6 posts in this topic

oOo5rcG.gif Now that the smoke's gone and the air is all clear, those who were right there got a new kind of view
A strong scent of iron permeates the desolate air as a pair of brute men drag a bleeding, gagged and restrained third through puddles of mud, caused by the torrential downpour of rain. The victim desperately writhes and struggles, attempting to set himself free for his life, but he couldn’t overpower the muscle of the enforcers. The viscosity of his blood lessens with the wash of precipitation, and thus continuously runs off his body, creating an abstract pattern over his skin. In a steady flow, the blood continues into the small volumes of water, leaving smoky streams throughout before they cloud and tint the overall opacity a strong crimson. There was no telling what would become of the worn male, but following closely behind was one Dawson Clarke, who calmly stated words of ‘reassurance’. “Calm down, buddy,” he begins, as the men all slide down the steep incline of the sloshy dirt hill, then make their way through the gated, concrete tunnel entrance to ‘Devil’s Gate dam’. “This won’t last long, I promise. Someone just has to pay for your friend’s sins. And as the judge, I’ll be making certain someone does.” A rush of water speeds down Dawson’s finely structured face after saturating his dark mane of hair, sunglasses shielding his eyes despite the sky having no pigment but a somber gray, it being the early morning hours. Perhaps the dark shades were meant to hide a pensive feeling of sadness; he didn’t exactly want to do this, but it must be done. He’d been deeply double-crossed by someone he thought to be family, and now he was left heartbroken. The loss of his mother’s life and, subsequently, his relationship with his brother only further shattered his broken heart into dust, leaving merely an empty space.

As the victim is placed to sit against the dark tunnel wall, whilst rapidly running water pulls an uncomfortable blanket over his outstretched legs, Dawson removes his glasses, crouches low and whispers into the man’s ear. “Now, I’m gonna stay right here and you’re gonna make a phone call to your friend Bobby Carter. You know… the one you’ve been playing mole for, in order to help him hide from me. Once he answers, you’re going to do specifically as I instruct, repeating what I say word for word. Do you fucking understand me?” The lack of response brings forth a titter through Dawson’s tightened pink lips. “Oh right, you’re—” he reminds himself before he removes the gag from the former associate.

“I understand. Just please, please don’t kill me, man, I’m fucking begging you. I have a fiancée now and she’s pregnant with our second kid and I just wanna be there for them, please. I promise I won’t ever snake you out like that again and I’ll do whatever you want,” pleads Dawson's treacherous hostage, the salt from his tear soaked face diluting by the other elements at play.

“I’ve already told you not to worry,” Dawson counters with a stern scowl. “I’m not going to kill you. For a crime like yours, that’s not the punishment I see fit. Besides; with your help, I’d be inclined to be more lenient. So here—tell me the number and I’m going to give the phone to you. Remember to repeat after me and do not, under any circumstance, tell Bobby this has anything remotely to do with me, nor indicate any sort of imminent danger for the both of you. Because then I will kill you.” With his two lips wired shut, Dawson flashes a quick smile, then snaps to signal for one of his enforcers to hand over the traitor’s cell phone. The beeping sound of the dialed numbers echo through the tunnel, and then Dawson slowly puts the phone to the ear of his Judas as the call rings through to a connection...
MONTY
@Maxim
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oOo5rcG.gif You'd fight and you were right, but they were just too strong. They'd stick it in your face, and let you smell what they consider wrong.
Sounds of heavy rainfall that would normally topple densely outside seem as though they’re massaging the window pane; the sonance seeming almost soothing as Bobby is stirred awake by the patter. His eyes immediately begin to adjust to the abrasive intrusion of light permeating through the deep maroon drapery, before he makes a vain attempt at shielding his eyes in his arm. He’s managed to examine enough of his surroundings to discern that he’s probably not in his own abode. The room encompassing is outfitted with lots of dark reddish and gold tones; hues of copper and mahogany that give the atmosphere an almost regal, albeit rustic, touch. The faint hint of honeysuckle and a sort of dry cinnamon at least gave Bobby an (admittedly shallow) indication that he’d woken up in a room owned by a female and that—thank heavens—he likely hadn’t done anything potentially incriminating or regrettably shameful in an either stoned or inebriated fit.

