tampered | Gangsters and thugs / criminals and hoods

Entry tags:

Gangsters and thugs / criminals and hoods

When; January 17th
Rating; R because... it's them.
Characters; Al Capone, Meyer Lansky
Summary; It's Al's birthday. Meyer decided to bring him a present. I think we all know how well that'll go.
Log;

Meyer's been accused of working all the time and of never having any fun. And of course, it doesn't escape his notice that one of his biggest accusers is Al. To be fair, Al's decidedly better at having fun than he is. In fact, he might go so far as to say that Al's excellent at having fun, whereas he himself is only middling at best.

But he's determined to change that, if only for today, because he's caught wind of the fact that it's Al's birthday. And that deserves just a little bit of indulgence, doesn't it?

So although Al may not be expecting to hear a knock on his door shortly before he'd be heading out for his shift at the casino -- if he'd intended to come in to work on his birthday at all, which Meyer's doubtful of -- he'll open the door to find Meyer standing outside of his apartment with an immaculately wrapped gift tucked under one arm, looking expectant.

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"Sure."

He grabs the baggie and eyes the tablet suspiciously, wondering exactly what this stuff is made of, and just what it's going to feel like. There's only one way to find out, he supposes.

"I've heard you can chew it, too, but I'd rather not go around chewing pills."

He has standards, after all, and while he imagines that chewing it up might make the effects have a quicker onset, it also might taste terrible. Well, here goes the experiment, then -- he puts it in his mouth almost gingerly, swallows it, and then chases it with a sip from his drink, which seems to have been refilled without him noticing.

He still stands by the theory of the smiling face: what could be so bad about that? After keeping the thing pinched between his fingers for a minute, turning it over and inspecting it from different angles, he drops the thing in his mouth. A chews up a portion of it, grinding really, and swallows the remnants with an accompanying drink.

"Here goes nothing. Let's hope you get some bang for your buck."

"We'll find out soon enough."

It's meant to take a little while to kick in, longer than the other stuff he usually partakes of, so he might as well order another round of drinks while he waits. For awhile, as they're sitting there drinking and talking about not much in particular, he starts to think that maybe he's not going to feel any different at all, and that this had all been a wasted experiment. After a little bit, though, he realizes that he is starting to feel pleasantly warm, and he looks over at Al.

"Feel anything yet?"

"No. You?"

Not that he's in any particular hurry to feel anything. Even if he was, it doesn't seem relevant anymore to rush anything. In fact, what are they even expecting? He starts to ask, then something seems to catch his attention: the glass in his hand. Al checks himself out of the conversation momentarily, holding up his glass to a bartender in passing.

"Hey. Fill this up before the ice melts all the way? It's a good temperature. Thanks."

With that out of the way, he's back to giving Meyer an expectant look.

"It feels warm in here."

But maybe that's just the bar. Maybe someone's turned up the heat, or maybe sitting close to other people for so long means he's starting to overheat. He's usually cold, though -- people sometimes complain about his chilly fingers and toes -- and he has to wonder whether it's the drug making him feel that way. Or maybe he's over-thinking things again. That's a possibility. It usually comes down to that.

"I think..."

What does he think? Why does Al's request strike him as so strange?

"I'm not sure. I don't feel much different. Not like other drugs."

"Warm?"

Is that what the feeling is? While it might not be his first choice of words, he can acknowledge that being glued to the bar might not be the most comfortable place to be if something really is happening.

"Don't worry, I got you. Hey," he gives a lazy wave to the bartender, "he's gonna need some more ice over here too. C'mon, we'll get some air while this kicks in."

As he's leading the way to the door, Al steadies his hand on a crowded pool table for balance. It takes a moment to find his balance, but then something so important crosses his mind, something that he just can't seem to not notice.

"Jesus. That's-- soft."

"Yeah, thanks. Ice sounds good. Ice sounds great."

Is he just repeating what Al's saying? Probably, but right now, ice sounds like a fantastic idea. He really feels the need to reiterate it, to let Al know that it's a choice he approves of. The bartender can just get him a glass of ice, and he'll be happy with it. Why's it so damn warm in here? He tugs at his collar a little, wanting desperately to loosen it. Fresh air will be good.

And then, of course, he pauses as Al feels the table, raising an eyebrow at him, unable to avoid laughing a little giddily at the way Al's responding to the surface of the pool table.

