Post by Balto-Boy on May 15, 2009 23:51:49 GMT -5
Alright, the next segment here is about a certain set of characters. And with this, we have two more Brawlers directly introduced (actually, in technical terms, five more but whatever...)
VERY IMPORTANT: THESE SUBPLOT SEGMENTS DO NOT FOLLOW THE SAME TIMELINE. SOMETHINGS HAPPEN BEFORE THE NEXT SEGMENT, AND SOME HAPPEN AFTER. THE FIRST COULD BE 3 YEARS AGO WHILE THE NEXT COULD BE 3 MONTHS AGO AND THE NEXT 4 YEARS AGO. 'TIS IMPORTANT TO KEEP IN MIND.
So, anyways, enjoy this lovely tale of optimism and hope.
Grimmy Scottson, Hideo Yacazuma
This room was cold. Possibly her worst “owner” yet. The second Mr. Yacazuma brought her to his home, she was forced to a basement. This basement was specifically redecorated for a specific reason aside from storing utilities. And that reason was very obvious as she passed along by a handful of dank prison cells. There was a one-way mirror that made up the viewing glass to each little room and a typical door that created the room’s entrance. She looked into the rooms and saw that a couple of them housed even more girls, their dirtied appearance showing how long they’ve been locked up here. A part of herself died inside when she recognized one girl as her old and aged 5th grade teacher.
A key was used to open a door to an empty room, Mr. Yacazuma’s arm clutched to one of Grimmy’s as he pushed the door open and let his new prisoner examine her new home: a rusting room with blue paint chipping away and a very dirty mattress in the corner... and a set of chains connected to the wall.
The first thing Yacazuma did was the most embarrassing thing Grimmy could really imagine. At least it would be in public; here it was degrading, a feeling that she had begun to grown used to. Mr. Yacazuma’s free hand delved down and ripped off Grimmy’s skirt as hard as he could. She was instinctive to stop him, but the past had taught her not to resist to this sort of thing. Of course, next was the shirt, then all of the under clothing, her shoes, and even her headband was ripped away with enough force that Grimmy felt like her head was beginning to bleed.
Then he took Wheeljack out of her hands. Once he raised up the plush turtle, Grimmy this time actually did reach out, and a pitiful whine began to emit from her mouth. Of course, Yacazuma didn’t care. He just threw Wheeljack on top of the clothing that blobbed up on the floor.
“You can have that back when I know you as trustworthy...” This was all Yacazuma would say to her on this little venture. She could feel her eyes begin to well up.
By the time it was all over, Grimmy ended up where she was now: in a cold room, naked, and her neck chained to the wall like a fucking dog on a leash. And of course, as far as Yacazuma was concerned, that little f-word was all she was good for.
How long it has been, Grimmy had no idea whatsoever. It felt like a millennium, but it could have been less than a year as far as she knew. All of this time, as well, she hasn’t had her childhood companion to accompany her. You’d think after all this time of his perverted pleasures, Yacazuma would have come to trust her by now. But he was difficult, that much was certain. And, unfortunately for her, he was also creative. She had grown sore, both physically and emotionally after what felt like a lifetime.
She began to cradle herself as she sat on the mattress. The steel under her chin felt cold on her shoulders. It seemed she couldn’t take much more of this. Not so much as what happened each day, but how it made her feel about herself: she was disgusted. She was constantly being tossed around like a pizza, having everyone devour a slice of it until it was all gone. But that wasn’t it, oh no. It saddened her, that that was all she had to look forward to now, but that wasn’t the only thing. The worst part about all of this, she has realized, is that something deep inside of her is... is actually enjoying at least some of it. Maybe she could find a way to use the chain as a noose or something.
The door squeaked open. Mr. Yacazuma stood there, looking healthy as an ox while she starved on dog food, and wearing his bathroom robe and little to nothing else. In his hand, he was clutching some ropes, a ballpoint pen, and a metal device that Grimmy had come to know too well.
“Come here, sweetie,” he said to her as he pulled a key out of the robe’s pocket. “There’s something I wish to try, and I need someone of youth...”
