tampered | Gangsters and thugs / criminals and hoods

"When have you ever known me to fly off the..."

Oh. Right. Al was the only person in the City, as a matter of fact, who had known him to fly off the handle. It could be embarrassing, but he feels remarkably relaxed today, and so all it gets as a way of finishing the sentence is a slightly amused little smile, the slightest quirk of his lips, nothing more. He's never exactly been effusive.

"Do I get to know what kind of business it is?"

He might be asking questions, simply for the sake of information, but he's still willingly following Al right out the door, just as soon as he downs his drink, too.

Funny guy, funny guy. Reserved as the realization may be, it gets a good laugh that surely his neighbors have come to appreciate by now.

As they exit the building, there's some pep in his step. He enjoys this game, a little blind man's bluff.

"You'll see. I'll give you a hint: you had some business consulting involved in this particular matter. It's about time you see the face of it."

He's not too sure he enjoys this game, for his part, mostly because he doesn't like walking into a situation blind. He likes having all of this information he can possibly have, maybe to the extent of being ridiculous. But, hey, it's Al's birthday, and this appears to be how Al wants to spend it. Might as well indulge him; the weight of the gun feels comforting, at the very least.

"I have business in a lot of things. That doesn't narrow it down too much."

And if they're taking guns, he's got the distinct sense that things're going to get worse before they get better. Wonderful. He knows he should be wary about this, but there's something of a thrill in it, too. It feels like being back home, conducting business the way he's used to.

"Not my problem."

The walk isn't too far, cutting through alleys and gradually less populated sections of the City until they finally reach a more industrialized section of town, spacious with no shortage of warehouses. They arrive at one via the back. It's not very large or extraordinary in any way.

Meanwhile Al's reaching for his gun.

"Knock on that door. If nobody answers, we let ourselves in."

It's a large, metal door that looks as though a knock would result in a resounding reverberation of emptyness-- the kind of door no one is really behind because it speaks for itself. Keep out.

"You want me to knock on it?"

Of course he does. Well, fine. He's already here, so what does it matter who knocks? He can recognize that whatever or whoever's behind that door probably isn't good news, but he figures they're already setting themselves up for something potentially dangerous no matter what they do -- that's just the consequence of letting Al have a gun. Or handing him drugs. He can count himself responsible for that one.

So he knocks. And waits, hand on his gun. As ever, his discipline with the weapon is perfect: he never holds it clumsily or casually, never lets his guard down with it, never waves it around. He's calm and collected, and that's what people expect out of him. Al's seen a different side, but, well, that's not on display here, not just yet.

The knock goes unanswered. Outside from some machinery droning in the distance, there is an uneasy silence that hangs in the air. This goes on a moment too long for him. Now his gun is out and he steps forward, staying at an angle of Meyer as not to put him in any compromising position of friendly fire.

"Open it. I've got you covered."

There are many things Meyer's good at, but backing down has never been one of them. Even though their knock isn't responded to, even though it's just a little too quiet (strange, how that seems like such a cliched thing to say, and yet applies so well in situations like this) he goes ahead and pushes open the door anyway. At least Al knows how to handle a weapon and isn't liable to accidentally shoot him in the head if things suddenly get chaotic.

There's a paranoid part of him that wonders whether he's being set up for something, but that's ridiculous, isn't it? They're just here for an errand, and then they're going to properly celebrate. Gun drawn, hand steady, he advances, not sure what kind of place they're entering or what they're supposed to be finding here.

"We just gotta get one thing outta the back. Should go quick with no one around, just head for the light."

The interior is dark, the walls, floor and ceiling indistinguishable even to those with keen eyesight. Once inside, Al takes more initiative to lead. It's clear that there's a source of light somewhere, not terribly close or large, but an indication of another exit.

Then there's the sound of some kind of shuffling and vague movement in the dark.

"Shit! Shoot 'em!"

That's when the shots start. The echo of the interior doesn't make things terribly clear as to where they're coming from nor how many guns are involved.

That's when, amidst the popping and flashes, Al grunts audibly in pain. The sound of a heavy fall follows. All that's visible between bursts of light is a large figure across the way, a man, ready to fire again.

He's about to make some kind of under his breath quip about how just head for the light sounds an awful lot like what you'd instruct someone who was dying to do, and he vehemently hopes this errand doesn't involve dying, but he doesn't get the chance to say anything at all before the noises start, then the shots.

His motions are smooth and self-assured as he raises his weapon and fires it twice in the direction of where he thinks the shots are coming from -- and damn, this gun really has some kick to it, but it doesn't throw him off; in fact, it makes him relish firing the gun more, liking the solidity of it in his hand. He's trying to ignore the chaos, trying to find something to focus on so that he can aim his gun correctly, but it's hard in the darkness, with the auditory distortion from the echo.