"Soft?" He sounds incredulous, but he has to feel for himself. And so he does. His eyes widen slightly. "It is soft," he says, wondrously, enraptured.

The realization is not only welcome-- well, it's flat out fantastic that Meyer can understand this.

"I told you!" he's quite pleased with himself, completely opposed to any kind of parting from this delightful texture anytime soon. The people at the pool table seem to be having a good laugh at the expense of the two men and Al treats this as more shared enthusiasm.

Then, one voice breaks the mixture of good spirits.

"Hey, pal. You wanna move it?" one man at the table doesn't seem to share the patience that his company has nor the amusement. He nudges Al first, then Meyer, with the butt of his pool cue hoping it will be enough to send them on their way.

There's every chance that, were he feeling a little less oddly delighted, he'd get angry for being prodded with a pool cue, but as it is, he just gives the guy a considering look, seeming to size him up, then shrugs and reluctantly withdraws his hand from the table, but not after one final rub of the soft surface.

"I guess we should probably go outside."

He's really loath to leave that pleasant texture behind, but he doesn't want to get in a fight, not right now, so with one more forlorn glance at the table -- which none of the guys playing pool seem to appreciate the feeling of -- he heads for the door, realizing he's swaying a little in his steps, but chalking that up to the alcohol.

"I still don't feel a whole lot."

The guy doesn't give them too much of a hard time, watching Meyer depart slowly and awkwardly and Al follow in tow. The swaying earns a little giggle from Al, but not much in terms of commentary.

"Give it a couple of minutes," he still has some faith in the properties of this stuff. Maybe the payoff will be twice as good if it takes twice as long. Yeah. That makes sense. Damn good sense. As they move outside, he steps forward to open the door.

"Shit, that breeze."

More like a light gust as the door is opened, but the way he's crossing his arms over his chest, it might as well be an icy blast.

"What breeze?"

He's not being sarcastic. He really can't feel much of anything except overheated, and if there was a breeze, he completely missed it. He wishes he hadn't. From the way Al's got himself all wrapped up in his own arms, it must be nice and chilly. Why can't he feel it? He wants to put his head in the freezer right about now.

"It's still so warm out here."

He says this as he begins to shrug off his jacket, obviously wanting to disrobe a little for the sake of comfort. The tie comes off, too, and the vest gets unbuttoned a little, anything to get this mysterious breeze Al's referring to. And he'd probably keep removing items of clothing, except... he's suddenly distracted by something. Al's tie. Yes, he's running the material between his thumb and forefinger, looking wonderingly at Al.

"Have you touched this thing?"

Without any real prompt, Al starts to collect the clothes that Meyer is peeling off, making use of himself like a lively coat rack. Hey, it's adding layers anyway and that warm feeling is very reassuring. It's only after the tie is brought to his attention that he is able to focus in on it.

"You're touching it."

It's an obvious obstacle, but not one of any great concern. He doesn't seem to mind, actually, watching the fabric wrinkle and unwrinkled as it goes under close inspection.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I'm touching it because..."

He actually has no idea why he's touching it, except that it seems like the right thing to do. And it's incredibly hard to prevent himself from doing it once he gets started. Vaguely, he notices Al does seem to be behaving as a human coat rack, but that seems like the least of his concerns. Touching Al's tie is of much more importance.

"It just... it's very soft. That's not something that's wrong with it. It's very right."

It's a fortunate thing he's got great balance and not a care in the world, because Meyer's clothes have thus far stayed off the ground. He's nodding a little at the assessment, taking the observation as a compliment and bringing that back around to his general good sense.

"That's probably why I bought it."

And in a careless, breezy grab, the coat rack charade falls apart and he's now feeling his own tie, letting the rest of the clothes fall to the ground.

"Yeah, now I remember."

Normally, he'd be a little frustrated about Al dropping his clothes all over the ground. At the moment, he doesn't really care, because he's too busy stroking Al's tie like it's the only thing he can possibly imagine doing ever again -- and at the moment, it really is.

Well, feeling Al's tie with one hand, that is; the other hand has strayed to Al's vest, marveling over just how soft it, too, seems to be. Maybe Al just has exceptionally soft clothes, or maybe there's something in the drugs that makes everything seem that way. Either way, he likes it.

"This is nice, too."

Nice, except it's still too damn hot.

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