2010-07-06: The Fallout



Guest Starring:


Date: July 6, 2010


“The speed of the leader is the speed of the gang," Mary Kay Ash.

Censor's Warning:

This log is not suitable for all readers due to language and violence.

"The Fallout"


The Irish warehouse is colder than normal and oddly quiet, even as the gang returns from their escapades at the Japanese weapons facility. Well… most are quiet. One particular individual hasn't shut up since they finished their apparent heist. "WHAT THE FUCK?!" he hasn't silenced since Roscoe disappeared to shoot that fed. "WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO?!" Some people can't be appeased, even in their own ranks, not easily, anyways. This random yelling continues until the party reaches the main room— just shy of where the prisoners had been kept. That's when this particular lackey falls completely silent and ghostly white.

The man who had been assigned to guard the door is now slumped over, his skin pasty white, and, should anyone decide to raise him, a bullet can be seen lodged in the centre of his forehead.

At the end of the table, with his feet propped up, one over the other, the big boss, Roberto, clicks a knife (that he'd taken from one of the hostages over a week earlier) open and closed.




His lips twitch, but are contained into a smile that hovers between irritated and downright wicked.

His eyes, his ultimate tell, quiver with an inexplicable rage, yet he sits there, playing with the knife.




He told them he should be able to leave them alone for five seconds and expect no fuck-ups. He told them that they sound like they need a goddamn babysitter.

Now it's gotten to the point where Roscoe, his hand spread halfway across nose and mouth, is exhaling powerfully through that nose just to stop himself from giving the lackey a bloodied one. A post-shooting near blow-out with Weasel resulted in him not strolling in with the rest of the gang — besides, you know, the knee — so a second culling of the ranks seems inevitable… until every eye settles on the sight awaiting them at their criminal homestead.

From over the curve of his finger, the blond gangster instantly scans both the state of the man at the table — cursory, really, no surprise — and the state of the lounging boss. The angry eyes are actually not lingered on longest; it's the time-keeping movement of that knife in and out, back and forth, that Roscoe settles on as he stride slows secondarily, putting him several paces ahead of the rest of the crew who halted far before.
With barely a glance across his shoulder, much less behind him to where they hover, he raises and twitches out two fingers, gesturing to a room off the main one — storage. Where their stolen goodies can find a new resting place.

Some of the men are happy for something to do, to look productive; more others are afraid to make noise and draw attention to themselves.
Roscoe shifts, wary not of his boss necessarily, but of getting dragged into a whole crazy person drama. At least, that's how it might sound as he hooks his thumbs at his belt, venturing purposefully but not invested: "Hey, Boss…"

"Freeze." It's a command to everyone in the room.

Even at the greeting the knife continues.




Finally, those angry eyes find their way to Roscoe. Nostrils flare. Eyes narrow. In one angry motion, the blonde mobster rises and literally smashes the table he'd been using as a footstool against the wall, causing the former guard's body to slump the floor. His stance is beyond reproach— large and assuming, occupying as much space as humanly possible based on his frame.

"You. Fucking. Idiots." despite the heist he is full of a much heated, much burning rage. His eyes are wide— crazy, perhaps. "Where. Are. My. FUCKING. THERAPISTS?" He continues to play with that knife as he paces the room.




A fleeting glance is given to the now-dead guard as he paces between the men, his jaw tightening with every step.

He doesn't — freeze; Roscoe occupies the same space for a short time after the command's given but, to the question, the clear evidence of tantrum — bye, table — he turns sharply on a heel to march to that doorway. Arm resting against it, he takes a peek into the room which used to hold three shrinks hostage and now is only a cell decked out for nobody. So, his face says as he spares a look for the immobile and terrorized others, he's clinging to his rocker; they're really gone.

"Maybe you weren't payin' 'em enough," the larger man postures flippantly, but oddly calmly, as he adjusts into a more permanent position leaning, arm at head-level against the doorframe. The other arm detaches from his belt to indicate specifically every man Roberto paces between. "Them's were with me, boss. Yeah, bein' fuckin' idiots, but somewhere else."

