tampered | I'm feeling so good, so incredible...

Entry tags:

I'm feeling so good, so incredible...

When; Friday night, late.
Rating; Well, it's these two, so we're just gonna default to R. There'll be drug use and swearing, that's for sure.
Characters; Meyer & Al
Summary; Meyer's got a new car to share with Al, Al's got some drugs to share with Meyer...
Log;
It's late at night, but Meyer's closed up the casino a little earlier than normal -- midnight instead of two -- because there hadn't been any customers there that late anyway. Maybe it was something about the curse that seemed to be going around the City, but either way, the casino had been looking like a ghost town since eleven. He'd sent everyone home, and then he'd closed up and headed back to his own apartment.

But not to go inside and sleep. No. He had other things in mind, things that would keep him up all night if he wasn't careful. Because he'd finally been able to procure a car. Sure, the thing was a hunk of junk, and he doubted if it'd run without at least three important parts falling off, but that was no concern. The point was that he had a car, and he finally had a project: he could fix it up and get it running again, get it shiny and new-looking, drive it around town or just tinker with it endlessly.

The problem with getting a new car, though, even one that currently has pieces of it strewn everywhere in the alley below his apartment, is that it somehow encourages the desire to brag about it. And he doesn't have anyone to brag about it to. So, sleeves rolled up and jacket and tie nowhere to be found, he's tinkering with the car under the light of a streetlamp when he remembers someone who might be very interested.

With only a moments hesitation, he takes out his communicator and sends a message to Al. It says simply:

I've got something you might want to see. My apartment.

Al'll show up, he figures. He might show up drunk, he might show up with other people, but he'll show up.

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"Usually," yeah, he caught that Meyer and he sure as hell means to exploit it. He knows by now that underneath that put-together exterior that you're really some kind of rage-fueled, miniature man who isn't afraid to put his nose out there.

"You're a business man, you oughta know what's going on in your market, right? And this? It's your competition."

"My competition? It's a different market entirely. I'm led to believe that this product..." He waves the baggie a little, though he doesn't really need to, to accentuate what he's talking about. "... generally energizes people, where as my products relax them. You won't meet many people who want to use both."

It's an attempt at being logical, even if he knows Al is probably right. Still, when it comes to a business argument, he'll debate it to the bitter end, even if he is curious. He likes new experiences, and he hates feeling left out of anything. But he also has a stubborn streak, and seems to enjoy arguing with Al.

"You think I don't know that?" There's a brief pause as if he's waiting for a real answer. Truthfully he's not particularly interested in hearing Meyer explain himself further, so as soon as he's given the opportunity, he continues to speak.

"All I'm sayin' is it's a good hit. Touch on the other end of the market, people that need more than a cup of joe to wake 'em up."

A turn, for a change of pace, controlled and smooth.

"Or you can give it back."

He really should give it back. He's plenty aware that driving around in this car that's liable to break down at any minute is dangerous enough, and adding drugs to the mix might only be making things worse. On the other hand, there's still that gnawing curiosity there, and while that's not necessarily the best reason for opening up the baggie and taking an almost defiant sniff of the cocaine, it's probably not the worst reason anyone's ever done it.

"You want it back now?"

Stiff and buttoned up he may generally be, but capable of turning down a new experience? Almost never.

A triumphant cackle follows the sniff. This is the Meyer that Al has become acquainted with and finds amusing, good company even. It's beyond ball-busting and cementing a business resource: there's ambition and a willingness to live a little. Take risks. Al can admire that.

Meyer's offer catches Al's interest, perhaps not at the best time. He leans over to steal a quick pinch from the bag which causes the car to swerve. The maneuver is corrected as quickly as the powder disappears and not a bit is wasted.

"Hang onto it for a while," he dismisses through a couple of satisfied sniffs.

"Al, if you crash this fucking car..."

There's not a whole lot of vehemence behind the statement, though, because those drugs're kicking in pretty damn fast -- faster than he's ever felt heroin kick in, at the very least, and of course he's comparing the two, trying to figure out which ways they're similar and which way they differ, business on his mind at every second -- and he can't be bothered to be particularly angry. In fact, he feels good.

