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Post by beets on Aug 11, 2015 11:20:57 GMT -5
Calidor - The Wards, 1760
If they kept at it much longer, Ben was gonna kick the door down and do 'em both right there on the bed. He'd been waiting for over twenty minutes already, listening to the hooker's stage moans grow ever more shrill and frequent. By now they'd become shamelessly laughable even by a whore's standards, and each caterwaul was like a red hot poker being driven into his brain. That wasn't strictly her fault; it'd been almost a week since he'd gotten properly bent and he was packing a monster wallop of a headache, a real fucking gourd-splitter. The fact that one of the unknowing exhibitionists in the room next door was the reason for this present, unwanted state of sobriety did not improve his temperament.
They'd at least been kind enough to leave their party favors untended, scattered pell-mell across the table where Ben now found himself seated. He couldn't indulge in the harder stuff, not yet; not the laudanum or the pills or the powder, the medicine he really needed to get his head on straight. He'd settled for a simple glass of wine instead. He took another sip from it, his gloved finger tracing along the corkscrew he'd opened the bottle with. Wine was a far cry from his favorite poison, and he suspected this particular vintage was shit, but it might at least serve to dull the murderous throb behind his eyes.
The creaking of bedsprings halted; the wails gave way to murmurs. Ben's fingers slipped from the corkscrew to the shotgun cradled in his lap. He propped it against the table, business end facing the boudoir door, and thumbed the hammers back one after the other - click, click. He waited.
A naked woman was the first to emerge. An elf from the look of her, a skinny one even by elven standards. She'd advanced only a few steps, bony hips swinging with aplomb, before street intuition gave her pause; made her wonder why the room was darker now than when she'd left it. The man followed close behind. It took him longer to register the darkness, longer still to find the switch on the side wall. A light bulb sputtered, hummed, then flashed to life.
The elf screamed. "Hey-hoi, Billy-boy," Ben said. His companion at the table remained silent; a slit throat made it hard to talk.
The man who'd been behind the elf - she had now instinctively distanced herself - opened his mouth to speak, closed it. His eyes darted between Ben and the corpse.
"Yeah," Ben said. "He wasn't happy to see me either."
The man licked his lips, tried again: "What's going on here, Ben?"
"Well, to start with, your doorman and I had a heated disagreement over the status of my reservation. By the way, this is a dangerous neighborhood; you really oughta bring more than one goon. Or move your fuck-pad downtown." Ben pointed at the vacant chair opposite him. "Have a sit, William. But put some pants on first. We can't have a big-boy conversation while your little pee-pee's flappin around."
William looked to the trail of clothes littered between the entrance and the bedroom, his attention lingering on a certain article.
"Thinkin about this?" Ben reached under the table and produced a handgun from his belt. The flicker of hope on William's face died. "I took the liberty of perusin your threads while you were busy." Ben said, tucking the pistol back into his waistband. "Nice piece, but the silver plating makes you look like a cunt. Now, pants."
The other man did as he was told, shuffling toward his clothes with both hands covering his crotch. That he cared to preserve his modesty under present circumstance was hilarious to Ben, but Ben didn't bother pointing that out. His eyes shifted to the elf instead. She didn't meet them, keeping her own riveted between her feet.
"You too, sweetheart," Ben said. "Don't want you leaking on Bill's floor. Had enough of that from this shithead." He thumbed to the dead man.
The elf too performed as ordered, joining her erstwhile lover before tugging on a thin pair of cotton breeches. She didn't bother with a top or even attempt to cover her breasts. There wasn't much breast there to look at, truth be told, but Ben still felt a surge of puerile glee at how literally she'd obeyed his command. William finished dressing and moved back to the table, his eyes pointedly avoiding the corpse as he sat.
"Hope you two weren't close," Ben said.
"What's this about?" Will was trying for sangfroid, but his suddenly milk-white complexion and wide eyes spoiled the intended effect.
"Really? You know what."
"I don't know anything except that you're--" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "--you're clearly very agitated, Ben. Tell me why, and we'll work something out together, you and I."
Ben leaned forward, knowing the lamplight would cast shadows across his gaunt cheeks, that those shadows would pool in the hollows of his eyes. "Is that how I look to you, Bill? Do I look... agitated?"
William cleared his throat. "I didn't mean to imply anything untoward, I only-"
"Shut the fuck up, Billy."
William's lips pressed into a thin line. The handlebars on his mustache twitched.
Ben reached into his coat, then tossed a pair of manacles across the way. "Cuff yourself to the table."
William frowned, looking at the handcuffs. "Is that necessary?"
"Is there a gun pointing at your face?"
William accepted the necessity, and cuffed his left wrist to the table leg.
"Now show me," Ben said.
William lifted his hand as much as he was able, drawing the chain tight.
Ben grinned. "Good boy. Now, you gonna introduce me to your girl?"
William blinked at the change of subject, then looked over his shoulder as if he'd forgotten the woman existed at all. She stole a frightened glance at the pair, but said nothing.
"What's your name, chicky?" Ben asked.
"Laura, sir," she replied, eyes still downcast.
"Proper name, that. Hate those fruity knife-ear ones." He waited, studying her, but she offered no response to the slur; only stood there with her hands folded on her stomach. "Me and Bill here go a ways back, you know. He ever talk about me? About the good ol days?"
"He doesn't, sir."
"Then let me enlighten you. We were brought up together, sort've. Ain't that right, Bill?" He didn't wait for a reply. "We met at a meat packing plant we both worked down dockside. This was... six, seven years ago? Nasty place, stunk to high hell. Lots of people got hurt, too. But it wasn't so bad if you were careful and knew what you were doin. Billy didn't really fit in with us working stiffs, though. You see, his da is the William Whelan. I'm sure he's told you, and it's easy to believe what with all this luxury." He waved a hand around the stuffy room, which was host only to the table, three chairs, and a single decrepit sofa.
"The old man owned the packery," Ben continued. "Junior here was born to budding richness, but Pop Whelan worked his way up from rags... or so the story goes. Thought his darling boy might learn somethin from havin to toil once in a while with the rest of us lowly serfs, right down in the shit and the gore. I don't think the lesson really took, though; not the way Pop intended." Ben studied the other man as he spoke. "Billy here's real easy to get along with, yeah, easy to make friends with; Mister fuckin Personable." He snorted. "It's skin deep. He don't care about you; not really. Don't care about nobody but himself, and sure as fuck don't care for humility. He worked with us, made jokes with us, but he still looked at us like we were all just... animals in a zoo. It was never really real to him; it was always the zoo, and the glass was always between him and us. Maybe the other guys didn't notice it, but I did." Ben tapped his index finger to his temple. "I did."
"I'm sorry," William said, "if I seemed-"
Ben slid the shotgun forward, made it scrape against the edge of the table. "Don't. Interrupt."
William stopped interrupting.
"I never really gave a shit anyway," Ben went on. "Status quo and all that, I get it. I really do. And Pop Whelan must've, too, because he was careful about his image. He was only baby rich compared to old money in Calidor, but baby rich is still rich, and that's what gets your foot in the door. And this, Laura, is where the problems start.
"You may have noticed, but Bill's got a taste for the wild side. Booze, drugs, and so on, and so forth. That's another thing we've got in common, though I might say he's more of a hobbyist by comparison. Wasn't long before our shared interests became known to him, and we started ourselves a budding association. I was a man who could get things, discreet-like. Who didn't ask any questions. Who'd do most anything if the pay was right - most anything's easier, cleaner work than gutting hogs and cleaning the mess up afterward. I was a valuable man for a baby-rich cunt with a wild streak to have on his payroll; so valuable that it got me out of that shitty job at the packing plant. But I digress.
"One of Billy's tastes that I didn't mention was she-elves. I doubt it means much to a whore, but you're far from the first, Laura. If I was a bettin man - and as it happens, I am - I'd wager odds against you even bein in the top ten. Back then, though, Billy had a favorite; and oh boy, this was one hell of a she-elf. What was her name again, Bill? Amanda? Amantha?"
William didn't immediately reply. His lips had disappeared almost entirely, and his complexion had shifted from milk white to chalk. Ben gave him a few seconds, then tapped the shotgun on the table.
"Amarantha," William said. "Her name was Amarantha."
Ben snapped his fingers. "She was one of those Solatium elfies, exotic-like; black hair, smooth dark skin, big brown doe eyes... she was curvy in all the right places, like a real woman; not like grinding up against a fuckin light post. Even I woulda been tempted, and your kind don't usually do much for me. Best part? She wasn't a street walker. He'd landed himself a bona fide straight-off-the-boat migrant." Ben heaved a dramatic sigh. "Alas, it weren't meant to be; what Leah gives em in looks, the crusty old cunt likes to take away in brains. Somewhere along the line, this knife-ear got it in her head that she's more to William than just a tight fit... and to make matters worse, it turned out those curves weren't just for show. This gal was a lot more fertile than Willy's other elves."
Laura glanced up sharply at that, but only for a second. Her eyes flitted to William.
Half of Ben's mouth curled into a sneer. "Didn't mention being a father, did he? That little oops was bad fuckin news for Junior. His other activities had already put him on thin ice with Daddy, and Daddy's the one who had all the green. Pop Whelan's foot was now firmly through that door I mentioned a minute ago; he had enough money for the snob crowd to overlook his blue collar past, but not nearly enough to overlook a half-breed grandson. So Bill panics, tries to send Miss Elf to a doc he knows, to take care of her little 'problem'. When that doesn't work, he pleads with her. Then he makes threats. She wasn't havin any of it; now she sees the status quo, too, sees how wrong she was about her charming human prince, and she's pissed. She tells him she's gonna get hers whether he's in the picture or not. Mentions a new friend she's made, one who works for the Gazette..."
