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tampered2007-04-07 06:43 pm
shit-stings.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-04-07 06:43 pm
(no subject)
When; Friday, April 6th, Late-night
Rating; R, violence and language
Characters; Elle Driver![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
venomouselle, Budd shit_stings
Summary; The two meet sooner than expected and, as is in their nature, a fight insues.
Log; Elle looked all over the house for another pack of Red Apples. No dice. Now was not the time at all for being without nicotine. Grumbling to herself, she grabbed a dark coat. Just a few minutes she told herself and then I'll be back and plan this shit properly.
Shit. Budd. "I don't believe this." And she was out the door
--
Budd took to the streets of 'The City' slowly, joints and muscles still fighting him. Fuck, he was messed up; this whole thing was damaged. The former assassin was still quite convinced that this was some trippy shit that happened before her actually keeled over and died. None of his usual, persisting wants were satisfied, though. His attempts to drink himself to shit the previous evening were mostly unsuccessful, nothing but bitch-beer and horse piss in the whole god-forsaken shithole. On a strip of seedy-looking shops, however, he was sure to find something soothing, unhealthy, and cheap as hell.
--
Elle crossed the center of the City, passing the carousel. She didn't want to think she was nervous enough to be looking over her shoulder.
What was Budd really going to do? From the sound of it, the Mamba venom had him pretty bad. In addition to that, he's unarmed. Thinking more on this set her at ease.
--
He came upon a hole-in-the-wall joint, filthy guy bent over the counter, made specifically for tobacco-and-alcohol-scouting sleeze. Ajusting his hat, squinting through the neons that were getting real annoying real fast, he slipped in, casting the clerk a quick nod. With a slow, self-satisfied smile, he noticed the heafty bottles in the corner, shit with no taste but plenty of purpose. Despite the similarity of it all, he refused to offend his sensibilities any more than he had to, and walked to the chilled shelves just as slow, examining the bottles through the glass door with a look that was nearly affection.
--
Elle smiled as she saw her place. They never ran out. She passed through the doors, assulted by the bitting chill of the overly worked air conditioning. Same old sleeze working there every time. Hell, she wouldn't be surprised if that was his only purpose.
"Gimme a pack of Red Apples, make it quick." She spared only a glance around her.
--
His hand had only just reached for the handle of the fridge when he heard that voice. It was short, asking for Red Apples; it was Elle. There was hardly a moment in which Budd frowned, smirked, and moved again, grabbing up his chosen poison and heading for the counter as if it was the most casual thing in the world. As the clerk reached for Elle's cigarettes, Budd slid up easily beside her, despite the struggle with his current state, setting the bottle solidly on the counter, smirking at her. "Smoke's gonna' fuckin' kill you, Elle."
--
Her fingers hand just touched the coveted prize as a figure approached just on the edge of her vision. A radio softly played the Righteous Brothers, "You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling" somewhere in the humm of electricity. The sound of his voice, that gritty low tone cutting through the lull made her go rigid. She slowly turned her head, keeping her movements delibrate and for the most part simple. "Budd."
--
"Bingo," as was seeming tradition to say, however odd it seemed whenever she could actually see him, and he could see her. Now that he was here, though, he didn't really know in what manner to start speaking. Conversation was seemingly easier when he didn't have to be physically faced with the murderous, brother-fawning bitch. So, he started on a borderline joke, "Come here often, sweet-heart?"
--
Elle's single blue eye stared at the man she watched writhe until death. She needed to get away. That much Elle knew. Injured or not meeting up this soon was bad news, meeting up with nothing but the knife in her boot was not what she had in mind for a run in. "That all you can think of?"
--
"Sorry I didn't get time t'prepare a speech," he drawled, watching the clerk warningly as the strange man's eyes leered upon them. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a bill of god-knows-what-currency that he'd been lucky enough to find. He didn't get the bartering thing, but he'd worked through it so far. "Brown bag that shit," he ordered gruffly, scratching idly at one of the light marks left on his cheek, "What're the laws for that kinda' thing around here, jack?" The clerk said nothing, and so, with a quick smile, he supposed there were no laws for that sort of thing. It was a shame, considering that he could hardly find a real drink.
He looked sideways at Driver, keeping his stance and manner relaxed. Despite his tauts, he wasn't that up to facing her in the way she likely suspected. She hadn't tried anything as of yet, though. All he could do was find out what he could and tuck it away for later; at best, they'd come to some sort of agreement concerning the matter. Couldn't kill them.
