usual amusement returning to mix with the darkness that hung about him.

That smoldering hate again. That unsmiling man beneath the jester’s veil.

”I heard she’s a real good lay. Cheapest arse this side’a Olympia.” He said, smirking furiously from beneath his emotional swirling cloud of black.

”I have no pride.” He says finally, leaning forwards and holding up two fingers from across the table.

”I had two joys in this world, an’ they were taken from me. Taken by things I took fer granted. By things I trusted.” He said, putting particular emphasis on the last word as he spat it out. He laughed miserably, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair.

Trust. Truth. Fickle things, they be." He said musingly, shaking his head a bit with a shrug.

"Them are things ye can’ buy. Can’ threaten me for. Nah, rather, I see we may learn to speak each other’s language jus ‘cos we have a bit more in common than we may realize. Til then, I got no reason to give you reason to be unreasonable."

Ira smiled a bit as he leaned back over the table, bringing his reddish-brown eyes to meet Dawson's own blue. "We all been burned before ay? Why not save ourselves all some grief an jus try to cooperate on the merits that ye got me out of this mess.” He offered.

"Least I could do to pay back the favor, ay?" He added, leaning back with his hands folded behind his head. The time for being serious had come and past, and Ira preferred to keep to his more lighthearted antics. It helped to keep people seeing him for the harmless, weak, uneducated clown he so liked to be perceived as.

Nobody ever suspects the Fool, after all.

MONTY
@Mariah.
Edited by Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
"Her name is or was Elizabeth, am I correct?" Dawson probes with his alarming amount of knowledge regarding Ira's personal life, unwavering in his intense conviction and his intent to gain trust by way of fear. Ira, it seemed, would project the look of many faces who the eldest Clarked had daunted. He may have heard of Dawson Clarke before, but it was obvious now that he had no clue who he was actually dealing with. The devil in disguise, perhaps? Cutting the silence with his machete sharp tongue, the prince continues. "As in the woman you've implied had burned you in the past, or something to that effect. Tell me all about her. Or actually, first, I'll tell you all about me since I think you're right: we may be a lot alike." Dawson reclines slightly in his chair for comfort, then runs his clean, manicured fingernails through his luxurious mane to comb it back. He next leans back forward to maintain dominance over his opposite, resting his forearms on his thighs while melding his green eyes to the dark hue of Ira's irises across the table. "To give you a bit of a summary, I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth and easy access to all the riches this world has to offer. I'd rarely admit it, though, as I hate to give the opportunity for people to cast judgement upon me. But I'm sure lots of people thought it, even though no one had the guts to say it to my face, for fear of my wrath. Instead, they'd rather selfishly use me for their own personal gain, knowing that despite my seemingly cold exterior, I'm not at all apathetic, unless the person is deserving. I'm quite empathetic, actually. And when I care about someone or empathize with their story, I offer them the fucking world. But still yet, I'm betrayed time and time again, and left all alone, with very little trust. I don't wanna be this way; all them out there, from the media to my own flesh and blood, made me this way. You understand what I'm trying to say? They took advantage of me; preyed on my weakness."

"And, naturally, it hurts even more when it happens to be someone you're in love with." Dawson releases his heavy breath into the somber air, pausing briefly as he could nearly see it fall to the floor like the weight of an anvil. He was thinking specifically of the once love of his life, Nathaniel Devereaux, who'd fallen in love with someone else. "When you would do anything for them; when you have done fucking everything for them. I saved his reputation, his career, his passion, his fucking life, only to be turned on once again, the moment there was nothing left to gain from me. Now, I'm left all alone. No immediately family, no significant other, hardly any real friends. And, to be honest with you... I'm starting to feel a bit bitter and jaded. But it's fine. Nathaniel, Bobby, my brother Ethan—every last one of them will pay the price owed to me for my service to them. Everything I gave them—all the life I gave them—I will be taking back. With force and not a single, solitary regret."

While it felt relieving to express that side to himself, it was not Dawson's intention and he wondered if he made himself vulnerable far too soon. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only, but it would seem his goal had shifted from simply requiring a new, trusted ally, more toward the desire for a family member. Where moments ago, he wasn't near ready to consider Ira a member of his family yet, he already felt to naturally identify with the odd younger man in a way he didn't anticipate. "You're absolutely correct, however, when you said trust and truth are fickle things. Who would have even thought I'd be confiding in someone I just met, even after expressing my precariousness in regards to trusting you. But, yes. It's business we're here for. I'd like to cycle back to you and how you been scorned, how you reacted afterward... was it Elizabeth, specifically? Or do you still hold her high."
MONTY
@Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

He'd been sitting patiently, listening to the man speak for some time now. He couldn't help but blink back in surprise at first when he was addressed—brow wrinkling curiously as though he wasn't sure what to say. His mouth nearly opened once or twice, but nothing came out.

