Gods and Monsters: Forty 6 & 2

November 2, 2014: NSFW: Floyd gets a hint of what's to come. (Emits by The Wall)

The Gentleman's Club

A strip club, what else is it gonna be?



  • Candy
  • Random Club Goers
  • Veruca & Balginder

Mood Music:

The Gentleman's club was just like any other club in America; the wine was expensive, regular booze moreso, often times wandered down and handed off to a willing patron with a show of bosom through low cut shirt and pretty smile. While some smiles are not as pretty as others, the near black, blue and red lighting made up for what the sunlight couldn't.

The layout was the same as well, chairs lining the bars, 60 watt bulb adding highlights to heels, legs and curves that dance to some shitty rock song that happened to be playing. A flow of hair, string, glitter litters the stage along with hard earned dollars from the 9 to 5 dead enders and often times night shifters who happen to enjoy the buffalo wings on their lunch break with their show of T&A.

A pole erects the stage, dancers fingers grasping and twisting upon the cool metal, her eyes vacant whilst she pretends that she does this for a lover and not for the child who sleeps back home.
Part of the price paid allows Floyd to smoke indoors, one of the few places licensed for it in town. Licensed, in this case, meant a few bucks and some private dancer time for the city inspector in charge of enforcing the smoking ban. Rather than taking up real estate at the stage, he's chosen a more private table this time, back in the shadows a bit, allowing him to look without being looked at in return.

Floyd isn't a sucker like the fat fools bellying up to the neon. He knows a business transaction when he sees one. But he doesn't want anything more than business. He's had a wife, thanks very much, and he's still got scars from the time she stuck him with a pair of shears. Best hitter in the world and he almost winds up dead in his own kitchen. Still, she was good to their kid, so he sent her the five grand a month nice and quiet and just avoided the bitch. In exchange, sometimes he got a picture or two of the brat.

He wasn't thinking about his kid at the moment, though, as he eyes the woman bending the other way to pick up a few bills, reaching out and taking a sip of his whiskey sour.


That was her name for tonight. It could have been something fun, like Sparkles or Juicy, or some easy name that slips from deviants tongue. Tonight, she was Candy. The DJ puts on Pour Some Sugar, but her head shakes almost immediately, and the track switches to something much more fitting to the tone.

She begins her slow strut across the stage, legs nearly stiff in the way a dancer prances, hands bunched about her chest as she looks towards her 'audience' coy, vulnerable. Her shoulders move along to the riff, arm finally reaching out to reveal and grasp fingers against metal, twirling like a piorette with legs leaving the floor…

"Nimble." A voice upon the other side of the private booth says. It carries, no less, with an accent of Eastern Arabian. But his words cut clear for anyone to understand and to not lend a careful ear to discet.

"Beautiful right? How everything just seems to stop for that /one/ moment, how everything she believed in is left at the door to pay homage to the almighty dollar."

Where one would flourish their monies with that line, he does not. Balginder, dressed in black, just watches.

Floyd Lawton drags long and tight on his cigarette, not looking at the other voice. Guys who speak from the shadows want you to look at them, to act surprised, to get all nervous. Floyd doesn't get nervous. It's not so much a bad-ass thing as an "I don't give a shit" thing. He's in a business where every guy thumps his chest and thinks he's King Big Dick. It gets old after a while.

"You're one of those dudes who talks to other guys at the urinal, ain't ya, pal? Keep yer philosophy to yerself and just look at the pretty tits, huh?" he says. He stays aware of the men, though, prepared to do what he has to if this fella decides to take offense. Floyd's okay with that. Naked chicks and a fight is like a Reese's: two great tastes that taste great together.

Candy was marvelous, just like all the other girls employed by the Gentleman's club. Each employed for their specialties in dance through turning a dollar, Candy's specialty was tricking the pole and using it as an extension of herself. Her aerial designs were maddening; she riled the crowd with just a turn and a spin, a hard split drop to the floor and a slow crawl up towards the ceiling legs extended…

"Not at all my friend! Not at all!" He was disarming by sight, even though he was a rather big fella, that jovial laugh was infectious to those who were easy to that sort of thing, not that he thought Floyd would be. "I'm not here for the tits. I'm here for you, my friend. I was told that you'd be in the area.."