The silence stretched out. The elf's gaze returned to her feet while William's fixated on the far wall.
"I'm sure you can guess the rest," Ben said.
"I'm certain she appreciates the lecture, Ben-" William began. He noticed the other man's narrowed eyes, and cleared his throat. "-but I don't understand how it relates to you being here n-"
"Not that hard to figure out, is it?" Ben cut in. "Word on the grapevine is Pop Whelan's rubbing elbows with bigger toffs than usual. Political types. I figure by now he must be eyeing up a seat on the council; seems to be the usual progression for rich old twats in Calidor." He leaned forward in his chair. "And I'll just bet that's got you up nights, Billy-boy. Because if there's one thing that might sink Pop's political career faster than a fuck-up son and a halfbreed grandkid... it'd be the truth coming out about what actually happened to Amarantha. You didn't wanna risk me blackmailing your dear old dad or deciding to spin yarns about two-for-one discount homicide, so you tried to give me the long sleep instead." Ben sucked on his teeth. "I gotta give it to ya, Billy: I never woulda thought you had the stones. I mean, I know you can hire other men to do your killing for you, obviously, but this one was risky. Not to mention hurtful. You oughta know by now that I'm a consummate fuckin professional."
"Benjamin, I never-"
"You never? The fella who tried to ice me a few days ago seemed damned certain you're the guy who hired him. We had us a vigorous discussion about it. I never even mentioned your name. He told me."
A bead of sweat trickled down William's forehead. "That's not me, Ben. You know me."
"Uh huh," Ben replied, then leveled the shotgun. "Now open wide and say 'aah.' I'm gonna clean your fillings for you."
"Waitwaitwait, wait!" William tried to throw up his hands to shield himself; the left one hit the end of its leash, rattled its chain. "Wait, goddammit!"
"You better make it quick, Bill. I think I hear St. Mat's chariot comin to collect, and he's gonna be sorely disappointed if he's gotta smell your beshitted britches the whole ride back to heaven."
"Look, you're right, Ben. You're right - earlier, I mean! Not about me trying to kill you, but about dad. He's going places. I'm going places. Let me take you with me. You said it yourself, right? I need a man like you. A man who doesn't ask questions." He offered a smile so pained and forced that it looked feral. "Why would I try to kill you, Ben? You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, right?"
"The only place you're goin is the morgue, and you'll catch plenty of flies there." Ben paused anyway, considering. "Still... I do feel kind of bad, bringin up all that awful shit from your past. Tell you what." He lowered the shotgun, then slid it into the holster on his hip. William's breath escaped in a long, shaky exhalation.
Ben said, "You always fancied yourself half a Crowder, right?" He reached for the pistol at his belt again and held it up, turning it so that it caught the light from the lamp. "So I'll give you a fighting chance. Call it a gentleman's gambit." He gestured toward the center of the table. "I put the heat down here between us. The elf counts to three, we both go for it. The best man wins. What do you say?"
William's expression was guarded, clearly expecting a trick. "If that's the only way to settle this, Ben..."
"Well I could just go back to Plan A and blow your fuckin head off, but this seems more sporting."
That irksome flicker of hope had stolen into William's face again. He saw for the first time a rope with which he might extricate himself from the pit. He nodded.
Ben placed the pistol in the center of the table, but his hand didn't leave it. "I let go," he said, "Elf counts to three. You got that over there, chicky?" His eyes stayed on William's as he asked the question.
"Yes, sir," Laura replied.
"Understand, Bill?"
William's head gave a jerk, more of a spasm than a nod. He set his jaw, blinked the sweat from his eyes. His gaze had turned predatory in spite of - or perhaps because of - his fear.
Ben released the pistol, yanking his hand away. "Go, chicky!"
Laura started, "One-"
William lunged for the gun.
Ben slid a knife from his sleeve, lightning quick, and nailed William's outstretched hand to the table.
"Aagh!" the stricken man screamed. "Mother fucker! Whoreson!" He choked off when Ben stood and crossed around the table to join him. Will's eyes shot open, wide and wet with tears. They spilled down his cheeks when he blinked. "Ben, don't. Please don't."
"Don't feel bad, pal," Ben said, placing a comforting hand on William's shoulder. "It wasn't even loaded. I'm not a fuckin retard." His other hand picked up the corkscrew.
"Please," William repeated. "I didn't do it, Ben, don't do this. Please don't do this. I don't want to die."
Ben stroked a finger across the other man's cheek; William shied away from the touch, forcing a single word out between each sob: please, please, please. He sounded like a bleating goat. Ben grabbed his hair and tugged, forced him to make eye contact.
"PLEASE!" Will screamed. A line of snot had dribbled down to connect his upper and lower lips. "PLEASE!"
"Hush now, Billy-boy," Ben said. Then: "Hey. Ain't no glass between us now, is there?"
"Nopleasegodnono NO DON'T-"
Ben punched the corkscrew into William's face. Then again. Then again. He kept going when Will's shrieking stopped and gave way to convulsions; kept going when the elf's scream tapered down to ragged sobs; kept going when his arm started to burn from exertion. He didn't stop until the bones in William's face were too pulverized to catch on the helix; until it felt and sounded like he was slamming his knuckles into an overripe melon.
He left the corkscrew buried in the red ruin that had once been William's head, moving back to his own seat and collapsing into it. He reached up to wipe the spatter from his face, but his arm paused midway there; it was soaked with blood almost to the elbow. He used the other one instead.
His guests had shifted during the tussle. Will's late bodyguard - He of the Slit Throat - had been knocked from his seat of honor, while Laura was now cowering near the door leading outside. Ben peeled the gore-slick glove off his trigger hand, dropping it to the table with a plop. His shotgun slid back out of its sheath, pointed it in the woman's direction.
Ben reached into his pocket. When his hand emerged, a ring with a single key was hung from his index finger. "Won't be going anywhere without this. Couldn't risk Billy-boy givin me the slip if he got loose, you know."
The elf didn't respond. Her bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes adequately articulated anything she might have said, anyway.
"Not gonna offer yourself up in exchange for bein spared?" Ben sighed. "Guess I already told you that you're not my type, eh? Don't imagine I can trust you to be smart, can I? Keep all this mum? Not make new friends at the Gazette?"
"I won't... I won't tell anyone," she said. It was hard to tell given her pallid skin, but Ben suspected her grip on the doorknob was of the white-knuckled variety.
He shook the key ring. The elf closed her eyes, swallowed. Deliberated.
His finger wiggled. Jingle.
She crossed the room. Ben's hand drew back as she closed the distance, made it so she'd have to reach for the prize. She hesitated on the edge of his personal space, but the pause was shorter this time. She was already committed. She leaned in.
Ben snugged the muzzle into her stomach and gave her both barrels.
The blast was like a thunderclap. It sent her flailing into the sofa, bowled it over. She landed behind it, everything except her legs hidden from view. They spasmed, her heels beating a staccato rhythm against the floor.
"Sorry, luv," Ben said, "but I think we both knew how this had to end."
Her only response was a gurgled sigh. There was pain in it, but also, at least to Ben's ear, resignation and acceptance. Yeah, it seemed to say. Yeah, I guess we did. He stayed quiet for a time, listening as she struggled to breathe, as each intake came thinner and reedier than the last. It reminded him of her fake moaning, but he doubted there was anything staged about this performance. Some people said sex and violence were one and the same; maybe that meant dying was a lot like fucking. C'est le vie.
"Whelan was personal, but this wasn't," Ben said. "You should know that." He could see her blood now, too; an implacable sanguine tide advancing toward the far wall. A rank, unladylike odor had begun to foul the air, but he supposed that was unavoidable after having your guts torn apart by a sixty gram dose of double-aught buck. The smell mingled with the sharper, coppery tang of the blood, turned into a foul-smelling miasma that took him back to the shambles he'd worked for Billy's dad all those years ago; to the place where they'd brought in cows and hogs by the dozen, then set at em with drills and hammers and cleavers. That same stink had hung heavy over the yard all the time. It was the stench of death; it made the first week hellish for new hires, and had no problem bringing even a strong man to his knees. You got used to it though. Slowly but surely, you did. You wore it like a badge of honor. Eventually, you didn't even notice it anymore. And sometimes, just occasionally, a dark part of you might even learn to savor it.
Laura gave a final, shuddering breath. The pool's advance had slowed to a crawl; death had robbed even that of its vigor.
"Guess that's that," Ben murmured.
No one in the deadroom disagreed. He saw himself out.
***
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Post by beets on Aug 17, 2015 23:40:00 GMT -5
Calidor - The Docks, 1743
Before his family fell on harder times, Ben had attended Sunday school once or twice. One of the Sisters there had told the children about God, about how She had turned Her face from Man because Man had turned their backs on Her. She talked about the Search Divine, the holy quest to relearn the True Name of God that Man had forgotten; about how until the Search was successful, every Man lived in a state of permanent Penance - denied the love of their God, existing in a limbo where only the most righteous could guarantee their place in Heaven. Ben had been completely engrossed at the time, but the part that had stuck with him most was the one about Penance. Penance was something he understood, but he didn't think the Sister would have approved of his interpretation.
Penance in Ben's house could happen at any time, but it most often happened around bedtime. It was always after after his father, Simon, staggered home from the pub - or wherever he'd hung his hat that night - and sat down at the table. Simon was a gregarious drinker, and he was not wont to take no for an answer. To avoid the table was to suggest that you'd rather avoid his company, too; a most unwise suggestion. For while Simon bore his grievances with seemingly stoic indifference whilst sober, he was actually keeping a running tally in his head... and he was easily aggrieved. It might be hours, or days, or weeks, but those grievances would continue to fester just beneath the surface... and sooner or later, they'd come home to roost. At these times when his anger and self-loathing had started to simmer, just beneath the point of boiling over, even casual conversation was as fraught with peril as a minefield; each word, however innocuous, might become casus belli.