--
Everything about Budd's presence was an annoyance. The booze, the grin, the stupid hick hat: everything. The snake bite scars were still on his skin, but here he was right as fucking rain most part. Keeping it cool was he?
"They let just anyone in here, don't they," she hissed tucking the cigarettes into her coat pocket. Elle took a step back. Behind her was a mess of water bottles, she casually reached for one.
Strike first, the California Mountain Snake told herself, and strike while the iron is hot. Give him enough bad business and he'll keep the fuck away.
--
He took up his odd purchace in his hand, leaning slightly on the counter as he turned to face her more fully. "Ain't like I look like much trouble." Her ability to put herself on a platform of near-sainthood hardly astonished him. "Think just 'cause you got some over-priced lady-suit, you can snub whoever sticks to jeans." He barked a small, quiet laugh, "You look like a fuckin' dyke."
--
"Looks are deciving," she answered holding onto the waterbottle. All that was needed was the opportunity to get the knife.
Yes, it was always the slurs like that. He knew what buttons to push. Elle wasn't in the mood for taking any of it. The plastic bottle dropped downward, meeting her shin half way causing it to catapult forward at her enemy. This allowed her to pull the blade from her boot in a smooth motion.
--
His reflexes were enough to get him to move, but his hands fumbled as he caught the bottle, and he found himself staring down the short blade that Elle had pulled from her boot. "Wary, huh?" His smirk only faultered for a moment; the wide-eyed man behind the counter had begun to reach for something, as well.
"Thought you were going to wait to pick on me, you bitter, little whore." She hated the names; near everybody hated the way Budd talked to them. He opened to her, back to the counter as he leaned his palms on it, bottles set aside and forgotten. He attempted to take a good breath without giving too much notice and, with a grunt and wincing expression, he turned his weight onto his hands and jumped the counter. Even with a landing as sloppy as his own, he'd have to remember to congratulate himself on the trick later.
To his great joy and satisfaction, the clerk had been reaching for a handgun, and Budd swiped it quickly. "Know how you feel about me shootin', Elle. Frankly, I don't care."
--
Why the hell did everyone fucking have guns for Christsakes? If Elle had more daggers on her, the teller would definately have to go down. Conveinance store. What a joke that was.
"Better to be wary then dead. Had to be gun, huh? That really shows some balls, Budd." She didn't put the blade down but kept very still.
Did the clerk even keep it loaded?
--
Budd, easily enough, wondered the same thing. He was fast enough to shoot her, or at least he figured, and as long as she seemed to realize that fact, he was fine for the moment. He fiddled with the gun for a moment, readying the tool with his eyes on her before his hand moved to aim point-blank, at the store's employee.
The clerk didn't look scared enough, and Budd pulled the trigger to a hollow click. "Stupid, fucking bastard," he chastised quietly, looking more displeased than he had yet to this entire encounter. With an annoyed huff, he shifted, gun clattering to the floor, and he grabbed ahold of the worker's pretend-to-be-something, button-up, pressed collar. He was a skinny guy, and he'd earned a hefty knee to his stomach before Budd, strained and trying not to show it, simply chucked him over the counter towards his former co-worker.
--
Laughter bubbled from Elle's snarling lips. "Unbe-fucking-lievable." This corner store monkey was going to have a change in career.Her humor flew away as he approached her.
The knife slashed out protectively as she edged back, nearly falling against a display of chips and dip. Elle quickly recovered from the near stumble and lurched forward, the blade swung in a downward movement.
--
Fuck. He was breathing too heavy already. "Cut the poor guy to shit, Elle," he hadn't bothered to move from behind the counter quite yet, himself. It provided enough of a barrier while he remained un-armed. This situation, he decided, likely wasn't a good one. While he spotted a small fire-extinguisher stowed behind the counter, he didn't want to reach for it immediately. Instead, his shoulders relaxed with a grumbled, "Fuck, Elle, wheren't you lecturin' me, and your the one what drew." Maybe she'd simply allow him to play this off.
He stepped forward, looking curiously over the register while continuing to watch her. With a little button-mashing, he was able to get the drawer to open for him. Naturally, there wasn't much that was useful in it, but he took what there was and held it loosely. "Might as well sack the fuckin' place, huh?"
