Some bits and pieces

[starkandskinny]

I'm sort of not too comfortable at publicizing my writing, but I thought this should be here for future references. Most of these are RP samples, some are short stories (which happen once in forever for me).

* * *

He stood there, breathing heavily for a few moments, before the realization of what they had done started to slowly sink in.
You couldn’t even recognize Dick Turpin anymore.
There was blood soaking through the carpet. Blood, and the glass of red wine Mr. Turpin had accidentally dropped on the carpet only a few moments earlier. He hoped it wouldn’t pour down through the cracks to the apartment below; but that thought was gone from his mind as quickly as it came.
His fresh white shirt was covered with spatters of blood. His fist, along with his brass knuckles, were dripping with the fluid. He could feel some of it dampening his beard.
His chest went up and down under the tight shirt in slow, steady movements, as he tried to regain his breath. The Billy Murray record they had enjoyed listening to while getting high and drunk had ceased from playing, probably during the fight, and there was now utter silence in the small apartment, other than the static sound coming from the phonograph.
Calloway wasn’t known to be a man of many words; but if anytime was one to speak - this was it.
“My apologies about your carpet.” Was all he could think to say, in his deep, sullen voice, standing over the body.

* * *

Bill sighed and considered giving up, though God knew what that would have done to his reputation - when, out of the blue, came Mohan to his rescue. His face lit up and a malicious smirk cut across his face, which, for a few moments, made him resemble a shark.
“Mohan! My savior!” He called out with joy, reaching to remove the sack from the man’s hands. “Do me a favor ‘n pick this lady here up.” He shifted his gaze to the seated woman. “We gone take you on a little detour, milady.”
He retrieved the bag he had handed out to one of the passengers and tossed it out the door, where Ming was waiting to catch it. He waited for Mohan to pick the lady up and carry her (kicking and screaming) out the wagon, slung the bag over his shoulder, and spoke to the crowd once more as he made his way for the open door; “People, please be sure to tell all yer friends ‘n loved ones, and whoever else would be interested to hear, that ye have gone through the exciting once-in-a-lifetime experience of spendin’ some good ol’ quality time with the Savage-Flyinghawk Gang!” He ruffled the hair of a young boy sitting with his mother next to the door, removed his hat from his head, and placed it atop the boy’s.
“Bon voyage!” He called and blew a kiss towards the crowd, leaped out the door, and ran, along with Ming and Mohan, for dear life.

* * *

Mike was growing increasingly angry and impatient with the people around him. Sometimes, he scared himself.

I mean, for Pete's sake – the other day he was walking down the street and passed by a Temperance Movement rally. Instead of smiling and politely ignoring them, as he usually would, little Mikey went and, rather abruptly, shouted for them to 'shut their fucking yaps and go home'.

He didn't know what it was. Maybe it was the increasing amount of time he was spending with Jackson; maybe it was the increasing amount of hooch he was devouring while spending time with Jackson; maybe he'd just hit puberty late.

No, the truth was, Mike liked shooting the bull with Jackson. He had a sort of… refreshing perspective for life Mike was only now beginning to understand. He would never admit it to himself - but poor little Mikey was growing forever anxious of the nearing realization God did not like him. That there was a reasonable possibility that God hated him.

He never sounded any of this out, though: because he was polite; because he did not want to anger the people he had to see every single day; and most importantly - because he did not want to lose his job. He liked his job, for the most part. But, even if he hadn't missed a single show - it seemed like all Mike was up to recently was drinking hooch and getting into trouble. Recent experiences have lead him to believe that, well – that no one was perfect. Not that he thought that he was perfect to begin with – but he figured he oughta have lived a little, and besides, it's not like he was doing something that... you know, He found wrong. That God found wrong. God did not ban intoxication; nor did he ban running from the police, either, really. He was just having a little fun. He oughta have had fun; in less than a few hours, he would be two decades old.

He wondered if anyone would remember.

He didn't expect Jackson would – which didn't bother him much, because Jackson has gone through most of his adult life being drunk. With all his respect and appreciation for the man – he doubted Jackson remembered his own birthday. And the people he did expect to remember -- well... on second thought, he didn't really expect anyone to remember. Not on purpose, anyway, but Mike realized he mainly kept to himself and wasn't really as socialized and as liked as he thought he was. He was pretty sure (and terrified) that, other than Jackson, no one liked him. Perhaps Mr. Benson did, but he hasn't seem him around in ages.

Which was why he decided to take the night off and spend his time at the bar, drinking the night away. He figured that was a good-enough birthday gift.

* * *

It had been a long while since Mike'd exchanged any words with Jackson other than a hello and a thank you whenever Jackson was sitting at the bar - which was becoming less and less of a frequency, so really, he hadn't spoken to Jackson at all in a while.

