2010-05-11: Taking Names And Kicking Asses

Starring:

Laurie2_V5icon.png

Guest Starring:

Aedan_V5icon.png

Date: May 11, 2010

Summary:

"It's time to kick ass and chew bubble gum. And I'm all out of gum," Duke Nukem.


"Taking Names and Kicking Asses"

A Nightclub — NYC

It's dark down the alleys and streetways of Queens. It's a place of back deals, shady deals. This particular site is a nightclub of sorts — loaded with various toxins, gambling rings, and the like. On tonight's menu? Cock-fighting in the basement. Men (and the occasional woman) gather in a circle as they cheer on their favourite rooster. The roosters are made to be more aggressive, employing methods that PETA would never endorse (not that they'd endorse a cock fight at all!). Two roosters are having it out. The larger of the two has darker coloured feathers while the bronzier one is substantially smaller and really more likely to lose the fight.

Aedan takes a long drag off his cigarette as his men enjoy themselves. He sits in a chair near the back, even though he has money on this thing. But then, who doesn't have money on it? Everyone who's anyone does. Adjusting his beanie, he grabs a second chair and watches his lackeys do their thing, enjoying the spectacle that the roosters are putting on.

The first *thump* could blend in with anything going on inside that ring — hell, inside the whole basement. It's the second one that's a bit more noticeable, rattling the very hinges of the thick door at the top of the stairs that lead down into this nest of gambling: a veritable hive of scum and villainy. Then the third blasts the door right open— it used to be locked.

In a chorus of smaller impacts, an uncoordinated bundle of limbs and flannel tumbles down the stairs, hitting every edge and the wall on one side along the way; his progress is ended by a turn in the stairs that he's unable to navigate, resulting in him smacking into the concrete and bricks. This lump that stays huddled where he's stopped rolling was once the look-out and, not unimpressive, bodyguard from up-top.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Boots come into view first, as thick as the steps they make. Then a man; a man whose face, slicked blond hair, and olive green shirt haven't been seen on these stomping grounds for years but the employees still remember. Tugging the sleeves of a red-brown leather jacket back into place, Roscoe sneers unpleasantly at the illegal gathering. "Now," he announces sarcastically into the attention he's garnered, "I don't remember keeping a'buncha dirty Irishmen in here." He reaches the landing where the look-out is moaning and squares off to the room. "Maybe I left some Italians boxed in and they turned rotten!"

Nothing like having a good 'ole rigged cockfight interrupted by an an unexpected (and unwanted guest). Especially one insulting the lot of them. Aedan arches an eyebrow and then leans back in his chair. This is why he hires people so he doesn't have to do dirty work. Two 'dirty' (and really, if Aedan is honest, they really ARE dirty) Irish guys approach— one substantially larger than the other. The large of the two approaches Roscoe first, reaches back and swings hard at the interrupter's chin, attempting to deliver an uppercut to it with his full force. The second aims for the fair-haired man's midsection.

Aedan rolls his eyes, "Italians'. Pffft." Yup, that's about as sophisticated a response as Roscoe deserves, particularly when insulting a room full of Irishmen doing what these Irishmen do: drink and gamble.

It's blatantly predictable, the approach of these two men, and Roscoe observes it happening with only the remaining curve of the lip from his disdainful expression on entering the room. A little movement on his heels is the only sign of expectation beyond the slow, unconcerned cracking as he rolls his knuckles back. He doesn't even seem to tense in preparation as the large Irish thug swings.

But his hands shoot up, at once blocking and absorbing the impact, also claiming the hands that failed to hit him. With the attacker's own momentum, he continues raising the arm above both of their heads, exposing that nice vulnerable center of every minion. Into that open stomach, Roscoe plants his knee, doubling the Irishman over in time to steer his fall into the swing of the second man. Maintaining his grip on the one, he gives them a moment to get quite tangled together before, rearing one foot back, he sticks it on the larger man's shoulder and kicks.

As the two go rolling in a very dirty and undignified manner into the center of the cockfight ring, Roscoe begins to bounce back and forth, his neck jerking to the side with a sound crack.

