2007-06-22: Bloody Vengeance


Jack_icon.gif Lachlan_icon.gif

Guest Starring:

The beauty-marked mugger


This is why you don't mess with Jack and Lachlan's peeps. WARNING: This log contains some pretty intense violence and some torture. Viewer discretion is advised.

Date It Happened: June 22nd, 2007

Bloody Vengeance

Outside a pub, then in an obscure warehouse

Tracking for Lachlan is a rather interesting thing. His nose doesn't work as well as a dog's, but with his connection to them, he can recognize scents as well as any canine. That's what's made tracking the mugger who shot Cass so much easier, though it has certainly been no small feat. He doesn't own the bloodhound currently on the other end of the leash, so his ability to use her to trail has been limited by the time he's allotted to train her. Additionally, a guy can go plenty of places in three weeks — but Lachlan's been able to hone in on at least a few locations that are frequented by the mugger. It's dark as he sits at a bus stop across from a pub, watching the door. He's dressed in black with a ball cap and a pair of sunglasses, and the bloodhound wears a service dog's harness.

Rather than sit, Jack is standing in the glass-walled enclosure at the stop that's designed to keep wind and rain off of people polite enough to use public transit. As he's anything but polite, the Irishman is presently filling the tiny shelter with cigarette smoke. But look on the bright side; the next person who stops may be a smoker who's outta box. The way Jack sees it, he's doing a public service.

Anyway. Waiting. Jack is familiar with the concept and nessescity of a stakeout, but that doesn't mean he's crazy about the idea. He's impatient, he's hungry, and he really wants to pound some bad guys. But we're waiting. And smoking. His idea of dressing down is a pair of sturdy grey denims, a dark work shirt, and a lightweight jacket that bulges slightly beneath the arms and at the small of his back.

The door bursts open, and the man himself steps out - with the blonde hair and the scarlet shard in one of his dark eyes. It made him distinct. Like most sociopaths, he doesn't seem to be dwelling over the things he's done in the past few weeks, and these were plenty. Looking around….and not even RECOGNIZING Lachlan because he doesn't really give a crap that he almost killed someone, he slips a cigarette between his lips and lights up. He turns around, and starts walking, hands in the pockets of his jackets as he moves. It is a loping gait, with a certain grace that indicates to those who know the signs that the man is quite capable of, or is used to, taking care of himself.

He's a little over six feet tall, more lithe than bulky, dressed in a simple t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of steel-toed boots with frayed ties. He doesn't pay much attention to Jack either. In fact, his expression right now screams apathy.

If Lachlan has his way, the guy's face will be screaming, all right. It takes him a moment or two to recognize the mugger, but once he does, the Scotsman gets to his feet. His free hand in the pocket of his jacket fingers the capped syringe there. It pays to have drug connections! With only a glance to Jack, he starts off on the target's trail, his "seeing-eye" dog apparently leading the way. He moves at a pace that should intercept the man soon, but it doesn't appear to be purposeful.
Jack meets Lachlan's gaze and holds it briefly, then nods. With a dismissive flick, he sends his half-smoked cigarette spiraling over one shoulder and into the street. When he makes his approach toward the mugger, he does so from a drastically different angle than Lachlan. No need to put two targets in the same place, after all.

When he walks, the blonde man's eyes narrow. But a slight smirk quirks upwards on one edge of his mouth. He was being followed. That was fine. And there were…one…no. Two. Two of them, so far. He takes a deeper drag of his cigarette, still walking ahead of them as if nothing was bothering him. He would whistle, but that would give things away. And then? He sees the street. The street has traffic moving past it, so what does he do? He suddenly darts across it the moment things clear up some. Time for a merry chase!

Bloody— !

As soon as the mugger sets off, Lachlan drops all pretense of being blind — what's the use now, right? — and gives chase, weaving through traffic like no blind man ever could. The bloodhound with him keeps up quite easily, flaps of skin bouncing and rolling at an alarming rate. As he moves, Lachlan begins to scan ahead, searching for as many strays he can find within 150 yards. Big strays. There are two ahead, and they begin barking loudly as he starts frantically sending signals.