Dolores was irritable at Jackson's changing moods at first, but she gave it up soon enough, once she'd been around him long enough to realize the man was not well. She tried to take care of him as much she could while trying not to show she really gave a shit - which was a hard enough task to begin with. She helped as much she could when it came to cash, but she still had to look out for herself. The fact that Jackson was... with her now was all good and well, but no one guaranteed he'd be there forever. He could either leave her or die, whichever came first. Namely she just tried to sooth his aching muscles and stay out of his way when he was pissed.

And Mike. Aside from the cold shoulder, you could barely even see Mike anywhere (which would actually be a good attribute to an escape artist, if you think about it). He put up an evening show and worked at the bar until midnight, sometimes 1 AM, then attend his 'other job' which no one really knew anything about other than Jackson - which he regretted telling to in the first place - sleep in the mornings, and be up and putting up another show by noon. Seemed like he wasn't doing anything but work.

He was walking down the boardwalk when he noticed something white and somewhat shiny sitting at the entrance to the theater. It was Jackson. He had to squint under his blue fedora to look at the man, he was that pale. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, he walked down the way to the stoop and took a seat next to the albino. Taking a pack of cigarettes out, he put one in his mouth and held the pack out for Jackson.

The other man couldn't help but be a little surprised at the sudden display of familiarity, however small. He waved the cigarettes away with a slow and gentle gesture, mostly because the last one he'd had had left him a little nauseous.
"Hey, Mikey. How's it been?"

"Swell." The reply was too monotonic to be interpreted as either honest or sarcastic. He resented being called Mikey, but chose to ignore it. Jackson was the only one that called him anything anyway.

He removed his cap and placed it in his lap, having a long drag off the cigarette and letting the smoke waft away from his lips as he spoke. "How come you ain't smoking with me, huh? You quit?" He almost seemed disappointed.

* * *

Mike didn't think Jackson hated dogs as much as he was terrified of them, but 'scared' wasn't a word he wanted to use at this particular moment. The dog made a low sound from the deep of its throat, enjoying the attention, and Mike stood back on his feet and had another drag of the cigarette. "So it would seem."

He stood there in silence for a moment, hands in his pockets, when a dog began barking in the distance. It wasn't playful barking like the mutt's - it was loud, defensive and angry. It was a warning. Another dog joined minutes after, and the mutt perked its ears, turning away from Jackson. It stepped to the tip of the porch and began barking as well.
There were barking coming from inside the house.

Mike knew this all too well.

"Shit." He muttered and turned his head just in time to see his father standing at the door.
"Polizei." Herr Zinner said, staring down at his son. Police raids played a common role in Mike's childhood; they would search through the Barrens every once in a while for thieves and criminals. His father had been arrested more times than he could remember. And with the both Jackson and himself working at the theater where alcohol was obviously sold illegally and with Jackson having a flask on his person at all time - this couldn't have been good news for them.

"We have to get outta here." Mike, still frozen solid in his spot, looked back at Jackson.
Jackson nodded, "Yeah, we better. Your folks gonna be alright?" He looked back over his shoulder at Mike's father.

"Wir sind daran gewöhnt." Herr Zinner had lost all sense of his English by this point; the Frau appeared next to him in the doorway and snatched Mike for a quick, final hug before the boy could do anything else.
"They're used to these things." Mike muttered from over his mother's shoulder. He could not believe this was happening, the one day he has the guts to go back home - but there was no time to cry over spilled milk - not now, in any case. "Ich werde um den Rücken zu gehen." He looked at his mother, then, one final time, at his father. "Ich liebe dich."

He grabbed Jackson by the wing of his coat and went around the porch. "There are a million different ways outta here. With a little luck, we'll make it."
"Ye'd be surprised how visible I am from great distances," Jackson grumbled, searching about in his pocket for his keys, because it was best to have those ready to go. "Just get us to the car and we'll be far away in no time."

Mike cursed under his breath, breaking into a jog as soon as they were off the porch - he didn't think this could possibly make the condition of Jackson's joints any better; but they had to run, there was no other option.
Everything looked the same. Tall pine trees everywhere, a rotten wooden shack here and there; Jackson wasn't all too sure Mike knew where he was leading them. You could get so easily lost in the Barrens; and when you did, you oughta be terrified. There were some things and people Mike never wanted to run into ever again.
Breathing hard, he looked at Jackson over his shoulder and nearly ran into a tree (but managed breaking aside at the last second) when, almost unexpectedly, they had reached the end of the Barrens and found themselves in front of the car. "I am... so sorry."

[starkandskinny]

Disclaimer: the following piece of writing contains violent death and may not be suitable for everyone. Read at your own risk.
This bit's actually a short Inglourious Basterds fanfic. It's not AU, but rather post-war; providing closure for Aldo, if you will.

BOOTS

[starkandskinny]

Yet another short story, this time written for my WW2 RP. An American paratrooper, Joe Grossmann, gets lost in France during D-Day, and has no other option but to join forces with a German soldier that's turned on his own unit (Erik Juschkat).
Together, along with a French Resistance member called Rene Pepinot, they roam Europe searching for Allied forces.