Just a typical day...
Johnathon Bassett, Marcus Destro
“Alright everyone, let’s settle down! Everyone be quiet!”
The gymnasium at the city’s central high school was loud, though friendly. The teacher stood on the gym’s floor, staring up at all of the students and trying to tell them to settle down for a moment. Though their commotion was completely understandable. The high-schoolers never got a break from their typical studies. And some of these studies, mainly the urban survival class, made them all to depressed about the realization of the little world outside of their school’s walls. But today they had a guest speaker, and he needed their attention.
The gym finally settled enough as to let the teacher on the floor get a word in edgewise.
“Now, we are very aware that, well, things aren’t so great in the city right now.”
Some of the teens could laugh at this rather dark joke.
“But you kids can change all of it!” she continued. “You are the next generation of leaders, and this city’s future! So, here as our motivational speaker and guest of honor...”
The teacher looked over towards the door that served as the gym’s entrance. She smiled once she could see the guest, prim and proper, waiting just outside in the hallway.
“Here is the city’s Chief of Police...”
The guest began to step into the room.
“Officer Jack Omni!”
The dark-skinned man with tired eyes walked calmly into the room. He waved to the crowd somewhat passionately, trying to lighten the mood with an upbeat attitude. He looked up to the crowd of teens that sat in the bleachers of the gym. His eyes focused a tiny bit more on the girls.
“It is so good to see you kids today!” the officer said excitedly.
Up in the crowd to which the officer addressed, there sat a pair of friends. They once numbered four, but the city has dwindled the familiar group down to two. At the left, there sat a Latino boy of sixteen with black and spiky hair wearing a lime-green denim jacket. Though the first feature people typically noticed was that the boy was missing his left hand. All that remained was a nub just below where his wrist once was.
This boy, Marcus Destro, sat was a close friend whom he has known ever since those innocent years when their greatest concerns was the newest Power Rangers toy. This friend sat in his grey hoodie, an article that he typically wore. His tired-looking eyes, tired-looking they always were, wavered around the general area where the speaking officer stood. His hair was its typical greasiness and that handful of hair strands sprouted in odd directions as they always did. He looked down at his small black shoes when Marcus shoved his shoulder with his own.
“Johnathon, can you believe this guy?” Marcus whispered as loud as he could without anyone of importance noticing.
“He’s so full of crap...”
Johnathon’s head bobbed along to look in Marcus’s direction.
“I dunno... maybe he’s one of those that actually means it.”
Marcus let of rush of wind pass through flapping lips.
“Yeah, okay. And I’m Barack Obama. Fuckin’ asshole... Just friggin watch! This whole damn city is, like, some kind of government project bullshit or something stupid...”
“Nah... we just aren’t lucky.”
“Oh, it’s gotta be more than that! There’s no way in hell it’s just being unlucky!”
As Marcus said that last sentence, Johnathon’s head lulled back to the view of his shoes. Marcus leaned over, trying to catch Johnathon at eye-level the best that he could.
“Hey, what’re you down about?” Marcus asked with a voice much softer than previously.
Johnathon took a moment to answer.
“Well... we live in-”
“I know that! No need to remind me!” Marcus told him. “You just don’t get mopey about that, least not when I’m here.”
Johnathon wouldn’t answer. Marcus only looked in Johnathon’s direction for a brief moment. The words of the officer down on the floor were buzzing over their heads. Johnathon continued to look down, thinking to himself, seemingly examining the texture of his shoes with much thought. Marcus was trying to figure out what his friend could possibly be thinking about. Of course, he had to try the obvious.
“Are you thinking about them?” he asked.
Johnathon placed some fingers between his eyebrows.
“No... something else. Thanks for bringing them up, by the way.”
“I’m... sorry. Well, what is it?”
“Nothing. Something just happened at the house yesterday.”
Marcus nearly stood up.
“Are you’re parents okay? Did someone break in or-”
Johnathon bursted out finally.
