Viva La Cocaine

March 24, 2014: What seems to be a coke deal turns out to be a down payment in a job that is far more risky than Kwabena has ever been comfortable with. This log contains ample coarse language, racial slurs, blatant drug references and is most certainly NSFW.

Stirling Arms, Harlem, NYC

Stirling Arms, was one of NY's swankiest hotels about sixty years ago. No shit this place was it, stories are still told about why the walls were -quite- so insulated or why the whole place was so otherwise literally bullet proof. Guys in the know, have the picture at least. They know whats what, this joint is where high level mob business used to be done. Hits, drugs, hookers, you name it. Once the owner got chopped up and thrown in a shallow burn pit along with his wife though, well the place went down hill and eventually out of business. Nobody fucks around out here though, and the place sure as hell ain't been torn down.



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Mood Music:
"Hold My Liquor" - Kanye West (Explicit)

The problem is, it's so overbuilt nobody wants to fuck with it. Asbestos, lead paint, you name it further leads people to stay away. You can't even get in on the first three floors, you need to be some sort've athlete or freak to be able to even get in. So lets say doing a coke deal here, is beyond a little bit of overkill. A new girl would make the delivery, she apparently had business to discuss. The dealer was light on details, but she had been referred by someone to him from someone -way- up the food chain apparently.

So level six, room sixty six. Thats where the joint is supposed to go down, and thats where we find 'San headed. Five foot six at a stretch, and a lithe build makes her look all the younger. Those fine Colombian features are likewise hardly distinctive around these parts, though the bright red lo-hawk and silver lip rings are a little less common. Cargo pants, a plain dark grey hoody and a black backpack with a longboard strapped to the side. Her footfalls are silent, her pace utterly unhurried, and the earbuds left hanging from their cord against her chest is screaming slayer. Theres a pause, lifting a hand to gently press at the door. Satisfied, she finally gives a knock-knock-knock. She -is- late of course, but this is a coke deal so…

Inside of room 666, Shift is busy polishing his latest acquisition, a top of the line sniper rifle with all of the trimmings. It's pieces are laid out in a haphazard way, scattered amongst an empty bottle of High Life, a half finished bottle of contradictory fine bourbon, and a cigarette tray stuffed to the brim with butts and at least one roach, maybe two.

The odors that accompany the place are a ripe mixture of high grade weaponry, menthol smokes, booze and ganja, with the subtlest denotation of curry lingering somewhere among the old rafters.

Three knocks. That draws the African's attention, and he discards the muzzle of his rifle to creep upon the door, waiting there for a long moment. His silver eyes are nearly glimmering as they eyeball the handle, which he's left conveniently unlocked.

The handle turns, after she steps off to one side. Letting the door swing open, and peering inside first before anything else. "Hey, Shift. I have a special delivery."She stuffs a hand in the pocket of her hoody and exposes..oh fuck thats enough blow to require a snow plough. "On the house, can we talk then?"Stuffing the bag away as she circles round to peer after Shift. "You can call me Partisan, now can we talk?"

Shift is utterly silent as the girl slips in and produces the goods. He gauges her up and down for a moment, eyes narrowing when she mentions that the cocaine is on the house. It's enough to last him quite a while, and he knows not to trust that.

"Nothing's free," he retorts darkly, before slipping past and latching the door. There he folds his arms over his chest, which is covered by a black muscle shirt tucked into a pair of unremarkable, well worn black denim pants. "Straight out of Columbia," he surprises, denoting Partisan's facial features. "Don't tell me you brought it here yahself." That being said, he gestures toward the ragged couch upon which he'd been seated, his eyes staring at the girl in an almost beady, distrusting manner. "Dere's cold beer and expensive whiskey. Blanton's. What's your poison?"

Partisan flips the bag towards Shift ever so casually. "Nothing worth having is free, pal."She doffs that pack quite casually before slumping onto the couch. "It's the real shit holmes, uncut. So take it easy, you're no fucking good to me otherwise. Now I heard that you're a useful fucker to have around, you get shit handled. So how'd you fancy putting in a little contract work, to ensure you and I become BFFs and I keep the supply coming. Otherwise, Getting your snow on is going to be very fucking difficult. We on the same page, holmes?"

With a quick motion, Shift snatches the bag from the air. It's heavy; heavy like a bag of uncut blow should be. He sloughs it off onto the dirty floor next to his rifle case, then walks across the room toward an old refrigerator. It's been hotwired, so to speak, running off a cable slung in from the residence next door and burrowed down against the wet wall, a seemingly idiotic move that is actually entirely intentional. What better way to burn the place down than to punch a hole into the moldy inner workings of the place, with a live wire ready to spark an ungodly inferno?

