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Post by jericho on Jan 6, 2010 20:35:44 GMT -5
Ah, the sweet smell of smog in the morning. It was enough to make any man smile.
…That is, unless said man is holding two cranky, fighting children to either side of him, while balancing a duffel bag under one arm and two cartoon-character backpacks under the other.
Parenthood. He had to love it.
“JER!” The little girl to his left screamed. “Trevor stuck his tongue out at me again!”
“Did not!” Trev, the little boy to his right howled in return. “Ronnie’s lying!”
“Am not!”
“Am too!”
And on and on it went.
Left eye twitching, the big man walking with them fought to convince himself that throwing their tiny bodies into oncoming traffic couldn’t be the solution. He had a soft spot for them, they promised never to break into his gun closet and try to shoot up his bed, and yadda yadda…not to mention the fact that he’d be thrown in jail and their spirits would haunt him forever. They’d told him so, after sneaking into the living room to watch a horror movie based on a fictional parent’s similar desire.
When the rock throwing started, however, patience had ceased to be a virtue.
Gritting his teeth and shifting in embarrassment as the people passing them by began to stare, he grabbed the backs of their shirts and lifted until both children dangled a bit, their shocked faces turned toward him. “Stop. Fighting. Right. Now.” He growled, biting off each word. With a collective gasp, silence reigned.
Oh thank God.
With a sigh, ‘Jer’, aka Jericho Kincaid, aka ‘Switchblade’, stooped down to place a quick kiss on the tops of the now sniffling children’s heads before herding them toward the public bus that stopped in a puff of smoke in front of them. Some apologies, ice cream vows, a couple juice boxes and one hell of an interesting bus ride later, he’d successfully dropped them off at a friend’s house and was back on the bus, on his way to the center of the city.
Whoof. What a day…and it wasn’t even early afternoon yet.
Sagging back against the chair, Jericho sighed. It was really hard being a guardian for two little demon-spawn; taking care of the kids, raking in a suitable income, and doing the whole ‘Monster Hunter’ gig to boot. Originally from Las Vegas, he’d seen the historical New Orleans as a place to start fresh; a place where the kids could grow up big and strong, where he could get away from certain Mafioso’s who thought his head would look good mounted on their wall…
And, oh yeah, there was also that little ‘demons descending on New Orleans’ thing that made his Hunter blood a-pumping. Now, if it wasn’t for the shifter blood running through those same veins, he’d be all set.
Damn, did he smell hotdogs? And fresh meat…no, Jericho, focus.
Ending up as a bouncer for the city’s hottest club and fighting in underground cage matches hadn’t been on this year’s ‘to do’ list. But hey, it put cash on the table and kept their little threesome off the goddamn streets.
With a wry shake of his head, he grasped the worn strap of the duffel as the bus stopped in front of a short, warehouse-looking building. Shaking his head as the Suits sitting around him flinched instinctively, he shouldered his way through the normal traffic, and dropped his bag onto the curb, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. A large man by genetics, he made an intimidating sight; tall, wide shouldered and muscular enough to allow for his current job as a bouncer at the local night scene, he wasn’t one to dance with, unless blood was expected to be spilled. Dark brown hair lay rumpled- his Ronnie had attempted to make him ‘approachable’ today…not that anyone stopped giving him lots of space when he passed by.
Trying his best to ignore the curious looks he was attracting, he moved tapped his foot impatiently against the gum stained curb, looking out at the end-of-the-day traffic roaring around him. The bus pulled up with a putter and he was on his way to work…another day, another dollar.
And God, he never realized that people smelled so bad. Resisting the urge to gag as heightened senses went nuts in the closed space, he almost howled in happiness when his stop came up, practically zooming down the steps and back into the cool night. Fifteen minutes later, he was in his bouncer uniform, being a good employee and trying not to think about eardrums that were about to implode.
The poor man. So involved in staring at the crowd around him was he, that he didn’t notice the plastic clip-on earring that freaking Ronnie had attached to his earlobe.
Kids. Gotta love ‘em.
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Post by london on Jan 6, 2010 21:14:32 GMT -5
London Sullivan was starting to worry herself- she’d wrestled with her inner demons for nigh on ten years and she’d not touched a drop of the devil drink for a long time... So why, all of a sudden, was she so tempted to give into her cravings, willpower crumbling like her strength had simply abandoned her? She’d dealt with trauma before, from the murder at her own hands of her father and brother to the loss of several good friends amongst the Forces. She’d dealt with pain and heartbreak and mental scarring- so what had crippled her to a point where alcohol was to her what a mothers milk was to a babe? Well, there was the incident in Afghanistan, for one... That Skinwalker, all those people, the carnage, her crash... Her dismissal from the Force, sure, that’d crushed her in a way nothing else could. And then her stay at that institute, well, that was an experience she wouldn’t wish on anyone... The way they looked at her, so pitying, all ‘poor girl, seeing things like that, must be cracked’... Her return to the Middle East to hunt the creature that had destroyed her, her subsequent fascination with the supernatural, hours spent researching in the library and on the internet... Then her fiance’s departure, claiming he couldn’t be with someone who was dealing with what she was, he didn’t want to be in a ‘co-dependent’ relationship. Never mind that they’d been together well on six years, and he knew secrets about her past she had promised herself she’d never, ever share...