Only after finally taking heed of the soft becalmed figure beside him, did all pleasant memories of their lascivious romp flood their way back into Bobby’s consciousness. As he turns his attention back to the svelte frame of his soft lover beside him, he takes into account all of the humps and curves outlined on her body as she’s wounded tightly between the sheets. Just a glance at her soft and ample breasts poorly concealed within the hastily-restored bra had Bobby recalling the way they fit almost perfectly in his hands—as if they were hand-sculpted specifically for him. It may very well be his eyes deceiving him, but he’s pretty sure he can still see the outline on her chest from where his palms were likely situated for most of the night. The ever beautiful Emma looked utterly and thoroughly fucked out; from the smeared lipgloss running across both cheeks, devising a makeshift grin of its own, to the multitude of red prints dancing from her jaw all the way to her collarbone, giving her a considerably ‘spotted’ feline aesthetic. Maybe he’d had her ingest more than enough Zinfandel than she could probably handle, but he’s willing to bet everything he owned that it only enhanced the experience to as much of a mind-blowing level for her, as it had him—perhaps even more-so. Suffice to say, their days spent since the turning point in their relationship were bliss.

The sound of an obnoxious vibration hard against the cedar bedside dresser had instantly shaken Bobby from his abstraction. He’d considered it rude for him to allow the blare to forcibly wake Emma from her seemingly peaceful rest, at her own place of residence, so he tried to respond with haste. It was a bit puzzling to him seeing the emboldened “HUNTER” flashing across the screen of his phone. “Hunter” was a discreet watchword for a man Bobby had met while on ‘the inside’. Through all of their illicit operations, Bobby had begun something akin to appreciation for the man’s prudence and aloofness and, eventually, had developed a rapport with one he considered a credible ally and an unfailing companion. Enough so, in fact, that he’d been the one to encourage Bobby not to become too deeply wounded in the inter-webbing of organized crime, being privy to Bobby’s story and all his unbroached potential; to strike out his own path while he still had viable options. Bobby felt he had reason to be appreciative for his ubiety in his life; not only for what he’d shown Bobby before, but for the presence he's maintained afterward. Even after Bobby decided to tidy up his act a bit, he still saw it necessary enough to have eyes on the other side; rather, he needed a pair of eyes on his back making sure other eyes stay off of it. “Hunter” kept Bobby abreast of enough of the workings of the vainglorious and borderline neurotic ‘kingpins’ that monopolize the criminal underworld—namely one man, in particular. For those reasons alone, he chooses to keep his lines of communication with him shrouded in anonymity. Though, despite probably being one of the most dependable people to Bobby at this current iteration of his life, he couldn’t say that he knew too much about him, other than his actual name and the fact that he had a wife-to-be and a son, with another on the way, tucked away in the remote recesses of the city, far away from the purview of anything he does in darkness.

Yes? Bobby answers, deeming it necessary to do so detachedly, given the dubious circumstances.

“Bobby… what’s up, man?” the voice on the other end responds slightly feverishly, but making an near-valiant effort to attempt to subdue it. Bobby picked it up almost immediately and put himself on alert.

“Things are things, brother. What you need?” Bobby decided to prod. He’d picked up on a heavy sigh that was poorly concealed as an attempt at a cough almost immediately as it came.

“I… I got some good intel I need to drop in your hands…”
MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif Now that the smoke's gone and the air is all clear, those who were right there got a new kind of view
Continuing his direction, Dawson nods in approval of Hunter’s delivery of the fine script given, in order to quell the lead actor’s clear stage fright, and maintain his calmness and confidence. The royal’s intense eyes, however, read a different story, as he got up and turned to move toward his henchman with a look of vexation. Hunter’s performance wasn’t quite up to his standards, and through careful reflection, it dawned on Dawson that Bobby may be able to recognize what’s unfolding behind the curtain, which may result in him storming center stage, and taking firm grasp of both the lead role and the direction.

Luckily, Dawson was alone at the top of the food chain for good reason, one of many being his adaptability. If Hunter wasn’t able to draw information regarding Bobby’s whereabouts out of him, then perhaps they could instead lure the passionate alpha male to their wolf trap. Regardless of whether he was forced to venture into the wild alone, or not, there’s no way Bobby would pass off the opportunity to come face to face with one Dawson Clarke, for a potential final time. He knew Bobby to be overconfident and brimming with grit. And having become attune to Bobby’s other characteristics in the time they spent working together, it was the strong loyalty and solicitude belonging to the young man—specifically toward people he trusted and cared for—that was his ultimate weakness. At present, someone Bobby considered a faithful ally was in danger, and now was the time to be the hero. Unfortunately for both traitors, this Clarke production was a tragedy. And now, the plan was to exploit Bobby’s weakness, as well as his fragile mental state, to give life to the unruly monster buried within. Perhaps then Bobby would run back into the arms of Dawson for his leadership.

