2007-05-15: How's Your Penis


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Summary: Lachlan and Jack meet up for the first time in a long while. They make friends again over alcohol and plans of violence. There's a backdoor involved.

Date It Happened: May 15, 2007

Log Title

Location The Den of Inequity

It's still early in the evening, and the Den is relatively quiet. Most of the nightcappers have already found their way home, leaving only silent, die-hard drinkers scattered around at a few tables, and nobody's sitting at the bar.

Just back from a date with Trina, Jack borders on glowing as he tranfers bottles of Rolling Rock to the ice chest, even whistling under his breath. He's wearing a ratty red t-shirt that reads 'INSURED BY SMITH & WESSON' in bold, black block letters, a pair of loose, oil-smudged denims, and a beat up pair of Vans with skulls on them.

It's been some time since Lachlan last showed his face around the Den, which is odd when one considers that he had started to make it a regular haunt. But not so odd, really, all things considered. Still, it's been long enough that things /should/ have cooled down around that issue, and besides, the Scotsman has a /mission/ this evening. Fresh from a date himself (though his was with a decidedly less attractive tattoo gun), he's dressed in his usual well-traveled attire: a dark gray shirt and ragged blue jeans, though these items are actually clean and relatively wrinkle-free. Dog-less, he noses his way into the Den and seeks out the man behind the bar. There's no smile, just a jerk of the head and a grunted greeting of "hey" as he steps up to take a seat at the bar. There's some caution there, but for the most part, Lachlan acts as though he never stopped coming to the place.

A small smile quirks one side of Jack's mouth when he sets eyes on Lachlan. Without a word, he takes a dusty bottle of Glen Moray from high atop the counter and sets it down with a none-too-gentle thunk. Two glasses are similarly deposited, and the Irishman pours a liberal dose of liquor into each. After replacing the cork, he sets the bottle aside, scoops up one of the glasses, and quickly empties it halfway. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then makes eye contact for the first time. "So. How's your penis?" he blandly queries.

Glen Moray's just what he came here for — or, well, it was a perk he was expecting. Really, Lachlan came here for other matters, but he's a bit sidetracked by the question. It almost makes him lose a precious mouthful of the aforementioned scotch, and he has to catch himself and give a good hard swallow to keep it behind his teeth. This gives him a small, light fit of coughing, but it doesn't last long and is soon turning itself into a dry little laugh. "Yanno, think I've got the bloody thing tucked away in m'pants," he notes once he's got control of his voice again, smirking. "'Cept when Cass is up fer a roll. Dinna think she was gonna gimme 'nother chance there fer a while." He didn't deserve it, really, but ah well. He gives a nod toward the Irishman. "How's yers, then?" Well, it seemed only polite to return the question.

"Balls deep in a pretty motorhead, these days," Jack replies. Now that he's done making Lachlan feel uncomfortable, he breaks into a wide, crooked grin and reaches out to cuff the other man on the shoulder. "Whoo! You should've seen the look on your face, boy-o. Brilliant, that. S'good to see you, mate." And with that, the normally vindictive Jack washes his hands of his previous issues with Lachlan. Finis.

"So what brings you to my tiny little corner of the city?" he asks as he tips a bit more scotch out into both glasses.

Boof. Lachlan gets a cuff on the shoulder, and when it hits him that Jack's been yanking his chain, he relaxes with a sweeping exhale and shakes his head. "Yeah, fuck ye, ye paddy bastard," he grunts, though he's grinning good-naturedly. He picks up his glass again for a good and proper gulp before setting it down again to frame it with both hands. Whatever humor was on his face before is now wiped clean away. "Ye heard from Elena 'r anyone tell ye wha's happened with 'er lately?"

That sounds good and ominous, and it doesn't please Jack. "No," he begins cautiously, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bar. All traces of laughter are gone from his face as well, his somber expression mirroring Lachlan's. His eyes are cold and distant, but behind the facade there's a hint of an emotion that's rarely seen. Fear. "What happened? Is she ok?"