I suggest using Google Translate for the French bits. Rene is a sort of comic relief.


Bastogne, Belgium, 1944

They had been walking in the woods for a while.

Joe didn't know what a while was, exactly, but it had been a few days since they'd started following the muffled bombarding sounds coming from the forest. And it was goddamn cold. None of them were sure what month it was, but Joe thought it was around December, because everything was covered with snow and cold as fuck. He had to steal and wear a German soldier's coat and he hated every second of it.

"Are you sure we're heading the right way?" this must have been the hundredth time he'd asked Juschkat.
"Of course we're going the right way."
"Nous sommes putain perdu." Rene muttered under his breath.
"Ferme ta bouche, mange-grenouille!"
"Yeah, but, are you sure?" He ignored the French - and the yelling, as per usual. "Because we've been walking here for quite some time now and we haven't seen one living soul, not to mention any sold--" he paused mid-sentence when Juschkat waved for him to be quiet. They stopped and listened. It was faint, but someone was heading their way.
Juschkat got down on his knees behind a wide tree and set up his machine-gun.

"Qu'est-ce qui se passe?"
"Someone's coming." Whispered Joe, grabbing Rene by the collar of his shirt as he dragged him behind another tree. He knelt down and slowly aimed his rifle, breath held as whoever it was approached them.
It was foggy and Joe could barely see, and at the first moment he thought he was hallucinating when he saw three soldiers in US Army uniform. There were the helmets [no spade on them, though], the jackets he knew all too well – and then there were the boots, but they had straps instead of laces, so they couldn't have possibly been Airborne. Not that it mattered – they were still Americans.
He heard Juschkat pull the bolt back on his MG42 and nearly jumped from behind the three. "Juschkat!" It was a whisper, though a rather loud one. "Fuck! Erik, Fuck! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

One of the soldiers raised his hand, ordering the others to stop. He ducked his head and looked around, looking for the source of the noise Joe was making.
Juschkat took a deep breath and held his position, slowly turning his head to glare at Joe. "Was? What is it?"
"They're American! They're - " Joe just shook his head and pulled his rifle away, then got back on his feet and moved away [slowly enough not to get shot] from the tree. "Hey! You three, over here!"
All three froze solid for a moment before they'd recognized Joe's own uniform. The leader of the patrol, a Sgt. First Class, made a few steps forward and offered a confused smile.

"Airborne? What the fuck are you doing way back here? Where's the rest of your patrol?"
They were 10th Armored Division. Joe couldn't have been happier to see tankers in his entire fucking life.
"Fuck, you have no idea how glad I am to see you. I'm lost."
"How could you be lost on Bastogne?"

Rene, still in hiding, stared over at Juschkat with a questioning look. The German shrugged, still annoyed that Joe was fucking ruining everything, again – and, in fact, he'd had enough of that. He lowered his machine-gun and stood back up, walking away from the tree to stand a few feet behind Joe.
All three Americans immediately had their guns aimed and ready to fire at Juschkat. "Sergeant. Behind you."
Joe glanced back over his shoulder. "No! It's okay, he's with me. He's on our side." None of the soldiers seemed convinced. Joe raised a hand. "I swear. He turned on his own platoon and saved my life. He saved it several times, in fact. He's one of the good guys."
Even though none of them seemed to be convinced yet – the sergeant first class in particular – he motioned for his men to lower their weapons.

Joe sighed and nodded his head. "Not in Bastogne. I don't even fucking know where we are. I got lost on D-Day, and these two guys – Rene, l'extérieur! - these two guys have been helping me search for Allied forces."
Juschkat watched them, and almost lifted the MG-42 to aim at them, but Joe was in the way, so he lowered it and just stared at the other Americans.
Rene emerged from a bush and stood up.

"Quoi? L'extérieur?"
Juschkat frowned. "I am not an idiot, Grossmann. I can talk too."
Joe rolled his eyes and turned to Juschkat. "You wouldn't exactly be able to talk if they'd shot you, would you?" He turned back to the Americans.
Juschkat frowned and made a face, doing an exaggerated impression of the man.
"Well, look, we can't exactly take all youse back to headquarters with a Krau--"

Half a second had passed before all five noticed the blood spreading on the sergeant's abdomen, and when Joe raised his hand to scratch an odd itchy feeling in his cheek, there was blood. It took another instant for the sound of the gun going off to reach them.

The soldier didn't even hit the ground before they were running for their lives.

*

Eventually, they stopped running. None of them knew how far or for how long they ran. Could have been a few minutes. Could have been hours. It wasn't as much as a conscious decision that they were far enough for them to stop as much as exhaustion.