The corpse member is generously granted a look also from this one. "What tale did the dead man tell?"

"Fucking. Idiots." Roberto virtually spits the words as his face tenses. There is no mercy, not for this. "That little cunt STOLE something from me! What about that don't you fucktards understand?!"




He continues to pace the room, taking care to kick the lifeless body just once. His anger unabated by words or reason. His face flushes with it as his lips curl into a kind of snarl, sarcastic and horrifying in its inception. "He was fuckin' unconscious! IDIOT. ALL IDIOTS. Leaving one man! ALONE. TO GUARD three! Three people with no training and no defenses! I took this knife from the blonde— I will CUT whoever let her out! The filthy cunt-bitch— " He paces the edge of the room again.



Cl— Creak.

The clicking of the knife is interrupted by the creaking of a door and the shuffling of feet. In walks a man who the gang is more than familiar with accompanied by a kid who has only just started initiation. Brayden Calvert leans against a wall— he's still limping from his flight mishap, but it's mostly healed. Enough to come back here, anyways.

At the sight of the Senator, Roberto twitches. Visibly twitches; his anger bubbling to the surface.

Finally, a flinch. A turn of the head — it seems to time rather well to the particularly colorful adjectives Roberto feels the need to ascribe to one such missing hostage. But Roscoe continues the motion to be looking at the group of frozen Irishmen, making attempts between knife-clicks to catch worried eyes. He gets his chance when everyone's attention redirects just so to acknowledge the sudden new arrival.

Again with the fingers, he beckons with a hand, both insistent and impatient, that the others should excuse themselves from the room. A few take the opportunity, but not all can liberate themselves from the electrifying train-wreck that is Roberto's wrath.

"Lock's not broken, boss…" A lazy, and very soon abandoned, attempt to keep reasoning. That was never Roscoe's strong suit anyway. His new movement against the door lets him look very intently upon the new occupants of the room, and narrowed blues assess quite speedily the state of them both: young, Senator.

His voice raises even as he straightens some, barking strictly: "Not now, Calvert…"

Roscoe doesn't need to tell Brayden twice, the former Senator prods the kid go back from whence they came, but the boss's voice interrupts this activity. "Stop," is the one word Roberto utters while pacing towards the pair. His tone borders on suspicious, drips with a kind of feigned amusement, and doesn't reflect anything genuine or jovial, even if these are his general go-tos.




Frozen in place, Brayden virtually pushes the kid out of the room. Seventeen year olds don't belong here, which was kind of his point in the first place. And so Brayden stares at the boss. He manages his easy Brayden-grin, "Hey boss." There's no edge or discomfort in the tone, thanks to Logan's lying liarface, Nathan has that ability. His own jaw hardens as the thug approaches him; the former-Senator has no idea what he's just walked into.

Narrowed eyes through a frame of light coloured lashes zero in on the room's newest occupants. With the kid gone, Roberto has only one new person to blame. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO WITH MY THERAPISTS?" Again with the knife.




Summoned by the sounds of discord, and the scattered words of those found fleeing the room, Weasel slithers his crippled way in from the back, smacking his chops at the thought of a good old-fashioned… but as he breaches the crowd of other bodies, tugging on coats and shoulders in order to keep upright, he seems taken aback by the sight of Brayden there. Scanning eyes jump almost immediately after to Roscoe against the door. His eyebrows dip downwards. Then he eyes the confrontation with some noticeable lessening of pleasure.

If Roscoe is aware of the newest entry, he makes no move nor indication, remaining as ever zoned in on the closing space between Roberto, Brayden, and Roberto's knife. Without looking half so concerned as his focus may suggest. It'd never be apparent in the half-hearted way he gives a shrug against the door. "C'mon, Robbie, they're other shrinks in the sea."

"Therapists? I think it only takes one— " Brayden replies easily; the facade holding against the madness of the room. Swallowing, Brayden remains his steady, even-gaze, not moving or shrinking from the situation, he can't afford to, and his nerve doesn't fail him now. Not in the least.




The knife is now wielded and Roberto's free hand is wrapped around Brayden's throat in a fast-paced lunge. He presses metal flesh, but draws no blood. Not yet.