Maybe too good. It's a strange feeling. All of a sudden, he feels like he wants to be doing something with his hands, like he can't possibly sit still, and that's a problem he has anyway. He laughs, even though there's nothing to laugh at. "How often do you do this?" he asks, still holding onto the bag, just like Al suggested.

He shrugs. "Couple of times a month. Let it sink in and another one in the same sitting will tide you over," it's a rough estimate, really, "but it depends on how the week goes."

Better to take life as it comes anyway.
It's then that something else catches his attention.

"You've got a radio in this thing?" Don't mind if he's fumbling around with the dials trying to see if it works.

"There's a radio, but it doesn't work so great. You might be able to get something if you really try. I'm going to fix it, eventually, but I have to fix the rest of the car, first."

This taking life as it comes thing is unfamiliar to him, but remarkably, he's enjoying himself pretty well. That's probably helped along, in no small part, by the drugs. It's an entirely different feeling than heroin, and he can't decide if he likes it better or worse, or if it's so unfamiliar that he can't quite tell yet.

Maybe he should try a little more. Just to really test it out. Good idea? As far as he's concerned, it's a great one.

It must be a great idea because the peer review of the action earns a thunderous howl of approval coupled with a slug to the arm.

"Now you're livin'!"

You've come a long way, Meyer Lansky. The car seems to provide its own input of approval through some vague, upbeat music behind the static.

"Tell me you've got some good plans for it besides letting it sit around like it's in a museum."

He shakes his head emphatically. "A car this beautiful was never meant to be a museum piece. Sure, it'd probably be safer to fix it up and never drive it, but where would the fun be in that?"

Oops, Meyer said the f-word. It's amazing how fun sounds more bizarre and inappropriate coming out of his mouth than any actual profanity beginning with an f. "I'm gonna see just how well I can get it to run, and then I'm gonna see how fast it can go."

Is he talking too fast? He can't quite tell. He finds he doesn't quite care. He shifts around in his seat, suddenly finding that all he wants to do is move, and these uncomfortable seats don't help that instinct much.

The antsy movements must be contagious or emit some sort of vibe into the car.

"Thatta boy," Al praises and pats the steering wheel heartily as if it were the recipient of the remark rather than Meyer.

"Something like this has to see the world, every turn, every--"

There's a sudden break in his speech and the momentum of the car as they come upon a street corner. A gaggle of young women are enjoying the evening. Some eye the car with varying degrees of curiosities, but ultimately their priority remains within the group. If Meyer hasn't seen them by now, Al is nudging him and indicating to what he should be looking at.

"Get their attention."

At first, he doesn't even notice that the car's slowing down; it takes Al nudging him and pointing him in the right direction for him to even realize that Al's probably slowed down because of the group of young women. Fair enough -- he enjoys looking just as much as anyone else, but when Al says to get their attention, all he finds himself capable of doing for a moment is laughing, because suddenly everything seems utterly ridiculous. That must be the drugs talking.

"What do you want me to do? Lean out the car window and yell at them?"

The very prospect of it seems hilarious somehow -- he's decidedly not the leaning out of car windows and yelling type, not at home, not here -- and yet...

He's rolling down his window anyway, to catch the attention of a couple of the girls who're already eyeing the car.

It's all you, funny boy. When asked about further actions to take, Al's face is as serious as a judge. He's happy that he doesn't have to spell out too much as Meyer seems to be taking action of his own. This, in Al's mind, deserves a little help. Just a little.

"Hey!" Al's yelling at the women despite the very distant concept of restraint nibbling at the back of his mind. If his voice isn't loud enough to get their attention (and it is), he adds another musical layer to their introduction by tapping on the horn. The rest is up to Meyer.