Tonight's prelude had begun around twenty minutes ago. Simon had pushed through the front door with that familiar, lurching gait Ben had learned to recognize. Ben and his mother, Lucille, had dutifully moved into position - Ben seated at the kitchen table, his mother going to warm up a plate of the evening's long forgotten meal. Simon would usually only pick at this with mild disinterest, but denying him the opportunity was a surefire way to draw his ire. He stopped as he was passing Ben's chair, listing like a leaky ship, and reached into his coat pocket.
"Brought ya a present, Benny," he said. Ben noted with dismay that his father's breath reeked of whiskey. Ale was a safer bet; whiskey all but guaranteed that tonight's Penance would be particularly rigorous. Simon placed a small, circular tin on the table.
"What is it, Da?"
"Shoeshine." He reached down and tousled Ben's hair harder than he meant to. "So yer clogs'll be all fancy. And mebbe you can make a buck shinin up fellas' shoes in the Trade District, yeah?"
"I don't think that's a good idea," Ben's mother said. She was at the sink, her back turned. Her tone still managed to convey the frown she was wearing. "The police will think he's some kind of vagrant." Ben felt a twinge of unease in his stomach when she shot down the suggestion, but his father's slight smile remained.
"You ain't the boss of us, woman," Simon replied, and favored Ben with a bleary-eyed wink. "Is she, Benny-boy?"
Ben was more keen to take his mother's side; he didn't really want to shine strangers' shoes, bucks or no bucks. He knew better than to voice that thought aloud, though. He smiled instead, picked up the tin, and spirited it away into his own pocket. "Thanks, Da."
"You betcha, pal. So, what's dinner, Luce? I'm fuckin starvin."
"Language," Ben's mother admonished.
"Fuckin famished," Simon corrected himself, then guffawed at his own joke.
She brought him his meal, such as it was; two meager fish that had likely been found dead on the beach rather than caught, and half of a potato that was old enough to have grown sprouts. Simon muttered, then went about pushing the food around with his fork.
"Saw Manel at the pub," he said after several seconds of silence. "Lookin all spiffy, done up like a dandylad. Tells me he got hisself a new job at the packery; traitorous fuckin cunt."
Ben saw his mother reach up to rub at her arm. Before the Hard Times, Simon Thacker had owned a humble butcher's shop. Shortly after the Whelan Packery had opened, he'd been given an offer to buy out the business. He'd declined. Two weeks later, his shop had burnt to the ground. Simon had been out of work for the last year because of it, and it rated quite highly on his list of grievances. If regular conversation was a minefield, then this one was a minefield full of rabid dogs.
"He says he can put in a good word for me, if I'm in'ersted." His left hand balled into a fist, released, tightened again. "I tole him I'm of a mind to bust his fuckin beak for im instead." Simon had always been broadly built; years of hefting swine and cuts of beef had only expounded on that, adding layers of thick, corded muscle to his frame. Some of that muscle had gone to fat, and the calluses on his hands had begun to soften, but those hands were still the size of clubs and his neck was almost as thick as his jaw. Very few men would willingly risk their beaks squaring off against him.
"Fuckin Aians," he muttered. "Oughta load those thievin cocksuckers back in their boats and sink em in the harbor. Bad enough we gotta deal with all the knife-ears tryin to stab us in the back; now they're lettin in every limp prick with two dimes to rub together." Simon's eyes stayed on his wife, expecting an accord. Silence reigned until Ben looked at her, too. He felt another twinge in his stomach. His father had been unusually docile for a whiskey night; a flare in hostilities was already long past due. Please say something, he thought. Please, Ma. She remained tight lipped.
Simon pursed his own in response. "Yeah," he said, pushing himself up with both hands. His chair scraped against the floor. "Think I'm goin to bed. Gettin a headache." He gripped the back of the chair for a moment, making sure he was balanced, and then wobbled toward the hall.
"Goodnight," Ma said. Ben felt his stomach finally starting to unclench as he watched his father's departing back; tonight may have been one of the rare good whiskey nights, when Simon was too drunk to force an argument. The older man dropped his keys on the counter where Ben's mother kept the pile of bills and notices, then paused. He reached for something poorly hidden at the bottom of the stack.
"Luce... what's this?" It was a small yellow envelope, opened just enough that the thin stack of green paper inside it was visible - a pittance, most likely, but more money than the Thacker family was accustomed to seeing at one time. Ben took one look at his mother's crestfallen expression, and his stomach immediately tied itself back up in knots.
"What the fuck is this?" Simon asked in a sharper tone. He reached into the envelope and removed the money, waggling it at her.
"The rent," Mother replied, wringing her fingers together in her lap.
"They start payin us to live in this dump? I tole you I'd take care of it, din't I?"
"We're three months behind, Simon." She tried for a diplomatic tone. "I didn't think-"
Simon tossed the money away; errant bills fluttering through the air. Then he clapped his hands together hard, making both his wife and son jerk in their chairs. "That's the problem, right there; you don't fuckin think. Where'd you get it, huh? You start hookin on the sly?"
"Simon!" She recoiled as if slapped. "Don't speak like that in front of Benjamin!"
"Where." He took a step toward the table, teeth grinding. Lucille shrank into her chair. "Did." Another step. "You." Step. "Get it?"
Mother had abandoned her seat now, positioning herself with the table between her and her husband. Ben too had retreated; he hovered near the counter, his mouth gone dry.
Simon had reached the other end of the table. He shifted to the right; Lucille moved left. He doubled back to the left; she went right. The drunk grinned without humor, then mouthed the word 'where?'
"David," she answered with a faint grimace.
Simon's grin evaporated. His gaze darkened, his face screwed up. "You went to him behind my back?"
"Simon, I-"
"Oh, I bet he loved that. I bet he just fuckin did." He made as if to lunge hard in one direction; Lucille squawked and scrambled the other way again. "Queen Luci come crawlin back from the docks with shit on her knees and her tail 'tween her legs, lookin for a noble knight to save her. Did he say 'I tole ya so', Luce?" His lips peeled away from his teeth, baring them like a dog. "Did he fuck you?"
"For God's sake, Simon! He's my uncle!" It was hard to gauge whether her disgust was directed more toward her husband or his question.
"Uh huh, I bet he did." Simon was on the fight now; he smelled blood, and meant to press for the jugular. "I bet him and that faggot 'friend' o' his spit-roasted you from both ends. You look enough like a man, you flat-chested, ugly fuckin cunt."
"I wouldn't have gone to him if you could just be a man," Lucille abruptly hissed, and Ben's father fell into stunned silence. "We wouldn't need his money if you'd just taken Whelan's, but no, you couldn't; you and your pride, your drunkard's pride."
Simon's face flushed red as a beet. His teeth gnashed, his eyes bulged and rolled almost comically in their sockets. His lips worked uselessly, as if he were an angry horse about to bite. He looked, as the old timers might say, fit to spit. "What did you say to me?" His tone had dropped almost to a whisper now, one you had to strain to hear; a tone infinitely more dangerous than his prior yelling.
Lucille had paled, but she stuck her chin out in defiance. She knew she was already well past the point of no return. "For a faggot," she said, "his friend sure knows how to show a lady a good time."
Simon's hand shot out and seized a fistful of her hair. Penance began as it always did: with her high, frightened squalls.
He hauled her over the table; her foot kicked his plate to the floor and broke it, left his fish laying morose among the debris, sent his potato rolling away in search of greener pastures. He half led, half drug her down the hallway toward the bathroom, her feet struggling to find purchase as she screamed. Ben trailed several feet behind them, hands tightly clasped to his roiling stomach. "Da! Stop!"
"Go on to bed now, boy! Git!" His parents had reached the doorway. Simon shoved his wife inside, then reached down and drew his belt. He followed her.
Ben heard the brief sound of a struggle, heard his mother's pleading turn to panicked gasps as she was forced over the wash basin. Then there was only the sharp crack of leather kissing bared skin, over and over, each one punctuated by one of his mother's loud, mournful wails.
Simon had forced her halfway into the tub when Ben peered inside, had pulled her dress up so high that it was caught around her head. She was nearly naked save for a thin pair of beige underwear, her skin flushing under her husband's attack; he was strapping her back, her bottom, her thighs. She'd scream and wriggle like an eel after each impact, trying to shift and protect herself from the next blow, only to have it land somewhere else instead.
"Da! Stop!" Ben yelled again, his voice cracking. His tears made his vision kaleidoscope in front of him; he saw two sets of struggling parents, then four, then eight. "Stop!" His father's only response was a short, braying laugh. Mother's wailing had now turned to low, guttural grunts, and that was somehow far worse. This isn't like ever before, Ben thought, not like the pinches or the slaps or the shoves. He's not going to stop this time; this time he's going to kill her.
He suddenly became aware of the weight he felt against his hip, that circular tin, his father's 'gift'. He reached into his pocket, and, in an act borne of panicked desperation, pulled it out and hurled it at his father's head. It struck home with a meaty thunk, bounced off and clattered to the floor below. The elder man's hand froze in midair, knuckles bulging around the belt, and for a few seconds the only noise in the room was his panting; hard and heavy, like the bellows in a forge. He turned and locked eyes with his son.
Simon was, though at times monstrous, still Ben's father. Even when he was at his worst, Ben recognized this fact; it gave the boy comfort in a way it probably shouldn't have. When he looked into those eyes now, though, he saw nothing of his father within them; only a seething, incalculable hatred, a rage so black and fathomless that it made his chest tighten and his bowels turn to water.