"She. Stole. Something. From. Me," he hisses back to Roscoe. "Where did you take her?! I am going to fuckin' find her and drag that little bitch back by her blonde hair! SHE did this! That fucking bitch did this! AND wasn't to see the fucking light of day until she reversed it! SO tell me, CALVERT, WHERE ARE THEY?! DID YOU RETURN THEM TO THE POLICE!!! THE POLICE CAN'T PROTECT THEM FROM ME!"

In a burst of movement, Roscoe is no longer lounging against the door but pushes off, taking lengthy strides that border on a trot for a couple of paces to put himself behind Roberto once that knife is no longer just a toy in the man's hand. A few other gang members, feeding off of their boss' accusations, surge forward as well to provide back-up wherever the chips may fall — to easily put the blame on another man's head.

But none go so far as Roscoe, who stretches a hand and clamps it down on Roberto's shoulder without hesitation, no consideration for the man's temperament or weapon. A firm eye on the boss is less so when it darts in investigation of Brayden's throat, tuned to that peach of skin and silver of knife without red of blood.

"Hey, hey— " His light-heartedness is only minutely more gruff, to the note of growing impatience in him; this vocal cue allows a twitch of the lip, the firming of his stance, to fall under the same blanket of reason.

The knife at his throat garners a similar reaction from Brayden as he holds up both hands in a kind of surrender move; wholly unaware of what he's actually walked into or why he's being threatened. His own pulse skyrockets, and now, when he speaks his voice cracks— it's minute, but it is there, "Hey. Look Boss, I don't know any therapists— " His eyes narrow slightly as they gaze back at Roberto, it's not a challenge, it's him trying to hold his position. Trying being the key descriptor.

The hand is essentially fought from his shoulder, still brandishing the knife only now he temporarily moves it from Brayden's throat. "DON'T tell me to calm down! YOU don't know! YOU DON'T KNOW what that little blonde bitch did!! YOU HAVE NO IDEA what she did!!" ironically, Roberto's mood is more volatile that in the month previous, unabated by suggestion. He turns back to Brayden now, wielding the knife again at Calvert's throat, "Without HER I'll never get it back! I am going to find her and pull each of those pretty blonde hairs from her head followed by those fucking fingernails!" He presses the knife a little harder against the flesh now, "I know it was you! I KNEW we shouldn't have trusted you! That little TARD Aedan said you were clean! That you couldn't remember— " he sneers as his free hand fishes through his pockets. Face paling he barks at the rest of the room, "SOMEONE GET ME A PACKAGE OF FUCKIN' SKITTLES!"

That knife is followed with a precise watch not evident in Roscoe throwing his hands up in the air in frustration when he's shook off so immediately. Behind him, a pair of legs is already racing for where the fuck do they keep the Skittles when no one else is allowed to touch them?! — and several more approach in order to possibly restrain a clearly already immobile Brayden.

They don't get so far as that; Roberto's intention is very evident when the knife returns, the tension in his arm, that detectable notion of preparedness in the muscles when someone commits to an action. In this case: opening Brayden's throat. It's as inevitable as if Roberto had said the words.

Once again Roscoe's hand interferes, this time with a squeeze on Roberto's elbow to restrain movement; a second hand presses near the wrist to try and collapse the arm. "Then don't calm down, but think, boss," Risking a hand away from the knife-wielding boss, he shifts the one palm to Brayden's chest and navigates the man backwards with a hard, unapologetic shove. "They don't talk so well bleedin' out of there. Let 'im tell you where the broad is, first." Despite the words, the side-step has put Roscoe somewhat between the two. Out of sight, out of mind… "Have some fuckin' Skittles — see all these pretty weapons we brought you to get whatever you want back."