For a half-second, Jack is stunned by the mugger's bold choice in evasive tactics. Though it's anybody's guess what gave he and Lachlan away, one thing is certain. The game is officially afoot. "Wait. Wait! HEY!" he shouts at the fleeing assailaint. Yeah, Irish. That'll stop him.

When Lachlan and the dog go hurtling past as well, Jack winces and lets out an explosive sigh, but he follows them without hesitation. Though he's never actually in danger of getting run down, he lets out a steady stream of muttered curses as puts on enough speed to bring him even with his Scottish counterpart. "Shit. Shitshitshitshit!"

There is a screeching car. This car almost turns this man into paste. Instead, the mugger somehow manages to roll on the hood, hitting the windshield with a crack. He continues rolling, shards of glass and blood rolling off him as he lands heavily on the sidewalk. Dogs? GREAT. NOW THEY'RE CHASING HIM. "SHIT!" Jack isn't the only one cursing up a storm today. One of the dogs manages to snag the cuff of his jeans, ripping it off his ankle. More blood is drawn, but that doesn't really stop him. He takes off, turning sharply around a corner and down an alley.

The two strays are not far behind, rushing down the alley in hot pursuit. Lachlan isn't so reckless, and when he reaches the mouth of the alley, he pauses just a step to release the bloodhound's harness (wouldn't want her getting into a scrap and getting hurt; she's not his dog) and mutter a quiet command to 'stay'. Then, he withdraws the syringe from his pocket and pulls off the cap. With this palmed in his hand, he rushes back into the chase, preparing to leap on the man and give him a stab with the syringe, should he happen to get close enough.

Though Jack is clearly disappointed to see the mugger bounce back so casually from his collision, he's hardly surprised. After all, nothing's ever that easy. When he rounds the corner into the alley, he pauses beside Lachlan to unsling a party favor of his own from under one arm, shimmying all the while like a child in need of a potty break. It's a bulky, squarish taser pistol. Though he's hot on Lachlan's heels once again, Jack is unable to both sprint and aim at the same time. As he's presently playing the part of artillery, he takes a knee, draws a quick bead, and squeezes the trigger.


In Muggervision, that's what Gerard Butler would be doing. Frothing in the mouth, wielding a syringe. The mugger dodges the dog trainer, spinning around and in a smooth, precise movement, a gun is out, slid from the waistband of his jeans to aim at Lachlan. And then, he laughs. It sounds a little unhinged, a little crazy. "YOU STUPID BASTARD," he roars, laughing so hard tears are coming from his eyes. "You're bringing a PIDDLY NEEDLE TO A GUNF—"


The blonde goes down in a heap, the gun clattering across the cement to Lachlan's feet, stone cold unconscious.

This is why Lachlan brought Jack along, see. The Irishman's got his back. And he's got the mugger's too, apparently, with that there taser. When the blonde goes down, the strays leap at him as though to make puppy chow out of the body, but there's a time and place for that, and this isn't it. "Off with ye!" Lachlan snaps, and the dogs immediately turn tail and dash off with tails between their legs. "Ye stupid bastard," he mocks, lip curling in a sarcastic sneer, "ye turned yer back on an armed man." Kick. Then he drops to one knee and feels for the mugger's pulse. "Nice werk, Jack."

"Thanks." Grinning and panting to fill his smoker's lungs with air, Jack claps Lachlan on the shoulder in a friendly fashion, then lashes out with one booted toe to kick the downed mugger in the ribs as well. "Sonofabitch. Made me run through traffic. Here." The taser is quickly tucked away, and Jack pulls the parcel he's prepared from under his other arm. It's a drawstringed bag made of heavy, black lined that has two sets of police issue cuffs inside, all of which is passed to Lachlan. "As pretty as he looks in a pile on the ground, why don't you secure him and bag 'is head while I bring Julia around? We'll trunk this bitch and take 'im somewhere nice an' quiet."