“No, no! Nothing like that! Just... I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Marcus still tried to look Johnathon in the eyes for a moment longer, but finally retreated with a simple “Alright”. The two glanced off in the distance as the officer continued with his planned pep speech (which, for many, was in vain). It seemed as though the two friends were paying attention. But they weren’t. Both of them were very deep in thought. And both of them were thinking about the exact same thing.
“...damn, I miss them,” Johnathon uttered calmly.
“Xin and Grimmy? Yeah... me too.” Marcus responded without looking his way. “Maybe we’ll see them again.”
“Yep,” Johnathon muttered. “When we’re dead.”
“Class reunion in six months!” Marcus chuckled.
Johnathon laughed, too, for a moment. He could appreciate a joke, even if it was an incredibly dark one. And fairly true.
Theo Bulet, Grent "The Gunsmith" Smith
“How’s the face holding up?”
Theo was back in the “comforts” of home, a few days after the ordeal. He sat with a bag of frozen peas to his left eye, hiding the scars the accident left that caused his face to sting and pang in bitter reminder. He sat along a good friend of his. And a good friend to the Bulet family for a long time. Grent Smith was the family’s chief weapons crafter and supplier, a job that he was very good at. His legendary prowess for conjuring weapons that no one has ever seen has earned him the coined nickname of “The Gunsmith”. And the funny thing was that he was previously a member of the Blood. But that’s another story...
“Stings like a bitch...” Theo said with the bag still to his head. “Eh... it’s okay, I guess.”
Grent was a fairly lean and tall person, his muscles well-defined though he was overall as thin as a rail. His hair was brown in a buzzcut and he had a bit of facial hair on his slighty-jutted chin. He leaned out of his chair to reach for Theo.
“Here, let me take a look...” he said.
Grent let the peas lower from Theo’s eye, revealing the ugly mess that the bag hid. The left side of Theo’s face was scarred beyond recognition. Segments of skin had torn away in stringy chunks. And what was left stretched out and pulled so that the left side of his face resembled a toyed piece of Silly Putty. It essentially looked like someone had taken a jagged metal rake and dug it all the way across the left side of Theo’s head, which, with the concrete of the moving road, is the gist of what happened. Not only that, but Theo now carried a squinted red eye, blood pouring into it; so much so that, perhaps, it discolored forever. That side of his face didn’t look like that of a human’s any more. It almost looked mechanical.
Theo didn’t like the time it took Grent to give him an analysis.
“Well? What’re you staring at?” Theo asked him.
Grent thought it wise to answer.
“Um... have you seen yourself in a mirror-”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a monster, I know.”
Grent could tell that Theo wasn’t exactly happy at the moment, and for obvious reasons. With the Don of the Bulet family dead, that thirteen-year-old boy was in line to take over a city-wide crime family. Of course, it wasn’t the leadership part of that fact that had Theo angered.
“Well, it’s not infected. Not yet, anyways. Just keep that bag on there.” Grent instructed.
Theo smacked the bag back to his face without a word, though he winced when the paper sack made contact. Soon after, there was an awkward silence where the two glanced around random places of the room. It was rather small, a storage room of all things. Theo just liked coming in here when he wanted to be by himself. And “by himself” always meant that only Grent was allowed to talk with him in this room. Theo always saw Grent as the older brother that he always wanted. Most of the family violently didn’t trust him at first, but Theo was too young to remember when Grent was initiated. As far as Theo could tell, Grent has always been a Bulet.
“So...” Grent started. “What are you going to do first? As Don?”
Theo still had that golden Desert Eagle in his free hand. When Grent asked the question, Theo pulled it up near his head to wave it around slightly. He pointed it forward and took aim, and threw his arm back, only impersonating what it would look like when he fired that fateful shot.
“I’m killing the bastard.”
Grent grew alarmed and looked over.
“You’re gonna do what?”
“I’m gonna put all our sources into killing the Rageblood...”
Grent looked around for a moment, starting to smirk in disbelief.
“Wow... seriously?”
“Yup. Eeeeeverything we have is going towards hunting the bastard down... and blowing his brains out.”