--
The unfortunate liqour store clerk fled the scene clutching his bloodied shirt. Elle smirked to herself. Blood was warm and sticky on her fingers. How long had it been since she did something like that? Maybe Budd did have a purpose of sorts.
"No more warm ups." She stepped over the fallen merchandise, kicking a few pieces aside as she approached the counter. "This isn't about fucking up a store, Budd. That's child's play."
--
"Best t'be a kid at heart, sometimes, I guess. Good for your doomed-to-fire-and-brimstone, fuckin' soul." He gave up on the teller machine, though, exhaling heavily and leaning to set one elbow on the counter, watching her casually. "What's it about, then, you're so smart?"
--
"What's this about?" If there was one similarity between Budd and Bill was their fondness for seeking and searching through words. Bill was all meanings and symbols, the beyond and beneath. Budd had his cowboy philosophies that he clung to like a security blanket with mixed cliches. "Never said I was going to heaven or hell, I'm staying right here."
--
"This is about you keeping the fuck away from me. I killed you once, and I can do it again." There was no doubt of that. Elle was certain with the right factors she could do him in again. The problem being was that now Budd was aware and angry. Being in a strange place had him on his toes more so than ever. Then again, it never hurts to threaten.
--
"You sure?" He questioned with a grin, threat doing little to sober his ever-laughing demeanor. Scratching quickly at his chin, he stood straight with a slight crookedness to his step. "You know, Elle," he kept watch on her even as he reached behind him to grab up a tin of chewing tobacco. "I think you've forgotten just who the fuck I am." He stuck a pinch in his mouth, nose scrunching slightly; it wasn't his usual brand, not the usual taste.
Leg shifting forward slighly, he dug the toe of his boot under the fire extinguisher, his planned weapon, "Slipping back, fucking blonde to the root, huh? I gotta' remind you?" All he needed was for her to move again, attack and forget about worrying about his movements.
--
"Forgotten? Oh, but I remember. I remember you. All talk, all wisdom and nothing to back up for it .Call me bitter, call me cheap. Call me what you like but the fucker in your mirror is the one speaking those words. He's old, getting older. He's not what he used to be."
The knife's weight seemed to throb in her hand. "No guns here, cowboy." Feeling confidant, Elle redistrubuted her weight and lashed forward.
--
He shrugged, "Yeah, but that's everybody." Old and getting older, that was. Not everybody was, apparently, all talk; so far as he was concerned, neither was he. While fighting him, though, it was her loss instead of his own.
His leg kicked up as she lunged for him, working enough to let him grab ahold of his make-shift weapon. It was heavy, and he brought it up hard to meet her blade with a scratching of metal. "Don't need guns," he grunted out, still in movement. Plucking the pin from the device with one hand while turning the nozzle with the other, he laughed roughly as the machine's trigger depressed and sent a clouding stream of anti-flamitory foam at his opponent.
--
Elle realized too late that there was an amused smile in his eyes. She only caught this detail right as the edge of the knife met the bright red exterior of a fire extinguisher with an unpleasant gnash sound. "Oh fu--!" Her senses were quite literally scrambled. The only visual sensory she had was burning and useless. The stale heavy foam burned in her nose and mouth. Like a caged animal, she slashed and attempted to remember the lay out of the damn store.
--
He only laughed harder at her near-curse, silencing himself long enough to spit onto the floor and, extinguisher still in hand, hop back over the counter. By now her slashing was off, to his right, and he watched in amusement, avoiding the slippery foam on the floor. It grew old enough pretty quickly, though, and his left hand darted forward to grab her wrist, ceasing her aimless slashing.
"You don't remember nothing, you piece-of-shit bitch." Holding fast to her wrist, keeping her arm up, he swung the emptied fire extinguisher right into her rib-cage as further reminder.
--
Her eye was watering, still not helpful to her situation. Around her was a blur of color. As glad as Elle was to find that she could see it didn't override the panic. He was still there. She could hear something other than the blood rushing through her ears and her own gagging cough.
Elle physically startled when he grabbed a hold of her armed hand. As she hauled back her fist to hopefully smash it against is face the heavy canister hit. She shuttered a gasp as an intense ripple of pain ebbed through her. She fell limp in shock, held up by his arm. Still, she clutched the knife like a cruxifix.