Joe flopped down on the snow, feeling his cheek. It was wet and there was blood soaked little ways into the collar of his jacket. He glanced over at Erik, completely out of breath. "Your people fucking shot me."
"Ils m'ont tiré! Les foutours m'ont tiré!" Rene was flailing, only catching up to them now. His left calf was bleeding onto his trousers, and he was limping.
Erik scowled at his arm, picking at it. He was barely catching his breath as he examined his wounded arm. The bullet had gone straight through. "Yes, they got me too."
"Je vais saigner à mort, lentement, et tout ça va être de ta faute!"
Joe sighed, patting himself down for sulfa. "What's he saying?"
"He says he will bleed to death and it will be your fault. Detendes-tu, vais a vivir. Ce n'est pas mon putain faute, je ne suis pas celui qui cherche pour les Américains!"
"Fuck off." Joe muttered, tossing the sulfa packet in Rene's direction. "I can't believe we lost the two other guys. Fuck."
Juschkat glared at him. "No one gives a shit that we lost your precious Americans! They won't be missed, you have lots of others."
Joe touched the scratch on his cheek and stared at Juschkat, not fully believing. His voice was quiet. "How the fuck can you say that?"
Rene didn't even bother moving towards the sulfa. "Il ya tellement que je voulais faire avant de mourir! Je voulais aller à Paris et à lécher la tour Eiffel! Je voulais frapper Hitler dans le visage! Je voulais avoir une putain de Bruges! Putes belges, putains belge! Pourquoi tu ne me laisse pas avoir une putain belge avant que je meur, Joe?"
"Calme-toi." Joe frowned. He was still glaring at Erik.
Juschkat snorted. "Pas de putain belge voudrait vas te faire encule. Vous payer un supplément parce que vous êtes petits."
"Vous avez à payer un supplément parce que vous êtes laid!!"
"Would the two of you shut the fuck up?! Fuck! This was maybe our only chance to find my unit and get the fuck outta here, for good! And now we're right where we started, stuck in goddamn fucking Belgium with absolutely no fucking idea where to go! Behind enemy lines, on top of that!"
"Je ne suis pas laid, fils de pute! Au moins je ne regarde pas comme je l'ai douze ans!" Juschkat flailed, waving his arms, but quickly lowered them as he felt the pain spread across the wound. He looked back at Joe, still irritated. "Calme-toi, we'll find more Americans. Those guys weren't here alone."
"Calme-toi? Calme-toi?! Are you making fucking fun of this? You think this is funny, you fucking asshole?" Joe was just barely on the verge of tears. "I'm gonna fucking die out here and never see home again!"
Erik seemed unimpressed. "Relax, have a cigarette. You'll feel better."
Well, that did it. Joe got up with a groan, quickly making the few feet between them, cocked his fist back and punched Erik in the face.

He never thought Joe would ever hit him. He was so surprised he didn't even try to move away. Joe's fist hit him right in the nose, and as the American moved away to sit back where he was and sulk and attend his own face, he just laid on the snow and let his nose bleed.

"Ow."

[starkandskinny]

More short Mike bits I rather like. The first one is of the Mute Mick's (also known as Angelo) the theater's alcohol supplier, teaching Mike how to fight.

* * *

Mike wasn’t even trying to avoid the punch. He took it right in the jaw and, arms flailing, stumbled back until his back met with the closest wall - which was the only think keeping him from falling on his back. There was that metallic taste of blood in his mouth - it might have been just his gums, and he might have bit his own tongue. That was alright, though. Mike didn’t need his tongue at the moment.

For a short few seconds it didn’t seem like he was going to fight back, just leaned against the wall with his arms at his sides, breathing heavily.

However, he then charged at Mick with all his strength, punching straight below his rib cage as he tried with all his might to bring the man down.

Learning to take a punch was half the heart of fighting. The Mick watched him carefully as it all bubbled up in him and finally surfaced in the swing of his arm— into the mean skinny muscle of Angelo’s torso. He had no voice, there was no cry but there was a sound, a force of air hissed through his open jaws in a noise almost like laughter.

Mick grabbed Mike by the collar of his shirt, over his head, and pulled him back and down so that the momentum he’d gathered up to punch Mick with— and had punched Mick with— would carry him face-first into the ground. He did not knee him in the gut, which was probably best for everyone.

Although unaware of what was going through Mick’s head, had Mike known - he would have been grateful to Mick for not using his knee on him. With his free arm flailing, he tried his best at keeping his face from hitting the earth - a futile attempt, since he was all too slow to actually do so. The hit hurt like a son of a bitch and dirt got in his eyes and mouth, muffling his groan [as much as the boy could produce anything that would sound like a groan].

He coughed and pushed himself to a sitting position, rubbing his eyes as he cleaned them of dirt; he was without his breath and he had to sit there for a moment and catch it before he could stand back up - after which he turned his head to spit. There was still the taste of grass and sand in his mouth. His lips were cut [probably from biting them], and a little stream of blood was beginning to trickle from his nose.

“I’m not sure what to do next.” He finally confided, sniffing.

The other man considered allowing Mike to reverse their roles, but that would end in Mike getting a bit more of the life beaten out of him. He could punch him again, but that just seemed mean-spirited. And Christ, just look at the boy. Angelo could not— Christ it was like kicking a god damn puppy. So rather than being awkward about it he just produced a flat flask from somewhere within his waistcoat and offered it over in companionable silence.