And that's when he hears Al's noise. It's unmistakable as anything other than pain, and his instincts take over. In the flashes of the gunfire, he catches sight of the man raising his gun again. Gritting his teeth, he takes several determined steps towards him, quickly enough to get within range, quickly enough that maybe the guy won't see him moving, that maybe he'll just be firing wildly. He keeps his gun trained on the position he'd last seen the man in, when the last burst of light had occurred, and fires off three shots, one right after another.

It gives him a sick little spike of adrenaline and pleasure to hear the man hit the floor without even crying out in pain. One or maybe more of those shots had been clean. That doesn't mean they're safe yet.

Edited 2014-01-18 08:36 (UTC)

Suddenly the room illuminates, revealing a rather unorthodox setup. There seems to be some sort of crude conveyer, decorated with silhouettes of guns with lights attached to the fake barrels. The body, slumped awkwardly, is riddled with holes and seems to be leaking hay. It's much less realistic in the light, but it's also attached to the conveyers...at least somewhat.

It might be some overly elaborate security system. Hard to tell, with so many pieces that don't seem quite fluid with each other yet.

And there, on the floor, is Al, lying on his back and laughing quite openly.

"S-shit there's that dead eye again. I had to test it out, pal."

And just audible under the choking laughter--is that the sound of a horse? It certainly is, and it's whinnying up quite a storm somewhere close by.

There's...

It's...

Even his mind is speechless. That takes some doing. Usually, even if he's struck dumb and unable to articulate a sentence, he can get some kind of coherent thought going through his mind. At the moment, he really, really can't. He just stares. Stares at the elaborate setup. Finally breaks his gaze to turn around and stare at Al, face completely motionless, except for the almost imperceptible twitch of his upper lip. Is it going to turn into a scowl or a smile? It's imposible to tell.

"Did you really..."

How does he even begin to finish that sentence? It all sounds ridiculous, if he's to phrase it out loud. He finally stuffs the gun back into his coat and takes a few strides towards Al, shaking his head very slowly. "You're lucky I don't shoot you right now for that."

The lip twitch grows a little more noticeable. And will wonders never cease? It appears to be turning into a very grudging, very tiny little smirk.

He's laughing too hard still to catch the first bit, but when he finally manage to breathe and get up to his knees, he finds his voice again.

"You're a sport, I tell you," the gun hadn't been much of a forethought, honestly. Meyer could have shot him, he supposes, but it didn't come up as much of a concern when he thought it through. Maybe he trusts him or gives him some kind of credit-- or maybe his foresight is just a bit dim.

"Oh," he hauls himself to his feet, picking up the bullet-ridden dummy and dragging it towards the other door that's now visible.

"Come on, Wyatt Earp. This horse isn't gonna feed itself."

"Why the fuck do you have..."

Oh, right, Al had said something about having a horse, hadn't he? Some kind of strange scheme with some other guys that he'd tried not to pay attention to (but had considered ill-conceived, either way.) It seems that Al is bound and determined to leave him with half-finished questions tonight.

At least Al is up off the floor now, and not laughing quite so uproariously. He purses his lips together in an attempt not to look amused by this, because looking amused is only going to encourage Al to do this kind of thing more often. That's the type of guy Al is, it's just becoming more and more obvious over time.

"Okay. We'll feed the horse. Then maybe we'll do something that doesn't involve fucking me around, yeah?"

By now he'd assume that Meyer would learn to fill in some of the gaps for himself. There's a certain appeal to an impulsive nature that he maintains with ease and enthusiasm. Sure there's moments to conduct business, to be serious...but outside of that, there's a lot of time to fill and plenty of world to fuck with.

The horse...has never been an ideal situation. One by one the partners seemed to disappear or lose interest. He himself had forgotten about it until he had been forwarded a bill for feedings and stable cleanings. After a few less-than-kind words with the stable manager, he'd decided to move the bag of glue somewhere where it could at least have some space. Maybe he feels bad for it, or maybe he's feeling a little cheap. He himself can't really decide.

Without a hint of grace, he chucks the body into the corral outside and the horse begins to greedily nuzzle at the exposed hay and eat. It's considerably heavier than before, no longer fit for racing. Still, it seems to enjoy its life and doesn't seem to mind the noisy, industrial surroundings.

Al dusts some hay from his hands, then his suit.

"Guy goes around acting like he's in control all the time, he's gotta expect a few curveballs."

"You don't think I get enough curveballs when I spend time with Charlie back home?"