Lachlan shakes his head a little, though it's a dismissive gesture, not a grim one. "Nah, she'll be a'righ'. She was pretty bloody shaken, but she'll live." Only now does his expression turn dark, quite unhappy. "Peter's girl — Elle's 'er name — she's been runnin' 'round pullin' shit. Got some sort o' powers tha' makes it so she can shock ye, like stickin' yer finger in a wall socket. Stuff like tha'. Showed up at Cass' store an' shocked 'er, shocked Peter, shocked me, wrecked the bloody place. Then— " and here his jaw works. The trespass against Cass was bad enough, but this? This is worse. "— then she nabs Elena an' takes 'er somewhere, chains 'er up, an' zaps the shit out o' 'er. She had ta use 'er powers ta get away. She was a bloody wreck when she showed up at Cass' place."

Jack's expression grows progressively darker as Lachlan explain the situation. By the time the other man is finished, he's furious. Fuming. Ready to explode. Speaking of explode, grenades seem like a good idea right now. Shaking his head, the Irishman snaps himself back to reality. "We're gonna kill her," he states simply. "I mean, tell me we're gonna kill her. That's why you came here, right?" His hands clutch at his scotch glass convulsively, and his right eye is definately beginning to twitch. Somebody hurt his Scrappy. And Cass. And Peter. Big mistake. Fuck Lachlan, he can take care of himself.

It's not himself that Lachlan's concerned with. A little zap isn't — /didn't/ kill him. It's Cass and Elena that's got him so miffed. Jack's statement gets a small smirk from the Scotsman, but it's quite cold, mirthless. "S'zactly why I came here," he grunts. "Figured b'tween ye an' me, we could take 'er. Think she's got some kinda weakness fer water, b'cause tha's how they stopped 'er when I was there."

"Reeeeeally?" This thrills Jack, and he files the information away under Things To Never Forget. "I saw her lay a big man out with that zappity thing she does, so I won't mind havin' an edge. She lives with Jane now, so pitchin' in an armload of grenades is kinda outta the question." Steepling his fingers into a triangle, he pulls in his seething temper and attempts to focus. "Shit. I'm gonna set this bitch on fire."

Lachlan shrugs a bit offhandedly, downing his scotch with a low rumble. That hits the spot. "Dunna figure'd be hard ta break inta the place. Dunno, never been ta Jane's place b'fore. 'F we wanted ta, they'd just let us in anyway." As for setting her on fire, well, he doesn't object to that idea. Not in the least.

A frown creases Jack's forehead. "I don't fancy the idea of facin' her in a fair fight," he muses. "And there's always a chance that Jane might try and do somethin' stupid, like intervene. If we can get 'em to let us in, the two of us should be able to take Superblonde down easy enough, I think."

Lachlan nods again, bobbing his head a bit enthusiastically. Yes, yes, yes. He likes this talk of blood. Yes. "'D worry 'bout Jane, though, yeah. Mebbe we can catch Elle alone at the 'partment?" The Scotsman knows what the screamer can do, in theory. Something about dog whistles, which he hates. Therefore, what she can do must be Very Bad. "An' there's Peter ta worry 'bout too." Like it or not, Elle /is/ his girl, though quite frankly, Lachlan couldn't care less at this point. Peter should know better than to date psychopathic women who would fry his friends.

This combination of facts doesn't sit particularly well with Jack. Fortunately, he's able to shelve his misgivings in favor of Justified Violence. "Alone is good," he agrees. "Less chance of complications that way. I figure we'll be best off if you and I are the only ones who ever find out about this. That way she's just another casualty of the city, and nobody's the wiser."

Like Lachlan's going to tell anyone. He's got plenty to lose here, too. "Plen'y can happen ta a woman in this city," he agrees with a smirk. "Never know wha's gonna crop up. 'Specially ta a woman tha's obviously connected ta people like us." Hey, that Company's nasty, right? "How ye figure? Quick in, 'r d'ye wanna make 'er suffer?"

Jack smiles, but there's no humor in the expression. It's frigid and menacing, and not entirely sane. "Nothin' would make me happier than to tear her eyes out with a table fork, but I think it's best not to stay in contact with her for too long." He growls. "Quick'll be best. If we can catch her sleepin', all the better."

Another nod from the Scotsman. He'd love to do a few things, too, but he knows better than to be stupid. Not with someone as obviously powerful as Elle. "'Ve got an unregistered pistol," he states casually. "S'no' got a body on it. Wouldna be traceable." That is if it's not used more than once. Throw-away weapons are excellent for such a purpose.