For once, Ira was caught speechless.

He hadn't been anticipating a confession from Dawson. Then again, he hadn't been expecting this conversation at all. His perplexion gave way to a small smirk as he shook his head.

"I don' know why I'm even shocked, really." He said, plopping an elbow down onto the table and leaning his head into his palm. His cheek bunched up slightly, causing the small spots of stained blood by his nose to crinkle and fall away.

The guards hadn't even been rough with him, but they'd surely at least broken his nose and granted the frail man a fat lip. It was almost funny, in a way, how utterly contrasted the two were. Ira, the grubby welfare case to Dawson's impecable wealth and privilage.

"You shore are somethin' else. Hardly expected a show, but 'ere we are. Honored, really." He said, still peering over at him bemusedly.

"Welp, I'll tell ya. Didn' expect this price, but I'll pay yer toll." He nodded, sitting upright just enough so he could lean both elbows up and fold his hands before his mouth. He peered at Dawson curiously—studying his audience before he began.

"Mum didn' take to the city." He began dryly.

"I couldn' say what it were. Things turned up when she found Rory, my stepdad. Then they went back down when he went off to prison. Whored 'erself out a bit to get by. Dumb kid that I were, I wen' look'n fer her time ta time. Wound up snatched by cops usually. Off'n ta foster care after a brief 'night mum with her in the drunker." He chuckled, shaking his head.

"Ahhh, can' be mad though. 'Cos that's how I met me Lizzie." At the name he let out a low sigh, features softening slightly as the memory carried him.

"You can tell tha face of a man in love, Clarke. No use lying to you about how I feel, so yeah, I do hold 'er up if that's what you mean." He snapped quickly before the daydream-like aura returned.

"Her dah was some cop that busted me mum and found me as well. Gave me a bit of time with 'er while he went to calling social services. Usual routine of course. But, then he changed his mind. It was near Christmas, and I guess he took pity on me. Either way, he brought me back fer a sleep in'a bed and some supper. Breakfast as well. His wife were right pissed, thought I was a burglar. But his daughter was close to my age." He laughed again, pausing to grip the side of the table in a building rage.

"You can guess what happened. We became friends." He spat. "Grew up together, ay? Even helped me with a few acts right as I started getting into ventriloquism. Shame, really." He sighed.

"Shame, 'cos 'ere mum always hated me. I was never good enough. Caused me loads of problems when I was try'n to play things straight, work out performing a bit. Got me blacklisted, tha fook'n cunt." He scowls.

"So, I goes to have a word with 'ere, yeah? Things got a bit....well, she got hurt. I didn' hurt 'er. But she damn well made shore everyone thought I fook'n did." He grumbled, knuckles near white as he continued to grip the side of the table.

"Been near six years. Lizzie won' talk to me. Won' even look at me. Wants me dead, really. She could be so....fook'n gullible." He sighed, releasing his hands and hanging his head towards the floor.

"Yet, 'ere I am, loving her still. I was gonna marry that fook'n girl, cops daughter an' all." He laughs bitterly. "Imagine that, ay? Me, an honest man." His laughter turned hollow until it all but disappeared.

"I don' know what happened to you. But I've been kicked around me whole fook'n life jus for being born. Whatever ye heard about me is jus my way of kicking back." He said as he lifted his head, that same fury and hate from before spreading like an infection.

"But anyway, back to business. Ira said as he bore into him from across the table. I think we could do a bit of damage together, you and I. I like yer....enthusiasm for life." He smirked viciously.

MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
Ira's statement appeared ironic to Dawson, given how his connection to life—and what was thought to give life meaning—slipped from his frozen fingertips with each single day gone by. But his existential crisis was buried toward the back for the time being, as it was time to get down to business. "What about death?" he bluntly queries with his suppressed growl fighting it's way out his gullet, each syllable drawn out as the pitch of his voice falls deeper. He takes out his index finger and runs it against the table top, almost to sketch his prospective cohort a visual aide to the word which meant 'loss of life'. Focused on the direction of his finger, his prominent, protruding brow bones cast a shadow over his eyes and his angular jaw clenches. "Have you ever experienced death, first hand?" he continues to press, disregarding the discomfort an even more personal question such as this would cause. "Watched someone die? Watched them bleed out until their heart stops beating? Struggle for the last sip of fresh oxygen? Cry out in pain as their body goes numb, just slow enough so each one of their nerves feels the unparalleled burning sensation of their flesh and skin tearing apart from itself? I apologize if that sounds morbid or if I sound like a sociopath. It's just that besides your apparent skillset, I do still require a certain familiarity with death and the ability to control it. As often times, you'll be taking the life and death of others into your own hands, whether you'd like to or not." In a rapid storm, lightning strikes of memories run across the scape of Dawson's mind, regarding all the lives he'd taken in secret...