Well, that wasn’t quite the answer Mike was looking for - he was entirely unaware of the blood dripping out down his nose, and aside from a dull pain in his lips and forehead [he could still feel his pulse there after Mick had headbutted him] he could have accounted for himself as being alright. He wanted to go on with the fight. He wanted to know how to do it properly [frankly, to his own surprise, he wasn’t sure which he wanted more - to kick someone’s ass, or to get his own kicked].

But, shrugging, he took the flask with a short nod and had a long swig. After whatever it was Jackson had given him to drink back in their Pine Barrens extravaganza, Mike could pretty much drink anything without being bothered by the taste. Whether or not he could hold his alcohol, though, was an entirely different story.

He handed the flask back to Mick and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, only then noticing the smudges of blood on his sleeve.

He pinched his nose and held his head back. “You could have at least told me I was bleedin’.” He muttered, half-smiling.

* * *

Mike was drooling on his pillow. It’s been a long night. He worked at the bar up until midnight; at which point he left to make rounds for Mr. Quinn. Yes, he made rounds now, and though still obligated to carry a gun, this new job made Mike feel a hell lot safer. Just walk down the boardwalk, pick cash up from people, leave. It was that simple, and he liked things to be simple.

So anyway - making rounds, that lasted till about five or six AM, since in every place he stopped people would great him and chat him up and invite him for a few drinks. So not only was the boy up all night, but by the time he’d gotten back to his room at the theater he was also very drunk. By now he built up a certain stamina for liquor, but there was only so much his little body could hold.

He was still in his undershirt and trousers when a knocking on his door woke him up. He turned to gaze at his old alarm clock and, after everything stopped spinning just enough so that he could see the numbers on it, saw he’d only slept for about half an hour.

He curled up and pulled his knees to his chest and hoped whoever it was would think he was still out and would leave him be; But the knocking didn’t stop and it was beginning to give Mike quite the headache. He sighed into his pillow and, quite unwillingly, got up off the bed.

“Alright already! I’m coming! Jesus Christ!”

He wiped the drool from the side of his mouth and dragged himself over to the door, not bothering to look any more awake or comb his bed-ridden hair.

He looked at the other man at the door, blinked, and then yawned. “Christ, what is it, Mick?”

The Mute Mick was wearing a suit. The Mute Mick looked like he had just spent the night devouring about ten times the amount of alcohol Mike has. He shoved his notebook toward Mike insistently, which very nearly upended him. He caught the edges of the door frame just in time to keep himself from tipping over backward, hoping Mike had hold of the notebook (which Mick had nearly closed over the poor boy’s nose) as he straightened himself up again. The door frame groaned in displeasure.

Mike sighed tiredly and looked down at the notebook in his hand. Didn’t Mick get it? Didn’t he get the hint the last time when Mike helplessly tried to pretend he didn’t even know any English? He couldn’t read, for Pete’s sake. Not in a pace anyone would care for, in any case.

But then again, Mick was so drunk — so drunk — Mike doubted he would remember any of this later. Then again, with alcohol in his blood and only a half hour of sleep, he doubted he’d remember it, either.

He looked down at the notebook and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, mouthing the words quietly enough so that only he and Mick could hear them, as he tried to figure them out.

“L… le — last… let’s…” go and to were easy enough to figure out, “m…” the boy paused to yawn, “mass… let’s go to mass?” He looked up at Mick, disbelief in his eyes. “Really? You want to go to mass? I hadn’t slept all night, Mick, and I never go to church in Atlantic City. Please just let me sleep.”

Mike learning to read more quickly was definitely gonna be in their mutual interest. The Mick was never gonna stop writing notes, because the Mick did not speak. And the longer it took Mike to read said notes, the longer their interactions were gonna take and the longer Angelo was gonna be standing at Mike’s door looking seriously fucking serious about going to morning mass.

Poor, poor Mike.

The look he was giving the boy (from a scant few inches away from Mike’s face) was obviously meant to be a kind of paternal, kind of big-brother scolding face, but frankly he looked like he was going to kill Mike so hard that they’d never find all the pieces. He was obviously quite serious about this church deal, and now that he had hold of the idea he did not intend to let it go so easily.

Mike gazed upon the other man with his eyes half shut. Obviously the boy should have been impressed by the seriousness in Mick’s glare, but perhaps too tired to make a note of it. He hoped if he glared at the Irishman long enough he would just turn around and leave him be, but a few minutes had gone by and, aside from slight tumbling, the man at Mike’s door didn’t look like he was going anywhere anytime soon.

The boy sighed and rubbed his face. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

Mick shook his head, his mouth screwing up into something that was supposed to look more serious. He looked a bit like he’d bitten into a crabapple.