Great. He has no idea what he's supposed to do now that the attention's turned on them, although he can't help but laugh when Al taps on the horn, because everything is striking him as funny right now. His concept of restraint has always been far more formed than Al's, but at the moment, he's doing his damnedest to throw caution to the wind. It doesn't come naturally. More drugs might be necessary.

"Hey," he repeats, and since the women are still looking curiously in their direction, he gestures to Al with a mischievous little grin. "My friend here wants to talk to you ladies."

Putting the ball back in Al's court, as it were. He wants to get their attention, he can deal with them.

"Coglione," he mutters in what is about the best he can manage at a low voice at this point. It's closer to a normal speaking voice, but he's not terribly concerned about the chiding.

"Ladies," Al smiles cordially, surprisingly composed for the moment. "We were just admiring the view. Most of it anyway."

An extra moment is taken to eye a few girls that aren't of any particular interest to him: either they just don't have the build or they've got a sour face. A nod of dismissal is given to the few.

"Maybe you're tired of hoofin' it and need a ride?" Al revs the engine for incentive.

"In that heap of junk?" The alpha personality makes herself known with a raised brow and a scoff. Her eyes fall on Meyer, narrowed and calculating.

He just laughs at the chiding, because of course he speaks Italian, and of course Al has no idea that he does. Someday he'll tell him. Maybe by cursing him out spectacularly. At the moment, though, he isn't in the cursing anyone out mood, shockingly enough.

Insults to his car, however, will simply not stand, and he narrows his eyes back at the woman who'd spoken so dismissively of it. "This car," he says, voice remarkably steady for someone who's just done a bunch of drugs in a short amount of time, "isn't a 'heap of junk.' Maybe it just looks that way when my friend's driving it, but I assure you, it's an impressive machine."

So maybe it needs to be repainted, and maybe it's falling apart in other ways, but he can't just sit here and hear it impugned.

The woman looks surprised at the defense, if not simply for the fact that the relay man is suddenly interested in defending the honor of the jalopy. He also looks a little off, but she can't quite place why.

"It ain't the driver," Al states for the record along with another now comfortably familiar shove awarded to the passenger.

"I'm not impressed," the woman shrugs a shoulder and leans away from the vehicle, stepping back in line with her friends who start to walk on their way.

"You're missing out," he snaps, obviously ready to jump to the defense of his car, although he's not really expecting that it'll have any effect. Indeed, the woman and her friends walk off on their merry way, and he turns to Al again, shaking his head. At any other moment, he'd probably have been annoyed by the familiar shove, but right now, he doesn't mind it. He doesn't mind much of anything.

Now he's looking at all, and really all there is to do is mutter back an insult at him. It seems only fair. "Stronzo," he says, just about as loudly as Al had insulted him. Why yes, Al, he did just call you an asshole. And he did just speak in Italian, though to be fair, he doesn't even seem to realize he's switched languages. It's just such a satisfying language to swear in.

With that editorial comment out of the way, he finds it only fair to reach for the little baggie of drugs again and do some more. Hey, if he's making bad decisions tonight, he might as well make them fully.

Edited 2013-11-18 01:51 (UTC)

"What'd you call me?" He's not quite sure of the language switch himself just yet. Something seems odd, yes, but it's more of the gall that's hitting him at the moment.

"You're the one who can't seem to hold a conversation," the reprimand is half-hearted as his eyes are still following the women. They're heading up the street towards the crosswalk. Fortunately he doesn't need a pinch for his brain to formulate his next plan. The car stirs to life once again and they're speeding to catch up with the girls and to cut them off at the crosswalk.

"But I won't hold it against you, we'll just catch up!"

"I called you an asshole, asshole."

That was distinctly all in Italian, because why the hell not? He has enough languages to select, he can pick and choose from them as he likes. It's not like addressing Al in Yiddish or Russian would do him any good, anyway, even if there are quite a few choice insults to be pulled out from those languages, too.

He rolls his eyes as soon as Al revs the engine again. "Are you really following them? They made it pretty clear, they don't want to talk to us. And I can hold a conversation just fine, you're the one who came across all eager and made them uncomfortable."