--
He lowered her slightly, breathing thrown but otherwise feeling successful. For good measure, he gave her another good whack to the torso. Eyeing the knife still cluched in her hand for a moment, Budd looked down at her in a mockery of fondness, "Don't make me break your fucking fingers, Elle. Be a good little bitch and drop it, huh?"
--
The second hit was more painful, already broken ribs scraped and jiggled. "F-fuggin...b-bas-stard.." It hurt to breathe.
Drop the knife? Could she even if she wanted too? Elle growled and took a swing at what she guessed was his knee with the opposite arm.
--
The hit was powerful enough to lock his leg and then some. He winced and cursed, second instinct was to shift his weight and kick her back, "And what good's that gonna' do you, huh?"
He huffed slighlty, flexing his newly-disturbed knee as he looked at her quite directly once more, "I'll lever with you, Elle. Drop the fucking knife and get the hell outta' dodge, 'dodge' being this here store, by the way, and I won't even follow you to find out where the fuck you live."
--
Truth be told she hadn't thought about being kicked back. Thoughts were sluggish and quiet to the loud ache. Her tearing eye was clear enough to see him standing over her. Elle dropped her gaze as her shaking fingers loosened around the blade. With a feeble toss, it landed close to the counter. All she had to hope for now was that he keep to his word, she wouldn't last long in a fist fight like this.
"I fuckin'...hate...you." So would mark the end of security in the City. Yet another example that a force beyond her comprehendsion was trying to say that Elle Driver is not invincible.
--
Budd let go of her wrist, letting her drop as he picked up the conquered knife. With another hoarse laugh, even a wink, just to make more fun of her, he responded, "Hate you, too, baby."
She's likely need time before she was more free to get up and move around. He kept her knife in one hand, took up his still-bagged drink in the other, and walked around the mess that they'd made of the store, "Been a pleasure kickin' that fine ass of yours, Elle. We'll have to do it again, some time." Achy as hell, noticably worked, but he felt egotisically lovely about the situation.
--
Slowly, as well as she could, Elle stood up. Her head swam trying to tell her that moving was not a good idea. She braced herself on freezer door. It wasn't the act of standing that was exhausting, it was trying to stay concious. The glass beneath her palm was cool, soothing. The foolish desire of just laying against it came and left. She needed to get the fuck out of here.
Elle made it to the door way, one heavy step at a time. The night air was cool and wet. It made her aware of blood, both her own and the tellers, clinging to her skin. "How do...I know....you aren't going...to follow?"
--
He hadn't expected her up, so soon. He had to give her credit for effort, if nothing else, "Can't swear on honor, can I?" He looked thoughtful for a second, but finally shrugged, "You don't know, now do you?" Another laugh, "When I make deals, though, you can rest assured that I don't throw snakes into the trades."
--
She leaned against the door frame, knuckles white and gripping. Elle did get up too fast. The pulse thumping at her temple was fighting the throbbing in her chest. A daze was fighting to fall over her. If she went home, if Budd followed the heads of a vampire brother and his strange mangerie were at stake. Fuck if that didn't sound asinine. He actually thought she could make it home, how sweet.
Words weren't forming in her mouth properly. Elle would be damned if she didn't try. "Keep your...honor and your deals... The snakes'll be there...one way or another...Isn't that what...we are?"
--
"Inviting me, sister?" It really did seem like she was asking for it, but she'd dropped the knife when prompted by the threat of him following her. As much as that very fact tempted him, he hadn't planned on occupying the entirety of his evening with her, "Want me to break out a secret hand-shake, or something?"
He rolled his eyes; she was just torn to shit, not that he wasn't still proud of himself for it. Taught her at least a bit of a lesson. The smile faded from his face, and he regarded her with a more solemn expression, "Keep your fucking knife, Elle, find somewhere else to hide it." He tossed the blade across the pavement, "Call someone if you got to, I don't care. I said I ain't gonna' follow you, and I ain't."
--
Elle watched the weapon skid and come to a hault. She wanted to take it and throw it into his fucking mocking face. That involved being able to let go of the door frame and being able to aim. Begrudgingly she admited to herself of not being able to do either for the time being. Clumsily she turned, as much as it killed her to disobey the instinct not to, and leaned against the building wall side.
"Next time...my turn...to fuck you up, babe." There was a pay phone up the street. She had to make it there. The radio DJ had "Johnny B. Goode" marking her retreat from the store.