All the times he locked sight with his victim and could almost see their spirit separate from their bodies, the moments it took to do so feeling as though it stretched over years... decades...

"I mean, speaking personally here, since we seem to have established that kinda rapport already. That's the most emotionally affecting part of my job. Contrary to what you might have heard about me, I do have a conscience. And on occasion, i feel pity toward those I have to kill or have had killed. But the reality, I've learned, is that some people absolutely deserve death as a punishment; quite simply, some people just deserve to die. Does that alarm you in any way?" Dawson looks back into the depth of Ira's eyes, trying to navigate through their shadows without light, searching for a reading of the thoughts he was having following this next, exigent stage of his interrogation.
MONTY
@Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

Ira leaned back in his chair, listening to Dawson as he dove headfirst into the depths of his personal tragedies. He had nearly suffered death a few times in his life. Had almost drowned as a child, in fact. The event had...changed him in a way. Made him colder. More distant from the world and the people in it.

He often wondered if he hadn't survived the event only be reborn as something else. Something that lacked the compassion and empathy so many of his peers seemed to possess.

At least he was good at faking it.

"You want me to kill, is it?" He finally said once Dawson had finished, snapping his body up to sit rigid and give the man his full attention.

He could feel a chill creep over him at the expression Dawson wore as he looked him over. The man was a killer, that much was true. Ira always had played with his prey, then let it back loose with a few extra wounds and debts. But murder? He hadn't considered it. Wasn't the type to get his hands dirty with violence of the physical kind.

Still, he was in this deep already. He couldn't well tell the man he was scared of getting a bit of blood on his hands. They were filthy enough. What was a bit more?

Yes, he supposed. Maybe he should take that turn after all. Should the need arise.

"Ye see, I was always one to think people got their uses." He started. "However, sometimes their use jus be dying at the right time."

He found a smirk to match the icy look of Dawson's, meeting his eyes to his so they knew they were being level with one another. The twisting shadows of the puppetmaster faded away to reveal his raw fury. The unending hate that burned inside him and kept him going.

How he hated all the puppets of the world. And how he so wanted to toy with them until they broke.

"No, it don' surprise me. You're a powerful man, aye? I'm shore some people jus gotta up an' disappear sometimes." He shrugged. "You tell me what you need done. An' I'll see what can be done."

MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
A cheshire grin carves its way into Dawson's stone solid face, in response to Ira's own chilling smile and his verbal agreement. He was steeped by a slight sense of unease behind his mask, however, aware that his opposite might prove more disturbing than he anticipated; that something far more sinister was fighting to lacerate through his skin, and reveal itself as an uncontrollable monster. And it seems that the royal may be the one to awaken it...

But Dawson wasn't at all afraid. If nothing else, the creeping feeling of dread served to excite him—the fact he'd be in control of a bomb nearing the end of its fuse. And oddly enough, he felt the two had much in common; a pair of kindred spirits, trying to take the reins of a world they've lost faith in and have grown to detest. "You're truly a beautiful man," he compliments, soft and smooth in his tone, while his eyelids sank until they were narrow, in an attempt to carefully read between the lines. He genuinely meant his compliment, too. There was an alluring, ethereal beauty in the darkness confined within Ira's attractive exterior. It was intriguing, beyond any measure he'd come by. That's how he chose his family, his closest allies being those who'd been so broken down by life, that the pitch blackness is where they'd find their light; their sins is where they'd find sanctuary. 

"Follow me," Dawson promptly commands, then rises from his seat and smooths out the luxury fabric of his attire, before leading the way out the interrogation room. He acknowledges the guards standing by the doorway, in way of his path, with a pat on the shoulder, then pulls Ira close to him as though the two have been closely acquainted for ages. Daunted by Dawson and his apparent apprentice, the eyes throughout the police station would nearly be heard shifting away, once their line of sight was obstructed by the two men. Suspicious of the proceedings or not, it brought fear to even fathom the dubious nature, for they were powerless to a dangerously flawed and corrupt justice system. And their inevitable loss would yield more than just casual unrest. 