His words were cut off with an approach of a pretty woman and an offer of a drink, which he takes with a smile and a bill laid upon the tray. ".. So I'm here to make you an offer you cannot refuse. You see, clever has gotten you thus far in life, tricky has gotten you the rest of the way. What me and mine will offer you will pale in comparison to what that Woman has already given you."

He takes a sip, then hisses as the liquor burns down his throat. He never much appreciated the American brand.

"Which probably isn't much." The glass was set upon the table as he fixes his eyes upon Candy. "All we need is her name."

Floyd Lawton considers just plugging the sucker. The only thing that stops him is that Waller would probably want some sort of briefing: who he was, who he worked for, blah blah blah. Floyd personally didn't care, he was just irritated that his free time was getting interrupted by this shit. For people trying to recruit him, they sure didn't seem to know him very well.

"I ain't that clever, pally, hate to break it to ya. Ask any of my teachers. 'Floyd lacks motivation, doesn't like to participate, doesn't play well with others. Consistently hurts other children for no reason." Bein' clever mostly just causes trouble and thinkin' you're clever is just bound to get ya killed."

"You and yours got names an' shit, or do you just wanna wait an' be identified by yer dental records?"

In this business, one had to give and take. Balginder listened to his spiel with half interest, the other? Gone to Candy. It was then a smile was given and large hands pressed to the arms of the seat that he was in, gaze soon flitting towards the ceiling..

A flash of blue, ombre, dark ascending to light tips was seen, and gone from the mirrors that lined the ceiling.

"I work for Aleksander Barbosa. I am sure that you've heard of the name."

He did not give his own, Balginder kept hisself unknown for a reason, just what he could do would have him killed on sight. Sadly, he was about to display it as the song had died down.

"My God has seen the path that you are undertaking, and it will not be fruitful. However, he proposes, that someone like you under his thumb and rule.. your life would be of worth to many." The large man moves from where he stood, an easy stride taken towards the stairs of the stage as most stop and wonder..

Just what in the fuck he was doing.

Floyd Lawton had already pulled his ankle revolver, his hand beneath the table, looking like any fella tuggin' his tackle, except, in his case, he was fully loaded with six chambers of hollow point. Currently, he had it aimed at El Gigante's kneecap, able to do so without doing much more than flexing his wrist, knowing the bullet would fly true because he was god damn Deadshot and that's what he did.

"Fact you refer to 'nother man as a god tells me a lot about you. Tells me yer loyal an' wouldn't betray yer boss for nothin'. Tells me yer the kind a guy who likes to get down on his knees an' worship. Your God have you do that a lot? Just slide on down and kneel, put your hands together, open your mouth to take communion? What's the body o' your lord taste like, flunky? Kinda salty, I bet." he says.

At which point, he calmly shoots the guy in the knee.

Candy stops dancing as Balginder draws near…


He goes down upon the same knee that was taken from him, one hand pressed to the ground, head at a bow as he begins to laugh. And laugh.

And laugh.

He tries to stand, hand reaching out to grasp the railing to try to pull himself up, hip leaning against the metal, half dead weight yet not gone into shock from the direct hit to the knee. A vein might have been severed, he bleeds.

"All we need is a name. A -name-." He calls out through fits of laughter, finally reaching the next step in his plight. He was prepared to die for this name; sadly, Aleksander did not see it in the cards for this night.

Floyd Lawton sighs and shakes his head as he lays the revolver on top of the table, finishing off his cigarette with his other hand and grinding it out in the ashtray, "Laughin' in the face of death. Someone probably told you that was brave, I bet. People watch too many fuckin' movies." He stands up, straightening his tie with his free hand. He's going to have to leave after this. He might even get banned. On the other hand, in Gotham, a few bucks in the right pocket could go a long way. He doubts he's the only killer who comes here. "Don't worry, folks. Just a little government-sanctioned execution. Go back to your regularly scheduled pussy-oglin'."

He pulls the trigger again, this time putting one between the fella's eyes. If he's subject to that sort of thing, it'll send brains blowing out onto some of the chubbies with chubbies linin' up to peek at Candy's glittery taint. "Poor, stupid bastard."

