Stupid, Sadistic, and Suicidal

[Guest]

The plane made nary a single stop on its way to Creta. Randolph didn't know much about aircraft or carriers of this sort, but it was impressive nonetheless. All the men were quiet, very professional, it was kind of eerie. They didn't even respond to Randolph's laughter and whatnot on the trip. Old mooks in stuffy suits, nothing more, nothing less. Still, he couldn't underestimate them. These guys worked for the guy who was able to get Ayden Derocha to deliver someone. All of this was impressive, to tell the truth.

Soon the plane began to slow, a bit of shaking before the pilot announced they'd be landing soon. Everyone strapped in, Randolph following suit like a lost puppy. The shaking intensified for a split second, but then everything seemed to calm. You could hear the landing gear drop down, the wheels screech, everything, but not a single bit of it reverberated through the walls. Amazing engineering.

Soon everyone unbuckled, and the cargo hold's doors slid open, revealing the sun hanging high. Different time-zones were confusing to begin with, it didn't help that there had been no windows to track the sun with. How much time had even passed? Randolph had no idea. Still, the only thing he needed to worry about was the guy in charge.

Jumping out of the plane and onto the ground, the chimera fell in a crouch and slowly stood checking his surroundings. This was almost the opposite of where they'd taken off. Once surrounded by raging snow and trees, now the man found himself in a land of grassy plains and light blue skies. It was actually a nice contrast from where he'd been, but still his questions went unanswered.

"So, heheh, where's the boss?" He asked, looking back to the big guys who had made such a lovely first impression. Not an answer from any of them.

"Or the silent treatment works too, heheh. Guess it's a new guy thing..."

[Guest]

"Alright, gents, you're officially on air. Give us the lowdown on this Styxx prick, I'm only a few minutes away from the strip." The Lamborghini Murcielago darted through the streets of London, the sunlight bouncing off its bright yellow sheen. The sports car carved through the city, filled with dreary Ford Mondeos and economically-friendly Smart cars, a mishmash of boring brown and shitty silver.

Victor Dresden sat in the front seat, having donned a pair of tinted sunglasses to match his black suit. No three-piece today. Just a typical jacket-bottoms-tie combo. Simple little Armani thing, he wasn't going to overdress for some new bonehead that he'd grabbed the files from that moron Parliament member's apartment for. Fuck, if Styxx didn't impress him, there was every chance the little fuck would end up with an exit wound for a face with three burly guys rolling him into a ditch. "Well, uh, sir, we think he's a chimera-"

"UUUUUURP."

An earsplitting growl of a belch split the air as Victor wound down the window and tossed an empty, scrunched beer can out nonchalantly, a solid donk and the scream of some poor old lady filling the cab of his car for but a moment as he wound the Lamborgini's window back up and sighed. "Y'know, Henderson, I would have thought a good kicking and a few bullets to the gut would have done you some good. Remind me to kill you when I get back to the club." The arms dealer spoke with no real care, as if murder was a menial task. In truth, for him, it really was. "But, yes, I mean useful shit, not your bloody boring sciencey crap."

Henderson obviously dumbfounded, another unnamed subordinate piped up. "Well, sir, he's apparently wanted for a number of crimes in Amestris, a fugitive and a terrorist, if you do remember. That's why we paid the outside man to-" Victor sighed, and tore the earpiece from his head, winding down the window again and tossing it out with a groan, bloodshot eyes flickering beneath the sunglasses. The sunlight didn't do much to pierce the windscreen, but even dulled and muffled beneath, it was too much. Hungover and on a comedown for some probably-toxic cocktail of a number of vicious class-A drugs, the relationship between the arms dealer and natural sunlight was tentative at best.

Screeeeech. The supercar had found its way onto the airstrip, and swerved along, the tyres hissing as the man outside stepped down from the plane. Victor growled to himself and peered out, trying to get a look at this Styxx character, before realising he had to get out of the car. Well... the morning was off to a bad start already. Two hydraulic click noises later, and the redhead was out with a snarl, gazing over towards the man from behind his sunglasses. "So, heheh, where's the boss?"

"That'd be me, douchebag," Victor stepped forwards casually, holding a case inscribed with Wednesday along the front, setting it down and tapping in the code to unlock it, before flipping it open and pulling out Hydra. One of his favourite Wednesday guns. With a grin, he raised it, cradling it and nodding slowly. Franchi SPAS-12. Cerisian-make. Big mob shotgun, good for hunting and all-round tactical combat. "This is a SPAS-12. Once you've seen what this can do to someone's face, you may never eat again. If you're a squeamish pussy, that is."