Rating; R, violence and language
Characters; Elle Driver
venomouselle, Budd shit_stingsSummary; The two meet sooner than expected and, as is in their nature, a fight insues.
Log; Elle looked all over the house for another pack of Red Apples. No dice. Now was not the time at all for being without nicotine. Grumbling to herself, she grabbed a dark coat. Just a few minutes she told herself and then I'll be back and plan this shit properly.
Shit. Budd. "I don't believe this." And she was out the door
--
Budd took to the streets of 'The City' slowly, joints and muscles still fighting him. Fuck, he was messed up; this whole thing was damaged. The former assassin was still quite convinced that this was some trippy shit that happened before her actually keeled over and died. None of his usual, persisting wants were satisfied, though. His attempts to drink himself to shit the previous evening were mostly unsuccessful, nothing but bitch-beer and horse piss in the whole god-forsaken shithole. On a strip of seedy-looking shops, however, he was sure to find something soothing, unhealthy, and cheap as hell.
--
Elle crossed the center of the City, passing the carousel. She didn't want to think she was nervous enough to be looking over her shoulder.
What was Budd really going to do? From the sound of it, the Mamba venom had him pretty bad. In addition to that, he's unarmed. Thinking more on this set her at ease.
--
He came upon a hole-in-the-wall joint, filthy guy bent over the counter, made specifically for tobacco-and-alcohol-scouting sleeze. Ajusting his hat, squinting through the neons that were getting real annoying real fast, he slipped in, casting the clerk a quick nod. With a slow, self-satisfied smile, he noticed the heafty bottles in the corner, shit with no taste but plenty of purpose. Despite the similarity of it all, he refused to offend his sensibilities any more than he had to, and walked to the chilled shelves just as slow, examining the bottles through the glass door with a look that was nearly affection.
--
Elle smiled as she saw her place. They never ran out. She passed through the doors, assulted by the bitting chill of the overly worked air conditioning. Same old sleeze working there every time. Hell, she wouldn't be surprised if that was his only purpose.
"Gimme a pack of Red Apples, make it quick." She spared only a glance around her.
--
His hand had only just reached for the handle of the fridge when he heard that voice. It was short, asking for Red Apples; it was Elle. There was hardly a moment in which Budd frowned, smirked, and moved again, grabbing up his chosen poison and heading for the counter as if it was the most casual thing in the world. As the clerk reached for Elle's cigarettes, Budd slid up easily beside her, despite the struggle with his current state, setting the bottle solidly on the counter, smirking at her. "Smoke's gonna' fuckin' kill you, Elle."
--
Her fingers hand just touched the coveted prize as a figure approached just on the edge of her vision. A radio softly played the Righteous Brothers, "You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling" somewhere in the humm of electricity. The sound of his voice, that gritty low tone cutting through the lull made her go rigid. She slowly turned her head, keeping her movements delibrate and for the most part simple. "Budd."
--
"Bingo," as was seeming tradition to say, however odd it seemed whenever she could actually see him, and he could see her. Now that he was here, though, he didn't really know in what manner to start speaking. Conversation was seemingly easier when he didn't have to be physically faced with the murderous, brother-fawning bitch. So, he started on a borderline joke, "Come here often, sweet-heart?"
--
Elle's single blue eye stared at the man she watched writhe until death. She needed to get away. That much Elle knew. Injured or not meeting up this soon was bad news, meeting up with nothing but the knife in her boot was not what she had in mind for a run in. "That all you can think of?"
--
"Sorry I didn't get time t'prepare a speech," he drawled, watching the clerk warningly as the strange man's eyes leered upon them. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a bill of god-knows-what-currency that he'd been lucky enough to find. He didn't get the bartering thing, but he'd worked through it so far. "Brown bag that shit," he ordered gruffly, scratching idly at one of the light marks left on his cheek, "What're the laws for that kinda' thing around here, jack?" The clerk said nothing, and so, with a quick smile, he supposed there were no laws for that sort of thing. It was a shame, considering that he could hardly find a real drink.
He looked sideways at Driver, keeping his stance and manner relaxed. Despite his tauts, he wasn't that up to facing her in the way she likely suspected. She hadn't tried anything as of yet, though. All he could do was find out what he could and tuck it away for later; at best, they'd come to some sort of agreement concerning the matter. Couldn't kill them.