As the chilly air of the February early morning meets the pair of men upon exiting the police station doors, Dawson turns to Ira with his silver McLaren F1 only feet away, the wind tousling his coiffed mane out of place. "Just taking a shot in the dark here, but I'm gonna guess you've never ridden in one of these before? Because not many have. Got my hands on this puppy thanks to a close friend of mine, when only about a hundred other people had access. Worth around a million bucks. Her and my little Lamborghini are my favorite pets; they brighten even my darkest days." It'd been proven that beyond wielding control over life and death with his own two hands, joy for Dawson was found in the most lavish, luxurious things, for which he could only access through his crime and corruption. Perhaps, then, the temptation of material possessions might further secure Ira as part of his army.
MONTY
@Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

Beautiful. He'd never gotten that before. Bastard. Fuckwad. Asshole. Those were more familiar than beautiful. He'd only ever had one beautiful thing in his life, and she wouldn't speak to him. To be called that now genuinely surprised him.

He was always told he was too mean growing up. He'd had a glare to him as a child—back when he hadn't quite mastered wearing his faces. Even as a child he'd been spared the word cute. It had never quite suited him, delicate as his features may have been. Delicate as he may have been, or rather even still was.

He was still in the midst of these thoughts when Dawson beckoned him from the table. He found himself rising to his feet despite himself. Dawson's cool gaze casting the sort of spell he was used to casting himself. He couldn't help but follow the man. Felt compelled to on some primal level. Two kindred spirits being pulled together—yin and yang. They complimented each other, whether he cared to admit it or not.

And so follow he did. Leaned in when the pat crossed his shoulder, drawing him back to some level of consciousness. Not that he'd been passing out, but rather he found his mind drifting, as it was prone to do. He had what felt like a hundred voices in his head, screaming out chess moves with each turn he made.

He hardly noticed when they'd landed outside. The cool air caught him by surprise. He hadn't expected to be feeling it against his skin so soon. It reminded him of the river, from when he was a child. Of his mortality, in a way.

"What do you think?" He asked as they approached the car, finally finding his voice again as the disassociation gave way. He didn't much care for cars. Found them useful only for getting from A to B. Beyond that, speed was only important if you were running from something.

And Ira preferred to chase.

"Go on then." He chuckled, waiting for him to unlock the car so he could hop in the passenger.

He admired that Dawson had his toys, however cliche as they may be. He himself preferred living people—eager to find ways to poke and prod them until eventually they bent to his whims.

It was a hobby.

"A million, really?" He asked, feigning some interest. He was at least impressed by the price. Though he knew fuck all about cars. Or being rich, for that matter.

MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
"Ah yes," Dawson confirms as he pops opens the passenger seat butterfly door to his McLaren F1 and watches a bewildered Ira seat himself among the three seat vehicle. "But that's nothing compared to how much you're looking to make, yourself." He'd shut the door for his new ally, then strut around to the opposing side, before entering and sliding to the middle, where the driver's seat was specially designed to be placed—a rarity, as Dawson egotistically considered himself to be. The beige leather seats still carried their old, fresh scent, just as he liked. But slightly overpowering the aroma were the notes of Ira's own natural smell; a damp, moldy odor, likely brought on by whatever the capricious gentleman had gotten up to prior to his capture. "Please allow me to take you to get cleaned up," he comments with a snigger, while he ignites the engine with his key and speeds off. He didn't care for a response or resistance.

As his focus on his driving strengthens with the velocity of the sports car, Dawson's eyes narrow and his steely, square cut jawline contracts, as it typically did with his solemnity. His statement to follow held strong meaning, as did his delivery over the song that began to explode through his radio and suffuse the confined space. "Like I said not too long ago, I take amazing care of all my friends. They'd all be fucking lost without me, to say the absolutely least. I help who I consider to be lost souls find their way, so to speak. Make sure they get to where they should be. I want to make sure you're where you should be, as long as you stick by me. Anything you need, I got you: clothes, shoes, accessories, cars, weapons... matter of fact, take a look in the compartment underneath your seat. There's a Buck 120 knife there, a couple of other hand crafted knives and two handguns: a Beretta 92FS and a Glock 17."

The street and traffic lights before them pass through the window, and burn over the pair's skin, making Dawson's sculpturesque form appear as a modern art installation, in all his delicately crafted, well-maintained beauty. He's completely still, with his hand wrapped comfortably around the leather steering wheel, and his line of vision refusing to leave from the road before him, despite his engagement with the conversation being had. He was intense; filled with tenacity. "We'll get you a haircut, a shower, a good shave, some clean threads... sorry to interrupt my train of thought, but this is a brilliant song, by the way; Karma Police. You like Radiohead?"
MONTY
@Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

In his life, Ira had seen quite a few things. Bodies. Poverty. Prostitution. Racism. What he had had not seen, however, was a car anything close to Dawson's. He'd almost be impressed if he gave a fuck about flashy shows of money. 