Dawson reaches into the pocket of his henchman’s black trench coat and retrieves a gun, then points it upward and puts weight on the trigger to shoot at the concrete of the dank, wet tunnel. The running water would then splash at his feet as he storms across the way and presses the barrel underneath Hunter’s chin. “Bobby Carter...” he moans after swiping the cell phone and placing it on speaker. “It’s Dawson, man; remember me? I’m here with your friend and just wanted to catch up with you, see how things have been going with you lately. I heard you’ve been doing pretty well, even managed to get yourself a little girlfriend over at Sirens, is that right? Saved her from that brawl and everything, like you were Superman. Wait... my apologies. It was rude of me to interject upon your conversation. Here Hunter, carry on.”

“Bobby man,” Hunter cries with a trembling voice, his face glazed with sweat, tears and mucus. “I’m so fucking sorry, man. He caught me. But please—”

“Aha, sorry to interject once again, but I believe what your friend here is trying to tell you is he desperately needs your help since I found out about what the two of you have been doing, and unless you turn yourself over to me, I’ll be forced to kill him.”
MONTY
@Maxim
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oOo5rcG.gif You'd fight and you were right, but they were just too strong. They'd stick it in your face, and let you smell what they consider wrong.
Shit! Fucking shit! Bobby had suspected his intel with “Hunter” had an expiration date on it, but he’d always figured it would be on the terms of the other man; perhaps wanting to get out of the game and move forward with his life and ambitions. He could sniff out the obvious ploy from the barbarous, cock-sucking bastard on the other end, but with another life strewn into the mix, there was no recourse. Bobby’s immediate reaction was definitely knee-jerk, arm and neck waging battle in their effort to free themselves of the hastily-thrown on tee, before he had to pump his brakes a bit, becoming aware of how raucous he’d become in his impetuosity. Having to explain his action to Emma wasn’t necessarily a tree he’d wanted to bark up right, and knowing that he’d, in a heartbeat, outright lie about it before cluing her into anything made him feel a bit uneasy. He’d do anything necessary to ensure that his worlds never converged, but those weren’t tactics he wanted to employ unless backed completely into a wall. But an attempt at discreteness, coupled with absolute acrimony and dread, was not a brilliant recipe, and Bobby had to quickly rein his emotions in until he was at a measurable distance. Hastily stepping out of the modest, but snug bedroom into the hallway, he craftily unsheathes the P226 handgun from the inseam of his jeans with enough precision to testify that he’s done so numerous times before—so much, that it practically comes as second-nature to him.

“Lookit, you fucking pussy, I dunno know what the fuck you think you’re playing at—” Bobby flares into the phone tucked between ear and shoulder, absolutely heated while arming the weapon, but he’s stopped dead in his tracks, like an obstinate hare staring down the barrel of his impending ruin. As the large, inquisitive doe-eyes of his lover’s juvenile son try earnestly to process the intricacies of the portrait in front of him, Bobby’s heart could’ve just about exploded into a few dozen pieces. Shit, shit, shit! Impulsively, he tossed the phone out of hands, thoughts of how much he'd invested into the mobile device temporarily disregarded. He wasn't sure of what good that would do in this case, but he was feeling as if he'd been caught with his pants down and now he has to will away the glaring hard-on. Mentally kicking himself over the inopportune timing, he realized that he couldn't replicate the same action with the already-loaded gun, as he'd done with the phone. Acting instinctively, he pulled Lucas close to his body in a makeshift one-armed hug, delicately smothering the young boy's face in the fleece fabric of his shirt, effectively cutting his vision of anything but complete darkness. "Morning, lil' buddy," he started to coo, "why are you up so early?" He used this opportunity to shove the barrel of the handgun into the rear waist of his jeans, blousing his shirt over the back in a functional way to conceal the protruding handle. A temporary reprieve it was, but having a loaded gun susceptible to misfire by shock shoved in the back of his pants was probably a less-than-ideal situation. Realizing now that he wasn’t even in a position for free movement, Bobby tried to ponder when most things around him started to crumble to shit. Only after becoming aware of faint mumbling and feeling a slight puff of heat on his abdomen, did Bobby loosen his grip on the young boy, “What was that, Lucas?”