--
Everything about Budd's presence was an annoyance. The booze, the grin, the stupid hick hat: everything. The snake bite scars were still on his skin, but here he was right as fucking rain most part. Keeping it cool was he?
"They let just anyone in here, don't they," she hissed tucking the cigarettes into her coat pocket. Elle took a step back. Behind her was a mess of water bottles, she casually reached for one.
Strike first, the California Mountain Snake told herself, and strike while the iron is hot. Give him enough bad business and he'll keep the fuck away.
--
He took up his odd purchace in his hand, leaning slightly on the counter as he turned to face her more fully. "Ain't like I look like much trouble." Her ability to put herself on a platform of near-sainthood hardly astonished him. "Think just 'cause you got some over-priced lady-suit, you can snub whoever sticks to jeans." He barked a small, quiet laugh, "You look like a fuckin' dyke."
--
"Looks are deciving," she answered holding onto the waterbottle. All that was needed was the opportunity to get the knife.
Yes, it was always the slurs like that. He knew what buttons to push. Elle wasn't in the mood for taking any of it. The plastic bottle dropped downward, meeting her shin half way causing it to catapult forward at her enemy. This allowed her to pull the blade from her boot in a smooth motion.
--
His reflexes were enough to get him to move, but his hands fumbled as he caught the bottle, and he found himself staring down the short blade that Elle had pulled from her boot. "Wary, huh?" His smirk only faultered for a moment; the wide-eyed man behind the counter had begun to reach for something, as well.
"Thought you were going to wait to pick on me, you bitter, little whore." She hated the names; near everybody hated the way Budd talked to them. He opened to her, back to the counter as he leaned his palms on it, bottles set aside and forgotten. He attempted to take a good breath without giving too much notice and, with a grunt and wincing expression, he turned his weight onto his hands and jumped the counter. Even with a landing as sloppy as his own, he'd have to remember to congratulate himself on the trick later.
To his great joy and satisfaction, the clerk had been reaching for a handgun, and Budd swiped it quickly. "Know how you feel about me shootin', Elle. Frankly, I don't care."
--
Why the hell did everyone fucking have guns for Christsakes? If Elle had more daggers on her, the teller would definately have to go down. Conveinance store. What a joke that was.
"Better to be wary then dead. Had to be gun, huh? That really shows some balls, Budd." She didn't put the blade down but kept very still.
Did the clerk even keep it loaded?
--
Budd, easily enough, wondered the same thing. He was fast enough to shoot her, or at least he figured, and as long as she seemed to realize that fact, he was fine for the moment. He fiddled with the gun for a moment, readying the tool with his eyes on her before his hand moved to aim point-blank, at the store's employee.
The clerk didn't look scared enough, and Budd pulled the trigger to a hollow click. "Stupid, fucking bastard," he chastised quietly, looking more displeased than he had yet to this entire encounter. With an annoyed huff, he shifted, gun clattering to the floor, and he grabbed ahold of the worker's pretend-to-be-something, button-up, pressed collar. He was a skinny guy, and he'd earned a hefty knee to his stomach before Budd, strained and trying not to show it, simply chucked him over the counter towards his former co-worker.
--
Laughter bubbled from Elle's snarling lips. "Unbe-fucking-lievable." This corner store monkey was going to have a change in career.Her humor flew away as he approached her.
The knife slashed out protectively as she edged back, nearly falling against a display of chips and dip. Elle quickly recovered from the near stumble and lurched forward, the blade swung in a downward movement.
--
Fuck. He was breathing too heavy already. "Cut the poor guy to shit, Elle," he hadn't bothered to move from behind the counter quite yet, himself. It provided enough of a barrier while he remained un-armed. This situation, he decided, likely wasn't a good one. While he spotted a small fire-extinguisher stowed behind the counter, he didn't want to reach for it immediately. Instead, his shoulders relaxed with a grumbled, "Fuck, Elle, wheren't you lecturin' me, and your the one what drew." Maybe she'd simply allow him to play this off.
He stepped forward, looking curiously over the register while continuing to watch her. With a little button-mashing, he was able to get the drawer to open for him. Naturally, there wasn't much that was useful in it, but he took what there was and held it loosely. "Might as well sack the fuckin' place, huh?"