Anyway, apparently it was time to get Mike dressed, because the Mick was not just standing in the doorway now but actively shouldering in, digging through one of his dresser drawers (because privacy is not compatible with this level of drunkfuckery) and throwing a pair of reasonably formal slacks at the poor boy the instant he found them.

The boy was reluctant at Mick going through his personal attire, and he was almost certain reasoning with him wasn’t going to do him any good, but that was his only option, considering getting into a physical fight with the man was probably going to end in Mike’s own death.

But he was so tired, goddammit. He could feel his eye sockets burning.

“Alright, okay, I’ll come with you. Jesus. I can dress up on my own, you know.” He muttered and picked up a pair of suspenders from a chair near his bed. “You wanna stay here for that too, or are you going to, please, wait outside?”

The Mick nodded seriously and shuffled back outside. It was probably better for everyone involved that he was mute.

Mike sighed and rolled his eyes. For a moment or two, he considered, in all seriousness, just locking the door behind Mick and going straight to bed; but feeling the tender skin where the Mick had given him a black eye (which was, by now, losing its deep purple shade and turning into an sickly green), decide against that idea.

He put on his clean trousers and clean white shirt and slacks - and had to hold everything up with suspenders and a belt, otherwise, the clothes [which were not Mike’s and weren’t bought for him] would just fall off the boy like rags.

Taking a quick look in the stained mirror that hung on the wall, Mike licked the palm of his hand an quickly combed it over his hair, went to the door — but then remembered to make a final check that everything was good to go before he left.

He went over by the bedside and patted himself down, making sure he had his keys, his wallet, cigarettes, a matchbox… everything seemed to be in place.

He opened his nightstand drawer and removed the cloth from the Colt six-shooter that was lying there. Everything seemed to be in place.

He wrapped the pistol back up and put it back in the nightstand.

He kissed his fingers and placed them on the cross that was hanging over his bed. Then he went to get the door and looked at Mick with a sense of despair. “Ready.”

[starkandskinny]

Here's showing I can play fandoms too, quite faithfully to the source, if I might add. I'm rather proud of my take on Harry Starks.
Anyway: except for Lionel and Ronny, all the characters mentioned below are from a novel by Jake Arnott\A BBC mini-series called The Long Firm. It tells the story of a homosexual gangster operating in London in the 1960's-80's.

*

Jock drove them along the shore, struggling somewhat with the driver’s seat being on the opposite side of the vehicle, passing by vacationers and locals alike, sun shining down on them through the front windshield. Harry seemed anxious. Further down the rode, the ground rose into high rocky cliffs, and the ride took its way upward until Jock pulled the car up to the side of the road, where at the edge grew high bushes and they would not so easily be seen.
He leaned over to Harry and opened the glove compartment, pulling out a small set of binoculars. He looked out over to the other side of the cliff, where the road lead to a mansion before disappearing in a turn to the left. He adjusted the binoculars, then handed them over to Harry.
“See that gate up there were the road turns left?”
Harry took the binoculars from the man, leaning over him so he could see out through the driver’s window.
“Where?” he frowned, looking through the binoculars, and then detected whatever it was Jock was talking about. “Oh.”
“With a place like that, they oughta have some butlers around. Maybe a guard at the gate.” South America was definitely a place to protect your own property, especially with that kind of money.
Harry nodded, taking some extra time to view the gates, then handed the binoculars over to Lionel. “Right, well. We need to get in there.”
“We could do that, boss, just give me a day or two to get things on track.”
“There’s a rose fence.” Lionel said, pointing up along the side of the house. It was almost obscured by the edge of the house. He handed the binoculars back to Harry before he continued. “If we waited until dark, that part of the house is hard to see. Wait ‘til the guard goes around the front, if he has rounds, and I can climb up. All we need is a door that isn’t guarded heavily, and I can let you in.”
“I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea, son-”
“What are you talking about, Jock. It’s a great idea." Harry interrupted. "They gotta have a back door.”
“Right, but, what if someone sees him? He gets caught?”
“We’re going to be seen no matter what.” harry went silent after that. It was one thing if Jock or himself got caught, they were more than capable of taking care of themselves - but Lionel was no hardened crook. “You’re right, though. It will be hell for us if he gets caught.”
Lionel watched the exchange, his leg bouncing nervously as he waited for the outcome. “I can handle meself.” He said, giving Jock a tiny bit of a look. “I’ve got fast legs, I can run. Plus, he doesn’t know me, does he? If I get caught, he won’t know it’s you come after him. You’ll still have a chance to get your money back.”
Jock turned in his chair to look at the boy. “What if he’s got a dog?”

Harry pressed his lips together, sighing. He wasn’t happy with this plan - far from it - but there was really no other choice. They couldn’t exactly pretend to be locals, could they? Not with their accents and pale English skins.
He didn’t want to get Lionel involved in the Business - not for Lionel’s sake (though that lurked somewhere in the back on his mind), but for his own, rather. Yes, he felt something for the boy, but he didn’t know yet if he could be trusted when it came to the more violent side of Harry’s life. Furthermore - he did not want to mix business and pleasure.