Well, he's not dead. That's good. Lachlan's got plenty in mind for him. So accepting the items from Jack, he grins and yanks the blonde's limp arms behind him. "'Ve got just the place." The handcuffs click into place around wrists and ankles, and the bag goes over the mugger's head, the drawstrings pulled. It's not hard to work on a guy who's not conscious. For good measure, the Scotsman sticks the needle into the other man's neck and injects enough of a dosage to keep him out for a bit.

Meanwhile, Jack is moving at an easy jog to where Julia is parked. Though she's only a couple of blocks away, it takes him a few minutes to start the engine, unpark, and meander through traffic toward the alley. When he arrives, he pops the trunk from inside the car, then gets out to assist in the loading of their passenger. "Oi. Heavy bastard, innithe?"

The blonde man is unconscious, and doesn't move when he's lifted. NOTHING TO SEE HERE MOVE ALONG.

Granted a smartass does move past, and squints from across the street. "Wow. That's the most realistic looking sex doll I've ever seen."

"He'll be heavier when I've filled his bloody gut with lead." The bloodhound remains dutifully parked in the mouth of the alley, looking quite casual and laid-back, drooping jowls adding some comedy to her expression. She watches as Lachlan and Jack load the mugger (or sex doll, whatever your view) into the trunk and does not move until the Scot calls her over. "Better get movin'." He's already opening the back door for the dog, who clambers inside without hesitation. Then he ducks inside the passenger side.

Jack lets the man's head drop and bounce against the spare tire. With him wedged in as akwardly as he is, it takes the Irishman three slams before the trunk finally closes and latches properly. He does not enjoy this. Honest. The sight of a dog on his leather elicits a wince, but he says nothing as he puts the car in gear and pulls away in the direction of Lachlan's Mysterious Location.

The place is a warehouse near the waterfront, and it's already got a bunch of stuff in it. Knowing that he would be having guests, Lachlan was careful to store the drug stash he keeps in here somewhere out of sight, and he's already made plans to find a new warehouse after all is said and done. He doesn't want Elle knowing where he stores stuff like an old couch too big to fit into his apartment, a metal shelf full of boxes marked with such things as 'pictures' and 'circus stuff'. Why, that would be downright incriminating! Most importantly, though, there is a chair that has been bolted hastily to the cement floor and a table nearby bearing some crude looking tools and instruments, the least of which is rope. That's where the mugger is carried once Jack and Lachlan arrive. "Get 'im in the chair," grunts the Scot, doing his best to maneuver the man from the shoulders.

"I've always been a fan of free-hanging," Jack observes casually, like a man stating that he prefers bacon over sausage. "But this is your show." There's a metallic snap and rattle as he unlocks the mugger's handcuffs, then resecures them to the arms and legs of the chair. "You want I should leave the bag on 'is head, or you wanna be able to look 'im in the eye?"

What the cuffs don't handle, the rope does. Lachlan secures it several times around the man's torso, arms, and legs, binding him tightly. Blood circulation? Who needs that? "Sure, take it off. 'M gonna need ta see 'is bloody face anyway." This said as he picks up a flat-nosed screwdriver from off the nearby table. Funny Jack should mention eyes. The Scotsman has plans for one of them.

"My. Aren't we bold?" Jack nods approvingly as he whips the bag from the man's head. The nimble-fingered magician slaps the mugger across the face none-too-gently to bring him around, then steps back out of the way and shrugs free from his coat. He lets the garment drop to the floor, then cocks an eyebrow and glances at Lachlan. "Just make sure you leave enough of 'im for me when my turn comes 'round."

It takes a few moments. Finally, whatever was injected in him wears off. The man groggily lifts his head up from where it's sagging. He doesn't seem to know where he is, or why he's there. He squints a little at the light. Seeing the ropes bound all around him, and the cuffs, he looks up at Lachlan and Jack. And…he smirks, despite the drool running on the side of his mouth. The scarlet shard in his eye gleams a bit as his eyes narrow. "Sorry to disappoint," he rasps groggily. "But I don't swing that way."

