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come and see | some nights i thirst for real blood, for real knives, for real cries
It's been a bad day. It's been a bad day when it was supposed to be a good day, an easy day, an easy win.
See, he and Fuller have been chasing some Gangland asshole by the name of John Jones for several months, now. On the surface, he's nothing special, just a middle man for a much larger problem, but that's what made him so appealing a target. Being in the middle means he's not untouchable, not like some of the guys running the show, and more importantly, being where he is means he knows people and can provide names up and down the ranks, both, if they can get him and make him talk. Good news is, they caught the sonovabitch and had what even he thought was an airtight case -- they had a fucking plea deal already drawn up, guy was so fucked. Bad news is -- well, it all went to shit in court today.
A key witness decided they weren't going to testify, never mind the fact that everyone suspects that someone above Mister Jones got to her and convinced her not to talk. Either way, evidence that hinged on her testimony went up in smoke, there, and it all fell apart after that, like a line of dominoes falling over. Suddenly they had nothing, and all Jones gets is another couple of nights in county until the media shitstorm passes, and then he's back on the street, pushing drugs and running guns and enjoying a revolving door of pussy because he was so brave, going up against the big, bad FBI and not snitching on his bosses.
It's bullshit. It's bullshit, and normally, Dylan wouldn't care -- so a bunch of Children of Dust have decided they want to do him a favor, killing each other with the drugs and the guns, so what? They're all going to die sooner or later, anyway, and just as violently. It's not that. It's that he hates losing, and today wasn't just a loss, it was a fucking slaughter. It's that if a bunch of humans are going to spend their lives putting nails in their coffins, someone should have thought to hand him a hammer -- the FBI wasn't the only one that could have made Jones take a shit deal, today, if the trial had panned out. It's a hundred different things, but needless to say he's fuming, and unlike the FBI, whose hands are tied, now, he's actually still in a position to do something.
Seems to him it's a good night for a bottle of good bourbon and a little torture.
Seems to him it'd be a little more fun with a friend, too -- or an audience. Either way, they can make a thing of it.
That in mind, he leans back from the edge of the roof of the courthouse where he's been lurking, unseen, and fishes his phone out of his pocket. One by one, he goes through half a dozen names in his contact list and sends them all the same message. Hey, call me when you get a chance.
His day, he thinks, is about to get a whole lot better.
See, he and Fuller have been chasing some Gangland asshole by the name of John Jones for several months, now. On the surface, he's nothing special, just a middle man for a much larger problem, but that's what made him so appealing a target. Being in the middle means he's not untouchable, not like some of the guys running the show, and more importantly, being where he is means he knows people and can provide names up and down the ranks, both, if they can get him and make him talk. Good news is, they caught the sonovabitch and had what even he thought was an airtight case -- they had a fucking plea deal already drawn up, guy was so fucked. Bad news is -- well, it all went to shit in court today.
A key witness decided they weren't going to testify, never mind the fact that everyone suspects that someone above Mister Jones got to her and convinced her not to talk. Either way, evidence that hinged on her testimony went up in smoke, there, and it all fell apart after that, like a line of dominoes falling over. Suddenly they had nothing, and all Jones gets is another couple of nights in county until the media shitstorm passes, and then he's back on the street, pushing drugs and running guns and enjoying a revolving door of pussy because he was so brave, going up against the big, bad FBI and not snitching on his bosses.
It's bullshit. It's bullshit, and normally, Dylan wouldn't care -- so a bunch of Children of Dust have decided they want to do him a favor, killing each other with the drugs and the guns, so what? They're all going to die sooner or later, anyway, and just as violently. It's not that. It's that he hates losing, and today wasn't just a loss, it was a fucking slaughter. It's that if a bunch of humans are going to spend their lives putting nails in their coffins, someone should have thought to hand him a hammer -- the FBI wasn't the only one that could have made Jones take a shit deal, today, if the trial had panned out. It's a hundred different things, but needless to say he's fuming, and unlike the FBI, whose hands are tied, now, he's actually still in a position to do something.
Seems to him it's a good night for a bottle of good bourbon and a little torture.
Seems to him it'd be a little more fun with a friend, too -- or an audience. Either way, they can make a thing of it.
That in mind, he leans back from the edge of the roof of the courthouse where he's been lurking, unseen, and fishes his phone out of his pocket. One by one, he goes through half a dozen names in his contact list and sends them all the same message. Hey, call me when you get a chance.
His day, he thinks, is about to get a whole lot better.
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So worth the little something extra it's costing him to do this.
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He tilts his head a little, frowning. "I always wondered if getting that place on your heel fucked with hurt as bad as the movies make it look."
You know, the Achilles tendon, considering how often it gets sliced open in horror movies.
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"You wanna cut him up and let him go? See how far he gets?" It's not too far off his original idea.
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That done, and while Jack's working at his shoes, he turns his attentions back to Jones, himself, who at the moment, seems to be catatonic in the corner of his cell. That's no fun, either, but Dylan's not too terribly upset by it. He'll make sure Jones remembers every little thing that happened to his friend, right before they start in on him, and really, it's probably better this way, if only for the time being. At least this way, they can focus on one of them at a time.
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He doesn't have much of a shadow at the moment, considering that he's bending down and a lot of the light is blocked by an assortment of things - but there's that flickering again, what he's becoming warring against his humanity.
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When he seems to remember himself, he starts trying to crawl away. Dylan watches him go, blood trailing behind him like a slug's trail, and briefly entertains the idea of turning him into one, when this is all over. Maybe feed him to his friend, too.
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He gestures, making a circle with his finger. Can Dylan fuck with reality, to let their friend think he's getting away only for him to end up right back where he started?
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"That work for you?" Dylan asks, watching as the man tries to slither away again, clearly horrified by the fact that he doesn't seem to be getting anywhere. This is -- such a costly mess, but it's worth it.
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