All it took was for Candy to scream to send the residents at a run, most of them bunching against the corner to where the door led, packing themselves in tight and unable to flee and escape the onslaught that they predict to happen. Candy ducked, arms covering herself as she fell at a kneel and curl against the pole, all the while Balginder remained upon the stage and laughed, and laughed.

His God wouldn't fail him, his God knew that this were to happen. So he rested his faith in Barbosa…

"FOR MY GOD BARBOSA!" He cried out…

And all was dark for Balginder.

Or so one thought.

"Poor… stupid bastard…"

A voice began to sing, the pretty sort. Upon the many mirrors that littered the ceiling was a sea of faces, and to most, the face was a beautiful sort. Pale, ombre blue.. shoulders clad in black leather and lips coated in pink punch which bore brilliant white chops with a smile.

"You shouldn't have done thatttt…"

HRRRRRRG! Was the sound that drew from Balgin… no.. was it the crowd? The crowd that seemingly stood still as large arms flail and flop upon the stage, supposedly deadened fingers curling into a grasp as each body in the room, save for Floyd's, stood /still/.
Floyd Lawton shrugs as he sees the pretty lady in the mirrors, "Told the sucker. I ain't clever. I never had a taste for games. I ain't no spy. I'm a killer. You come to me, I figure you come to offer me work, kill me or get your ass killed." he says. He notices the way everyone else freezes, which means he's dealing with a superhuman of some sort. Great. Everybody and their fucking brother has superpowers.

And, of course, he knows who the chick in the mirror is. He read the files Waller gave him.

Floyd lights another cigarette and lays down his revolver, drawing an automatic instead from under his arm, then putting his aim back on the flailing flunkie. "You got somethin' to say, sister? Say it."


Super is as super does, one could consider Floyd's aim on the supernatural side, it's rumored that he could hit a moving target from miles upon miles away. That was no easy feat, yet Floyd? He performed miracles, they say.

The bodies stood still, and collectively dropped. Even Candy slumped over upon the stage; for Balginder's power was not of the flashy sort. Unless you had the ability to see once a soul left a body and became /his/.

The shock of multi-tiered blue descends from the mirror of the ceiling, connected to chain by waist, twirling as if she were a dancer upon her /own/ stage of life. She meant it when she said she had no words to say, but she also knew that it would fall upon deaf ears.

Perhaps it was why Balginder was chosen for this job and not her. She could never come back from a shot like this.

Fingers were hooked into slowly healing body of the larger man, and the chain that connected her waist to the portal of the mirror was promptly yanked, tugged, and pulled.

"See you soon, lover.." She coos, leather gloved fingers pressed to pink lips, kissed, and blown towards the one left alive. The /only/ one left.

Floyd Lawton couldn't care less about the lives of the people in the club. Really and truly. That's why he would never be a superhero, no matter how many bad guys he fought. Even Batman'd probably be screaming "NOOOOOOOOOOO" in some sort of slow motion display of empathy, horrified by the death all around him.

Frankly, the disgust Floyd felt came more from Balginder's method of murder. A power that just sucked the life out of people? Useful, yeah, but so fuckin' easy. No wonder this guy was so soft.

"Suck my dick, Alice in Wonderland." he says and then he starts firing bullets into Balginder's face, one at a time, going until he empties one clip and then drawing another pistol and starting to unload some more, not planning to stop until the fella's head isn't much more than a smear on top of his neck stump.

Veruca was so close in getting Balginder away from the scene he so foolishly went into.. so close yet…

Barbosa was infallible, this could not have happened!

"NOOOO!" She screamed out, what was left of Balginder was tugged and pulled through the portal, followed by a hail of glass that hit the stage in a shine of glittery light.

Of course there were bits of Balginder about, there was nothing left of the man to save, for all the souls he stole was for naught.

And per usual, Floyd was left standing there holding the bag.

Floyd Lawton knows how to make an exit. He dumps his butts in his pocket out of the ashtray, no use leaving DNA, grabs a rag from a waitress to give his table a quick wipe down. Security cams can't see shit in the shadows, not with the bright lights on the stage. Floyd shrugs his shoulders at the dead, "Sorry, folks. Least you got a show on the way out." he says, and then he hits the door, pulling out his phone to call in the kill and initiate a sweep team. Maybe they can get here before the cops, who knows? Either way, he's probably had his fill of strip clubs.

Well, for tonight, anyways.

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