Ben fled.
He heard his father thundering at his heels, heard his mother screaming after him. He skidded into the kitchen, sliding on his feet, and barely avoided his father's belt; the buckle whistled just over his head, struck one of his mother's figurines on a nearby shelf, exploded it into a hundred pieces. He stepped on one as he ran and felt pain shoot up through his ankle and into his calf, but he didn't stop. He kept running, running harder than ever before, running for his life and leaving a half finished set of bloody footprints behind him.
A wiser, world-wearier boy might have fled for the porch, but Ben made for his bedroom. It was the one place he'd come to view as his, his safe harbor, his protection. He flew through the door and launched himself onto the bed, squirming toward the crack between the mattress and the wall. He was possessed of the illogical, but still powerful notion that he could disappear down into that crack like a bug; that he could wait out his father's fury under the bed, securely hidden amongst the dust bunnies.
A meaty hand wrapped around his ankle and squeezed. Ben yelped.
The belt was like fire when it licked his back, and now it was his turn to wriggle. He screamed and kicked and cried, but the belt didn't stop. It was without mercy. It cut through the air again and again, hissing and snapping like a serpent, biting his shoulders and neck. Ben felt one of his kicks connect with his father's leg, heard the bestial roar it drew out in response.
Simon dropped the belt and started using his fists instead.
They were worse.
They were much, much worse.
They smashed into Ben like battering rams, pummeling his kidneys, his spine, the back of his head. He endured the assault for what felt like an eternity, until his head swam and his vision had shrunk to two tiny pinpricks of light. I was wrong, he thought. He's not killing Ma tonight; he's killing me. His cries had stopped now; he had no air in his lungs to voice them, but they kept trying to come out anyway. The best he could manage was a strange mix between a choke and a cough: guk-guk, guk. He gave one last kick with both legs, gave it everything he had; tried to propel himself over the edge of the bed and away from those terrible fists, even if only for a second.
Simon's hand wrapped around Ben's right bicep and yanked hard, lifted him up, away from the bed. The boy felt and heard a pop, felt a sheet of white hot agony suffuse his entire being, and then those pinpricks of light winked out.
***
When he awoke sometime later, whimpering in agony, it was his mother's fingers at his brow; her spoon at his lips. He swallowed the offering with a sputter and a grimace. It was bitter, and the smell made his eyes water and his nose sting. It made him think of his father's breath.
"Your da is sleeping," she said, as if she had read Ben's mind. "We'll have to be quiet." Her fingers moved higher, combing through his hair. Her eyes were shinier than they should have been in the low light of the room. "What came over you, hon? Why would you do such a thing?"
Ben regarded her there, perched atop a stool she'd brought to the side of his bed, and was unsure of how to respond. Admitting the truth seemed a sure invitation to rebuke; this was his father he was talking about, and speaking ill of one's father was rarely advisable. He sucked on his bottom lip, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste of the medicine.
"Your father loves us, Benjamin. He's... he's under a lot of stress right now, but he loves us both very dearly." Her gaze was distracted, peering at something through the shuttered window but not really seeing it. "You know that, don't you?"
Ben felt a flush of shame, and another compulsion to attempt to explain himself. He was hurting you, he might have said, but that was hardly a rare occurrence. He could only stare lamely.
"My brave, sweet boy," she said, and smiled. It would be only a few short years before Ben's father took her life, but Ben had no way of knowing it then. Time would eventually erode his memory of her features, render them formless and indistinct as surely as water against limestone, but this was the moment he would always recall when he tried to remember her face: her sad eyes and sad smile, the way a single bar of light from the window turned her sandy hair to radiant gold, the sound her fingertips made as they whispered against his scalp. But one of his most prolific memories of her - one that would return most often, unbidden and unwanted, like a corpse floating to the surface of murky water - was of the way she looked at the wash tub with her dress hitched up around her shoulders, the pale marble of her skin marred by a dozen ripening, reddish-purple welts.
"We're going to a doctor tomorrow, you and I," she said. "In the trade quarter; it will be an adventure, just the two of us." Ben was finding it harder to follow her words. The medicine was kicking in, and it felt like he was floating away from himself but also wasn't; as if he was in two places at once, somehow. The pain was still there, but it felt less important now; it was down there with his mother, and the rest of him was hovering somewhere up by the ceiling.
"Ben," she said, and the sudden seriousness of her tone helped to anchor him. "You musn't tell him about your father, do you understand? If he asks you what happened, you tell him that some other boys from the docks hurt you, nothing more."
A part of him wondered at the fairness of her request and was hurt by it, but it was lost on a rising tide of euphoria; of rightness. "Okay, Ma."
"Promise me, Benjamin. Promise you won't tell."
"I promise, I won't tell."
And he didn't. There was no reason to; the doctor never asked.
***
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Post by beets on Sept 13, 2015 6:30:57 GMT -5
From the CaliStar Gazette - Sunday Edition, May 26, 1760 HUSBAND ARRESTED IN GRUESOME DOUBLE HOMICIDE THE WARDS -- Police have arrested the husband of Laura Lafrenius, one of the victims of last week's brutal slaying, in connection with her murder.
Martin Lafrenius, 34, was arrested early yesterday morning at his home. Residents near the scene said the altercation led to shouting and a struggle, with Mr. Lafrenius being subdued by two constables.
Martin's common law wife, age 29, was found murdered last week after an apparent 'execution-style' killing that left her and one male victim dead. Police have thus far declined to release the male victim's identity, citing both his family's desire for privacy and the "sensitive nature" of their impending case, but a Wards Precinct spokesman said they are confident Mr. Lafrenius is responsible based off evidence recovered from the scene. He also dismissed earlier, unconfirmed reports of a third body being removed from the site, calling them "completely unsubstantiated" and "without merit".
Neighbors say that the couple had recently fallen on hard times after Mr. Lafrenius was unable to find work, which had led to friction within their marriage. "I heard them fighting a lot," said one, who asked to remain anonymous. "Lots of yelling, mostly from him. I never thought he'd do anything like this, though."
The CCPD say this is not the first time Mr. Lafrenius has found himself on the wrong side of the law. He was arrested six months ago for his participation in a small riot which left three officers injured, sparked from a protest over the shooting of an unarmed elven man. He was able to make bail, and charges against him were later dropped.
Mr. Lafrenius has released a statement maintaining his innocence in the murder of his wife, claiming that he has been "singled out" for his outspoken criticism of CCPD policy in the Wards.
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Post by beets on Sept 13, 2015 7:00:37 GMT -5
I looked into that Thacker guy you asked about. Sorry it took so long, but there wasn't much for me to go on. He has no priors to speak of, which is more than a little unusual for a Streeter.
I can confirm he's a Calidor native, born and bred. Grew up near Apple Street, actually, before the gang existed in its current incarnation. Lost his parents, Simon and Lucille Thacker, to a murder-suicide when he was eleven. His dad got drunk, got a revolver, and emptied it into Lucille's head while she was napping. Then he reloaded and went outside to wander the street; probably looking for his son, who had the good fortune to be away on an errand. Simon found two constables instead, and decided to eat a bullet rather than explain where all the blood on his clothes came from. The young Thacker got sent off afterward to live with his great-uncle, a scrivener in the Trade Quarter, only to end up back in the docks a few years later when said uncle keeled over from a bum ticker. I'm guessing he was living hand to mouth the way street kids do; no real record of his activities during this time, obviously. The trail picks up again later, at seventeen, when he started working at a meat packing plant. He eventually fell in with the owner's nouveau riche son, one William Whelan, Jr.
William was mostly a wannabe, but he led a small crowd, if you could call it that, comprised of scamps and ne'er-do-wells he worked with at the Packery. Your guy was one of those. They never pulled any major jobs; mainly just protected the Packery's (and therefore, Whelan Sr.'s) interests by harassing his unprotected (read: not being extorted by the Wolves or the Del Mazzi) competition. They also broke up a couple of minor labor movements, again almost certainly at Sr.'s behest. By now the Apple Street Gang was in its nascency and your guy had quit his job at the Packery, so it's possible he started courting A.S.G. around this time. As for the short-lived Whelan Gang: Junior and his elven mistress got popped in the Wards three years ago. Whelan's family managed to keep most the details surrounding his death out of the public sphere, but from what I gather the crime scene looked like something out of a horror story. The CCPD charged the mistress' husband - who had been unaware his wife was moonlighting as a prostitute - and got a conviction, but Husband just so happened to be a known 'subversive element' and general pain in the Ward Precinct's collective ass, so who knows what the real story is there. Thacker's been floating around the periphery of the A.S.G. ever since, but he seems to have officially made his bones sometime in the last three or four months. He's still managed to keep a relatively low profile, which, again, is weird for a Streeter. He does have a penchant for substance abuse, though. During the two weeks I observed him, he spent enough time in opium dens to kill several mules. I also hear he has a sweet tooth for the black tar that started coming out of New Hope a couple years back.
And so there you have it: a report in long-form telling you a whole lot of nothing. I have to say, I think you may have wasted your money on this one; guy seems like a nobody to me. And no - that doesn't mean I'm going to waive my usual fee.
-C.S
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Post by beets on Dec 5, 2016 7:35:49 GMT -5
Calidor, 1751
The revolver was unimpressive as guns went. It was small. The cylinder and trigger guard looked too large for the rest of it, and its skinny wooden handle was at least three times longer than its stubby barrel. It looked comically ineffectual. In spite of all that, Ben felt a little thrill run through him when he picked it up. He turned it one way, then the other, examining both sides. Then he laid it back down atop the ratty patch of quilt. "I don't think this is a good idea," he said. He didn't look at the person he was talking to, the one sitting on the other side of the quilt. He already knew she'd be wearing a scowl.