“Are you really?” Grent had to assure.
“Did I stutter? Yeah, as soon as I’m given the spot.”
“Theo!” Grent almost yelled. “Theo, you can’t go around shooting the place-”
“I never said ‘shoot’.”
“It’s gonna come to that eventually if you pull that stunt!” Grent urged. “It’s only a matter of time! Soon you’ll get the city riled up even more, all of your cousins and uncles are gonna be in the prison, and the Blood is gonna rule!”
“I don’t give two shits about what happens to Cousin Mario!” Theo stood up to shout. “I want that mother-fucker shot in the mother-fucking head!!!”
Grent stood up to meet his eyes.
“Theo, you’re angry-”
“Well, no shit!”
“You’re angry and you need to calm down!”
“Calm down? CALM DOWN??!! Leonardo Bulet the Second, my dad, is dead and you want me to calm down?
Fuck you!”
“Theo stop being so angry and think about what you’d be doing!”
“I’m killing the bastard! I know exactly what I’m doing! This is about you and the Blood, isn’t it?!”
“Hell, no! You know I hate them now!” Grent shouted back.
Theo stepped forward towards Grent for the next dialogue he says, pushing Grent against a wall simply by stepping at him, despite his much smaller size.
“Oh, bullshit! You’ve been a spy or something this whole time, haven’t you?! HUH???”
Grent firmed his hands on Theo’s shoulders.
“No! No, HELL no! Just... you’re being irrational! Just give it a week and then-”
Grent soon found himself on the ground. His right cheek burned and stung as he lay on the dust-covered plank floor. He looked up to Theo. He was holding up the butt of the Desert Eagle, looking down at Grent in a form of disgust. The moment the two looked to each other seemed like minutes, but only lasted a milisecond.
“Stay down there, you sad hunk of shit!” Theo yelled at Grent, the voice growing softer as Theo walked farther and farther away from the room.
Grent watched as Theo was pacing out of the room, angry stomping ensuing, of course. He slowly got up to his feet and began to go after him. As Grent went after Theo, only one thought coursed through his head.
We’re so fucked...
VERY IMPORTANT: THESE SUBPLOT SEGMENTS DO NOT FOLLOW THE SAME TIMELINE. SOMETHINGS HAPPEN BEFORE THE NEXT SEGMENT, AND SOME HAPPEN AFTER. THE FIRST COULD BE 3 YEARS AGO WHILE THE NEXT COULD BE 3 MONTHS AGO AND THE NEXT 4 YEARS AGO. 'TIS IMPORTANT TO KEEP IN MIND.
So, anyways, enjoy this lovely tale of optimism and hope.
Section 1: Setting the Pieces
Grimmy Scottson, Hideo Yacazuma
This room was cold. Possibly her worst “owner” yet. The second Mr. Yacazuma brought her to his home, she was forced to a basement. This basement was specifically redecorated for a specific reason aside from storing utilities. And that reason was very obvious as she passed along by a handful of dank prison cells. There was a one-way mirror that made up the viewing glass to each little room and a typical door that created the room’s entrance. She looked into the rooms and saw that a couple of them housed even more girls, their dirtied appearance showing how long they’ve been locked up here. A part of herself died inside when she recognized one girl as her old and aged 5th grade teacher.
A key was used to open a door to an empty room, Mr. Yacazuma’s arm clutched to one of Grimmy’s as he pushed the door open and let his new prisoner examine her new home: a rusting room with blue paint chipping away and a very dirty mattress in the corner... and a set of chains connected to the wall.
The first thing Yacazuma did was the most embarrassing thing Grimmy could really imagine. At least it would be in public; here it was degrading, a feeling that she had begun to grown used to. Mr. Yacazuma’s free hand delved down and ripped off Grimmy’s skirt as hard as he could. She was instinctive to stop him, but the past had taught her not to resist to this sort of thing. Of course, next was the shirt, then all of the under clothing, her shoes, and even her headband was ripped away with enough force that Grimmy felt like her head was beginning to bleed.