Brayden is shoved backwards away from the knife wielder, but the boss won't relent on the issue, even if metal isn't pressed to skin. "ALL of the weapons in the world aren't worth what she stole from me and what she owes me," Roberto hisses angrily. The change in volume is hint enough that he's eased some, very little, mind. He stares into the eyes of one of his lackeys only to erupt into a series of angry expletives. Doubling over, his fingers run ragged through his hair, his yelling ebbed into a series of mutterings, "…cock-suckin' whore… cunt… bitch…"

As the room watches in horror, Brayden takes another step back, his gaze shifting to the teen who'd entered this room with him. With a slight nod of his head, he signals the kid to leave— to get out while he can, but to no avail: Finn stays put. Fighting his own instinct, Brayden reaches into his jacket slowly before extracting a package of Skittles which is tossed towards Roberto— aimed to land just shy of him.

Roscoe's hand darts back to his own space when Roberto doubles over, but the crackle of the Skittles bag landing is the only thing to draw his eyes from marking the boss' every twitch — and there are many. As he dips to retrieve the colorful treat, to be offered to the copiously swearing man, there's a vague mutter through the crowd watching. If blood-shed's been averted from one, are they all in less or more danger.

More than a little of the discontented cringing comes from Weasel, who oozes now with a certain self-righteousness. "Don't listen to him, boss!" He screams shrilly from his spot clinging at the shirts of two others supporting him, "They're in fucking cahoots!" He angles a crooked finger as Roscoe's gaze shifts over Roberto's shoulders to him warningly. "Neither ain't even one of us! Ask yer fuckin' attack dog where 'e's been, boss! Lose some time in your day, perhaps, Roscoe the Italian?"

Straightening, Roberto grasps the bag and tears into a corner. Greedily he shakes some of the skittles into his mouth before crunching on them. An almost contented neutrality spreads across his lips, but it only lasts a moment— that's when the aptly named Weasel starts yelling. Roberto frowns now. "Who's in cahoots?" he hisses, his anger tempered further by the delicious candy with which he is obsessed. His eyes glance from Roscoe to Weasel to Brayden and back again. "And where have you been, Roscoe?!"

Brayden's eyes narrow at the yelling and the scrutiny. His jaw tightens and he shakes his head again, "Look Boss, never knew about the therapists." And then he falls silent, it's all he has to say on the matter. For now.

Roscoe's arm crosses past Roberto's shoulder to return the threatening gesture back at his accuser, but his words are aimed to the nearby boss instead. "He's just pissy from a lil' gunshot. We were off on a job." Then his glance passes across his own shoulder to see Brayden there, coldly dismiss him with that look and a bit of a gruff chuckle. "Calvert here was too stupid to even know there was hostages."

A couple of responding sniggers from others going along with the words is met with a calculating uneasiness from at least two more. "Yeah, but, you wasn't there the whole time. Not when that fed showed up."

"Eh heh, scared of a little fed, then?" From the opposing side, the laughs are less companionable.

A mood not exactly helped when Weasel picks up the trail with his particular sneer. "Seen a lotta feds in prison, Rossie?" Jail; a topic previously not to be broached in front of the convicted felon. "Six years is a long time ta rot. Maybe — maybe ye did a bit more'n that…"

Brayden kind of just shrugs at the words nonchalantly. He can go along with being stupid especially in these circumstances, being what they are.

"Where exactly did you disappear to?" Roberto's eyes narrow into small slits, his own anger bubbling again, brewing as he chomps on another mouthful of Skittles. A glance is given to Weasel and then one to Roscoe, "Did you take my therapists to some fed?!"

He turns to Weasel now, "Is he working with the fucking feds?!" His mouth twitches angrily again, his fury reigniting behind his already crazed eyes. In his other hand (the one not holding his Skittles) he snaps the knife shut, Click, and pockets it. With an all-out frown he begins pacing the room angrily, reaching for the gun in his pants, and just holds it with every step.

The issue has raised the entire room to try and be the jury and arguments arise in heated voices from both sides; the warehouse room echoes with Irish bickering. Minds on either end of the debate can't seem to fully wrap around the idea of Roscoe playing good with the feds, but some agree there's something fishy going on.

"Fuck the feds," Roscoe, himself, decides, cutting his hand through the air in the direction of those loudest, "And fuck the weasel." Other fingers trail to his own waistline, and though there's no flash of metal from his end, Weasel marks the movement like a pro.