"Nah, dunna worry 'bout it," snorts Lachlan as he wipes off the screwdriver's head on his pants. "'M no' plannin' ta take much." And look! Sleeping Beauty is awake! And as much of a jackass as ever. "Shut it." He holds the screwdriver up for the mugger to see and peers into his face with great scrutiny. "'M real curious 'bout yer eye, there. Wha's tha' shit in it?"

Jack drops into a crouch, observing the process from a three-quarters low perspective. He pulls a straight razor from his pocket, flips it open, and proceeds to trim his fingernails, humming tunelessly under his breath all the while.

"It's a beauty mark," the mugger retorts cheekily. "What, you gonna yank it out for a closer look with that thing?" His lip curls at the screwdriver, a smirk twisting upwards on the corners of her mouth. "I've heard it all before, 'mate.' Only you're going to have to be real careful, since…well, push that thing too deep and I'll be dying quicker than any of you intended. Your life partner's real pretty, by the way. I hear it's legal in Massachusetts now to get married."

"Dunna worry; I know wha' I'm doin'." Why yes, he is going to take out that eye for a closer look. Lachlan grabs the blonde by the chin and attempts to force it upward, aiming to pin his head against the back of the chair. "An' he's no' m'life partner, but I'm sure he's flattered tha' ye find 'im pretty." And without further ado, he proceeds with the operation. Using his free hand, he manipulates the screwdriver's head down into the mugger's lower eyelid and begins to cut away — though 'cut' is a relative term. It's more of a puncturing.

Jack doesn't respond verbally to the exchange. The muscles around his right eye twitch noticeably at being referred to as a life partner, though. With his lips pressed into a flat, emotionless line, he straightens and crosses the distance between himself and the bolted-down chair, then sidles around to stand behind the mugger. With a flick of his wrist, Jack caresses the blade of his razor across the man's ear. "May I?" he asks Lachlan mildly.

"Nryyrgggggghhh— " But the resistance, the effort not to scream, is at the very least taken. His legs try to kick out, the mugger's body twitching to the side and his own teeth drawing out blood when Lachlan tries to do some eye surgery in his left socket. He actually tries to turn his head away, or jerk back, or BITE Lachlan's wrist if he's in range. And then Jack joins the party. Oh, this is going to be wonderful. Painful. But he does pant breathlessly, and the smirk twists back on her lips. But he doesn't taunt them the usual lines, about what big men they were tying him up in a chair while they tortured him. No room for a fair fight. He was, however, one of them - the product of sin-filled cities and mean streets. He knew he wouldn't be playing fair either, so he knows it'll be useless to implore to any sense of honor. Besides…he wasn't about to give them the satisfaction. If he was going to die, he was going to die unrepentant.

Quite frankly, Lachlan doesn't care. He knows what he's doing hurts — that's why he's doing it, and that's all he needs to know to give him a sense of satisfaction. His face remains expressionless, blank, as he works. This only changes when the mugger attempts to move his head, and then he takes a tighter grip on the man's chin and slams the back of his head into the backrest of the chair again. His wrist is indeed not within reach. "Keep yer bloody head still 'r I'll break yer jaw," he growls. Finished with the severance of the membranes along the bottom of the eye, he jabs the head of the screwdriver up beneath the man's upper eyelid and proceeds to work there. He spares only a glance at Jack and his razor, then nods a little. "Sure. S'no' like he's goin' anywhere." The Scot has a good grip.

Jack needs no further encouragement. The straight razor is wickedly sharp. Rather than prolong the experience, Jack slices the previously indicated ear free with one smooth downward stroke. It lands wetly on the man's own shoulder. Quickly, Jack withdraws his hands from the inevitable thrashing and spray of blood that comes with parts being lopped off. After a few seconds, (when things aren't quite as messy) he reaches in again to pick up the severed ear between finger and thumb. He seems on the verge of throwing it aside, but in the end he opts to stuff it into the bag that'd previously been used a blindfold. After all, it wouldn't do to leave evidence behind, and unattached parts probably qualify.