Scanning the man up and down, Victor nodded. He was bloody, exhausted, and pretty grimy, as well as possessing a general ragged look about him. But somewhere within that weird, blood-stained attire was a diamond, and a diamond that would look snappy as fuck with a couple of revolvers and a three-piece. He could sense it. This kid had balls. And Victor liked balls. Well, not in that way, but... he appreciated them.

Producing a spare surplus pistol - a Jericho 941, aka "Baby Eagle" - with a look of determination, Victor wanted to test this fucker's mettle and his loyalty. He tossed it towards him with a lackadaisical attitude and a yawn. "Catch, kid." Not bothering to check if he did, the arms dealer immediately aimed the shotgun straight-on at Randolph's torso with a grin. "I'm Victor fucking Dresden. You'll address me as Mr. Dresden, or Our Holy Lord of Conventional Weaponry. I'm an arms dealer and a club owner. And you're going to work for me."

Victor rose a hand to pick a piece of last night's sirloin from his teeth with a grunt, before flicking it away and shaking his head, all the while keeping the shotgun trained on Randolph's midriff. Finally, he rose the free hand rather exhaustedly towards the nearest of his bald-headed, suit-garbed subordinates. "But, first, you're going to shoot him."

[Guest]

Randolph turned, his white hair blowing back in the wind as the car spun in and stopped a few yards away. This must have been the guy he was supposed to meet. He could feel the anticipation of meeting his 'buyer' swelling up inside. Who was he going to be working for? What was he going to be doing? This was pretty damn exciting, not even laughter could express the emotion.

The hulking, red-haired man stepped out as he slung open the door, quite less dressed than the thugs he had to fly with. Well, at least the boss wasn't a stiff. Appearances such as size and stature were deceiving though, as Randolph knew because of... well, himself really.

"That'd be me, douchebag," he started, in response to Randolph's question. Bat ears on this guy, impressive. As he unsnapped the case, labeled with the day of the week, he pulled a gun out and hefted it up. Randolph was never good with guns. "This is a SPAS-12. Once you've seen what this can do to someone's face, you may never eat again. If you're a squeamish pussy, that is."

"To tell the truth, it'd probably just make me hungr-" He was interrupted by a toss from the boss. Catching the object in his hands, he felt his fingers curl around the grip. A pistol of some sort. Very nice.

"I'm Victor fucking Dresden. You'll address me as Mr. Dresden, or Our Holy Lord of Conventional Weaponry. I'm an arms dealer and a club owner. And you're going to work for me." Mouthy too. Randolph was liking where this was going. Of course, he was interrupted once more before he could respond, 'Mr. Dresden' picking at his teeth and continually aiming his gun at the chimera. Probably just a precaution; Randolph could deal with it.

Pointing at one of the mooks, Victor then finished his little introduction with words Randolph loved. "But, first, you're going to shoot him."

The bald guy didn't quite know what to think of this, stuck in place for a moment. Randolph's eyes shifted from Victor to him, his crimson eyes turning wild for a moment. Quickly he shifted his footing and sent a kick straight at the guy's face, before he could make the first move. Connecting the blow, he then shot the man in the stomach, and watched him like a falcon watches a squirming rodent. His head tilted to the side, and he aimed the pistol once more.

"You said shoot, I shot, hmm? You want him dead, Mr. Dresden?"

[Guest]

"You said shoot, I shot, hmm? You want him dead, Mr. Dresden?"

Victor paused, acting as if he was pondering for but a moment. "Well..." He began to trail off, stroking his chin pensively and pointing the shotgun towards the floor, before breaking into a giggle and waving the issue away with a single empty hand. "Nah, I'm fucking with you. Leave the bastard to suffer. Less competent than you under my employ, he can lose out to a gut-shot."

Victor tucked his gun neatly back into the foam as his ex-subordinate groaned on the floor, clutching his gut as it rose and fell in an erratic rhythm. Blood began to well up and stain the grey tarmac underneath. "Nobody touch him." The arms dealer ordered, snapping the case back into place and moving around to the back of the Lamborghini, opening the boot and heaving it in. "Wait until he bleeds out, then sweep around and come back to the club. Clear?" No-one seemed to have any objections, rather dumbstruck still. Victor snarled. "Good."

"Keep the gun. Call it a promise of a nice new and fucking prosperous relationship. Or business partnership. I like both." A man of simple creeds, Victor drifted back into the car and gestured for Randolph to get in. Waiting until the chimera did so, the redhead switched the ignition on with a sigh and pumped the accelerator with his foot, the car squealing as it spun around and made back for the road off into the city.