Then he took Wheeljack out of her hands. Once he raised up the plush turtle, Grimmy this time actually did reach out, and a pitiful whine began to emit from her mouth. Of course, Yacazuma didn’t care. He just threw Wheeljack on top of the clothing that blobbed up on the floor.
“You can have that back when I know you as trustworthy...” This was all Yacazuma would say to her on this little venture. She could feel her eyes begin to well up.
By the time it was all over, Grimmy ended up where she was now: in a cold room, naked, and her neck chained to the wall like a fucking dog on a leash. And of course, as far as Yacazuma was concerned, that little f-word was all she was good for.
How long it has been, Grimmy had no idea whatsoever. It felt like a millennium, but it could have been less than a year as far as she knew. All of this time, as well, she hasn’t had her childhood companion to accompany her. You’d think after all this time of his perverted pleasures, Yacazuma would have come to trust her by now. But he was difficult, that much was certain. And, unfortunately for her, he was also creative. She had grown sore, both physically and emotionally after what felt like a lifetime.
She began to cradle herself as she sat on the mattress. The steel under her chin felt cold on her shoulders. It seemed she couldn’t take much more of this. Not so much as what happened each day, but how it made her feel about herself: she was disgusted. She was constantly being tossed around like a pizza, having everyone devour a slice of it until it was all gone. But that wasn’t it, oh no. It saddened her, that that was all she had to look forward to now, but that wasn’t the only thing. The worst part about all of this, she has realized, is that something deep inside of her is... is actually enjoying at least some of it. Maybe she could find a way to use the chain as a noose or something.
The door squeaked open. Mr. Yacazuma stood there, looking healthy as an ox while she starved on dog food, and wearing his bathroom robe and little to nothing else. In his hand, he was clutching some ropes, a ballpoint pen, and a metal device that Grimmy had come to know too well.
“Come here, sweetie,” he said to her as he pulled a key out of the robe’s pocket. “There’s something I wish to try, and I need someone of youth...”
Just a typical day...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Johnathon Bassett, Marcus Destro
“Alright everyone, let’s settle down! Everyone be quiet!”
The gymnasium at the city’s central high school was loud, though friendly. The teacher stood on the gym’s floor, staring up at all of the students and trying to tell them to settle down for a moment. Though their commotion was completely understandable. The high-schoolers never got a break from their typical studies. And some of these studies, mainly the urban survival class, made them all to depressed about the realization of the little world outside of their school’s walls. But today they had a guest speaker, and he needed their attention.
The gym finally settled enough as to let the teacher on the floor get a word in edgewise.
“Now, we are very aware that, well, things aren’t so great in the city right now.”
Some of the teens could laugh at this rather dark joke.
“But you kids can change all of it!” she continued. “You are the next generation of leaders, and this city’s future! So, here as our motivational speaker and guest of honor...”
The teacher looked over towards the door that served as the gym’s entrance. She smiled once she could see the guest, prim and proper, waiting just outside in the hallway.
“Here is the city’s Chief of Police...”
The guest began to step into the room.
“Officer Jack Omni!”
The dark-skinned man with tired eyes walked calmly into the room. He waved to the crowd somewhat passionately, trying to lighten the mood with an upbeat attitude. He looked up to the crowd of teens that sat in the bleachers of the gym. His eyes focused a tiny bit more on the girls.
“It is so good to see you kids today!” the officer said excitedly.
*****
Up in the crowd to which the officer addressed, there sat a pair of friends. They once numbered four, but the city has dwindled the familiar group down to two. At the left, there sat a Latino boy of sixteen with black and spiky hair wearing a lime-green denim jacket. Though the first feature people typically noticed was that the boy was missing his left hand. All that remained was a nub just below where his wrist once was.
This boy, Marcus Destro, sat was a close friend whom he has known ever since those innocent years when their greatest concerns was the newest Power Rangers toy. This friend sat in his grey hoodie, an article that he typically wore. His tired-looking eyes, tired-looking they always were, wavered around the general area where the speaking officer stood. His hair was its typical greasiness and that handful of hair strands sprouted in odd directions as they always did. He looked down at his small black shoes when Marcus shoved his shoulder with his own.