That bespeaks a certain kind of homesickness and sentimentality that he doesn't particularly want to get into, and he immediately regrets saying it. Sure, Charlie fucks with him all the time, in a similarly enthusiastic and completely asinine (yet surprisingly endearing) way, just like Al, but he's not here. Pointless to bring him up. He just stares at the horse for a moment, oddly surprised that Al's kept it around when it doesn't exactly seem like a prime racer. Oh well, maybe Al likes having a pet horse. Who's he to judge.

"Anyway," he says, forcibly drawing the topic back to something more, well, topical, "Maybe we could entertain ourselves in a way other than at my expense? Believe me, I'm not in control all the time."

That could be true. It also could be a futile protest to get Al to stop fucking with him. Either way, he does act like he's in control all the time, so by those standards, Al's probably well within his rights to continue the campaign to get him to loosen up.

The comment gets him to raise a brow, picking up on the ounce of humanity Meyer has managed to put forth. It's with an unspoken form of decency that he otherwise does not acknowledge the reference nor the person involved.

"Alright, alright. You did your time," Al claps a hand on Meyer's shoulder twice, giving it a little squeeze and a shake in the process. Buck up, kid, you've been a good sport so far.

"There's a place a few streets over, nothing special but they've got pool, cards and plenty to keep the attention."

He's assuming you're cool with this, Meyer, because he's already headed in that direction.

That hand on his shoulder might have startled him a few months ago, but he's gotten pretty used to the fact that Al's just much more of a touchy-feely guy than he himself will ever be, and has come to accept it. He's still never going to be affectionate himself, but at least he's no longer actively paranoid about people clapping him on the back or shoulder in a friendly way. That qualifies as progress, right? One step on the long road towards becoming a slightly less tense control freak?

"Yeah, sure, sounds just fine."

It's Al's birthday, after all. He wouldn't be so rude as to tell him they can't go where he wants, and he sees nothing objectionable about pool and cards, anyway (unless Al has some other prank up his sleeve, which he wouldn't put past him.) He just follows after him, lighting up a cigarette, chronically unable to go without one for the space of more than about fifteen minutes. People around here have told him he needs to cut down. He's pretty much told them to fuck off, in his own special, eminently polite way. He offers Al one.

He takes the cigarette. It's strange, how some people of the future react so adversely to things such as smoking indoors or outdoors or wherever one may please. It's a god-given right, in his book, and he will seldom turn down a free smoke.

"So when do you feel out of control? Curses aside, I mean. Nobody sees those coming."

Because why not. He's genuinely curious about any guy that admits that sort of thing-- also to the nature of what out of control means. He can't catch the bus? Can't pick the cuts on his sandwich? Anyway, they've got time and so far the path has been clear and free of trouble. Where's the fun in a nice, quiet walk?

"Being stuck here at all has me feeling pretty out of control."

Or is that too similar to the curses? Being trapped here makes him antsy when he thinks about it too often, and even mentioning it has him taking a long, almost frustrated sounding drag on the cigarette. He has things he needs to get back to at home, and even if he's been told a million times that time doesn't move back home, and that he'll return to the moment he'd left, his perception is still that he's been stuck here for over a year without getting much done. It drives him crazy.

"And, in general, I find it hard to consider myself truly in control of a situation when I'm being told what to do by somebody else."

That references being at home more than being here, of course. Here, he really is his own boss, and that's one of the arguably better things about the City. At home, though -- and Al might understand this, might -- he still has people to answer to. People he doesn't necessarily want to answer to.

He flicks some ash off his cigarette and just keeps walking, shrugging a little. Vague enough of an answer for you, Al? Surely he couldn't have been expected to divulge anything earth-shattering. He's an obvious control freak, and that's precisely because so much of his life seems to be spent fighting for any modicum of control over the world around him.

The vagueness is something he might expect, but it doesn't deter him from prying any more. There might have been a time when he would have though twice, been suspicious of Meyer's quiet and cold nature and what his capabilities might of been. It's no longer the case, thus he'll do and ask what he pleases with a relative amount of tact.

"Guess it depends on how you play ball."

He turns a corner, enjoying the cigarette despite the different flavor from his own brand. Not bad at all.

"I mean, it all looks a little pointless but just because nobody will remember any of it, it doesn't mean it didn't happen, right? People forget shit all the time no matter where they are. Doesn't mean it'll change anything."

There's a vague memory of Ruby, how she had mentioned something to both of them about knowing their names and of their futures...also vague, but encouraging all the same.

"Sure, and I think we've made something of ourselves in our time here."