"Randolph, right?" Victor didn't wait for an answer. "Well, Randolph, in this business, there are three things I ask for." He smiled, yanking the steering wheel to the side and screeching around another sharp curve. "Number one. Obedience. You've already shown that, you ballsy fucker. With a touch of improv on top, too! My old drama teacher would be proud, the old fucking pedophile." The arms dealer growled, the car rocking from side to side - obviously built for speed over comfort - as it sidled back onto the road, easily doing one-hundred, carving straight through the city and quite probably ruining a lot of people's days. "Doing ten whole fucking years in Attica for child molestation, last I checked." The drug-addled dealer shook his head. "That's shit. The cunt should be doing twenty, at fucking least." Arms dealing, murder, extortion, drugs... all fine in his book, but kiddy-fiddling was a definite no-go.

"Number two. Always be armed. You've got a gun, now. There is no excuse to ever fucking relinquish it. No excuse to leave it at home - I'll get you one of those, too - and no excuse not to bring it to work. Someone asks you to hand it over, you say my name and watch as their trembling little pussy balls go whoomph back up into their sphincter." Victor snarled. "Every criminal cunt in the city worth half his weight in fucking fairy dust knows I am not to be fucked with. By extension, this applies to you."

That was number two done, pulled off with eloquence and aplomb, two words that Victor very much paid attention to in day-to-day life. "Last but definitely not fucking least, number three. Loyalty." The redhead smiled over to Randolph, not keeping his eyes on the road. "You sell me out, I'll rape your mother. Hope that rings through loud and clear." Well... that was just about as simple as it got. "And, now, it's time for my patented Victor Dresden Bollocks-Loyalty Teeeeest!" Extending a finger, the drug-addled maniac tapped the eject button on the radio; slowly, a high-calibre and rather bad-looking stained circular disc tray shot out at half the speed the Lamborghini was going, rather frightening.

"Loyalty test. Check the glove compartment. Pull out a couple of grams of the good ol' fucking white stuff." Victor grinned. "Sprinkle my magic dope down and make it into a nice little circle that goes aaaaall the way around the disc tray. Do it well, and maybe you can have some too!" There was no way he was doing a line quite that long on his own. "Oh, and pass me one of the hip-flasks inside, too. I need some scotch to get me through this drive, fuck." The arms dealer apparently needed to be intoxicated in order to drive better. No-one was going to argue with that.

[Guest]

After shouting some orders to his men in a tongue Randolph didn't understand, but... it felt familiar. Like he had heard it somewhere before. Anyway, after that was said and done, Randolph found himself being called over to Victor's car. Getting in, he didn't even bother buckling up, which he began to regret as the man sped off.

"Randolph, right? Well, Randolph, in this business, there are three things I ask for." Before the chimera could even ask what they were, they took a sharp turn, Randolph trying his damnedest to keep in his seat. "Number one. Obedience. You've already shown that, you ballsy fucker. With a touch of improv on top, too! My old drama teacher would be proud, the old fucking pedophile." The man then went on a tangent about said teacher. After the bit was over, Randolph chuckled with a smile.

"Well, obedience I can do. You tell me who to kill, what to do, where and when to do it, and it'll get done." This may have been something new to Randolph, but he knew it was a hell of a lot better deal than he would have gotten from the Amestrian military. His attention snapped back as the boss spoke again.

"Number two. Always be armed. You've got a gun, now. There is no excuse to ever fucking relinquish it. No excuse to leave it at home - I'll get you one of those, too - and no excuse not to bring it to work. Someone asks you to hand it over, you say my name and watch as their trembling little pussy balls go whoomph back up into their sphincter." A snarl. "Every criminal cunt in the city worth half his weight in fucking fairy dust knows I am not to be fucked with. By extension, this applies to you."

Randolph made no response. He didn't know whether Victor was being generous because of what Randolph was, or if he did this for everyone under his employment. There was also a point to be made with knowledge that no one would be taking this gun from him. This little speech proved two things: Randolph was now on a winning team, and he wasn't going to be fucked with.

"Last but definitely not fucking least, number three. Loyalty." The redhead smiled over to Randolph, not keeping his eyes on the road, and the new guy simply nodded. "You sell me out, I'll rape your mother. Hope that rings through loud and clear."

He was going to make a point that he had no family to speak of, but he knew that was just a metaphor of sorts. Maybe not for others, but for Randolph definitely. There was also the point that he kept on talking.

"Loyalty test. Check the glove compartment. Pull out a couple of grams of the good ol' fucking white stuff. Sprinkle my magic dope down and make it into a nice little circle that goes aaaaall the way around the disc tray. Do it well, and maybe you can have some too! Oh, and pass me one of the hip-flasks inside, too. I need some scotch to get me through this drive, fuck."