Jack nods back, following the plan. Once again, his hands lace around his glass and clench tightly. He knocks back the rest of the scotch, savoring its firey burn. "Sounds fun. You wanna pull the trigger, or shall I?" The question carries all the emotion of a man asking a friend if he wanted to pick up the tab for this round, or catch the next.

And the response is equally casual: "Wouldna mind it, but figure I'll give ye the honors; 'Ve already had m'shot at 'er." Even if he sort of failed at it, Lachlan isn't greedy here. Besides, he knows Jack is closer to Elena than he is. "When ye wanna do it?"

"Thanks. I appreciate it," the Irishman replies honestly. "My gut says we should start immediately. Tonight. But I figure it's best if we pace ourselves. Maybe find out when Jane's gonna be out and Elle's gonna be around? I don't want anyone innocent gettin' hurt."

"Wouldna wanna hurt Jane, nah." Jane was trying to /help/ things back there. It's not her fault she's a good person. Lachlan slides his glass idly between both hands. "Could set up some surveillance outside their place. Gimme the address, an' I'll pick up some info with the dogs 'round there." Always plenty of stray dogs in New York. It's like his own little network of crude spies.

Jack grimaces distastefully. "There we have a problem. Dunno the address, only that the two live together. Not sure how we'd go about quietly findin' out, either. If we go askin', then she turns up dead, people are bound to talk." He strokes at his stubbled chin and ponders for a moment. "I know Jane lives in the Village. That a small enough area for you to work with?"

Hoo. Lachlan bites his bottom lip, considering. "Migh' take a bit o' time, but mebbe." He'll have to be careful. The usual 'dog following someone home' bit would be suspicious due to the fact that Jane knows what he does. "'Ll see wha' I can do." The Scotsman rubs at the back of his neck with a sigh. It's going to be some hunting.

Jack bludgeons his brain, trying to wring any other fragments of information free. "Shit," he finally mutters. "That's all I've got. I'll see what else I can't dig up, too. For now, let's just get shitty drunk, yes? I'm too pissed to do anything productive right now."

Er, well. Getting drunk in public is one of those things that Lachlan swore he wouldn't do without Cass present, but … well, Jack's safe. Jack wouldn't let him cock things up in that regard. Couldn't hurt. He grins and nudges his glass forward. "Canna say 'no' ta tha'," he chuckles.

Jack lets out a chuckle, partly to burn off some of his accumulated energy. He refills both glasses, then lifts his up to the light. "I don't take the pleasure from this that I used to. It's like puttin' down a dangerous animal." He speaks without taking his eyes off of the amber glow cast through the lit scotch. "I must be gettin' soft."

There's a soft, understanding grunt from Lachlan emitted around a mouthful of scotch that is soon swallowed to allow for actual speech. "Mebbe yer just out o' practice. S'somethin' ye start ta lose yer edge after a bit." A quick rub at his jaw and he blows some air out of puckered lips. "Mebbe ye should talk ta Elena, see fer yerself how she took it." It was certainly enough to spark the Scotsman's killer instincts.

The glass is tipped back. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Empty now, it clanks back down on the bar. Jack pulls a pack of unfiltered cigarettes from his pocket and shakes one free. It's quickly plugged between his lips, and he offers a butt to Lachlan. "You want? It's better that I'm not enjoyin' it anymore, I think. Better to be like a surgeon cuttin' away dead skin. B'sides, I got a new girl now. I wanna do right by her. I'm not crazy about the idea of keepin' this a secret, but I dunno if she'd understand."

Whoa, wait, what? Lachlan does accept a cigarette — unfiltered though it may be, it's a smoke, and he's never turned one of those down in his life — but he pauses in lighting it at that last tidbit. "Ye've got a new girl?" He's surprised, but … why wouldn't he be? He hasn't exactly spoken to Jack for a month or so. And there's no ribbing about wanting to do right by her either. He knows how that is now. "Tha's great. Wha's 'er name?"

"Katrina." Despite his agitated state, a small smile tugs at Jack's lips. "She's bloody outstanding. Beautiful, fast car, knows how to throw a punch. She's gonna start takin' over a few shifts here, so I'm sure you'll meet her." He snags a book of matches from a bowlful on the bar, tugs one free, and strikes it. After lighting his cigarette, he pushes he the book across to Lachlan.