"This ain't the first time you've disap—- fuckity! Fuck fuck! He's gonna shoot me again!" And he tugs on cloth and flesh to get behind the first guy he can. Those large-framed thugs who might've had the duty of dragging off Brayden's lifeless corpse now narrow in on the new suspect, but with a wariness respecting his reputation. When Roscoe's palm shoots out to call one to halt, he actually does. Waits for an overruling by the higher power pacing nearby.

But, cautious and alerted, the Italian in the Irish house has more of his attention on Roberto and Roberto's gun. "There ain't none of those limp-dick feds here, boss. And they ain't got nothin' a'yours. You'd just take it back then, wouldn't you."

Flippantly, Roberto raises a hand in the air as he shovels back the rest of the package of skittles, allowing the packaging to fall to the floor, his pacing continues, almost excitedly now; he feeds off the chaos in an almost undescribable way, pacing more and more, faster and faster. His agitation increases with each step, and his face pales as he considers what to do. The agreement that something fishy is going on is enough to draw out his paranoia and keep it at the forefront of his pacing self.

"FUCK!" he yells randomly from the middle of the room, his agitation finally coming to the surface. With a very visual twitch and a step towards Roscoe a wicked smile, spreads over his lips, something nearly other-worldly. As he stops pacing again something changes in his demeanour as he turns to Roscoe, "Who do you work for then?! Why the disappearing!? Where are you fucking go-iiiiing all the time?! Do you think I'm craaaaazy?!" he spins his pointer finger in a circle next to his right ear as he snears, "Do you think you can do that behind my fucking back?!" His eyes narrow further before he steps about the room again. "And yessss. We will get the blonde cunt back from wherever she is!" He peers about the room now as that same wicked smile grows over his lips, "The feds can't keep her safe— no one can! That fucking bitch is going to wish she never left this place!"

As careful as Roscoe may have been being, he seems all in all unable to resist the lip-twitch of wry bemusement as the boss grills him neurotically. "Yeah, boss," is the dry appeal, "I think you're off to the races again." One guy — one guy way in the back — dares a snort of laughter that he immediately stifles. "And that unless this is a fucking intervention, everybody in here get should back to fucking work." A waver in the crowd; everybody looks from Roscoe to Roberto like the audience at a tennis game.

"I ain't heard any answers!" complains the space behind somebody's shirt: Weasel, now that there's so far no more guns appearing. "I wanna hear what you told the feds!"

"I say we go get the feds!"

"Yeah, we've just got us some fuckin' weapons. Let's see how dey like a bit'a Japansese firepower in Irish hands!" The rallying cry is intense, goading Roberto and his mania on, and, though there remain voices of reason, even they desire some fucking action be taken. They're all pissed and crossed, nipping at heels; the thirst for blood was not fully quenched by listening to six shots outside the back door. They want more.

Fingers working in and out of a fist, Roscoe returns all of Roberto's wild stare, resolution stirring the cold blue of his eyes. "I know where your shrinks are," he announces, lowly but with an intensity that momentarily chills the other shouts out of the air. His hand raises guardedly in front of him, ancipating. "It ain't the feds — and yer gonna need me to get 'em back."

If Roberto had been angry moments earlier, his blood boils to livid in a matter of seconds. The goading of his lackeys and the admission as to where the therapists are earns Roscoe a crazed look, eyes and mouth twitch with something quite indiscernible in his already angered eyes. He essentially lunges at Roscoe, gun in hand now— wielded more like a toy than a weapon— aiming to press Roscoe against the wall. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY FUCKING THERAPISTS?! WHERE DID THEY GO AND HOW THE HELL DO I GET THEM BACK?!"

It was — had to be — an expected reaction. Roscoe's prepared arm lodges between them as Roberto gets him to the wall, creating leverage as it notches against the boss' chest. He grunts against the pressure but never lets up constant vigilance on that gun as its brought around, even though his other hand remains stoically near his hip.

To the whole thing, Weasel gives a hollering whoop, thrusting an arm forward as though he were dealing the damage from afar. "Cut 'im, boss! Fuckin' cut 'im till we know how the others got dere!"