Now, let the narration stop for just a moment, and freeze frame in this moment. Firstly, Randolph had no experience with drugs, and definitely had never touched cocaine before. Nextly, as a shark chimera, there was no telling what would happen when something like coke whacked him in the head. Lastly, there was something to be said of a man who drove better while drunk. Oh yes, this was definitely going to be an interesting day.

Reaching into the glove box, Randolph first passed Victor his booze, and then moved some papers over that had found their way on top of the drugs. Pulling one of the bags out, Randolph ran his nail along the top, opening it, and just as Victor had instructed began to sprinkle the pre-cut in a round line on the disk tray. Soon enough a perfectly even line of the white powder was laid out, and the chimera smiled. Definitely impressive inside of this deathtrap of a car, and he could only hope Victor wouldn't hit a bump or something.

"After you, Mr. Dresden. Heheheh..."

[Guest]

"After you, Mr. Dresden. Heheheh..." Victor grinned like a kid in a candy shop, quite literally. Bucking downwards and releasing any grip on the wheel - though still keeping his feet on the pedals - by some force of sheer luck, the roads in front of them were both straight and clear for at least another thirty seconds' worth. A sharp sniffing noise or five later, and the arms dealer bucked his head straight back up, his neck muscles bulging, his face a brighter red than a constipated man who'd just swallowed a loaf of bread, a slight trail of cocaine dribbling from one nostril, and a sociopathic grin on the face as he grasped the wheel again, letting the colour fade.

"FUCK." Was all Victor had to say. "Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. That is good coke." An animalistic, primal snarl, and the would-be Cretan shook his head from side to side, sighing. He'd finished up the entire tray's worth of the line, leaving only a faded white stain and a solid grin fastened to his face as he whistled. "Randolph, mate... don't you ever just get that feeling when you want to drive a snow-plough through a crowd of people and see how far you get before you get some little cunt's limbs stuck in your wheel arches?" His voice held an almost child-like inquisitive tone. "Never had it before. But fuck does that sound good now."

"WHOA." Victor shook his head again and blew through his nose, scratching at it and padding at it for a few moments, before deciding he needed some scotch, too, going straight for the hip-flask and flicking the cap off with a grin, soothing all his earthly troubles with a good bit of the Cales' finest, finishing off the entire three-quarters of the hip-flask and burping once more, the cocaine surging through his bloodstream at an immeasurable pace, giving him the first - and best, always - high of the day. "Hey, Randolph, you ever do the magic powder?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "Fuck that. I don't want to hear your shit. Get some out. Do yourself a line, right fucking now. We're almost home. And I want you to be high as a goddamn kite when we meet my sis." Victor paused for a moment. Fuck, he'd forgotten the cardinal fourth rule. "Oh, yeah. Fuck. Rule four. Look at my sister in the wrong way and I'll castrate you with a scalpel and a can-opener." The redhead snarled. "Don't shit where you eat, Randolph. The amount of times I've had to haul her fucking ex-boyfriends' hefty douchebag limbs through the FUCKING city in my Range Rover... I can't even count." And that wasn't even counting the ones he'd dealt with personally.

Still inexplicably off his fucking nut, to use a technical term, Victor began violently rocking back and forth, smashing his balled-up hands into the dashboard. It was like some demon had vomited pure adrenaline into his bloodstream. This was the shit that GOD did when he had a bad day. "FUCK ME." That sufficed as he rocked back and forth. "FUCKING... MURDER."

[Guest]

Doing as Victor instructed, Randolph poured a line for himself, being just as careful as before. There was a first time for everything, he had decided, and if he didn't like the stuff... well, considering how Victor was acting now he probably would, but if not he wouldn't touch it again. Soon he had a thin line around the disk tray, and leaned down, mimicking his employer's actions. With a quick sniff, he ran his face along the tray, before finally pulling his head back up and fidgeting his nose.

"Fuck this... this burns, FUCK." He then rubbed his nose, giving a few more sniffs, before finally wiping with his jacket sleeve.

"Oh, yeah. Fuck. Rule four. Look at my sister in the wrong way and I'll castrate you with a scalpel and a can-opener." The redhead snarled. "Don't shit where you eat, Randolph. The amount of times I've had to haul her fucking ex-boyfriends' hefty douchebag limbs through the FUCKING city in my Range Rover... I can't even count."