“Johnathon, can you believe this guy?” Marcus whispered as loud as he could without anyone of importance noticing.
“He’s so full of crap...”
Johnathon’s head bobbed along to look in Marcus’s direction.
“I dunno... maybe he’s one of those that actually means it.”
Marcus let of rush of wind pass through flapping lips.
“Yeah, okay. And I’m Barack Obama. Fuckin’ asshole... Just friggin watch! This whole damn city is, like, some kind of government project bullshit or something stupid...”
“Nah... we just aren’t lucky.”
“Oh, it’s gotta be more than that! There’s no way in hell it’s just being unlucky!”
As Marcus said that last sentence, Johnathon’s head lulled back to the view of his shoes. Marcus leaned over, trying to catch Johnathon at eye-level the best that he could.
“Hey, what’re you down about?” Marcus asked with a voice much softer than previously.
Johnathon took a moment to answer.
“Well... we live in-”
“I know that! No need to remind me!” Marcus told him. “You just don’t get mopey about that, least not when I’m here.”
Johnathon wouldn’t answer. Marcus only looked in Johnathon’s direction for a brief moment. The words of the officer down on the floor were buzzing over their heads. Johnathon continued to look down, thinking to himself, seemingly examining the texture of his shoes with much thought. Marcus was trying to figure out what his friend could possibly be thinking about. Of course, he had to try the obvious.
“Are you thinking about them?” he asked.
Johnathon placed some fingers between his eyebrows.
“No... something else. Thanks for bringing them up, by the way.”
“I’m... sorry. Well, what is it?”
“Nothing. Something just happened at the house yesterday.”
Marcus nearly stood up.
“Are you’re parents okay? Did someone break in or-”
Johnathon bursted out finally.
“No, no! Nothing like that! Just... I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Marcus still tried to look Johnathon in the eyes for a moment longer, but finally retreated with a simple “Alright”. The two glanced off in the distance as the officer continued with his planned pep speech (which, for many, was in vain). It seemed as though the two friends were paying attention. But they weren’t. Both of them were very deep in thought. And both of them were thinking about the exact same thing.
“...damn, I miss them,” Johnathon uttered calmly.
“Xin and Grimmy? Yeah... me too.” Marcus responded without looking his way. “Maybe we’ll see them again.”
“Yep,” Johnathon muttered. “When we’re dead.”
“Class reunion in six months!” Marcus chuckled.
Johnathon laughed, too, for a moment. He could appreciate a joke, even if it was an incredibly dark one. And fairly true.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Theo Bulet, Grent "The Gunsmith" Smith
“How’s the face holding up?”
Theo was back in the “comforts” of home, a few days after the ordeal. He sat with a bag of frozen peas to his left eye, hiding the scars the accident left that caused his face to sting and pang in bitter reminder. He sat along a good friend of his. And a good friend to the Bulet family for a long time. Grent Smith was the family’s chief weapons crafter and supplier, a job that he was very good at. His legendary prowess for conjuring weapons that no one has ever seen has earned him the coined nickname of “The Gunsmith”. And the funny thing was that he was previously a member of the Blood. But that’s another story...
“Stings like a bitch...” Theo said with the bag still to his head. “Eh... it’s okay, I guess.”
Grent was a fairly lean and tall person, his muscles well-defined though he was overall as thin as a rail. His hair was brown in a buzzcut and he had a bit of facial hair on his slighty-jutted chin. He leaned out of his chair to reach for Theo.
“Here, let me take a look...” he said.
Grent let the peas lower from Theo’s eye, revealing the ugly mess that the bag hid. The left side of Theo’s face was scarred beyond recognition. Segments of skin had torn away in stringy chunks. And what was left stretched out and pulled so that the left side of his face resembled a toyed piece of Silly Putty. It essentially looked like someone had taken a jagged metal rake and dug it all the way across the left side of Theo’s head, which, with the concrete of the moving road, is the gist of what happened. Not only that, but Theo now carried a squinted red eye, blood pouring into it; so much so that, perhaps, it discolored forever. That side of his face didn’t look like that of a human’s any more. It almost looked mechanical.