As much as Ira and Dawson were similar in their hate, they were near polar opposites in every other respect. Poor. Rich. Built. Thin. White. Asian. The list was nearly endless. But perhaps the greatest difference between them was their opinion on wealth, and the show of. 

Having none largely meant he'd never had a chance to be showy with anything other than his personality. It grew a bitter distaste in him for those who could throw cash around for recognition. He knew it was a principle of life, but he couldn't help to find it a terribly shallow and boring one. 

"Aw, do I smell that bad?" Ira chuckled as they rolled off. Internally he figured the man didn't want to be seen with a street rat like himself. Sure, he was bloody, sweaty, and all around a mess, but he was like that usually. He didn't have the best luck when it came to altercations. 

His attention drifted as the model of a man continued on about supporting his friends and how Ira'd never want for anything now that they were in agreement. Ira didn't care much until he'd gotten to the weapons side of things. A dark, crooked smile came to his face as he indicated for the dashboard. 

Maybe the shallow brat wasn't so bad after all. 

He opened them quickly, checking the piece with middling interest. His true prize were the knives. His eyes glowed as he inspected each one, tossing it back and forth in his hands to get used to the weight.

He'd always preferred knives. Guns, well, too much could go wrong. Knives? You could only blame yourself for failure.

"Yeh, I think I'll be taking these." He smirked viciously, choosing one of the smaller handguns, but taking all three of the knives. He had a habit of throwing them when he was under pressure. 

He turned his attention to the radio next, raising an eyebrow curiously. He chuckled. "I like most music. Opera. Rock. Classics. Hip-Hop. Ev'n this has a charm." He said wistfully, thinking back to his performance days. 

"Some more than others. Jus like ev'ery person has a use, aye?" He turned to look out the window, smile dropping as the cruised past pedestrians. His eyes narrowed in flickering hatred as he watched them. 

"Some more than others." He added with a sinister undertone, humors all but dropping from his voice.

MONTY
@Mariah.
Edited by Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
Ira was right that not every individual served a use—Dawson would ponder to himself—his agreement punctuated by a scornful titter in mild amusement, while the stylish sports car they were riding in continues to scorch across the pavement to their destination. His new recruit was already proving more useful, in terms of valuable insight, than most other cohorts had been thus far. Ira was definitely off-kilter, however the man seemed weathered and worn, having braved many disasters, physically, mentally and emotionally; far more than the royal, eldest Clarke was made aware of by his kingsmen. This, perhaps, made the native Irishman quite wise and less mentally frenzied than he led on. That was the educated guess, anyway. Was there indeed wisdom buried beyond the terrain colored eyes and dishevelled raven hair? If true, Dawson mused that maybe the Ira in the way he presented himself was all part of his act as the self-proclaimed “puppeteer”, thus making him a threat. But while Dawson was exceedingly cautious and guarded as an individual, he was ultimately fearless. Nothing could shake him from his throne or threaten his space, least of all not this rundown nobody from overseas.

His mind ventures back to Ira’s rugged exterior, the moment the pair arrive at the location of Dawson’s private penthouse, resting atop the city’s most lavish hotel. Not quite the tallest building, the tower extended high enough to escape the murky, treacherous waters laid across the expanse of the Olympia underworld, and was the perfect location to get his company better acclimated, as he’d yet to trust the pauper enough to allow him into his glass castle in Ida Hills. They’d exit the vehicle and Dawson flashes an aloof grin to both Ira and the stationed valet, before he tosses over the keys to the hospitable employee and gives Ira a pat on his back to direct the way indoors. As the two men swagger through the revolving glass doors and toward the savvy concierge, they then are led on path of the exclusive elevator in silence. The small, confined space is caught by a very bitter, boreal draft, as nothing else but silence fills the air. Dawson glances over and folds another smirk into his lips while the elevator continues to travel up, then finally they arrive, the reflective elevator door opening to the lavish suite. The entire room is based with ebony wood and black marble, with the furniture various shades of black, whites and grays to match. Slowly, Dawson guides Ira in, meanwhile Dawson’s personal barber waits at the suite’s center with a chair and his tools configured immaculately. “There’s a black cashmere robe as you enter the bathroom parlor just down that hall over there, in addition to some black towels. Pardon my brashness, but please go take a fucking shower, put on the robe, and come back here,” the sovereign demands, his entire attention having instantly diverted to pouring himself a short, cold glass of his exorbitant Louis XIII cognac.
MONTY
@Palpatine

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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

Ira could feel Dawson's eyes flicking over to him every so often, even as he continued to keep his own gaze locked to the window of the car. It was an odd sensation, breezing through the streets of the city from the lap of luxury. The differences between the fine upholstery and the ruined, stained pavement outside were stark. He half wondered if Dawson didn't steal those glances much in the way he stole glances at the pedestrians. Both peering over their little toys

He figured the man was likely sizing him up, or trying to get a better read on him. He'd shown him quite a few masks, in their short time together. It could be dizzying for those who knew he even had a temper underneath his flippancy. He liked to keep the mask of the jester screwed most tightly. Preferred to be the clown. The hapless buffoon. The chuckling fool. 