As two of his lackeys are defeated, Aedan's interest peaks. His gaze falls on Roscoe and stays there, focusing on who this character is and why he's here. Yet beyond that, his thoughts are on something else altogether. He knows this man, if only by reputation. His jaw tightens as he just watches from his safe distance, calculating something. Here he doesn't stand out as the leader, yet he's the leader just the same.

Another oversized thug approaches Roscoe head on, aiming to knock the fairer haired man off his feet and onto the ground. This particular thug is chewing gum and has a package of double-mint gum protruding from his pocket. He goes for Roscoe's neck— his two large hands aimed to put the other man into a choke hold.

From behind Roscoe another lackey approaches, this one bearing nunchuks — swinging them this way and that, yet not really aiming for anything, just doing a lot of fancy moves.

It might take a few more minutes for years old rumors to catch up to the sight of the flesh and blood man standing there. To help it along, Roscoe continues doing what he's doing.

Ducking smoothly underneath the grabbing hands of the next contestant, he jabs upwards with a hand under the man's chin and into his throat, causing him to violently swallow the gum in his mouth the wrong way down. Completing his step around, and rotating off of the stairs landing, his hand reaches to the choking man's pocket where that tempting bit of packaging is peeking out at him. One-handed, he slips out a stick of gum, peeling the wrapping off between two fingers while the rest of him is sliding out from the thug's forward fall. Rising from the duck, Roscoe takes a hold of the back of the man's shirt and, lifting slightly, rams him into the railing of the stairs. Oversized body splayed on the floor, the stairs break with a deafening crack of wood, assisted by Ros' snapping away one of the previous supports and hefting the new blunt instrument into his hand.

Poooopp goes the bubble-gum in a massive green bubble as he turns to regard the weapon's master over there.

The weapons master swings his nunchuks in a figure-8 pattern. He pauses and uses more of a round the world move, much like a child orienting a yo-yo. With a sneer he approaches Roscoe, showing off his awesome moves, poising himself to take down the fair-haired man. Meanwhile several other Irishmen are inching forward and Aedan puts out his cigarette on the chair which he's sitting. His eyes narrow as he tilts his head at Roscoe and he smiles like the cat that just caught a canary.

Schhhhhhlp— pop. Roscoe contemplatively regards the display with just a touch of impatience weighing down his eyebrows. Shoulders rolling one then the other, he sniffs around the gum, a stray glance to the side becoming a lazy double-take. As the nunchucks cut the air, their intended target dips towards the floor, scooping up a metal tin in which most of the betting money has been mashed. Arm coming around his other side, he fair flings the can straight into the forehead of the would-be weaponer. With a definitive conk the man crumples also the floor, his nunchucks clattering along beside him.

This time, Roscoe waits for no man. Shifting to a better grip on the piece of stairs in his hand, he spins to the side and charges on one man with a guttural cry enunciating the wild — but well-aimed — swing for the unfortunate target's ear: "— he's swinging for the fences!" The shout becomes a merry sentiment as he turns before it's even confirmed that this one's down to begin bashing the weapon into another repeatedly.

Aedan blinks. With a crunch, he stretches his own neck and lowers them from the chair across from him into a standing position. A glance is given to his men to which he says, "Fellas." It's at this point that multiple men present draw their weapons and aim them at their intruder. Apparently Roscoe isn't going down the good old fashioned way. Alternate methods are needed.

But Aedan doesn't give orders to fire. He doesn't give orders to do anything, in fact. Instead, he strolls up the stairs towards the intended target and half-smirks. "Aedan's 'th name. Yer the bloke, 'ren't ya." Now he's all on smiling. Right now, in his own mind, he's found a treasure.

The thick noise of wood walloping skin doesn't quite cease when the firearms come up, Roscoe quite intent on what he's doing for a couple seconds after which he glances up… and gives another idle swing while Aedan approaches. Grip on the collar of the man he's been beating, he keeps the badly bleeding thug up in front of him at least to one angle of those aimed weapons.