But beggars cannot be choosers.

“We’re going to have to do it, Jock. Give the boy a shooter and let him do what he can.”
Jock sighed in disapproval, shaking his head as he handed Lionel his pistol. He settled back in his seat. “...Fine. But we better be quick.”
Lionel took the gun from Jock, staring at it for a second- He’d never held a pistol before. “Got it.” He said quietly before ducking out of the car, heading towards the house, the two other men fast behind him.

Heading around the side of the house, Lionel tucked the gun into the back of his trousers, hoping he didn’t have to use it. Heading up towards the rose fence, Lionel gripped it and started to climb up, trying to be quick and careful at the same time. He slipped a few times, and even broke one of the latices, but managed to climb up to the top window.
Then, he slipped in and was gone.

Harry stood there and watched until Lionel disappeared out of sight, praying inside his head that this goes smoothly. The last thing he needed on his hands were more trouble - especially if Lionel was the one to attract them. Once the boy was out of sight, Jock and he made their way around the back, hoping there were no cameras to detect them. Even if there were - it was pitch dark, and while the yard was lit, they themselves stood in darkness, dark suits making them not so obvious in the moonlight and greenery.
There were a long few minutes from the time Lionel had slipped inside, and there was barely any noise from inside the house. Sure enough, though, the back door clicked and opened, with Lionel standing on the inside. He took Harry’s hand, leading the men inside and quickly around to another room. There were a few steps outside, coming and going, before Lionel pulled Harry up the stairs.
He led them to a back room, pointing at the closed door, pressing his back against the wall.

Harry did not like being lead. He especially did not like touring the house like that without checking it out first. Even if Ronny was behind that door, there was no guarantee they were going to get out of there alive - not when there were obviously other people up and about. Regardless, he pulled a Colt .45 from the back of his trousers, gesturing his head for Lionel to give Jock his pistol back. It was now or never, it would seem - and he needed his best man for cover. Just in case.
He took a deep breath, face twisting, shoulder leaning against the door. He then cocked the pistol and tried the handle, storming inside with the Colt aimed at the figure in the bed.
“Oi, wake up, you fucking leech.”

The man in the bed looked at Harry. He was in his early thirties, slim, with a dark skin and cropped black hair - whoever he was, he was nowhere near Ronny, that was for sure.

“O, fuck.” Harry cursed under his breath. He jumped at the man and placed his free hand over his mouth before he was able to even make a sound. “You scream and I shoot you in the fucking head, got that?”
The man nodded.
“Jock, Lionel, get in here, for Chrissake! And close the fucking door!” He hissed.

Jock ushered Lionel inside of the room, practically holding him by the scruff of his neck, shutting the door behind them. Lionel choked a bit, the collar of his shirt pressing against his throat.
“I thought- This is the master bedroom, I saw it from the outside..." He said once Jock had let go of him.
“Well, he isn’t going to be in the master bedroom. This ain’t his house, is it now?” Said Jock.
“Well then, who in the bloody hell is this?” Harry looked up at the two of them from his place on the bed, irritated, and he flinched and cried out when the man at his hold bit into the palm of his hand. He hit him hard with the butt of his pistol, then freed his hand from the grip of his teeth and slapped him across the face when the back of it. “What? No hablan Ingles? I will fucking shoot you!” He made the emphasis by bringing the barrel of the gun to the man’s head. “Get it?! Bang bang, muertos!”
The man was cradled on the bed now, holding his temple where Harry had hit him. He nodded furiously, making little weeping sounds of pain and fear. “Yo entiendo! No me maten! No se puede tirar!”

Harry sighed in frustration, still leaning over the man with his pistol pointing at his head. “Good. Now tell me, where the fuck is Ronny Howard?”
The man whimpered. “No se!”
Harry took another deep breath, restraining himself. "Adonde Ronald Howard?"
"No se! No se!"
"He says he doesn't know, boss."
"Like fuck he doesn't. I am losing my fucking patience."
Backing up towards the door, Lionel muttered, “Maybe I can try to find him? In the house, I mean. Go room to room.”
Harry shot the boy a glare. "You stay fucking put. He knows where he is and he's going to tell us, one way or another."

Jock gave something of a sigh and approached the bed, sitting down at the edge where he could find the other man's gaze. "Look, old boy, my boss? He ain't a very patient person. Sin Paciencia."
Harry paused, gaze shifting slowly from Lionel to Jock. "…I didn't know you knew Spanish."
"Un poco." He replied to Harry, then returned to the man on the bed. "Now, we know you know where Ronny Howard is. We know you recognize his name. And if you don't tell us where he is – donde se – well, then, my boss here will just have to take care of you." He pointed at the pistol that was still aimed at the man's head. "Howard – vivir. No Howard – morir. Entender?"

