bakerstreet | (no subject)

Big, buff, badass men.

No seriously, you gotta be AT LEAST 5'8 and beefy. Other than that, get out my face.

Edited 2014-12-28 22:31 (UTC)

All of which answers a few questions.

[You cock-sucking MURDERER, why are you here?]

...What are you implying, Mr. Gordon?

[Because he's a dick and his mun's an asshole, probably.]

Just I never understood it.

What it was kept you coming to Philly.

...Mr. Rankin is a reclusive man. In order to make business, I travel.

[Also a certain butcher isn't involved in any of this, what are you talking about.]

Sure, sweetheart, sure. Whatever you say.

I didn't know you kept kosher, is all.

[She visibly twitches a bit.]

I do favor kosher foods, I blame it on my time spent near the neighborhoods.

[He manages to stifle a laugh - barely - and takes a pull on his cigar.]

Never woulda thought it.

What I want to know is, will you be returning to our fair city? Or have you had your fill?

I will return if needed. I might be talking to you again one day. [Looks over at him, smiles. And Waxy may feel his arm slightly move, it could just be a random twitch, nothing more, nothing less.]

[That had to be a fuckin' coincidence.

He's heard stories about Albany and the girls who came down from there, but... Nah. Nah, that was ridiculous.

Waxey clears his throat.] What kind've talk are we looking at?

Well, if my employer wants to do business with you. [He feels his arm, his fingers move again, but it could just be dismissed as another twitch, a nervous habit.]

Yeah, well. You can tell him Philly's open to considering. Maybe.

[Okay, he's maybe a little on-edge, but... He's not that nervous, is he? He shouldn't be so aware of the way his fingers are dancing around the cigar. He shouldn't be feeling it this strongly.

Fuck. He should not be this fucked up over a casual conversation with this broad. Fuckin' Horvitz causing trouble from beyond the grave; that's what the fuck this is. Not literally, of course, but sure. Sure, it all comes back to Horvitz.]

It's good to see that you're open to business Mr. Gordon.

[She can feel his nerves, his muscles tensing under her all seeing gaze. She sees that fucking cigar, channeling his latent need to suck on something long and phallic.]

[He doesn't like the way the broad is looking at him. Like she's crawling under his skin with her eyes, which doesn't even make fuckin' sense.]

We'll see what kind of deal your employer's willing to cut.

Wouldn't want him to think the city's gone sour. [Smirk.] The truth of it is, business's never been better.

Of course it hasn't... [Without warning at all, as if he didn't even bother to think about it, Waxy may press the lit end of his cigar right on the skin on the back on his hand. Despite the pain, despite the screaming in his head to stop, fucking stop. All he seems to be able to do is flinch.

Meanwhile Ty Yue still looks friendly, personable. Even as a grown man burns himself with his own damned cigar and not even react to the pain, because that reaction has been shut off.]

Do you know what you did, Mr. Gordon?

[This is not, this is not fuckin' right. He's not doing this. There's no way he's fuckin' doing this, but there it is, burning into his skin, and more than the pain itself, it's the incomprehensible action that staggers him.] What the fuck!

[He tries to steady himself, clear the panic from his face, but that's hard to do when he's searing a hole through his own hand and this broad's fuckin' smiling like she don't see a thing wrong here. Sure, because Waxey Gordon makes a regular practice of burning himself.

There's a thought (it's her, it's fuckin' her like Nathan said, Albany's a fuckin' horror show) that he dismisses as ridiculous before he finally gets hold of himself long enough to put words together. It's hard to put them smoothly into speech, the way his mind's screaming, but he manages a passable response.] I suppose you're some kind of medical whiz's going to tell me?

[The cigar's still burning, and he tells himself it's some kind of illness, he's having a stroke or fucking something like that. He ain't a doctor; it could be anything. He just hopes it stops soon. If nothing else, the cigar's gotta go out sometime, right?]

[The false niceness goes out of her, leaving only a grim face and those EYES. Holding in position, never leaving Waxy's form. She gets closer to him, takes away his gun.]

I'll take that...

No, I mean the reason why you started to talk to me. The reason why you stand alone in the Philadelphia underground, you piece of shit.

[She comes out and admits it. Just burning the remaining bridge Albany has in Philly perhaps, but Ty Yue doesn't care. All her anger, all her rage at Manny's death is now a hole in that cock-suckers hand that he may have to look at for the rest of his life. (And clearly she could've done worse to him.) She's still calm, the anger burning to cold fire inside.]

[No fucking, no fucking, no fucking--

The broad's got his gun and he can feel his stomach drop feel everything, every fucking thing inside him going weak and the cigar's still burning but what he notices now is her, this fucking broad that was all mixed up with Horvitz and that's got eyes he can't believe, who isn't smiling anymore and who is - make no mistake - fucking pissed off.

Fucking pissed off and holding his gun. Fucking pissed off and somehow responsible for all of this, and ah shit, if he doesn't stay focused, he'll start blubbering. Which is not what Waxey fucking Gordon does.

When he manages to speak, the words come out weaker than intended. (It's a whimper, almost. Fuck it, fuck this, fuck her.)]

You're not fuckin' talking about--?

Zolst ligen in-- [Not helping, not helping.] It was business. What the fuck else would it be?

((not 100% on the yiddish, just... as a note.))

Edited 2014-12-29 05:56 (UTC)

Geh in drerd arein, you murdering fuck.

[The cigar has burned out, but her mind still has a hold on him. She stares at him for a while. Shoots him in the foot.]

Business, business, fucking business. You know what I will never understand about the underworld? You kill each other over things that actually means nothing. Normal human beings don't do that. I live in Albany and that is still unecessary.

[She doesn't try to bring her own feelings into this, the feelings she had for Munya that he turned down, that fact that he had to see the wraith of another dear friend disappear.]

Don't give that excuse, Mr. Gordon.

[Did she just fucking throw Yiddish at him? (He has another wild fucking thought, a momentary glimpse of Horvitz teaching this twisted bitch to speak--)]

FUCK.

[She shot him. The crazy fucking psychotic fucking mayse (fucking ENOUGH with the Yiddish, he doesn't want it it won't do any good but sometimes it just happens) shot him, and he can't even curl in on himself, can't move a thing. He's on the edge of sobbing now because what the fuck is happening here, how the fuck'd this happen, and he doesn't want to deal with this anymore, wants to wake up and find it's all been a nightmare.

It isn't, though. It's no nightmare, and he sure as shit can't drown out the words Horvitz's demonspawn friend is spitting at him. Why can he still hear her so clearly? Everything else is a mess; why can he still hear her?]

You fucking shot me.

What the fuck's wrong with you? Crazy fucking bitch, what the fuck're you doing? You think you can just pull this and-- and walk the fuck away? [He's whimpering again, because he realizes that was the wrong thing to say. Whatever happens after today, shouting about it ain't going to help him any.]

You. You let me go now, ain't nothing to worry about. Just-- FUCK.

[His foot again. The foot she shot. No fucking wonder this one got along with the butcher.]