Randolph heard the words loud and clear, but it seemed so distant. His brain felt like it was going haywire, like something was trying to break out of his skull. He felt hyped up, and the world seemed a lot more vivid, but it was like some kind of information was being pushed into the front of his mind. Letters, numbers, words he couldn't recall speaking before, and then something like a jolt through his spine. And finally... a calm. Everything felt normal again, except for one thing. Randolph remembered what Victor had been telling his men back at the airstrip, and he could understand the words now.

"Don't worry, heheh..." His eyes drooped as he turned to look at Victor. "Wouldn't dream of touching your sister, Mr. Dresden. I don't swing either way to tell the truth." A giggle passed, mainly at the new language he still hadn't quite broken down in his mind yet. It was like waking up from a seizure and speaking an entirely new language. What had happened? Did the drugs jar his memory? Had he spoken Cretan in the past?

[Guest]

"Wouldn't dream of touching your sister, Mr. Dresden. I don't swing either way to tell the truth." ...what?

"YOU FUCKER!" Victor bellowed with the greatest grin on his face, of course, not paying attention to the road. "YOU LITTLE SLY FUCKING TRICKSTER! PLAYING THE AMESTRIAN CARD ON ME?" He drummed his hands against the steering column and broke into hysterics. "YOU'RE A BALLSY, RUTHLESS LITTLE CUNT, I'LL GIVE YOU THAT! IF YOU WEREN'T SUCH A GOOD SPORT AND AN IMPRESSIVE SHOT, I'D HAVE YOUR FUCKING TONGUE FOR IT!"

Slowly, the atmosphere in the car burns, and Victor shook his head. "You and me, Randolph Styxx, you and me..." He grinned, swerving the car around a final corner and yanking the handbrake as they drew up in front of the illustrious Club Vivid. The Dresdens' home, base, and criminal underworld all rolled into one. A red-vested valet boy with a bandage over one black eye - presumably thanks to the arms dealer - trembled his way towards the car as the redhead exited with a yawn, still grinning as he haphazardly tossed the keys in the man's direction, who fumbled and almost dropped them. "We are going to have some good fucking times."

Victor shook his head with a noise halfway between a snarl and a laugh. "Goddammit, I knew that dossier was right. You're the best business partner I've had this fucking decade." Casually, the man mentioned the dossier, the pair of them grinding to a halt outside the club's foyer. The man looked swiftly up to the September sunset with a low growl. It was only closing up on five o' clock, and the club opened for business at seven. Which meant they had a couple of hours' free bar time before finally shit got hectic. Couple hours' for a meet and greet, too. Selina and Patience, hopefully. But first, Randolph needed to get acquainted.

"Welcome to my fucking castle!" In a grandiose gesture, Victor stumbled in front of the doors with an ear-to-ear grin. Club Vivid was huge. It topped the skyline in this area, and at night, it lit up like Las Vegas and Atlantic City rolled together and spiked on heroin. The club thrived on neon lights and house music. For now, it wasn't quite as blaring, but very much still spectacular, with expansive heights, a large, open foyer with pathways, benches, and, later at night, congregations of particularly drunk friends smoking. Twin doormen stood stalwart and silent as their boss knocked his head towards the tall, silver double doors.

The valet in the Lamborghini trundled away slowly and the arms dealer sighed, leading the way in. "I've got a nice little cosy fucking keep for you on the edge of town, Randolph, but, first, let's get you acquainted with your fucking workplace!" The pair stumbled in with a grin, into the corner-entrance of the club. For now, it was clean; and the dance-floor gave way to only faded colours of tiles with solid blocks of inactive corresponding LEDs beneath. An exhausted-looking night-shift barman stood polishing glasses. A raised platform with a long set of turntables looked over the rather expansive floor, and the room itself easily made up a third of the building's height in entirety, despite the other four floors. A set of stairs lead up to a podium above - one Victor was all-too-familiar with - and then the elevator, which lead to their holy grail. The VIP sections.

Slowly, the valet wheeled Victor's bag along and disappeared back into relative non-existence as the black-suited, drug-addled madman dove into his inside pocket, fetching a pack of cigarettes and propping a single article between his lips before removing his sunglasses. The arms dealer stared towards Randolph with overtly bloodshot eyes, twin pupils massively dilated as he tucked the pack of Marlboros safely away and drew his twenty-four carat Zippo, the harsh outside light glinting off every edge and irregular corner. "So," Click. Click. Foom. Thumbing the wheel round swiftly gave way to a flame, and the redhead singed the end of the cigarette before snapping the expensive lighter shut and slipping it into his pocket. He took the first, crisp, beautiful drag, as long as he could muster, then, slowly... exhaled. No-one could tell him not to smoke here. It was his fucking home. "Whatcha think?"

[Csilla Angelis]

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