“I was waiting for my breakfast from mommy,” Lucas repeated. Bobby’s mind caught up to the fact that the quaint little household likely had a systematic routine that he was no doubt imposing on. He swears he doesn’t need one more thing to feel mildly guilty about.
MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif Now that the smoke's gone and the air is all clear, those who were right there got a new kind of view
The word "mommy"⁠—high in pitch through its flute-like delivery⁠—hums against Dawson's eardrum. He didn't know Bobby to be a father, he thought to himself, before the puzzle pieces were meticulously to fit together. This precocious sounding child had to have belonged to a lover or girlfriend of Bobby, who he was with at the present time. But who in particular? Dawson fans through his stored memories and past divulged information, until one sheet of notes falls into view. The sublimely beautiful dancer⁠—the one Bobby had protected during the hit attempt at 'Sirens'. "Angel" she was dubbed, and seemingly for good reason. She had to have been an angel to be able to tame the once unruly, unchained, unhinged Bobby Carter. The feat ignited a small jealousy in Dawson, who was obsessed with his ability to lord over his subjects and manipulate them to act to his wishes. Bobby Carter, however, was never someone he could quite control, as badly as he hoped to; control and punish. As he continues to absorb the conversation on the other end of the line, it becomes clear how to do just as he long hoped. This child and his mother could prove to be future collateral. His icy eyes sharpen in intensity the darker his thoughts become, which attracts the horrified attention of Hunter.

"Bobby, he can hear the fucking kid!" hostage Hunter attempts to alert his former comrade, forcing Dawson and his henchman to shield his mouth and press against his neck to prevent air from roaming out its passageways. Luckily for Dawson, Bobby didn't hear the warning, as the conversation with the boy child continues.
MONTY
@Maxim
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oOo5rcG.gif You'd fight and you were right, but they were just too strong. They'd stick it in your face, and let you smell what they consider wrong.
“Hey, lil’ guy. Mommy decided to sleep in a little late today. She ate something kinda nasty last night, and has a tummy ache,” Bobby piles on, hearkening back to his earlier reasoning that he’d tell as many lies as were necessary to keep his… his arrangement—this family—safe. Continuing thinking on his feet, he tried to volley a bit with Emma’s son. “I’ll tell you what… I’ll run out real quickly and go grab us all something to eat, eh? Whatcha hungry for, some pancakes?” To Lucas’ enthusiastic nodding, Bobby smirked and ruffled the kid’s hair, much to his amusement. “Alright, good boy. But you have to promise me you won’t wake Mommy, okay? Let’s shake on it.” The intimate scene, regardless of it being more tactical thinking on his part, opened up a soft spot in Bobby’s heart. He regards the tender moment between the two of them warmly, but one glance at the discarded cell phone served as a barreling, combustible meteor on his earthly plane; a harsh reminder of a life he could not have. A mock handshake with Lucas, followed by another ruffle of his hair, Bobby felt content enough to slip out of the home.

“Can I play with your cool toy while you’re gone?” Lucas suddenly piped up.

Genuinely befuddled, he turned directly to the boy to address him. “What toy?”

“The one behind your back, silly,” the toddler answered matter-of-factly. At that, Bobby practically heard his heart drop to the lowest chambers of his stomach. He was equal parts astounded, impressed, and annoyed at how attentive and focused the bright young boy was. He also realized that he was losing precious time being tied up and desperately needed a rope to fish him out.

“Oh, THAT one!” he responded, smacking the side of his head with his palm in feigned realization. “So that one is actually broken, and… I was… just on my way to get it fixed! Yeah. So I’ll go do that in the meantime, get a monster helping of pancakes, and pick you up your own toy on the way back. Sound like a deal?”

“Deal.”

“My man! Alright, get back up to your own and I’ll see you in a bit, alright?” At the first sight of Lucas taking off in an opposite direction, Bobby skillfully withdrew the still-loaded gun from his waist, released the contents of the chamber, and made a swift beeline to the front door, into his pickup. There was the faintest feeling that, by chance, he might’ve forgotten something, but at this moment, devoting any time to remembering what it could be was of zero importance to him.
MONTY
@Mariah.
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