--
The unfortunate liqour store clerk fled the scene clutching his bloodied shirt. Elle smirked to herself. Blood was warm and sticky on her fingers. How long had it been since she did something like that? Maybe Budd did have a purpose of sorts.
"No more warm ups." She stepped over the fallen merchandise, kicking a few pieces aside as she approached the counter. "This isn't about fucking up a store, Budd. That's child's play."
--
"Best t'be a kid at heart, sometimes, I guess. Good for your doomed-to-fire-and-brimstone, fuckin' soul." He gave up on the teller machine, though, exhaling heavily and leaning to set one elbow on the counter, watching her casually. "What's it about, then, you're so smart?"
--
"What's this about?" If there was one similarity between Budd and Bill was their fondness for seeking and searching through words. Bill was all meanings and symbols, the beyond and beneath. Budd had his cowboy philosophies that he clung to like a security blanket with mixed cliches. "Never said I was going to heaven or hell, I'm staying right here."
--
"This is about you keeping the fuck away from me. I killed you once, and I can do it again." There was no doubt of that. Elle was certain with the right factors she could do him in again. The problem being was that now Budd was aware and angry. Being in a strange place had him on his toes more so than ever. Then again, it never hurts to threaten.
--
"You sure?" He questioned with a grin, threat doing little to sober his ever-laughing demeanor. Scratching quickly at his chin, he stood straight with a slight crookedness to his step. "You know, Elle," he kept watch on her even as he reached behind him to grab up a tin of chewing tobacco. "I think you've forgotten just who the fuck I am." He stuck a pinch in his mouth, nose scrunching slightly; it wasn't his usual brand, not the usual taste.
Leg shifting forward slighly, he dug the toe of his boot under the fire extinguisher, his planned weapon, "Slipping back, fucking blonde to the root, huh? I gotta' remind you?" All he needed was for her to move again, attack and forget about worrying about his movements.
--
"Forgotten? Oh, but I remember. I remember you. All talk, all wisdom and nothing to back up for it .Call me bitter, call me cheap. Call me what you like but the fucker in your mirror is the one speaking those words. He's old, getting older. He's not what he used to be."
The knife's weight seemed to throb in her hand. "No guns here, cowboy." Feeling confidant, Elle redistrubuted her weight and lashed forward.
--
He shrugged, "Yeah, but that's everybody." Old and getting older, that was. Not everybody was, apparently, all talk; so far as he was concerned, neither was he. While fighting him, though, it was her loss instead of his own.
His leg kicked up as she lunged for him, working enough to let him grab ahold of his make-shift weapon. It was heavy, and he brought it up hard to meet her blade with a scratching of metal. "Don't need guns," he grunted out, still in movement. Plucking the pin from the device with one hand while turning the nozzle with the other, he laughed roughly as the machine's trigger depressed and sent a clouding stream of anti-flamitory foam at his opponent.
--
Elle realized too late that there was an amused smile in his eyes. She only caught this detail right as the edge of the knife met the bright red exterior of a fire extinguisher with an unpleasant gnash sound. "Oh fu--!" Her senses were quite literally scrambled. The only visual sensory she had was burning and useless. The stale heavy foam burned in her nose and mouth. Like a caged animal, she slashed and attempted to remember the lay out of the damn store.
--
He only laughed harder at her near-curse, silencing himself long enough to spit onto the floor and, extinguisher still in hand, hop back over the counter. By now her slashing was off, to his right, and he watched in amusement, avoiding the slippery foam on the floor. It grew old enough pretty quickly, though, and his left hand darted forward to grab her wrist, ceasing her aimless slashing.
"You don't remember nothing, you piece-of-shit bitch." Holding fast to her wrist, keeping her arm up, he swung the emptied fire extinguisher right into her rib-cage as further reminder.
--
Her eye was watering, still not helpful to her situation. Around her was a blur of color. As glad as Elle was to find that she could see it didn't override the panic. He was still there. She could hear something other than the blood rushing through her ears and her own gagging cough.
Elle physically startled when he grabbed a hold of her armed hand. As she hauled back her fist to hopefully smash it against is face the heavy canister hit. She shuttered a gasp as an intense ripple of pain ebbed through her. She fell limp in shock, held up by his arm. Still, she clutched the knife like a cruxifix.