Beautiful, fast car, can brawl — these are attributes of the Ultimate Woman. This is what makes Angelina Jolie appealing. Lachlan grins. "Better bring Cass along ta keep me outta trouble then," he remarks jokingly, though there's a serious note there too. Yeah, meeting appealing women in a place with alcohol isn't a grand idea. The Scotsman takes up the book, lights his cigarette and takes a deep pull from it. Hooah, unfiltered. "Sound o' it, though, she'd pro'ly kick m'arse b'fore Cass could."

Jack grins and pours yet another round of scotch. "Aye," he agrees readily. "The lass can handle herself, that's for damn sure. Bloody fond of that one, I am." He takes a puff from his own cigarette, then lets out a low, rumbling groan through a cloud of smoke. "Fuck. I'm gonna have to tell her somethin' about all this, man. I'm tryin' to go on the straight and narrow. Elle, that stupid bitch…"

Sure, Lachlan's trying that straight-and-narrow thing too, but there are still things that he'll cross over for. Violence against Cass, violence against Elena — these things call for /retribution/. He frowns at Jack through the smoke, pulling his glass closer to himself after it's refilled. "Less people tha' know 'bout it, better off we'll be, yanno." He's not just scared of being pinned for murder, here, either; if Cass ever found out …

Puff. Jack blows a few idle smoke rings. Then he sighs and shakes his head. "You're right. What am I s'posed to say? 'Hey. Gon' go out and kill me a blonde. Be back in time for supper.' Shit. Bein' honest is turnin' out to be twice as hard as bein' a criminal. You bumpin' into that same problem?"

Oh hells yes. Lachlan lets out a loud snort-huff of /oh don't I/. "Hardest fuckin' thing in m'life was comin' clean with Cass 'bout ever'thin'— " he waves his cigarette vaguely to indicate something back there in his past of sordidness. "She still doesna know ever'thin'. Think if I tol' 'er, she'd drop me so bloody fast." But she knows enough. Enough is enough. "But … s'easier too, yanno. After all tha'. S'easier no' runnin' 'round tryin' ta keep it all quiet." He frowns a bit. Wait, what's he saying here? Maybe the scotch is getting to him.

What? "Isn't that what we're doin' right now?" Jack queries dubiously. He squints, peering over at Lachlan. Then he points a finger at the other man decisively. "You are drunk, sir. But that's ok. My Da' always told me, 'In the depths of the cup lies the backdoor to Enlightenment.' I think when he said Enlightenment he meant women, though. Anyway, you're drunk." He nods.

"Wha'?" Lachlan /squints/ at Jack as though he just lost his mind — and hey, considering the rate they're going through the bottle, /maybe he has/. "'M no' bloody drunk. /Yer/ the one's knackered." Uh-huh. And … and then that hits him, and Lachlan grins. Haha. /Ha/. /Ha/. Back door to Enlightenment. The Scotsman starts snickering. "Nah, dunna need ta get pissed ta get inta the backdoor o' Enlightenment, ye get m'meanin'." Uh-huh. "An' yeah, mebbe we are. Hell, dunno. Yer no' makin' any sense."

Gulp! Jack downs another half-vat of scotch and gestures with his glass. "I'm makin' perfect sense, ya bagpipe-squeezin' prat!" He blinks blearily, then takes a drag of his cigarette. "Ok, that's not true. I had a point, I just forgot what it was. Fuck off." Coupled with an easy grin, the words lack any semblence of heat.

"Nah, yer just jabberin' like a bloody potato-pickin' arse," returns Lachlan with the same sort of camaraderie, grinning broadly. See, talking about murder and then getting drunk afterward? That's the best solution ever. "Ye've got a point righ' 'top yer ruddy head's wha'." Hell, he doesn't even know what they're talking about anymore either. What? Murder Elle? What was that? Pfsh. Who cares? He knocks back the rest of his drink, then squints, glances at his watch. Oh, wait. "Fffffuck. M'late." For what? Hell if he knows. He just remembers he's supposed to be somewhere. "Better head off."

Jack lifts his glass in a lazy salute, then downs the rest of its contents. "You know where the door is, Scotsman. Say hello to the lady for me. SHIT!" When he sets the glass down, it's not entirely on the bar. It falls to the floor and shatters messily. "Shit," he repeats. "Go on, get outta here."page name

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