That done, he pinches the upper curve of the mugger's other ear and stretches it away from his head, razor at the ready.

There's more screaming. More twitching. He'd CRY manly tears but he only has ONE EYE to do such a thing. His body spasms, and twitches. And when the nerve is yanked and popped off his eyeball, his head actually rolls backwards, passing out from the pain. Yeah, this is what happens when too much hits your system all at once. Better wake him back up again.

Knowing what Jack is up to, Lachlan takes a tighter grip on the blonde's chin, preparing for the inevitable thrashing. When the man passes out, he frowns in the manner of one who has just been told that the park is closing for the night. He withdraws the screwdriver and reaches for a low-watt taser from on the table. "Watch it," he cautions Jack before applying the implement to the mugger's gut. It's just enough ampage to cause pain and a small jolt, but little more.

A hairs' breadth from going to work on the other ear, Jack sighs when the man passes out. "Sorry," he murmurs sheepishly. After wiping his razor off on the man's shirt, Jack tucks it back into his pants pocket in favor of a silver cigarette lighter. He flips it open, sparks it, then waits for the flame to build up several inches in height. When it's ready, he adds his own incentive by holding the flame against the man's cheek. "Wakey, wakey. Hands off snakey."

The heat and the countless ways they use to wake him up works. The mugger jolts his head back from the lighter pressed to his face, his one eye opening and realizing he can't see in the other. A bit of panic seizes him, because he doesn't quite remember that Lachlan pulled out his eye. Seeing both of them in front of him with his one eye, he -groans-. "….you're -still here-?" he says, rolling his head back and closing his eyes again.

"Yeah. An' we're no' goin' anywhere soon, so get used ta it." Lachlan gives the man a pat on the unburned cheek, then moves for the table holding the assorted implements again. "D'ye know wha' s'like ta get shot inna gut?" he asks as he picks up the unlicensed pistol he'd originally purchased for Cass' protection. He pops out the clip and checks its contents idly.

Jack snaps the lighter closed and tosses it into the Bag O' Evidence. These are things that will disposed of later. Thoroughly disposed of. When Lachlan takes up a firearm, the Irishman lashes out to strike the captive across his jaw with a closed fist, then steps back out of the line of fire. He's shaking his smarting hand when he takes his position next to Lachlan.

"…yeah, what's your point?" growls the mugger from the chair, spitting out a glob of saliva stuck in his throat from all his screaming. By all rights, it should be dry - but to his credit, he hasn't been screaming as much as he could've.

Chk! The clip is popped securely back in place, then the slide is pulled back, chambering the single round. "Did some research, y'know. Turns out tha' gut wounds're one o' the worst. See, ye dunna bleed out so much as yer guts start leakin' inta yer belly, an' tha' poisons ye slowly. S'painful. Takes ye twen'y minutes ta die. An' m'point," grunts Lachlan, "is tha' ye shot m'girl inna gut, an' she almost died." Did die. At least twice on the operating table. "Only reason she dinna is b'cause she had people there tha' helped 'er." He takes aim, leveling the barrel with the confined man's stomach. "Too bad there's no' gonna be anyone here ta help ye." He squeezes off the shot, just one, as though he were firing a pop gun instead of one that might actually kill someone.

Jack doesn't look away. Why would he start now? Besides, a part of him knew that this was coming. Poetic justice at its finest. He does, however, reach up to plug his fingertips against his ears to shield them from the loud report of the firearm in a confined space. His eyes are narrowed dangerously and his brow is heavily furrowed. From the look on his face, he's ready to go right back to work, but this is Lachlan's show.

