tampered | Gangsters and thugs / criminals and hoods

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.

"Then you're not Italian yet," he goads in the language that they're both familiar with. Snagging two napkins from the bar, he begins the strange ritual of lighting the clear fluid on fire, then proceeding to stifle the flames by covering one glass with the other. Carefully, the glass on top is removed, a napkin placed underneath it as if meant to contain something.

The drink is shot normally, and he's happy to put it away quick, eager to get to the next part.

"Then you suck up the fumes."

And, in a hearty display, he slips the straw under the glass and does just that. Judging by his face and the sniffs and coughs that come after, it's more than a little burn but there's something quite intoxicating about it.

"So that's what all of this is? Trying to turn me Italian?" he jokes right back, eyes intent upon Al, watching as this strange ritual unfolds. "I think that's a losing battle." Although given the fact that most of the people he seems to spend the majority of his time with at home and here in the City are Italian, maybe it's not such a long shot after all.

And, well, this looks like something new and interesting to try. Given the look on Al's face after that little display, he has to imagine it's at least somewhat enjoyable -- or maybe that's just Al's penchant for inhaling things, fumes or otherwise.

He can give it a try, at least. He repeats exactly what Al's shown him -- good thing he's a quick learner -- and, of course, Al will be rewarded with him half-choking and half-coughing in a decidedly undignified manner. Yes, it really does burn, apparently, but it can't be said to be wholly unpleasant.

He watches, possibly waiting for some kind of slip-up that would be just as entertaining as any kind of success that could come from this experiment. Is this what observation feels like-- the kind of payoff? Al's not sure if he's willing to fully embrace it just yet, but it's a nice touch to any kind of prank or joke. Surely he can fit it into these kinds of scenarios as well.

"Molto bravo! There you go!"

Another hearty gesture is delivered, this time a clap on the back, maybe to help a little with the coughing. It's a much different burn from any cigarette, but Meyer has handled it with impressive form. He hasn't forgotten about the contents of his pockets either, fumbling around in there momentarily to ensure the packet is still there, but willing to wait until he can appreciate the sensation fully.

The clap on the back just sets off another round of coughing, but after a few moments, the coughing turns into laughing. "So tell me, are you trying to kill me, or entertain me?" It really could go either way, considering how much that had burned, but he's pretty sure he's taking it as a form of entertainment, which is impressive in it of itself. When he'd first showed up in the City, there's no way he would've let loose this much with anyone, and if someone had told him that he'd be celebrating Al Capone's birthday like this, well, he'd've laughed it off.

His eyes do go to where Al's fumbling in his pocket, and he raises an eyebrow slowly. "Let me guess," he says, "You've got something else planned."

Does he want to know what it is? Probably not. Is he going to find out and likely grudgingly enjoy himself anyway? Very likely.

"You think I'd have it in me to kill you?"

And just as quickly as the comment tumbles out, he responds to it with a short clearing of his throat and and an exhale. Maybe he's said too much. However their business relations have evolved, there's something to be said in showing all your cards when things have a habit of fluctuating.

Time for a change of subject. Al offers a shrug of nonchalance to the other inquiry, sated by the safe presence of the bag.

"You went through the trouble of bringing a gift, I figure we might as well make the most of it."

"Of course I think you've got it in you to kill me."

What a ridiculous question. He dismisses it with a wave of the hand holding his ever-present cigarette, obviously not bothered by it. Most of his friends -- or at least, the people he calls friends, which is a short roster, and not often something he calls people to their faces -- have the potential to kill him, and he them. Really, how can a friendship be a true one if there isn't the potential for great bodily harm or death?

"You want to make the most of it here?"

He looks around, suspicious again. The bar's all very good and well, but he's got no idea what half of those substances are likely to do, and he wonders, for a moment, if it's a wise idea to use them in public.

He appreciates the vote of confidence. It would be a hard-pressed situation for such a thing to happen, and his sentimentalities are an awful roadblock when it comes to keeping these things in perspective. Of course, this seems to be an awful topic for a birthday. It's making his head heavy just thinking about it.

A slow, mostly obvious, scan of the bar follows. These are all people he's seen before and they're mostly harmless or have already been humiliated enough to leave him and his company alone.

"There's a couple of rooms back there if you're worried about keeping your back to the wall. You said it yourself, music and that shit really push the experience."

"Well."

He pauses to exhale smoke almost lazily, and then shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette and immediately going for another. At this rate, he's going to run out of them sooner rather than later, but that's hardly uncommon -- this is one expensive habit he's not in a hurry to break.

"It's your birthday, we might as well have the full experience."

It's almost amazingly difficult for him to give up control of a situation like that, but most people don't notice that. They only see him acquiescing to things and think he's being polite, they rarely realize how hard that truly is. But it is Al's birthday, and he has to admit, he's curious about all of these new drugs.

So people might not notice, some people might ignore. Sometimes Al can surprise himself and others with his observance, but his lack of opinions never seems to be in short supply. He picks up the container of cigarettes, unprompted, and inspects the contents, mostly for quantity, then chuckles and slides it back in Meyer's direction.

"Most of the chumps in here just worked a ten hour shift, they've got nothing left in 'em. They're all talk. That being said, your enthusiasm is truly sterling."

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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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