Just especially for Weasel, Roscoe's hand detaches from hip to point, sparing only the smallest moment to glare in his direction from staring at Roberto. "I will show you exactly how they fucking happened if you come over here, you little shit!" A difficult feat, making a legitimate threat while pinned against a wall, but he succeeds to a level that finally shuts Weasel's mouth as he slinks into someone else's shadow to only enjoy watching.

"Them's a reminder on my face. Whose man I am," is told to Roberto, looking that way again, and through gritted teeth, "I didn't take your precious fucking shrinks. But I know Vinnie's got 'em."

The hand against his chest only causes Roberto to lean in more; he likes to be a man in control, although he usually doesn't have to try so hard. And then, with the goading, he hisses again, "You cut your fucking face, Roscoe?!" His eyes narrow at the thought of his therapists in Vinnie's clutches and he clucks his tongue. "Who took them?! How did he get them?!" More information is pressed for as Roberto presses Roscoe harder into the wall— assuming he can.

His gaze remains steady and sure, consistent on his current target. Culling the ranks is part of a gangster's life, right? He frowns, trying to think, trying to process, and trying to decide. But then the frown flickers into a sadistic sort of smile, "Then we take them back!" He continues to stare at his target, but he speaks to the room. "Anyone who can bring me any of the three fucking therapists will be rewarded!" His grin grows even more sadistic, but his next thoughts are left there in his mind.

"Fuck that, I didn't do it my fucking self," Roscoe's arm is steady; even as he yields somewhat to the continued impact, that arm makes sure that Roberto is never fully in control, never right where he wants to be. Just so close and unable to obtain. "It was a warning. From him." An admission that ills some of the assembled crew towards the notion of going straight after this hostage kidnapper who could hold Roscoe down for a face reworking.

But blood. Blood — it's always about the blood — and now they have a scent. And incentive.

"A'right then." As though everything were cool now. Roscoe finally exercises his brace against Roberto, jutting the elbow outwards to force him away so he can take a step away like nothing's happened, like maybe he'll just be off to find those therapists now.

At the words and the jutting of the elbow, Roberto backs off. But the anger isn't allayed, it continues, in fact, if anything it's reignited. "That FUCKING bastard!!! HOW THE HELL DID HE EVEN GET IN HERE?!" While he does step back, the step is small and only enough for him to back up and deliver a fist to Roscoe's midsection followed by another to his upper jaw. He twists with the punches, putting the brunt of his weight behind each, determined to make Roscoe regret his apparent insolence. He delivers a solid kick to Roscoe's gut following his punches. He turns to Weasel now, "You and," he turns to another of his lackeys, "you. Take him to solitary, let him think about how he can and can't talk to his FUCKING boss and remember who calls the shots around here!"

"AND the rest of you! WHOEVER can bring me back that FUCKING CUNT BITCH blonde therapist will be WELL REWARDED!" There's a small pause as the sadistic smile reappears, "And I only need her head to work so the rest is up to you! Use your fucking imaginations!"

Well—- almost. Half stepped away, Roscoe is driven back to the wall forcibly by the first hit, his raised hand just short of helping against the meat of the impact. Instead, it flies upwards to partially deflect the follow-up at his jaw, creating a glancing but still distracting blow that he rolls with by turning his head along the attack path. The kick he catches also at the same time as it gets him, so that he twists Roberto's foot hard, but ineffectually to stop himself from doubling over with a forced exhale.

What could've at first sounded like a strange static crackling as Roscoe leans over one side to the floor is covered by the noise that Weasel makes as he's singled out. "You heard 'im," he tells the man he's been using as a crutch, shoving forward. "Get a fucking move on!" Providing a cheerleader's support the whole way, the injured beanpole keeps yet a distinct radius between him and Roscoe as the heavily breathing blond man still manages to swat away several attempts to get a hand on him.

There are a couple of sickening cracks and one wailing ("Fuuuck!") Irishman stumbling away with a broken finger before somebody gets Roscoe by the back of his belt and hauls up for another to help reenact the drive to the gut. Not all faces in the room show content as to this outcome, but no one dares speak out, and minds whirl with thoughts of reward.

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