Theo didn’t like the time it took Grent to give him an analysis.
“Well? What’re you staring at?” Theo asked him.
Grent thought it wise to answer.
“Um... have you seen yourself in a mirror-”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a monster, I know.”
Grent could tell that Theo wasn’t exactly happy at the moment, and for obvious reasons. With the Don of the Bulet family dead, that thirteen-year-old boy was in line to take over a city-wide crime family. Of course, it wasn’t the leadership part of that fact that had Theo angered.
“Well, it’s not infected. Not yet, anyways. Just keep that bag on there.” Grent instructed.
Theo smacked the bag back to his face without a word, though he winced when the paper sack made contact. Soon after, there was an awkward silence where the two glanced around random places of the room. It was rather small, a storage room of all things. Theo just liked coming in here when he wanted to be by himself. And “by himself” always meant that only Grent was allowed to talk with him in this room. Theo always saw Grent as the older brother that he always wanted. Most of the family violently didn’t trust him at first, but Theo was too young to remember when Grent was initiated. As far as Theo could tell, Grent has always been a Bulet.
“So...” Grent started. “What are you going to do first? As Don?”
Theo still had that golden Desert Eagle in his free hand. When Grent asked the question, Theo pulled it up near his head to wave it around slightly. He pointed it forward and took aim, and threw his arm back, only impersonating what it would look like when he fired that fateful shot.
“I’m killing the bastard.”
Grent grew alarmed and looked over.
“You’re gonna do what?”
“I’m gonna put all our sources into killing the Rageblood...”
Grent looked around for a moment, starting to smirk in disbelief.
“Wow... seriously?”
“Yup. Eeeeeverything we have is going towards hunting the bastard down... and blowing his brains out.”
“Are you really?” Grent had to assure.
“Did I stutter? Yeah, as soon as I’m given the spot.”
“Theo!” Grent almost yelled. “Theo, you can’t go around shooting the place-”
“I never said ‘shoot’.”
“It’s gonna come to that eventually if you pull that stunt!” Grent urged. “It’s only a matter of time! Soon you’ll get the city riled up even more, all of your cousins and uncles are gonna be in the prison, and the Blood is gonna rule!”
“I don’t give two shits about what happens to Cousin Mario!” Theo stood up to shout. “I want that mother-fucker shot in the mother-fucking head!!!”
Grent stood up to meet his eyes.
“Theo, you’re angry-”
“Well, no shit!”
“You’re angry and you need to calm down!”
“Calm down? CALM DOWN??!! Leonardo Bulet the Second, my dad, is dead and you want me to calm down?
Fuck you!”“Theo stop being so angry and think about what you’d be doing!”
“I’m killing the bastard! I know exactly what I’m doing! This is about you and the Blood, isn’t it?!”
“Hell, no! You know I hate them now!” Grent shouted back.
Theo stepped forward towards Grent for the next dialogue he says, pushing Grent against a wall simply by stepping at him, despite his much smaller size.
“Oh, bullshit! You’ve been a spy or something this whole time, haven’t you?! HUH???”
Grent firmed his hands on Theo’s shoulders.
“No! No, HELL no! Just... you’re being irrational! Just give it a week and then-”
Grent soon found himself on the ground. His right cheek burned and stung as he lay on the dust-covered plank floor. He looked up to Theo. He was holding up the butt of the Desert Eagle, looking down at Grent in a form of disgust. The moment the two looked to each other seemed like minutes, but only lasted a milisecond.
“Stay down there, you sad hunk of shit!” Theo yelled at Grent, the voice growing softer as Theo walked farther and farther away from the room.
Grent watched as Theo was pacing out of the room, angry stomping ensuing, of course. He slowly got up to his feet and began to go after him. As Grent went after Theo, only one thought coursed through his head.
We’re so fucked...