Shift comes back with two High Life's. One is slung through the air at a fast speed toward Partisan, while the other gets uncapped beneath Kwabena's finger. "Yeah, we on de same page," he answers. "You're blackmailing me, you wahthless fuck."

An old crate gets drug across the floor, set up on the edge of the couch opposite where Partisan has sat and close by the backpack he'd discarded. Two legs rise, cross over each other, and plop down with their dirty soles inches from the girl's arm. He takes a long drink from his Champagne of Beers (tm), all the while never letting his glower leave Partisan's face. The silver eyes are, in fact, always upon hers, threatening in their own right while his body language exhibits a certain laziness and devil-may-care attitude.

"Contract work. For a bag full of girl?" A smirk draws across his face. "Dis bettahbe some weak-assed, entry levah merc shit, or else your littah pahty favah isn't much more to me dan a down payment." The beer gets set down between his knees, and a pack of smokes is snatched up. While pinching a filter with his teeth and drawing it out, he says, "Cold hahd cash bettah be involved, and dis bettah be worth my time."

Partisan snags the beer handily, before setting it delicately aside. "If I like your work ethic, I cut you in full all the way. Heres the deal, my name? That isn't some bullshit narco joke, it's a very accurate fucking description of who I am and what I do. I'm not in this for the money, at all. So if I ask you to do some shit, and theres an opportunity for you to wet your beak? I don't fucking care. You're dealing with a motherfucking revolutionary, not some halfass piece of shit narco smuggler. I've been at this for a helluva lot longer than you've been alive, young man."Before producing a slip of paper, which she leans in to hand over to Shift.

Addresses, and products. Some of this is your typical shit, firearms, and ammunition. Some of it, well industrial chemicals, FAA flight records, all sorts of shit. "The fact I'm not in this for a quick fucking buck, means I'm liable to pay you what is required to keep you loyal and happy. You wanna not do shit, you wanna walk away. Thats fine, you tell me and we're over. You lie to me though, for any reason? I'll chew the eyeballs out've your face and skullfuck you to death for my own amusement, right? Lead or gold, your call."Says a 5'8" punky skater girl. Granted it'd said with -conviction- damnit, she believes that shit. She's preaching it, not bragging.

It takes a great deal of effort to keep a smirk from his face. Shift partially hides the tightening of his jaw by raising an old, beat up zippo and lighting up. With clouds of white smoke billowing around his head, he reaches out and snatches the paper free, scanning it's contents. A moment later, he's haphazardly tossing it onto the table amongst his assorted goods, beer in hand while he reaches down to open the backpack, bring the cocaine upon his lap, and tear a little corner of the bag open. A pinkie dips in, lifts out a very small bit of white powder, and brings it up to his eye. He studies it carefully before touching the tip of his tongue to it. The edges of his eyes reflexively bend at the sharp, tangy flavor, and a moment later he's tapping it out onto a clean spot of the table, perhaps for later use.

Another full swig goes down before he lifts the bottle in a mock toast. "Viva la revahlution," he half mocks, before the cigarette is released from his beer-wielding hand by a pinch of pearly whites.

"Let's set something straight, boss. I ain't some punk-ass house nigga' who takes ordahs like a bitch. You don't want me to lie? Don't give me a reason to. I get loyalty, and I give it when it's deserved. But you want to sit dere and talk about skull fucking? Ain't gonna get you very far. I don't see much of a dick for you to be waving, so don't try and compare size with my black ass." He gestures toward the paperwith his beer. "I also don't put up with dis kind of vague, shiny words on a piece of papah shit. So why don't you tell me, in detail, what de job is. I'll eidah take it or turn it down. Bag of blow becomes my down payment, or a payoff to keep my mouth shut if I turn your punk ass down. How's dat for a deal, Viva?"

Partisan smiles, broadly even. "My my, the nigger has a pair. Alright, holmes. The CIA and I used to be best friends, I did alot've shit for them and I asked for little if anything in return. Back in the day, it was Freedom or communism. They're the reason I might add, Africa is such a fucking shit hole after the colonial fuckers packed up and went home."She leans back producing a pack've menthols from a thigh pocket, before bringing it to life with a bic. "They fucked me, bad. See I got out, I retired. I stepped away from their shit after the wall fell, decided about a hundred years of murder and sabotage earned me that much. Got married, had a good run of things. The CIA decided it wasn't done with me, so they snagged me, shot him and aborted our child. Then they tossed me in the deepest darkest shithole they got, and tried to break me with every dirty trick they knew. See, the CIA we have now? That ain't what used to be, now they're grabbing folks for nothing and torturing them to death. They're keeping evil men in power, so guys can make a cut after they retire. That pisses me off, those fuckers became the evil they used to fight against."