"It's a great idea," Susanne shot back, and the annoyance in her tone all but confirmed the scowl. "Here, look." She snatched up the gun, pointing at a small button on its frame. "You press this to load it." She demonstrated, making the cylinder swing out. Ben could see it was empty, but there was a collection of .32 caliber bullets strewn across the quilt.
"S'not what I meant. Knowing how to load it won't make this a good idea." He finally dared a look at her. She was still scowling, but it was directed at the weapon now; she was trying to snap the cylinder back into place with a flick of the wrist and it wasn't cooperating. She'd dolled herself up as part of the plan she concocted. Years on the street had left her skinnier than she should be, but she was growing out of an awkward phase and into undeniable good looks: a heart-shaped face framed by russet hair, full lips made to look fuller still by the lipstick, chartreuse eyes that were a shockingly vivid counterpoint to her eyeshadow. It occured to Ben, not for the first time, that he was really starting to like looking at her. Especially when she didn't notice. "Where'd you learn all this shit about guns?"
"Margaret showed me." Margaret was older, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and had given Susanne the gun. She was also the closest thing Susanne had to family. Ben didn't know their full history, but he knew they'd known each other for at least a few years before he'd entered the picture; maybe even since before Margaret became a working girl. He didn't think Marg liked him very much, but she tolerated him. He was big for his age, and that helped dissuade some of the other street kids from getting ideas about Susanne. He suspected that Susanne was aware of this as well, and that it was the main reason she had befriended him in the first place. He still liked to think that their friendship had become genuine over the past ten months.
He'd had an easier time of it than Suse, at least. He'd only been homeless for a little over a year, ever since his Uncle David up in the Trades had died. David had been fond of hearty food and drink, and it had caught up with him. Ben had found him facedown in the foyer one morning, dressed to the nines and wearing his raincoat. If his heart had lasted another five minutes, he would have collapsed in the bustling street instead; he might have gotten help fast enough to survive. Ben felt guilty, sometimes, like maybe he should have heard his uncle's dying gasps and come to help. The two of them weren't particularly close, but Ben owed him at least that much. He'd taken the boy in after the... accident. Their relationship had been one borne of duty rather than affection, and it had never blossomed into genuine warmth. Ben understood why, even if somewhat subconciously: he was a living, breathing reminder of what had happened, and he looked a lot like the man who had killed David's niece. It wasn't fair to hold that against Ben since that niece was his mother, but the world wasn't fair. He'd been given ample evidence of that.
Still, his uncle had kept him clothed and fed. David had ran his own business, hand-copying legal documents and writing correspondence for people who couldn't read or write themselves; he'd made sure Ben didn't become one of those. He hadn't felt that the boy's sunday school lessons were entirely adequate, and his own were exhausting by comparison. It had taken a lot of his uncle's time and effort. It had caused problems. David was close friends with a man named Ethan, one who was much younger than he was. Ben knew Ethan had resented his presence; he'd overheard enough hushed arguments to gather that much. Ethan had wanted the two older men to spend more time together, as they had before Ben arrived. He wanted to stay in the house. David hadn't thought it appropriate. David, on the other hand, had wanted Ethan to become Ben's godfather; there was literally no one else left in the boy's life, and David was pushing sixty. This hadn't sat well with Ethan, obviously, but he'd eventually let himself be browbeaten into compliance. Ben wasn't exactly thrilled by the prospect either, but he had hoped it was only a formality.
Then David had died, and they'd found out just how shockingly poor he'd been doing. The man had often lamented the advent of modern technology and the effect it was having upon his bottom line, typewriters in particular. He had otherwise been extremely secretive about his finances, even from Ethan; another source of friction in their - in Ben's opinion - strangely intimate friendship. It turned out David had good reason for secrecy; his estate had been teetering on the edge of insolvency. When he died without an heir, it was the bank that stepped in to take his property. And Ethan, upon discovering the only thing left to him in the will was a fifteen year old whom he didn't particularly like, decided to wash his hands of the whole affair. He'd given Ben a twenty dollar bill along with his well-wishes, and that was that. Ben officially became a vagrant. Susanne had since assured him it was better than the alternative, which was being sent away to a Home. She'd run away from one of those. She said there were bad people there and left it at that. Ben got the feeling she didn't want to explain more, so he hadn't pressed.
"How'd you get her to give you that, anyway?" Ben asked, gesturing to the firearm.
"I told her I needed a way to protect myself when you're not around."
He felt a swell of pride at that. "Where'd she get it?"
"I don't know. Didn't ask. Here, you try it." She'd finally snapped the cylinder back into place, and she thrust the gun toward Ben. He eyed it uncertainly, so she thrust it out even further. He sighed and took the revolver from her. Then he thumbed the release button, making the cylinder swing out with a click. "See? It's easy," Susanne said, then slid around to his side of the quilt, sitting so close to him that their hips touched. "Then you cock it by going like this..." She guided his thumb to the hammer.
"I know that. I'm not stupid, Suse." He didn't really feel the disdain he was trying so hard to inflect; he was too distracted by how soft and warm her thigh felt through the dress, and how smooth her hands were.
"What's the problem, then?" She smirked at him. "You scared?"
Ben snorted in response. "Yeah, you aren't?"
That gave her pause. She nodded after a couple of seconds, a rare admission of fallibility. "A little bit. But what else are we gonna do? Do you want to sleep in the rain again? Keep hoping for fat cops in the market, or eat out of trash cans?" They were familiar with all three by then. Getting by wasn't always pretty; it involved a lot of begging, a lot of stealing, and a lot of running... both from the law and from people who were bigger or stronger or just plain meaner than you; people who had some reason to want a teen with no family and no one to come looking for him. That reason was never good. "Look, it'll be safe," she said. "Safe enough," she corrected herself a moment later. "Marg goes hookin' in that part of town a lot. It's just right around the corner from the Sea Gate... there's not many coppers."
Ben frowned. "It's the Trade Quarter. 'Not many coppers' in the Trades is still more than we ever see down here."
"Maybe. But we'll only be there for a little bit, right? We just need to get one guy. You don't think I can lure one in quick?" She leaned into him, staring at him with those queerly bright green eyes, puckering her lips and blowing fish-kisses. "You don't think I'm pretty enough?" Ben felt his cheeks getting hot and looked away, flustered. She looked pretty, yes; though that wasn't the only word he'd use for it. She'd 'borrowed' some clothing from Marg's tiny one-room flat, clothes that were meant to make men think about more than just how pretty she was.
As for her plan, she had good reason to be desperate. Marg had let them rest at her place from time to time, whenever she wasn't 'seeing clients', but that had recently come to an abrupt halt; she'd told them she wasn't allowed to anymore, and that they needed to find someplace else to stay. Someplace else had become alleys like the one they currently inhabited, and whatever doorways they could sleep in without being chased off. There were halfway houses and shelters for people like them, but they were almost always full. That and Susanne had a deep and abiding distrust of sleeping around strangers, especially older ones. It seemed related to her time in the Home.
"Not just coppers I'm worried about," Ben said. He'd seen Marg turn up with extra foundation caked over a bruise or a black eye more than once. The man Susanne caught in her trap might have a temper. A bad one.
"That's why I've got you. And why you'll have this." Her hands wrapped around his, making him cradle the revolver. "We just gotta do it this once, just until we get somethin' else figured out. Marg pulled the rug out from under us, that's the only reason we're doin' this."
He stared at her, his brow furrowed, and she stared back. He was the one to relent. "Alright," he said, the word coming out as part of a resigned sigh. Susanne grinned, then leaned in to plant a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. In that moment she might have convinced him to die for her.
***
The walk to the Trade Quarter had been largely uneventful. They hadn't drawn attention in the docks; neither bedraggled young men nor brazenly painted hussies were a particularly rare sight there. The worst had been passing through the Sea Gate and its trusty garrison of police, but even they hadn't shown much interest. One of the younger deputies had whistled an appreciative cat-call that earned him a glare from both Ben and the officer in charge, but they were otherwise ignored. After that they turned right onto Duan Road, then stayed course for several blocks. It wasn't long until the truth of Susanne's words was made manifest. The buildings lining the street were becoming steadily more ramshackle, the sight of blue jackets more and more rare; being replaced by fast women with loose morals and more than a few gigolos to boot. The sex workers strutted like peacocks, displaying garish clothing or lack thereof, dyed hair, piercings... whatever minor advantage might set them apart from their fellows, might make them unique enough to tantalize a blue-collar man's imagination, or maybe even a vaunted clerk. By now the sun had set and the clientele were starting to filter into the scene as well; punters come from work to crane their necks, filling their eyes (and sometimes their hands) with the flesh being peddled there. Susanne had led them to a less trafficked area at the end of the street, one where they wouldn't be as closely observed. Then she'd crossed over to the opposite side of the lane. "Time to go fishing," she'd said, with a playful grin that hadn't reached her eyes. Now Ben was sitting at the base of a sickly, dying tree, keeping an eye on her and hoping he was doing a passable job at looking inconspicuous. The gun was tucked into the back of his waistband. The metal felt cool against his skin, but it didn't do anything to calm his nerves.