He's not above feeling proud of what he's accomplished here, and he's not above including Al in the equation. Much as he hates to admit that he needs anyone's help at all, Al's been pretty vital to this whole thing. If he didn't have him to work with, he's not sure if the casino would be nearly so successful. When he'd first arrived, admitting that would have been impossible. After the time they've spent here, well, maybe he has loosened up a little, because saying 'we' instead of 'I' when he's talking about successes seems pretty easy, all things considered.

"We almost there? I could use a drink."

It's not like it's been a long walk, and he's been enjoying his cigarette well enough, but he knows Al's just going to get asking questions if he gets half the chance, and there're only so many vague answers he can provide before he just has to start recycling the same old ones over again.

He hears that we and can't conceal a smile. They've had a good run in the City, and as much credit as he'd like to take for his various business ventures, the partnership has been beneficial. Not that he's not personable, but there's always been hurdles when it comes to public relations and finding a niche with customers. He's spirited, sometimes to a fault, and far too familiar with solutions that involve leaving someone black and blue or worse. Maybe he's even learned a little patience and fiscal responsibility. Maybe a smidge.

"Yeah, almost."

He walks along quietly, sated by the cigarette and the hustle and bustle around them. You can only deter him so long, Meyer. He's full of curiosities and horrid at boundaries, but he knows a few drinks is enough to loosen up any pair of lips.

Finally they arrive at a building, a shabby remnant of what once might have been a storefront. It's smoky and gray, but the neon seems to brighten up the edges and make it somewhat cheery. A few girls linger out front, pretty and predatory, and fawn greetings with familiarity, happy to see a new face in tow.

"Look alive. It's a working man's dive in there, so they appreciate a little enthusiasm."

That's the only preface given before he's pushing the door open like the door to his own home, complete with a holler of a greeting and calling out the bartender by name. The room is still for a moment, all eyes transfixed on the two newcomers. After a breath, there's nothing short of eyerolls and grunts as the men continue to prod at the scratched pool table and slump against the faded lacquer on the bar.

"Whiskeys all around and get some sambuca out here. Don't skimp, you're only born once a year."

This seems agreeable to the crowd, and the roar gets just a bit louder inside. Al finds a place at the bar and is patting the stool next to him.

"C'mon, sit."

He follows Al in, looking around curiously, obviously measuring up his environment and judging the appropriate way to respond to it. He may be uptight -- at least, he knows Al thinks so, and while he hates to agree with anyone else's judgements about him on principle, he wouldn't be inclined to disagree -- but he also knows how to blend in to a place just fine, once he figures out what kind of place it is. This isn't so different from a lot of the bars back home, and he'd obviously handled those adeptly.

So, like the chameleon that he is, his posture seems to shift a little, to grow more relaxed; it's almost as though he's shaping himself to fit the scenery around him, the crowd of men who he imagines will be drunk and disorderly before the night's done. Sitting down beside Al, he lights himself another cigarette off the remnants of the old one, chain-smoking as always (supposedly, it's a terrible habit, but it's not one he's interested in breaking himself of.)

The alcohol, once it's brought to them, will be met with an enthusiasm that may just be more of his attempt to fit in, but that may also be genuine excitement about the chance to get the liquid form of relaxation into him. The not insubstantial glass of whiskey, at least, is downed in two gulps, and then he sets the glass down and offers Al a slight smile.

"I take it you come here often."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he's teasing, while they're being elusive about answers. It's no doubt that they've gotten closer than they'd probably ever manage to do back home within the last several months, but there are some habits that will never change. That's alright by him. He might even venture to say that he finds it interesting how it seems next to impossible to get Meyer uncomfortable or to feel out of place. Adaptability is something to be admired, and once they both clear the whiskey from their palate, the next drink order arrives.

The bartender leaves two pairs of glasses, two empty and two containing a clear fluid, a lighter and a pair of straws. The full glasses contain two coffee beans at the bottom.

"You ever do this before?"

He eyes the glasses that the bartender's left with no small amount of suspicion. This is undoubtedly another one of Al's strange and dangerous ideas, but what really concerns him is that over the last few months, those ideas, while strange and dangerous, have also started to seem interesting and even appealing. That says something about the both of them, he figured, but maybe it's better not to think too closely about just what that something is.

"Can't say I have," he says, suspicion still evident, though it's certainly tinged with curiosity. Much as he represents himself as a logical and careful person, it's hard to deny his natural curiosity about things he doesn't know.

And with Al around, that can be a recipe for disaster... Or entertainment.

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There is no appropriate icon for his face right now I hope you know

Fffff yes good

This face, on the other hand, is utterly accurate

And this birthday goes on for a whole week.

Re: That's the best kind of birthday tbh

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