She pauses there, puffing at that cigarette a few times before actually taking a draw. "So these fucks make a profit over exporting war, and then fucking up the economy back here. So these young fucking privates come back and ain't got no fucking jobs, that's fucking evil. They're reading the emails and listening to your phones now, and that all has to stop. So I'm going to show America how unsafe these fucks have made the world, I'm going to bring the shit they export back home. I'm going to start a war, and we're gonna fight it where I want it to be fought. I'm gonna rip the CIA apart, and the NSA, and the DIA, and the ATF, and the FBI and the DEA. I'm gonna free America from her oppressors, and it's gonna be fucking brutal and they'll hate me for it. Thats ok, the feeling will be mutual that way. You got me?"

Shift has been listening with a sort of blank patience as the girl recounts her tale. Impressive poker face, to be sure. "Yeah, I get you," he answers. "Uncle Sam gave it to you bareback, now you got to fight back. You want to explain to me how you plan to do dis?" He shakes his head, and suddenly laughs, A dark, annoyed sort of laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "I guess it's a complimented you tracking me down and asking for my help. But listen here, Viva, you ain't gonna bring down the man with one merc and a bag of blow. And I ain't gonna be your western front here. So, what's the deal? I'll play along, sure. Do some jobs for you, fuck some shit up, get paid, whatevah. But, I just… I just gotta ask." He draws his boots away, clomping them onto the floor before leaning forearm to knee, body shifting forward and fixing Partisan with an icy glare. "What's de trick up your sleeve? Hmm? Partisan versus de institution, and God Bless Amurrica." He lifts the cigarette, waving it about. "Don't fuck with me. You're about ten seconds away from getting filed in de same category as Fred Fuckin' Phelps."

"I'm gonna get shoot down a US airliner, after a CIA informant for a major newspaper leaks documents planning such an attack a week earlier. I'm going to frame this as a manufactured cause to attack North Korea, and include some notes about kickbacks from major US defense contractors."The Partisan works at that cigarette for a moment or two later. "It'll be more believable, when I release gun camera footage of an F-22 downing the airliner over New York. If they need an extra kick to get started, I know where we can find a nerve agent or two nevermind possibly a low yield nuclear weapon. If the public wont turn against them, We'll just attack them directly."

Shift nods his head slowly, then grins. "Set it up like dominos, then give it a littah flick." He mock-flicks the air with his free hand, smirking all the while. "So." He leans back, finishing the cigarette and lowering it to his side. His hand forms a fist, and there's an odd snuffing sound, not like that which might be heard by a cherry being crushed by flesh but by something softer, perhaps been liquid in nature. When he tosses the cigarette onto the dirty floor, it may be a trick of the eye, but it seems as if the butt was wet. "You've got did part handled. What do you need me to do? Procure the weapons, steal some papers or passwords?"

Partisan shakes her head slowly "I need equipment first and foremost. I intend to stockpile a diverse array of equipment to allow for some adaption as the plan is acted out, plenty of capes out here to fret over. Firearms and explosives are primary concerns, followed by unconventional equipment. Anti air and tank missiles, Nuclear, Biological, radiological and chemical weapons. Land mines, thermobaric weapons, such and so fourth. Once we have sufficient material to provide us with flexibility, I'll need someone to plant a body or two and launch a missile or two. Nothing I can't or wont do myself, but it's an awful lot when your solo."

There is a point where Shift's poker face falters in lieu of raised eyebrows. "You're on your own where nukes and biochem are concerned," he remarks. "I won't have dat much blood on my hands. Other stuff dough? Won't be a problem. But." He leans forward, eyeing that little bit of cocaine on the table. "For now, I'm gonna cut dis, get fucked up and work on forgetting dis evah happened until I'm lying in bed with two blonde bitches from TriBeCa." He stands up, beer in hand, and starts walking toward the door.

After it's unlatched, he turns back around to face Partisan with a half cocked eyebrow. "You got anything else for me or are we done here?"

She does take the beer, stuffing that into her pack before hoisting it up and heading towards the door. "We done for now, call me when you start getting shit. Leave word with your dealer, and I'll keep in touch eh?"moving casually out into the hallway, before unstrapping her board.

Shift throws up a mock salute as he opens the door. "Dey'll nevah see you coming."

The door gets shut behind her, only this time the latch can be heard clicking.

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