Susanne hadn't attracted any gentleman callers yet, and he was quite alright with that. Now that they were actually here, he found himself hoping more than ever that they'd go back to the docks emptyhanded. Rooting in the trash for food was unpleasant, but it wasn't that dangerous, either; not unless you ate something that had gone to rot. That was still a preferable kind of danger to this. His eyes swept up and down the street, settling on a slightly overweight man standing on his side of the road. The fellow was looking at Susanne, his face indecisive. He was decently dressed and looked clean; he definitely wasn't used to going hungry. Middle-class type. A promising target, no doubt, but Ben was trying to will him away. Don't do it, he thought. Plenty of fish in the sea. Jog on.
The man looked on the cusp of doing just that, but then he changed his mind. He stepped down into the gutter, crossing the road at a brisk pace, beelining toward Susanne on the other side.
God damn it. Fuck.
Ben's eyes bored a hole in his back as he stepped up to Susanne and began to speak. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, laughed at something he said. He went on, and she bit her bottom lip. It made Ben's stomach roil, but it relaxed somewhat when her eyes flitted over to seek his; to make sure he was still there and watching over her. The man was saying something else now, gesturing at the mouth of the alleyway behind her. Ben narrowed his eyes and reached toward the small of his back, waiting for her response...
... and then his field of vision was suddenly obscured by a pair of breasts so enormous that they threateaned to pop the seams of their bustierre.
"Hullo, luv," their owner said in a dulcet tone. Her breath smelled like brandy and halitosis. "D'ya like what ya see?"
Ben blinked and looked up at her face. The woman was past her prime, but her cherry-red lips were still split wide in her best come-hither smile, her glassy eyes only slightly unfocused. He could see a bit of her lipstick had rubbed off on a yellow tooth. "Ten bucks and I'll bring m'girls out for a propa look. Throw in anotha fiver, and I'll let ya play wiv 'em."
"Uh." It was the only response Ben could muster. He leaned to the side, trying to get a look around her, but the woman swayed with him; those mammoth teats blocking his view of Susanne and her mark.
"Beatrice!" another voice called out, and a second prostitute wobbled up to join the first. She was taller and thinner, with greasy hair and a nest of blackheads passing for a nose. She looked Ben up and down. "What're ye boverin' thiss'un for?" she asked her companion. "Barely old enough to shave, 'e is!" He might have bristled at that under ordinary circumstances, but he was far more concerned with whatever was happening across the street.
"I have to go," he said, and started to rise. The two women had him penned in against the tree trunk.
"Well he's gotta learn somewhere, don't he?" The first whore continued on as though Ben hadn't spoke. "Whaddya say, young fella? Ye want a leg up on becomin' a man? Ye wanna get my legs up?" She reached out to touch his shoulder. "Don't waste your first on some bar wench; you want a lady who knows a thing or two."
Tall & Skinny barked a laugh. "If you're a lady then I'm the empress of Saderia, you old tart!"
Ben was tall enough that he could see over the woman's shoulder once he stood. He looked across the way and saw, with no small measure of alarm, that Suse and the man were now nowhere in sight. "Sorry, but I'm n-"
"Shut yer head," Beatrice snapped at the other woman. "Go getcha own john, you're scarin' moine away!"
"John?!" Skinny guffawed even harder. "You're high as a kite, B. Lookit 'ow dirty 'e is. I bet he in't got five dimes to 'is name. Thiss'un's a street rat for sure."
Beatrice leaned in to squint at Ben and then her her smile turned to a sneer, pretense evaporating as fast as mid morning dew. "Is that true, boy? Are you some kinda guttersnipe?" She sounded indignant; as though he had accosted her and not the other way around.
"Get out of the way, you ugly bitch!" Ben had lost patience. He pushed around the woman's side, then broke into a jog as he crossed the street, his hand dipping back to touch the revolver as he moved. He heard the whore voice one final, aggrieved squawk as he ducked into the alleyway, but he didn't bother looking back.
The alley was much darker than the street, and it reeked of moldering garbage and emptied chamberpots. He stopped long enough to pull the gun out, checking that it was loaded. Then he edged forward. He'd only moved maybe twenty paces when he heard voices ahead of him; one feminine and noticeably distressed, the other low and threatening. He cursed under his breath and picked up his pace, simultaneously praying that Suse was alright, cursing her stupid plan, then praying again that he wouldn't trip and shoot himself in the gloom.
Susanne was sitting in the dirt when Ben rounded the corner, leaning back on her palms as though she'd tripped and fallen backward. The man was standing over her, his trousers pulled down below his flabby ass. "Are you fuckin' daft, girl?" he asked. "Put it in your mouth!"
Suse looked past him and saw Benjamin standing there. The frightened purse of her lips turned to a wide grin. "Nah, guy. I don't think I will."
"Wh-" The stranger was turning, having heard Ben's approach, but he froze when a barrel jammed into the back of his head and a hammer clicked.
"Yeah," Susanne said, "you know what that sound means dontcha, asshole?" She pushed herself to her feet, looking at Ben. "What the hell took you so long?" Ben just shook his head in response. The girl huffed, then looked back to the stranger. "Reach into your pocket and get your wallet out. Slow-like." She grimaced. "And pull your pants up, too. Do that first."
The man made himself decent, then passed over his wallet. Susanne accepted it with that same shit-eating grin, then pointed into a corner with her free hand. "Go stand there. And don't try nothin' stupid now, else my man here's gonna make a mess."
Ben's body was already awash with endorphins; when he heard her say that, he felt like he was going to pass out. She'd pried open the billfold and moved to Ben's side as she counted through it. He heard her gasp, and cast a distracted glance her way. "What?" he asked.
"There's almost three hundred bucks in here."
"What?"
Susanne opened the wallet even wider, turning it so Ben could see the twenties lining it. The former owner was glaring at them, his jaw set tight.
"Well," Susanne said, "thanks for ya business, guy. Maybe didn't turn out the way you wanted it to, but it was good for me." She laughed, and tugged on Ben's arm. "C'mon, let's go." Ben walked backward a few steps, keeping the gun trained on their victim. He'd whirled around and was about to follow her out when the man spoke up.
"Enjoy that money, kid. You messed up. You and your whore girlfriend."
Ben stopped to look over his shoulder. Suse did too, but she kept tugging on his wrist. The man was still glaring at them, eyes narrowed with the naked contempt that every urchin was familiar with. Ben had seen that look on a hundred different faces now; on men and women, cops and dockworkers, young and old, it made no difference. The look was universal. It was the face of someone who thought they were better than you. It reminded him of unpleasant memories, of the rage, despair, and fear he'd become so well acquainted with over the past year; that omnipresent trifecta of emotions that never ever went away - the calling card of the disenfranchised. He was sick to fucking death of seeing that face.
Something welled up inside him, something dark and angry and imperious. You have a gun, it said. He doesn't get to look at you like that; not today.
He was pulling away from Susanne and moving back toward the man before he knew he was going to do it; a passenger in his own body. His hand was pointing the revolver at the man's face. "What did you say?"
The fight had bled out of the stranger as quickly as it appeared. "Look, I didn't mean nothin'. Just.. take the money and go, yeah?"
"I wanna know what you just said to me." A steeliness had stolen into his voice that he hadn't know he possessed. That cold fury was still rising, threatening to rage out of control. He liked the feeling.
The stranger's eyes moved between Ben's face and the .32. "I di-"
"Tell me what you said."
He swallowed with an audible click. "I said you messed up."
"You said somethin else, too. You called her something." Ben thumbed to Susanne, who was watching the exchange in silence. "What did you call her?"
The man was starting to look scared again, now. Ben liked that, too, because he knew he was its artist. He'd created it. "I, uh, I... I shouldn't have called her that," the man stammered. "I'm sorry. You got my money."
"Yeah; now I want more than that. Get on your knees."
"What?"
"Get on your knees."
"Ben?" Susanne finally spoke, and there was a note of concern in her voice. The man's eyes looked past Ben, toward her, and Ben shook the gun in his face.
"Don't look at her," Ben spit out. "She can't help you. You don't fucking look at her, you look at me, you understand?" He could feel blood thrumming in his ears, hear his own heartbeat hammering away in them. His mouth was dry.
"Alright, alright; take it easy. I'll do it." The man lowered himself to the ground, and the gun tracked him. His knees popped along the way, making him wince, and Ben was struck by how pathetic he looked; gut sagging halfway down to his knees, hairline receded halfway up his head, his terrified, piggy little eyes. It might have evoked pity in some, but it only made Ben angrier. He waggled the barrel in front of the man's face again.
"Put it in your mouth," Ben said.
"Wh-what?"
"Ben?" Susanne again. Ben ignored her.
"Are you fuckin' daft, chum?" Ben asked the kneeler. "Put it in your mouth."
"Oh, God." The man looked like he was about to vomit. His eyes flicked between Ben's and the gun. He whimpered and opened his mouth. His lips recoiled as if burnt when they touched the metal barrel, but they closed around it.
"You can do better," Ben said. "Were you gonna settle for the tip with her? Get it all in there."
The man slid his head forward until his bottom lip was nearly touching the trigger guard; making the barrel disappear into his mouth. He was whimpering constantly now, his gaze fixed on the cylinder and the bullets clearly visible within it.
Ben was acutely aware of the power he held over this stranger's life; almost drunk with it. With one squeeze, those beady eyes would close forever. His finger felt heavy.
"You can't kill him," Susanne said.
Ben turned his head just enough to look at her, and saw that her eyes were practically on fire; wide and fervent. "You can't kill him," she repeated, "but you can hurt him."
She smiled.
Ben smiled back.
Then he yanked the revolver from the man's mouth, and brought the grip down hard on the bridge of his nose. There was a crack, blood burst from his nostrils. The man screamed and fell onto his side.
Ben kicked him in his fat, hanging belly. The impact wasn't impressive enough, so he kicked him again, then a third time. The fourth one connected with the man's solar plexus, and his screaming terminated with a loud whooshing sound. That pissed Ben off too, for some reason; so the next kick hit the man in the mouth.