Stuffing the gum into his cheek, he spits around it — graciously off to the side where it only hits brick — and gives Aedan the critical up and down look. At the end of the evaluation, Roscoe's chin jerks up high and proud. He's dealt with bigger fish. "Well, I'm gonna go ahead an' call you Beanie. That makes the rest of you," he swings the wood weapon in an arc indicating the rest of the gang members, "'fellas'." Back on Aedan. "So, yeah, sure. I guess I'm the bloke. Whoop-de-fuckin'-do."

"Ye got spirit, that much's fer sure," Aedan peers at Roscoe before turning on his heel and down the stairs. "But ye don't got any 'elp do ye?" His arms are folded over his chest. "The bloke don't 'ave a 'ope 'gainst the world, do 'e?" he walks over to a small fridge and extracts a bottle of Guiness which he opens on the edge of the small fridge. With a familiar fizzle the beer is allowed to breathe for a few moments before Aedan brings it to his lips and takes a long swig.

"So why ye 'ere? We don't liake visitors." A glance is given to the cock ring which has now been effectively ruined thanks to Roscoe. "The fight be closed ye know…" the guns are still levelled at Roscoe as Aedan resumes his seat and props his legs up on another across for him before lounging back. All-in-all, he's awfully relaxed.

"You know, and I'm thrilled you think so." As for the mention of help, the sneer makes a comeback, letting Roscoe scan the room to dare any of those gunman to just try it. Somewhat of a reverse effect, one of the gun hands wavers at his aim. "The bloke—" He interrupts himself to fling his captive aside, taking two unafraid steps after Aedan and towards that chair. Continued below: "The bloke can manage."

He certainly managed his way into a circle of firearms, but besides some clinging adrenaline from the scuffle, he's as casual in appearance as the man reportedly in charge. To the question, he raises a pacifying hand to stave off in advance any jumpiness over what he's about to do. Then, he reaches into a stuffed jacket pocket and pulls out two geisha dolls, their heads wobbling precariously — one's movements looks odder than the other; it's head is stained a red color that certainly wasn't painted on in manufacturing. "Some little squealer," Roscoe announces, "Kindly let me know who was steppin' around in territory didn't used to be theirs."

Glancing sidelong, but into the eyes of the gunman nearest the fridge, he asides, "Well, thanks, I will take one of those beers."

Aedan takes a long swig of his drink as he pensively stares at the wall behind Roscoe. A hand is slid to his hat which he promptly removes in one quick motion. It's then placed on his lap; this may be the first time many men int he room have seen him without his beanie and it shows. One of the gunmen gets Roscoe a beer from the fridge, to which Aedan arches an eyebrow.

"Who squealed?" the question is straightforward enough. He takes another swig of his beer. "And yer old stompin' ground has been taken over. Clearly." He smirks at the crowd. "Who were you with?" it's a question Aedan knows the answer to. He's not stupid and didn't just become a thug yesterday.

"Sorry, must've lost his name in all the whining." A clatter of springs and cheap make as the geishas are tossed at Aedan's feet.

The beverage is gratefully accepted — in so far as Roscoe doesn't immediately punch the compliant gunman in the nose. Instead, he just twists slightly to crack the top off on the man's belt; the movement puts his arm underneath the thug's, so that a simple up-jerk of his elbow knocks that hand out of the way for Roscoe to smoothly relieve him of the gun he'd previously been aiming.

Rather than reignite the fight, what with that disarming riling a few tempers, Roscoe does the 'non-threatening' thing of merely tucking the stolen gun into the back of his pants and bringing the beer up instead. It's wagged at the beanieless Beanie first, "I don't really care about stupid questions."

Aedan suppresses a chuckle at the action used to open the beer bottle. He shrugs at his gunman, "Ye shoulda opened the bottle." It's common sense, right?! With a bright smirk, Aedan shifts in his seat and kicks the one his feet were resting on towards Roscoe; yup, Roscoe is allowed to sit down.