He's talking far too quickly for his own good, stumbling over his syllables and sounding far less precise than usual, but at least he's switched back to English.

...Yup. He understood that. The delayed realization meshes quite nicely with the sharp turns the car takes around the corner in an attempt to stop in front of the women. The car sputters quietly before coming to a halt in the most quintessential stall.

There's nothing left to defend, explain or recover. He's just going to give the wheel a rough slap of defeat with his two palms hoping it will drown out the echo of the hags having their laugh.

It might muffle the women's laughter, but it sure as hell won't muffle Meyer's, since he's sitting right next to Al and laughing far louder than Al's probably ever seen him laugh before. There's something too perfect about the car stalling right then, as though the car had a mind of its own and had planned it that way.

"I told you it wasn't all fixed up yet," he finally manages to say, through snorts of completely undignified laughter.

A side-eye is cast at Meyer, stunned by the laughter. Thankfully it's a surprise, because it certainly mutes the steaming sense of betrayal and the injury to his pride.

"Better be the first thing on your list."

With that he snatches the bag back and stuffs into his pocket in an undignified manner.

"What, get it all fixed up so I can follow girls around and try to get them to get in my car? All while I'm completely and utterly intoxicated? Sure."

Not that he's really complaining about being completely and utterly intoxicated. In fact, he almost looks aghast when Al snatches the bag back. "Hey, maybe I wasn't done with that," he protests, even though he really should be done with it, for everyone's sake.

Al hears that sarcasm in your voice, Meyer, and it's not appreciated. Really if the car was in better shape it would definitely not be a horrible way to spend the day.

"You want it back? Either you shape up or you're gonna have to take it back."

It's back to Italian now. If Meyer understands it then he'll know the threat is conveyed better with these words.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sure, he can switch back to Italian, he doesn't mind. It's not something he gets an awful lot of practice with in the City, after all. It's kind of nice to be able to get some chance to speak it, even if it probably strikes Al as being kind of strange.

All the same, the idea of Al telling him to shape up has him starting up another laughing fit, this one slightly more subdued than the first, but still definitely more expressive than normal. Yeah, he could get used to this feeling.

"It means if you want any of this in the future, Chuckles, you come to me. We can work something out."

Involuntarily, Al's lip quirks up into a crooked smile. There's a strain of irritation to it still, but for all its obscurity the laughter is contagious. Someone is learning something about opportunities.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he manages to get out, through the completely uncharacteristic laughing fit, which seems to have seized hold of him and refuses to let go. He has to pause for a moment to take a deep breath -- just so that he can start laughing again when he realizes (or remembers, as the case may be) that they're still stuck in a completely stalled car.

It's back to English, then, to try to be more serious. "We gotta get this thing running again. Or at least out of the street."

He'd expected it to stall sooner or later, but he really doesn't want to leave it here.

"Switch places with me." Because if someone's going to get this car started, he's pretty sure it'll be him.

It's hard to leave the wheel behind. The whole experience of driving, setbacks included, has been a sense of freedom, but he'll hop out as directed. He makes his way around the vehicle, hands trailing on its dilapidated exterior just in case there's any funny business involved like, say, driving him off and leaving him in the middle of the street.

It doesn't take him long to get to the other side of the car, but he's impatient with the progress of their situation, or the lack of. Shouldn't Meyer know this car inside and out by now given how much he talks about it?

"You got it yet? Let's go."

"It's gonna take more than a minute to get the thing running again," he retorts, speech becoming even less precise as he fights with the car. He hadn't been planning on driving off and leaving Al in the middle of the street, but if he keeps bugging him about getting the car started, he might just be tempted.

There's silence for a few moments as he struggles with it, the car spluttering and the engine refusing to turn over, him cursing under his breath in any number of languages -- because if they're going to get stranded out here, late at night while under the influence of drugs seems like a bad time to do it -- but finally the car roars to life, and he shoots a smug look at Al.

"See? Told you I could get it going."

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I'm feeling so good, so incredible...

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