A window slammed open somewhere above them. "Oi, I told you whores t- oi! What the feck! What are you doin down there?! Somebody help!"
"Come on!" Susanne hollered. She grabbed hold of his wrist again and tugged. Ben resisted long enough to kick the man in the head one last time. Then he turned to follow her. They ran hard through the twisting alley, hand in hand. At some point Ben did trip, skidding hard on his chest, but he barely noticed it through the adrenaline. Suse barked a laugh and helped him to his feet so they could run some more.
They were both laughing when they found an exit from the alley. By the time they reached the Sea Gate, they sounded like loons.
***
A fraction of the money got them both hot meals and hotter baths at the nearest shelter. It also got them their own private room. The owner had initially claimed there was no vacancy, but cash made for a great persuader. That night, Susanne told him there was no reason for him to sleep on the floor. They'd slept next to each other plenty of times outside of beds, she argued, and Ben couldn't refute her rationale. It felt like a logical next step. And when they couldn't sleep and she decided to show him some of the other things you could do in a bed, that felt like a natural progression, too. He had less than no idea what he was doing, but she didn't seem to mind. She was surprisingly patient, and, as it turned out, a good teacher.
He didn't think to ask how much of it she'd learned from Marg.
***
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Post by beets on Dec 10, 2016 1:06:56 GMT -5
Two things became apparent very quickly after the robbery: money never went as far as you wanted, and those without had an uncanny knack for sniffing out sudden changes of fortune among their fellows. Ben and Susanne used the same room for two days before it was broken into on the morning of the third; luckily, they'd been smart enough to keep the cash on hand. Ben suggested a lodging house after that, somewhere at least slightly more private, where they wouldn't be so closely scrutinized by the other occupants, but Susanne thought them too expensive. She also worried they might be questioned about the money. They wouldn't have had to worry much about that if they'd settled for a simple mugging; a man wasn't likely to report that to the police, not when he'd been out on the prowl. A beating, though? With at least one witness? Ben was starting to curse himself over his lack of self control. It had felt good in the heat of the moment and he didn't exactly regret it - he figured that fat cunt probably had it coming anyway - but it added unnecessary complication after the fact. Neither one of them had dared showed their face in the Trades since that night, and they pointedly avoided the cadre of police at the Sea Gate.
Then there was the potential for an encore felony. Ben had happily taken Susanne at her word when she said it would be a once-off occurrence; but as the ill-gotten fruit of their labor began to dwindle, so too did her dedication. It had started with small observations and beating around the bush. It would be nice if they'd 'made' more, she said, because she'd like some clothes that weren't threadbare. Ben pointed out they still had plenty enough to justify a modest expenditure on clothing, and that had put a temporary stop to it. Until the next day, when she made the observation that any clothes she bought would eventually become just as run-down as their predecesors. How nice would it be if they could easily afford a lot of new pairs, just so they wouldn't have to worry about it for a while? Ben didn't care as much about his clothing as he did the state of his shoes. Shoes were more expensive, though, so he didn't dare bring that up. There was an off chance that she hadn't already considered that angle, and he wasn't about to draw attention to it. But the observations had gone on, becoming more and more pointed. Their inability to stow the cash and the likelihood it would be taken away from them had induced a sort of mild hysteria; they began to spend it as quickly as they could, haunted by the prospect of losing it before they could use it. Ben had to admit the thought of committing another hold-up was more appealing by the day, especially under threat of their impending return to poverty. It wasn't realistic to sustain themselves that way, though; they might get away with it for a while, provided they widened their net and avoided preying on the same places too often, but sooner or later they'd run out of luck. They already had a clear deficiency of it, given their homelessness.
Ben sighed and uncrossed his legs, letting them hang over the edge of the terrace he was sitting on, heels drumming against the stone. The fish market spread out beneath his vantage point, brightly colored canopies and lean-tos hemmed in by drab warehouses and squat wharves. This was one of he and Susanne's favorite places to kill time. They'd come and survey the traffic below, looking for inattentive fishmongers or simply watching the market goers. She liked to make up elaborate, often comical stories about who they were; he settled for quiet observation. He found that most people behaved very differently depending on whether or not they knew they were being actively watched, and it always fascinated him.
He'd been waiting for Susanne for a few hours now. A note from Margaret had been left with the man who owned the shelter, asking them to come and see her. Ben found it a little unusual he was invited, but he suspected Suse had told the older girl about their little adventure. They kept little in the way of secrets from one another, and Ben knew the lie about the gun was weighing heavily on Susanne's conscience. She'd tried to get him to go along with her, but he'd waved it off. He assumed a lecture would be forthcoming from Marg, and he had no desire to subject himself to even worse glowering than usual. He would have thought the visit would be over by now, but it wasn't unusual for the girls to spend entire days together, jabbering on and on about absolutely nothing as only women could. Those tête-à-têtes had become rarer now, what with Marg's 'job', so they probably had a lot of time to make up. It made him feel jealous. It was an ugly feeling, one he felt ought be beneath him given that he'd technically been the one to intrude upon their friendship, but he felt it anyway. He knew the girls shared something deeper than he and Susanne did, even despite their newfound physical intimacy.
He'd lost his taste for people-watching. He stood and dusted the seat of his pants, wandering off in the direction of the shelter, hoping Susanne would be there. He doubted the pair had stayed at Marg's place; the older girl didn't like being there when she wasn't working. He weaved through the afternoon crowds unnoticed, most of them lost in their own heads and oblivious to the cacophony; their manner peculiar to those who had grown up surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the big city.
It wasn't until he approached the entrance of his new, temporary home that he felt the first pang of unease. There was a four-wheeled coach parked in the street out front, one far too expensive to have any business there. A dark haired, olive-skinned man played sentry near the horses, keeping tabs on the shelter door. He was broad shouldered and squat, his dark red jacket looking a size too small on his massive frame. A gorilla in a suit was the phrase a penny dreadful might have described him as; but people on the docks had a different term: button man. His head swiveled to where Ben was frozen in the street, tendons tight in his beefy neck. Flinty eyes gave the younger man a once over, and Ben knew immediately that the gorilla was there for him.
He'd given the revolver to Susanne that morning. He'd thought she needed it more than he did.
His legs tensed, preparing to bolt.
"I wouldn't," an accented voice behind him said. Something hard and metal jabbed into the small of his back. "Walk toward the carriage." Ben had barely opened his mouth before the gun stabbed into him even harder. "Shut up. Walk."
They crossed the street together, his unseen assailant laying a hand on his shoulder to guide him. His skin was the same color as the gorilla's. The big fellow moved to the opposite side of the carriage and climbed in, making it cant to one side. Ben and his escort moved up to the other door.
"Open it and get in." The accent sounded Matagán.
Ben's looked at the carriage driver. He was pale and elderly, white around the temples, and staring straight ahead as though his neck was bolted into place.
"Get in."
Ben opened the door and climbed inside. His escort followed suit, and he found himself sandwiched between his captors; the three of them so close their shoulders touched. The gunman wasn't as broad-shouldered as his accomplice, but he somehow managed to look even more dangerous; a nasty scar ran from the left side of his mouth about halfway up his cheek, leaving him with a permanent sneer. Ben got a look at the gun, as well. It was the sort fed by a magazine, the kind that could fire just as fast as you pulled the trigger. The man reached across his body with it, burying the muzzle between Ben's ribs, angling it so the bullet would pass through Ben and into the seat rather than his fellow. "Don't speak," he said. His partner reached up to bang the roof of the cab, and the carriage lurched away from the curb.
They rode in silence. Ben could feel sweat prickling on his scalp and the back of his neck, then on his palms. There was only one reason he could imagine why they'd want him. It was ironic he'd spent most of a week fretting about police. He followed the coachman's example, staring straight ahead, too afraid to risk a glance out the side windows. The one in front was set high in the carriage and partially obstructed by the driver's head; he couldn't see anything except for passing rooftops. He scanned them anyway, hoping to get his bearings, but it was little use.
He didn't know how long had passed by the time they stopped. The gorilla said something in a language Ben didn't understand, and the gunman made a brusque reply. Then he pushed open the door and slid out of the cab. He turned to point the pistol at Ben. "Out." Ben obeyed, moving slowly so the goon wouldn't put one in him. His stomach sank when he realized where they were. It was Margaret's flat.
He'd watched more than a few public executions in Calidor, because no self respecting native hadn't attended at least one. It was during the long walk to the Block itself when you found out what sort of performance you were in for; whether the prisoner would meet his end stoically, or throw dignity under the wagon to cry and beg. Ben had a keen appreciation for their plight as he was led up the broken paving stones to Marg's door. He'd never given much consideration to his own death; in retrospect he knew he'd had plenty of reason to, but it had never seemed healthy... or a real possibility. Self-delusion was both mankind's greatest gift and its most awful curse. Now that the specter of his mortality was center stage, he found rational thought eclipsed by it, his senses overwhelmed. He was numb with terror, his thoughts muddied and mute, focused only on escape. A hundred scenarios ran through his head as the door loomed, but every one ended in failure and death; he was paralyzed by the stakes, unwilling to risk it.
The door swung open before they reached it. The man on the other side was strikingly handsome; tall and tawny-skinned like his fellows, with a long, angular face. His hair was jet black, matching his neatly trimmed beard, and swept back from his forehead. He was wearing a dark, wine colored waistcoat over grey slacks; the fabric looked expensive, probably more than they'd lifted off the fat man in the Trades.