"Why ye 'ere?" he's sneering now. The smirk is gone replaced by a very different expression now. "This is our territr' now. It's our turf. Been it fer awhile now." He eyes the dolls at his feet before picking two up. "Pretty things ren't they? So easy to smuggle. No one thinks 't look inside. 'S good hidin' place…"

Putting out a hand, Roscoe catches the chair, stopping it in its motion, but he declines to have a seat, instead only using that braced hand to lean his weight against. The other props up to his waist, pushing his jacket out in a flare behind his arm. "Oh, yeah, they're pretty neat. Congrats, fellas," he agrees, both amiable and bitter, of the geishas. "When I remember, you Irish weren't nothing but a buncha two-bit bootlickers." These boots, in fact; his boots. Can you blame a guy being sore at the climate change?

As to why he's here, he sets the beer down on the chair seat and rubs that hand along his chin in a more thoughtful move than his appearance would let on. "So maybe I'm a little nostalgic, you know. Get outta the pit, think to myself— boy, be nice to see all the old familiar places."

Aedan narrows his eyes. "Outta the pit?" he reaches into his pocket and extracts a small tin of tobacco which he uses to roll into a cigarette. He brings it to his lips and reaches into another pocket for his lighter. After puffing on his now-lit cigarette he pulls it from his lips and takes another swig from the bottle of beer.

"Ye got a death wish?" he asks idly. "Or just lookin' fer trouble? Stranger things have happened when people get out." He purses his lips together. "How'd ye git in the pit anyways? Aye 'eard ye died." He clucks his tongue.

Though he has to bite down on a forming smirk appearing underneath his casual disregard, Roscoe opts not to respond as to any wishes he may have. It isn't until the rumors of his grossly exaggerated death that his upper lip really tugs into a look of fierce disgust more than even what he graced the Irishmen with. "Only one dead's that motherfucking dipshit thought he could get away with bein' a c***sucking traitor after all we done. Never liked 'im. I said— I said 'Vinnie— "

A shudder of composure cuts him off, and fingers curl on leather to proudly twitch his jacket into perfect attendance on shifting shoulders. The hand passes through his slick blond hair as he eases into something more aloof. "Anyway…" hands on hips as he squares off to Beanie contentedly, "The point is, I'll just be havin' this club back now."

"Ha. Like 't see ya try to take it back, awful lot 'o us," Aedan glances around. "Yer outgunned, Rosey." He winks before guzzling back his beer. "'N maybe yer boss would be able 't take 'er back, but on yer own." He runs a hand over his goatee before kicking back in his chair again. "Yeah— outgunned. Yer gunless in comparison."

"But…" now Aedan all-out stares at Roscoe, weighing thigns in his own mind. "…ye might be useful to the group. The pay is good— and should be gettin' better in short order if all goes 'ccordin' to the boss' plan." His lips curl upwards. "'Course, we'd need to test run ye. I'm sure yer familiar wit the process. Ye don't pass, I git one me boys to shank ya." His lips curl upwards into a sadistic smile.

"It must to be hard to be you, Beanie," Roscoe replies, undisturbed by the nickname, the shot to his former group and pride. "No imagination." Though eyes roll to the ceiling in exasperation for this Irishman's sad fate, he's soon to return that stare— daringly bored. What offer he's given does not initially intrigue him; he could almost be insulted. But the later words give him pause. Pause and then, throwing his head back, he lets out a mighty loud guffaw.

The laughter is short, manic, and he brings his hands to his face, steepled against his lips and then drawn away to spread openly to the group. "You know what. Sure. Bring on yer bloody Irish test. Waste time, I got plenty of it. But don't insult me with your threats. You send a guy, you give him a fuckin' tank or I send him back to you a piece a day."

Tugging righteously on the lapels of his jacket, he adds, "Either way, I'll be havin' this club back. Also, some guys." A vague gesture at the assembled peanut gallery of minions. "You know, when they say 'call off your boys'. Yeah. Some'a those."

"It's decided then!" Aedan claps before rising to his feet. "Ye pass, ye git yer own men, this club, work jobs… the boss'll be pleased, Aye think." He isn't easily insulted by Roscoe's comments. "Awright, we best git at it then~" he winks before motioning his fellas to lower their guns. "Aye'll git ye a team… " he grins broadly, the game's a foot.

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