"Look," the mugger snarls from where he's sitting. "I was aiming at -you-, not 'yer girl'. It wasn't my rotlickin' fault she decided to toss her damsel in distress card and save your sorry, scruffy ass." He pauses, and he smirks. "Granted it don't necessarily help my case confessing that I was trying to kill -you-, not her. But. Them's the breaks. S'pose I was lucky the last time I got shot there, but you don' need to give me the biology lesson." And then, his body jerks back. He bites his tongue so hard he draws blood, to keep from yelling, and he sags on the chair, feeling fluids bleed in, and out, of him.

It takes some doing, but Lachlan manages not to start beating in the guy's face. He knows full well why Cass got shot and not himself, and that's why he is now rectifying the situation. So after flexing his jaw hard for a few moments, ears still ringing from the explosion from the pistol, he turns to the table and picks up two handsaws. One is handed to Jack. "Let's start cuttin' 'im up. 'Ve got a meat grinder inna back; dogs'll eat 'im just fine."

Jack nods once and accepts a wickedly toothed saw from Lachlach. He grabs the mugger by the upper arm and sets the blade of his implement against the man's shoulder. "I'd love to say I'm sorry, but you really brought this on yourself." Slice.

With two angry Islement working two very sharp saws, it takes a remarkably short time to dismantle a man. When the man-parts have been safely loaded into the grinder, Jack groans. With broad waves of his hands, he relocates a pair of cold Rolling Rocks from the Den. He opens both beers, passes one to Lachlan, then clinks the necks of the bottles together. "Never chopped a guy up before. Honestly, I thought it'd be more work."

Beer's not really Lachlan's thing, but any port in a storm, right? And chopping up a man is thirsty work. So after wiping his hands off on the jeans that will undoubtedly be burned someplace, he accepts the bottle and takes a gulp. "Yeah," he utters agreeably. "Guess he was just tha' soft." It doesn't seem like the thing to joke about, though. He nods to the garbage bag full of what's left of Ye Olde Muggere. "Know a place where we can drop this off. Lotta strays. They'll take care o' the rest." A look back to Jack again. "Thanks fer helpin' me with this, Jack."

Jack quaffs the entire beer in a manful draft, then sucks in a deep breath of air. "Whooo. That's better." When he meets Lachlan's gaze, his eyes are hard and serious. "The man got what was comin' to him, right? No problem." He kicks the side of the mugger-filled sack, as if the man's ribs can somehow still feel it. "If I could ungrind him and do it again, I would."

Lachlan can't help but grin at that. Yeah. Yeah, he got what was comin' to him. Another deep pull from the bottle and Lachlan sets aside his drink to dip down and start tying off the bag. "Yeah, s'fittin'. He was a piece o' shit in life, an' now he's endin' it by bein' pieces o' shit scattered all over bloody New York." Oh-ho-ho, sweet wonderful irony. (Except Lachlan can't even spell 'irony', let alone know what it is.)

Jack adds both the empty beers to the Bag O' Evidence. Bottles, hacksaws, body parts. Quite the assortment for him to get rid of. "It seems fitting," he replies. "Man. Do I have to put that in my trunk? When you squish a guy up and put him in a sack, he smells much worse than when he's still man-shaped." A part of him already knows that the answer is yes, but he's hoping that there'll be some other way.

"'Less ye wanna let 'im ride shotgun," quips Lachlan as he hefts the bag over his shoulder, grunting with effort. "Bloody fuck. Think he smells bad, try carryin' the bugger." As he passes by the table containing implements, he picks up the gun with the rag he used to wipe off the fingerprints and holds it out to be placed in the Bag O' Evidence. He doesn't need that anymore. "Let's get movin'." He'll come back to do a thorough cleaning later, after he's washed up at a hotel, changed his clothes, and gone home to Cass.

Jack hesitates. He takes a deep breath, exhales, then digs his keys out of his pocket. He pitches them to Lachlan with a swift, underhanded toss. "You drop off the bag. I'll stay here and tidy up. Soonest cleaned is least found, right? Besides, you've got places to be." With the matter closed in his mind, Jack adds the gun to his bag of dubious goodies, cinches it closed, and tosses it onto the chair. All of that will have to go. And the blood. That will have to go as well.

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