Actually, now she stopped and thought about it, she was pretty convinced she was having a mental breakdown and that she was damn well entitled to it. Alcoholism, sulkiness, paranoia, issues- it was all hers and she could revel in it all she wanted. She rather felt she was holding up quite under the pressure, although she was distinctly aware that at any moment she could snap, and then everything would go pete tong.
The double vodka on the rocks she was nursing infront of her was no doubt going to be key in what would eventually collapse her mind, but hell, she’d enjoy it whilst she could. Sat in the busy club in the busy evening, she stared at nothing in particular and sipped at her drink, savouring each moment it trickled down her throat, burning pleasantly in her belly. She should stop, she really should- she should put the drink down and walk out, go stick her head under cold water and sort herself out. She had a job, helping the rennovations of the autoshop and then helping out as a mechanic, but how could she do it if her dependency on alcohol began to crawl back into her life? She should tell the bartender to stop serving her, even if she begged- it was the right thing to do. And it was that knowledge that meant she sure as hell wasn’t going to do it. Who liked doing the right thing?
A few of the clubs patrons tried their luck , bless their hearts, with the attractive female, but were met with cold shoulders and an even colder glare. Those eyes, so dark they were almost black, were an unnerving weapon to have turned against you, and if that wasn’t enough, there was the hint of weapons in her ensemble... A gun holster, on her upper thigh; two sai’s tucked into her belt at the back, hidden under her top... And the scars, those ugly, ugly scars down her arm, gleaming a little, bright red and angry from the weather- they got like that, in the cold. The damp sent an ache through to her bones, but she gritted her teeth and dealt with it, finding a strange kind of comfort in them. They reminded her that she wasn’t mad, everything had happened- sometimes, she started to think maybe she’d imagined it.
A newcomer caught her eye and she glanced at the handsome fellow, noting the bouncers get up and determined expression, then looked back to her drink, finishing the last few dregs and ordering another, drumming blunt fingertips on the bar top as she waited. As ever, she stuck out like a sore thumb- she didn’t own high heels or a dress, not in her battered duffle bag, so it was the usual for her. Black jeans, with rips on the legs revealling an almost tantalising peak of tanned thigh –one thing to be said for her tours of duty was she got a better suntan than any to be offered by high street shops- and a white tank top, showing off well against her flesh. Sensible calf-high black boots, as ever- good for running and fighting in. Always a priority. Settling back in her stool, ignoring another hopeful man trying his luck, she turned to survey the club through strands of her brown curls, which was [oddly enough] not in a ponytail for once but instead hung about her shoulders.
Now, why did something keep catching her eye, winking off the light of the club? Squinting, the followed the gaze, and saw the source to be a plastic earring, clipped to the ear of the man she’d noticed before. Somehow, she doubted he knew it was there- call it intuition, but he just didn’t seem the type. She had been teetotal for at least three years up until recently, and the shots were forming a nice, warm lining on the inside of her stomach, searing through her veins quite pleasantly. Her headache was gone, and things seemed a little bit easier- the craving, gorging on the whiskey, was quiet, and she felt a little better and even a little confident. Which meant that, when Jericho prowled past, her hand shot out and back again before anyone would have chance to react –she was a fast little thing and she didn’t want her wrist broken through misunderstandings-, then held her palm out to him with a wink, the plastic earring she’d snatched from his ear present on her palm. “I thought it was ruining your pretty get-up. Don’t think anyone could take a bouncer seriously with that twinkling on his earlobe, although it was rather fetching on you.”
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Post by jericho on Jan 10, 2010 17:33:23 GMT -5
Ah, the smell of smoke and the sound of happy dancers. It was a balm for any boy from the streets who was away from home and trying to earn a living. But there was always the upside that being away from home also meant being away from the normal characters; the drug runners, gangbangers, the mob and the dirty cops.
Man, there just wasn’t anything like walking around and not having to look over his shoulder. Sure, he was worried about a familiar face popping up at some point, given that the popular rumor going around the local criminal underbelly was that a certain ex-Enforcer made happy with a butcher knife and skipped town with ten thou and his dearly departed boss’ head in a duffel bag. More than a few loyals would love to see his ass pinned up to a wall…
But, in all reality, Charles ‘Manson’ Vitto had lived a horrible life and made most people around him very unhappy. With his death, a lot of different doors were opened for some of the other criminal hotshots in the Nevada area. Maybe if he went home, he’d get a damn parade. Not that he’d actually be going back to Las Vegas any time soon, with the uncanny ability to become a frikken throw rug at the full moon and the responsibility of two kids under his care.
So there he was, trying to resist the urge to growl every time someone came too close and not snag a bottle of Jack from the corner wall as the music began to really pound the walls. Talk about cause for a headache…if only he’d finished high school. Then he could have gotten a nice paid job instead of making sure that the local mocals didn’t try to beat on his insane boss. Who was, at the moment, doing some kind of impromptu pole dancing up on the bar. Jesus, talk about one kind of crazy gig—
With a yelp, Jericho jerked forward at an unexpected sting on his ear. What the goddamn hell? Whirling around with a silent snarl on his face, one hand went up to his poor earlobe and the other up as if expecting another blow.
The absolute last thing he was expecting to see was a woman and a plastic earring, that was for damn sure.
“Aw hell,” He growled, eyeing the familiar piece of plastic. “Yeah, kid must’ve stuck it on. You’d think that you’d keep feeling it after a while, but…damn. Thanks, lady.”
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