Ira continued to keep his head turned to the window, only bothering to move once they'd arrived. The usual smirk found way to his face by the time they passed the valet and entered the hall. Dawson clapping him on the back all but sealed the illusion of friendship and mirth, and he returned the gesture with a small nod and a smile.

He got more of those equally fascinated and disgusted glances as they lingered, however briefly, in the lobby. Continued his usual cheers with his hands slipped into his pockets and a small, innocent rock to his feet as he waited behind Dawson. Even let out a low whistle as they made their way down the hall to the private elevator. He was playing the role of amused, amazed, grateful scamp well. 

He hadn't expected so much black in the man's apartment. His reflection in the marble, sauntering behind Dawson as though he belonged, revealed the truth of the matter. The man wasn't wrong, though he wondered if a shower would be enough to wash the streets from him. 

"Alright, alright. I'm mov'n yer Highness." He said, small mocking bow and all. He wasn't fond of being bossed around, but a lifetime of being pushed into positions of servitude had let him learn how to tolerate it. The man didn't even catch it though—already moving onto the next thing that piqued his interest. Ira all but dropped the smile once he'd turned away.

He didn't care for vices that stripped away will. Sank mind. Became no more than a crutch that left you babbling for more. He'd drink if the man forced him to. Slowly, or spit it out somehow. The very smell of it made his blood boil. But there were masks for that. 

The bathroom was about as elegant as he imagined. He undressed before the full length mirror, reaching a hand out to nearly smudge the glass as he admired the bruises, cuts, and scars that layered his thin and sunken chest. 

He was miserably underweight and lacking hardly any muscle. A lifetime of pissing people off had been beaten into him, telling a small story with each imperfection and scar. Ira couldn't help but wonder if this was what death looked like, as he bore furious eyes into his own. He didn't care to be beautiful, or attractive even. He certainly wasn't ugly, though he always seemed to have that air of wrongness to him. It made him come across as off-putting. In-genuine. Flippant. Incapable of being serious, but somehow seriously unsettling.

He spent nearly twenty minutes washing the filth of his status off. He pulled on the robe quickly, noting that even with its fineness, he looked no better than a finely dressed spider. A rat in a mink coat was still a rat, he reminded himself bitterly as he made for the next trial of his patience—the barber.

"Alright, yer pet project is ready fer phase two. Color me intrigued ta see how ye manage to clean up this mug." He chuckled, putting the airs on again as he made for the chair, crashing into it and causing it to spin slightly on its hinges. 

"I'm fix'n fer a bob, what'cha say?" He smirked to the barber, hair still wet and slicked back, away from his forehead.

MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
The now familiar cold, callous smile appears and vanishes—outpacing the blink of his green eyes—before Dawson pulls down another leaden swallow of his strong alcohol. He clears his throat, then begins to strut toward Ira, keeping his eyes chained across the way while he removes his jacket and tie, then unbuttons the cuffs to the sleeves of his shirt to roll them up. His leather shoes patter against the flooring whilst he makes his way, steadily giving build to the pronounced tension between the two sordid men. The climax to the stage show of two puppet masters was near.

Signaling for the barber to step aside upon arrival—after the barber prepared Ira's face with a hot towel and shaving cream—Dawson glides the tips of his fingers against the shiny, silver, stainless steel of an iron sharp shavette, and wraps them around its handcrafted handle to flip it open. The metal drags against the handle as it emerges, and cuts through the air with a sharp noted swishing sound, akin to that of a screeching violin. It gleams beneath the ceiling lights, and reflects the wicked gaze Dawson refused to waive, before he'd run it against his thumb for testing. His crimson blood promptly runs down his skin, inciting another pleased expression from the royal. Then, with a seductive gaze, he'd put his thumb between his lips and suck it dry to disconcert his new cohort, the delicate sound of his saliva loud amidst the dead silence. Stroking the handle briefly, he draws it near Ira's neck—just above the apple in his throat—then presses it against Ira's skin, creating a small scratch of his own. He leans close, his heavy breath and bow lips millimeters from the Irishman's jawline, as he begins to slowly shave away the shadow of a beard. "I have a task that will require your immediate attention," he gently hisses, the shavette pushing tighter against Ira's body. "There is no room for failure, as that will warrant serious consequences. I'm trusting you. Do not make make me regret it."
MONTY
@Palpatine
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oOo5rcG.gif Henderson is waiting for the sun

"Ah." Ira said, the apple of his throat bobbing just enough to gently nick the blade Dawson was pushing into his throat. A thin stream of blood bloomed and collected at the edge of the cut, trickling down in a crooked line as it fought against shaving cream. 