--
He lowered her slightly, breathing thrown but otherwise feeling successful. For good measure, he gave her another good whack to the torso. Eyeing the knife still cluched in her hand for a moment, Budd looked down at her in a mockery of fondness, "Don't make me break your fucking fingers, Elle. Be a good little bitch and drop it, huh?"
--
The second hit was more painful, already broken ribs scraped and jiggled. "F-fuggin...b-bas-stard.." It hurt to breathe.
Drop the knife? Could she even if she wanted too? Elle growled and took a swing at what she guessed was his knee with the opposite arm.
--
The hit was powerful enough to lock his leg and then some. He winced and cursed, second instinct was to shift his weight and kick her back, "And what good's that gonna' do you, huh?"
He huffed slighlty, flexing his newly-disturbed knee as he looked at her quite directly once more, "I'll lever with you, Elle. Drop the fucking knife and get the hell outta' dodge, 'dodge' being this here store, by the way, and I won't even follow you to find out where the fuck you live."
--
Truth be told she hadn't thought about being kicked back. Thoughts were sluggish and quiet to the loud ache. Her tearing eye was clear enough to see him standing over her. Elle dropped her gaze as her shaking fingers loosened around the blade. With a feeble toss, it landed close to the counter. All she had to hope for now was that he keep to his word, she wouldn't last long in a fist fight like this.
"I fuckin'...hate...you." So would mark the end of security in the City. Yet another example that a force beyond her comprehendsion was trying to say that Elle Driver is not invincible.
--
Budd let go of her wrist, letting her drop as he picked up the conquered knife. With another hoarse laugh, even a wink, just to make more fun of her, he responded, "Hate you, too, baby."
She's likely need time before she was more free to get up and move around. He kept her knife in one hand, took up his still-bagged drink in the other, and walked around the mess that they'd made of the store, "Been a pleasure kickin' that fine ass of yours, Elle. We'll have to do it again, some time." Achy as hell, noticably worked, but he felt egotisically lovely about the situation.
--
Slowly, as well as she could, Elle stood up. Her head swam trying to tell her that moving was not a good idea. She braced herself on freezer door. It wasn't the act of standing that was exhausting, it was trying to stay concious. The glass beneath her palm was cool, soothing. The foolish desire of just laying against it came and left. She needed to get the fuck out of here.
Elle made it to the door way, one heavy step at a time. The night air was cool and wet. It made her aware of blood, both her own and the tellers, clinging to her skin. "How do...I know....you aren't going...to follow?"
--
He hadn't expected her up, so soon. He had to give her credit for effort, if nothing else, "Can't swear on honor, can I?" He looked thoughtful for a second, but finally shrugged, "You don't know, now do you?" Another laugh, "When I make deals, though, you can rest assured that I don't throw snakes into the trades."
--
She leaned against the door frame, knuckles white and gripping. Elle did get up too fast. The pulse thumping at her temple was fighting the throbbing in her chest. A daze was fighting to fall over her. If she went home, if Budd followed the heads of a vampire brother and his strange mangerie were at stake. Fuck if that didn't sound asinine. He actually thought she could make it home, how sweet.
Words weren't forming in her mouth properly. Elle would be damned if she didn't try. "Keep your...honor and your deals... The snakes'll be there...one way or another...Isn't that what...we are?"
--
"Inviting me, sister?" It really did seem like she was asking for it, but she'd dropped the knife when prompted by the threat of him following her. As much as that very fact tempted him, he hadn't planned on occupying the entirety of his evening with her, "Want me to break out a secret hand-shake, or something?"
He rolled his eyes; she was just torn to shit, not that he wasn't still proud of himself for it. Taught her at least a bit of a lesson. The smile faded from his face, and he regarded her with a more solemn expression, "Keep your fucking knife, Elle, find somewhere else to hide it." He tossed the blade across the pavement, "Call someone if you got to, I don't care. I said I ain't gonna' follow you, and I ain't."
--
Elle watched the weapon skid and come to a hault. She wanted to take it and throw it into his fucking mocking face. That involved being able to let go of the door frame and being able to aim. Begrudgingly she admited to herself of not being able to do either for the time being. Clumsily she turned, as much as it killed her to disobey the instinct not to, and leaned against the building wall side.
"Next time...my turn...to fuck you up, babe." There was a pay phone up the street. She had to make it there. The radio DJ had "Johnny B. Goode" marking her retreat from the store.