The man looked at Jock from between his fingers, his lower lip disappearing entirely under his teeth as he bit it white. It took him a moment or two, but he finally set up slowly, the barrel of Harry's gun following his every move.
"Hay otras personas en la casa. Si me matas, te van a matar."
"What's he saying?" Asked Harry.
"There are other people here, and if you kill him, they'll kill us."
Harry considered this for a moment, then leaned in close to the man. "Make no mistake, buddy, I will shoot every last member of your family and feed them to the fucking rats if you don't tell us where Ronny is."
Jock was quick to translate, "Que matar y comer a las ratas."

“Jock,” Lionel said softly, moving a little closer to them. Trying to ease the tension. “Are you sure Ronny’s here?” He’d rather have Jock mad at him than Harry.
Jock looked back at the man in the bed, awaiting an answer.
The man took another moment to consider his options, he finally gave a sigh, rubbing the darkening bump on his temple. "Senor Howard no esta aqui."
"He says Howard's not here."
"Well, then, where is he?"
"Adonde?"
"No aqui. Se enero que iba a venir y el llevo a su familia lejos."
Jock's expression fell. He knew hell was going to break loose as soon as he translated the man. "…someone told him we were coming."
“They must’ve seen Jock earlier.” Lionel said softly, going to touch Harry’s back. “We can go back out the door we came, and sniff out other trails-”
Harry's muscles froze and were rock-hard where Lionel touched him. He was so furious he could punch the boy right where he stood, but he was trying to brace himself. Instead, lips pulled down with rage, he hit the man with the pistol again with all his might, tearing flesh off the cheekbone, then hitting him again over the skull. "Fucking brilliant! What the fuck are we supposed to do now?"
Jock didn't even flinch. He was used to violent Harry; maybe more than he was used to normal Harry. "Relax, boss. Maybe he knows where they went off to."
"Of course he doesn't, you bloody idiot. They went through all this to stay away from me, Howard ain't dumb enough to tell them where he took off to."
"Well, then, let's just find a way out of here and figure this out, alright?"
“Come on.” Said Lionel quietly, making his way for the door.

Harry sometimes was awe-struck by how naive the boy was. They couldn't just leave the man here to start shouting for everyone to, Come, find the bad guys, they're right here. Giving Jock a look – he wanted to kill the man, he wanted to blow his fucking brains out, but knew he couldn't.

"Tomorrow, get me a silencer. A get Lionel his own shooter." He instructed, then took another look at the man in the bed, who was now bleeding. "Adios." He hit him a fourth time – hard enough to make the man lose his consciousness.

Harry and Jock then followed Lionel outside, careful not to make a single sound other than leaves crashing under their soles as they ran for dear god. Harry set in the car as Jock started the engine, lighting a cigarette, brow furrowing with frustration. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke waft away from his lips as he spoke. "If someone told him we were coming, it means we got a rat."
“But only Jock and I know you’re here. No one else knew, right?”
Harry;s brow furrowed further as he counted them on his fingers. "You know, Jock knows. Manny knows. Ruby knows. And you can count on it that Mooney knows as well, that bastard."
Jock looked at the road as he drove down the cliff, making short glimpses at Harry and Lionel. "You think it was Mooney who told him?"
"Mooney is capable of anything by far, Jock, but no, I don't think so. He won't have an interest, other than me getting killed. Argentina doesn't have any sort of agreement with the UK – if they catch me, they won't give me away. And he wants me on British soil if I get caught again."
They were obviously talking about a common acquaintance of theirs, though Lionel has never heard the name before. From the conversation, it seemed the man was probably a policeman – one with a bad grudge for Harry Starks. He listened quietly- He knew Manny from meeting him at Harry’s club briefly, and he of course knew Ruby. Ruby would never give them away, she was too sweet.
“Why would Manny do it?” He mused out loud. “What’s he got to gain?” The same could be said of Jock, but the man was sitting right there, and in control of the car. Lionel didn’t have a death wish.
Harry turned in his seat to give Lionel a serious glare. “Manny didn’t do it. He would never. He’s known me since before I was even building sandcastles in me back yard.”
Jock interrupted, “Did you tell your mum you were going?”
Harry paused. “...who the fuck would my mum tell?”
The man shrugged. “All you need is a guy who knows what questions to ask.”
“I- Harry, I may have told Craig.” Lionel said slowly, looking at his lap. “I don’t know what he’d have to gain from it, but- If he talked, then someone else could have known.”
The other man turned to look at Lionel again. He didn’t know if the boy had really done it, but just the thought of it made his teeth grind. “That bloody twat. If he was the one who grassed, I’ll have him begging for his life like a dog the moment we get back.”
Jock momentarily took his eyes off the road to look between the two before he spoke. “...look, you don’t know that it’s him - and it’s late. You and Lionel should head back to the hotel. I’ll try to find out where Howard is.”
“No, not try, Jock -you’ll get it done, before I blow somebody’s head off.”
Jock frowned, looking at the road again. “Alright, boss, no need to get vulgar.”