"The guest of honor arrives," he said, hands spreading out to welcome them. There was no trace of an accent when he spoke. "You must be Benjamin. You make any trouble for my friends here?" He looked behind Ben as he spoke, the question directed to the goons. One must have shaken his head, because the leader smiled. "Bene." His eyes returned to the teen. "Come on in, you're expected." Then he disappeared through the door. They filed in after him, the gunman following Ben, the gorilla at the rear.
Susanne was huddled in a corner near the bed, hands bound behind her back, a bloody gag between her lips. Wet, red-rimmed eyes fixed on Ben as he entered the room, relief and regret vying within them; consolation and apology rolled into one. A tear spilled down the bruise on her cheek.
"She didn't give you up easy," the Matagán said. "It woulda been better if you'd come with her, but what's done is done."
Ben felt a surge of anger, his hands balling into fists. The man behind him must have sensed it, because he pistol-whipped him. Ben's vision flashed white and his knees unhinged, dropping him to the floor. He heard Suse emit a muffled scream, and the ringleader laughed. "Easy, Bruno," he said. "I need him awake and alert, yeah?"
Two pairs of hands grabbed Ben around the shoulders, hauling him into the chair, holding him in place. He could feel blood dripping down the back of his neck. The leader came closer, snapping his fingers in front of Ben's face. "You still with us?" he asked. "You been a bad boy."
"What..." Ben started, struggling to focus. His ears were ringing. "I don't-"
"Oddio, he's gonna try to play dumb. Don't fuck with me, kid. I already went through this with the girl." He lowered himself to a squat so his eyes were on level with Ben's. "Tell me something. Are you and her fuckin'?"
Ben stared, unsure if he'd heard correctly. "What's that got to do-"
"Yeah," the Matagán answered himself. "Yeah, you are. See, Margaret thought it was all your idea, once she figured out what you'd done. Thought you talked the girl into it. Me, I think maybe it was the other way around. I don't blame you; it's hard to resist, especially from a pretty thing like that. A man never forgets his first. Hey, Bruno, you remember your first whiff of fica?"
"Yeah," Ben heard from his right.
"See?" the man continued. "It stays with you for life. Makes you feel like you got grandi palle," he dropped his hands between his legs, made a cupping motion with them. "Like you got the biggest set on the block. It'll get a fella into trouble. Make him do stupid things."
Ben stayed quiet, resisting the urge to look at Susanne. The Matagán grinned.
"Sweet Susannah there didn't tell on you, if that's what you're thinkin'. But Margaret's a smart girl; a good girl, unlike somebody we know. The place where you hit that guy? That's my place. A guy gets hit in my neck of the woods, the same night your girl cons Margie into givin' her a piece? Don't take much to put two and two together." His smile was humorless, now. "My piece, no less. You think about that for a minute. My Marg gets tricked into handin' over one of my guns, and then you take it into my fuckin' place, and you rob one of my customers. All this after I give folk my solemn vow that this sorta shit won't happen there... that their custom's sacred to me. How do you think that makes me feel?"
Ben knew his life probably hung on his next choice of words, but he couldn't think of a single thing to say. The Matagán smirked.
"I know that neighborhood ain't much to look at," he said. "Let's be honest; it's a real shit-hole. It's still mine, though. It's my proving ground, my ticket uptown. Then you come in and make me look like a ciuccio who can't handle his business. Does that seem right to you? That seem right to you, Nic?"
"No," Ben heard from his left, now. The thugs' leader stared at Ben, expecting a response.
"I'm sorry," Ben said. "I didn't... know it was yours."
"Ignorance is no excuse, my friend. You're lucky I'm a magnanimous kinda guy. I could put a hole in you, dump you in the harbor, call it a day. But nobody really learns from that, do they? It might make me feel better, but nothing's really gained. S'why I always give people one warning." He regarded Ben coolly. "Today's gonna be your warning."
Ben felt a flood of cautious hope. "We won't do it again if you let us go; won't even go to the Trades again. We promise."
"It really brightens my day to hear that. But you're gettin' ahead of yourself. I'm afraid it ain't gonna be all sunshine and lollipops. I used to let folk off with just a verbal, if you will, but then they had a nasty habit of takin' advantage of my generosity. So now, we like to provide what you might call... a little physical and psychological reinforcement." He looked at Ben's hands. "You ain't a southpaw, are ya?"
"What?" Ben felt his stomach sinking all over again.
"You wanna answer that. It's gonna be worse if you don't. Which hand did you hold my gun with?"
"Right... why-" He cut off with a frightened grunt as a pair of enormous arms wrapped around his chest. The gunman was pulling on his right arm, wrestling it away from his body, forcing him to flatten his palm out on the crate, fingers splayed. "Stop, what-"
The thug raised the handgun over his head like a club, then brought the handle down hard on Ben's right index finger. Ben heard the bone crunch and screamed.
"You brought this on yourself, kid," the leader said.
Ben struggled, trying to get away, but the arms around his chest wouldn't budge, and the gunman's grip was like a vice around his wrist. The pistol went up, came down on his middle finger. The sound was sharper this time. So was the pain. Suse screamed with him; he saw her struggle to her feet, try to run toward him. The Matagán caught her by the waist and hurled her back into the corner, into the wall. "Sit still or we'll do both his hands!"
Then gun rose and fell, rose and fell. It took three swings when it came to his thumb, and by then Ben had screamed himself hoarse. He was clammy and pale, his tunic soaked through with sweat. His arm was on fire, pain knifing through his forearm, throbbing all the way up his shoulder. He'd never felt anything so horrible in his life.
"Got through it like a trooper, Benjamin," the ringleader said. "Now we come to the next part. Get him up, Nic. Brun, fetch the girl. I've been waitin' all day to show her this." He crossed the room, taking up position near a door off to the side of the bed; a closet, by Ben's recollection. The youth groaned as he was hauled to his feet, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through his mangled fingers. He and Susanne were herded over, Ben dragged more than he was shoved. As they drew closer he noticed Margaret's clothes were laying in a haphazard pile outside the closet, still on their hangars. It filled him with dread, but he wasn't quite sure why.
The Matagán opened the door. Susanne screamed again, and this time she didn't stop.
Margaret was hung from the clothes rack by a belt. Her face was so blue it was nearly black, her tongue swollen between her lips. Her eyes bulged. The tiny blood vessels in her sclerae had burst under pressure, turning them crimson.
"She was a good girl," the Matagán said, "but she'd already got her warning."
Ben's gorge was rising. He gagged, head swimming, trying to look away from the corpse.
The ringleader gave them time to soak in the spectacle, or maybe so he could appreciate Susanne's muffled screams. When they finally died down, he spoke. "Here's what's gonna happen now, Ben. I'm gonna tool on you for a little while." He paused. "Well, that's an understatement. I'm gonna beat you within an inch of your miserable fuckin' life. Once that's over with, we're gonna prop you back up in that chair." He pointed at it. "Then you're gonna watch me fuck your little girlfriend raw. Not because I want to - even though I do - but because I gotta impress a point on her, too. She ain't gonna enjoy it; not at first, anyway. But I'll just bet I can get her singin' to me by the end of it." His grin returned. "'Sides, she's gonna need to know how to take a man's cock. I got a whore that needs replacin', after all."
Susanne shrieked, high and panicked, the sound sending a needle into his heart that even worse than his broken fingers. The gag was distorting her words but he still knew she was calling his name, calling out for help he couldn't provide. He jerked hard against the man holding his arms, tried to launch himself at the leader. He was whirled around and slammed into the wall, a forearm digging into the side of his neck, keeping his cheek pinned to the wood. Pain flared in his arm.
"He-hey, there he is." The Freeman was grinning when his face slid back into view. "I was wonderin' when you were gonna man up. Don't change nothin', though; I'm sorry to say you ain't the hero of this story. In your case it's more of a tragedy."
"I can... pay you back," Ben managed to croak out. "Please."
"How the fuck you gonna do that? Ever heard the phrase 'robbin' Leah to pay Matt'? You might as well say I'm all three Saints rolled into one, my friend, because I represent a higher power. The people I work for own this fuckin' city and everyone in it." He reached up to pat Ben's shoulder. "You better save up, anyway. You're gonna need money if you ever want another crack at her l'il cunny." His lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Even if it's gonna be a lot more broke in than you remember."
"Don't... have to do this." Ben could feel tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, and hated himself for it. "Please." His mind was whirling, trying to comprehend what was happening, to find an out.
The Matagán leaned in, lowering his voice, almost whispering. "Don't have to. Want to. There's two kinds of people in the world, right? There's wolves, and there's sheep. Nobody wants to be a sheep. Nobody admits to bein' a sheep. They gotta be shown they're a sheep. You're past due." He straightened, then started rolling up his sleeves. "And me? I'm about to have one hell of a good time with the showin'."
***
It was just over an hour later when Ben was pushed from the back of a moving carriage and onto the corner of a busy street. He couldn't tell where, because both his eyes were swollen nearly shut. Blood bubbled on his lips and from his nostrils. He could only pray it was from his broken nose and split lips instead of somewhere deeper inside him, like down in his chest, where he felt a stabbing pain every time he breathed.
He could hear someone shouting, feel the presence of others around him. A woman's voice spoke, but it sounded like he was hearing it from underwater. She faded in and out as he struggled to remain conscious.
"...just stand there... help him... -or God's sake, do somethi-..."
Hands grabbed underneath his shoulders. He groaned when his broken fingers brushed someone's sleeve.
"...the clinic... make a stretcher..."
He tried to speak, his jaw throbbing in protest. "Sus-..." The touch of his tongue made his teeth wobble in their sockets.
He could still hear the sounds she had made. The sounds the man had made. He didn't want to. He wanted to stop remembering.
His head lolled back, and everything went dark.
***
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