He'd been wondering when the amusement would dwindle away to violence again. He hadn't expected a man like Dawson to hold his interest over a man like himself for long. Dawson like power too much, he realized. The moment Ira gave an inkling he was comfortable, the struggle would resume. 

Were this anyone else, he may have tried words. May have pointed out how killing him would be a waste after so much investment. But for Dawson he knew this was hardly even a drop in the bucket. He'd have no qualms killing Ira then and there should he do anything other than agree. 

And so agree he did. 

"Tell me what you want, and I'll see to it." He said, trying to keep a straight face as the razor bore into him. Each word made it press further into his throat, leaving the Irishman reluctant to say more than what was necessary. Eyes found Dawson's in the reflection of the mirror before them and lingered on his smile. He knew that smile well, having worn it himself. The man was enjoying  this. Of course he would be. Ira could hardly blame him, knowing how much he'd relish having their positions swapped. So he gave Dawson his purposeful mask. 

It had an emptiness to it, this mask. But it was good for expressing a neutral, level-headed sort of compliance. A face that conveyed he understood where he was in the pecking order, and that he knew Dawson would kill him. Not only here, should he refuse, but also acknowledging that he'd never see a tomorrow should he botch whatever task Dawson was testing him with. 

MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif Why don't you invite me in?
Dawson maintains the suggestively close proximity, whilst he tilted Ira's head further to give more sight to the length of his narrow, damp neck. He tows the cream across the space, revealing the snow white pigment of his subordinate's peel, then runs his finger over the bared area to pet and soothe his wild capture. Advancing farther up, he spreads open his entire hand to add more cream, but covertly studies to see if Ira's pulse was increasing. That sense of unrest—specifically in the most fearsome, unruly, intimidating of men—was utterly addictive to the royal. The dominance and power was addictive.

"Perfect," Dawson breathes, before continuing to clean off the pelt of his cohort and feeding upon the meaty tension. He begins to unravel his thoughts, revealing his given quest—the first of many. "So I've been hiding in plain sight for countless years now, but it would appear that there's a specific group of people that is surfacing, who are able to see me; at least that's the observation I've been making, with my limited resources and talents. The problem here is that, under no circumstance, is allowed to happen, especially as I embark on my political career, which requires the populations security in me." He tilts his head as he ventures to the area below Ira's parted lips, remaining tight in the space they shared, while the pattern of their breath subconsciously synchronizes. "You fancy yourself an information broker, correct? I need you to get their information, their locations, and we'll make arrangements in order to get rid of them, permanently and forcefully. And if need be, there will be blood on your hands. The catch here is they seem to all be hiding behind fucking computer screens, on that 'world wide web'. Now I'm no tech expert, but I assume you'll be able to de-mask all those trying to remain anonymous. Play their game and surf into their world, then pull them into my underworld where I will dole out the apt judgment and punishments to their empty souls."

Ira's face stripped clean, Dawson reaches for the bold peppermint scented aftershave and proceeds to massage over the Irishman with his sultry hands. "Huh... it's almost like looking in a mirror," he sarcastically remarks with a cocksure titter, sidestepping momentarily from his speech, while peering forward.
MONTY
@Palpatine

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      .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } You make me hard when I'm all soft inside On February 13th, 1967, Dawson Clarke’s green eyes—brimming with hope and joy—first absorbed the light of day. Now, 33 years later, it was the lack of light which animated his purest form of spirit; the dark of night, ornamented by moonlight, and the shadows falling from above like linen curtains, all giving second life to the Olympia prince. As he passed through adolescence and entered adulthood, the duality of his lightness and darkness became addictive, as did how they worked in harmony. It was the shadows caused by the light which helped him thrillingly hide in plain sight during the day hours, and during the night hours, the street lamps and neon signs illuminated his sharp, seductive features and gave sight to all his sinful ways. Now, on his 33rd birthday, he found himself caught in the late hours between night and day, as the indoor pool party took form just below his mansion bedroom, where he was hidden as he prepared to greet his guests. Just like his dual presence during the day and night, two celebrations were regularly held for Dawson Clarke, especially given how momentous of an occasion he and the fellow Olympians considered his anniversary. Every year, the eve of Valentine’s day, the entire city would hunger for a taste of what took place during Dawson’s massive, private parties. But for this party, only his innermost circle and those they ultimately trusted were allowed secured presence.

      Carefully admiring his own reflection to inspect the final touches being made to his grooming, Dawson’s brief recollection of his recent recurring nightmares and hallucinations, as well as his quiet mourning of his mother, is interrupted once his cell phone begins to sound. He glances across his night table to see the ID of his lover, Nathaniel, who he’d lately been ignoring, feeling newly scorned. A poisoned apple was the shade his eyes nearly redden into, as he glares at the contrasting green screen, the emotions throughout his mind warping into a dizzying tornado. He grabs hold of the device before scoffing, and forcefully throws it into his master bedroom fireplace, inciting a burst of sparks upon impact. “No,” he verbally refused. There was no way in hell Nate would become the focus of his 33rd birthday, especially not after the latest and worst form of treachery. Cracking his neck and wrapping his tight, chiseled waist with a luxurious white towel, he steps outside to meet his entourage, eager for tonight’s distraction and celebration. Slowly then, the pack make their way deep down into the sea of fellow gay men, and few women, who made up his veil—his homoerotic secret society. The crowd which regularly concealed his darkest mysteries; who allowed him to fully drown in his wild, wicked, unholy acts and tap into his most live self. They were soulless bodies, mostly, swimming around his pitch black waters like eels, having been plagued by pain so much they’d become numb. All they cared for now was the rush—the high—the underworld brought. Their souls belonged to the prince; to Dawson.

      As Dawson confidently struts through the crowd, he looks into the pool of his private, custom bath house, which nearly overflows with younger, chiseled, naked men. And posed on platforms framing the edge were hired harpists, as well go-go dancers and adult entertainers, dressed in nothing but tiny silver metallic g-string underwear, with a matching coat of silver body shimmer, setting their skin aglow. But one hypnotic dancer in particular suddenly enraptured the bachelor. He was immensely tall, his body lean and taut as could possibly be rewarded. His ass sat perfectly above his stallion legs, as his undergarments split through the middle of the mouthwatering sculpture. His jawline appeared as though it could cut through any flesh, most of which Dawson wanted to be his own…

      Reaching over for this evening’s selection of disorienting candy, the birthday boy slowly places the pill to dissolve on his tongue, whilst he continues to admire the art piece meters away, hoping the stranger would notice amidst the dreamscape. MONTY
      @parzival
    • Beautiful Stranger
      By Mariah.
      .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 10px; width: 180px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } HAVEN'T WE MET? SOME KIND OF BEAUTIFUL STRANGER The vibrant, colorful lights flash in repetition through the dark basement venue, synchronized with a heavy electronica beat, as a dizzy Dawson steps from the backdoor bottom staircase into the jungle. The scent of spilled liquor and a wide array of elixirs crawl its way into his widened nostrils, mixing with his overloaded senses. Removing his long black trench coat at check in to reveal a collared black mesh button-down clinging to his incredible, chiseled torso, and tight, black leather trousers, providing the perfect seat to his high ass, he passes through a slew of scantily clad, body glitter laden male patrons on his way to his private booth, tucked away in a back corner. While a celebrity in the waking world, in the depths Olympia's nights, he was merely a shadow—a mystery to all. And he liked it that way. His double life was one of America's best kept secrets, the bachelor exceptionally wary of who he'd allow in his inner circle, striving to maintain his newfound image of a clean cut, All-American prince and political prospect. So it was here he'd regularly creep to, where those who knew of his sins had their own skeletons to bury, while those who didn't either didn't care or wouldn't dare to.

      The taste of the pill he popped upon entry lingers on his wet tongue while its particles slowly make its way through his bloodstream, to his cavernous cerebrum. His desire to venture toward his vices for the night was the last sober thought swimming through his mind as his wild surroundings wrap around him comfortably. Dancing amidst the sea of gay men while he continues to work his way toward his section, his eye catches someone unfamiliar to him, leaned against a pillar, trying to enjoy the music and his drink. Dawson's unable to turn his diluting pupils away, charmed by the man's boyishly handsome looks, wide eyes, and tight, little body. The prodigal son just had to know him; to have him. But he wasn't one to chase, for he preferred the control to be with him—for he, himself, to dominate.

      Seating himself in his private booth, he continues to observe the stranger, steeping in his fantasies, until a moment to capture his attention arrives. "Hey," Dawson calls out as he reaches forward to strongly grab the gentleman by his arm once he passes by. "I don't think I've ever seen you around here before. May I get a name?" MONTY
      @Jake