Gods and Monsters: Shades of Cool

November 8, 2014: Floyd remains cool in the face of temptation. (Emits by The Wall)

Howl At The Moon

A swanky bar in The Bronx.



  • Veruca

Mood Music:

Floyd Lawton follows the gunfighter's maxim, a corner table keeping his back to the wall. He likes having a waitress anyway, especially when the bartender's a dude. A little cleavage to ogle and an ass to slap ain't nothin', an' every now and then, he manages to take one home. Sometimes he doesn't even have to pay 'em. He's got a cigarette lit, breaking laws that no one in the place is in the mood to try and enforce, at least not on Floyd. Prison teaches you how to do that, just give a look - do not touch, danger, back off. He's like a coiled viper in the corner, not the least because of the snakebite he's downing, his third shot of tequila washed down with a beer, giving him a nice, pleasant buzz.

If he had someone to kill, he'd have just about everything, really.

There were no frills to her entrance, just that she was there. Picked out among the crowd; blue was her color as always, candy cotton, tipped in white. Black leather that binds and enhances in places that cause most men to ogle, and yet dare not because of the looks that /she/ gave in return. A wink, a kiss, and a shard 'tween the eyes. That was her M.O. And she did it fine.

The aura around her was unsettling, there was life there, but not really. There were others just like her that hid the real thing who spoke behind glass in Alexandria, who followed the movements of her clones, mirror images that spoke for her and moved for her, without the real /her/ lifting a finger.

But that was neither here, nor there.

While she was safe, tucked away, the mirror walked with a gentle sway and made way towards the darkened table within the corner, a soft little hum dancing upon her lips, singing the tune to Alice in Wonderlands old timey movie, sliding into the booth uninvited with a wry smile dripping.

He can shoot her, but she'll keep coming back.

"You murdered my friend. Barbosa did not appreciate that. He put hard work into that particular /one/."

Floyd Lawton watches the approach, recognizing the woman from the glass. Fuckin' freaks. Although, truth, this one was more his style than some of the others Waller had her eye on. He preferred psycho mirror bitch-slut to Candyland Rabbit and his green-skinned monkeyboy. He takes a drag on his cigarette and is surprisingly calm. Floyd is always calm. One of the benefits of not caring whether you live or die. It relieves him of a lot of stress.

"Didn't do it to make him happy, exactly, did I? He's the one came around trying to push me around. I just pushed back. You look more like a puller to me. Spider to the fly an' all that," he says, gesturing towards the seat across from him, "Go ahead, park your sharp ass down. I ain't got nothin' better to do. Yet."

Gloved fingers grip the indicated seat and tugged itself back, the wood scraping lightly against the floor and released. A seat was taken, her body falling into place so smoothly that it seemed almost like a dance. Yet it was only natural. That same hand lifts to whip blue from her shoulders, her tongue dancing briefly from her lips to toy with the piercing embedded within the middle. "I suppose not." She says matter-o-factly. "But that's where you are wrong."

She places her elbows upon the table, fingers curling into a fist to harbor her cheeks as she watches him. "We were not trying to push you around. We were only attempting to purchase your services indefinitely. Without coercion, well, not much. With choices, with money. With the freedom to do whatever you please without /something/ holding the leash."

One hand moves from her chin to reach for the ashtray, sliding it close towards her, then gesturing for a cigarette for him to share, if he's willing.

Floyd Lawton draws out his pack, shaking it enough to let one pop forward, filter proferred. "Already sold my soul once, fer what it's worth. I start tradin' it around all the time, ain't gonna be much of it left. 'sides, s'one of those 'devil you know' situations. I get plenty of freedom as it is. Lot more'n I ever got in Belle Reve or Blackgate."

He leans back in his seat a bit, kicking one foot up on a nearby chair. The holsters of his pistols jut out a little bit, but it's not so much an intentional display as just a natural result of his relaxed posture. "An' it's easy t'make promises. Followin' through on 'em ain't so easy."

The cigarette was plucked and popped, lit soon there after and inhaled, the plume of smoke billowing from slightly pale lips and a sigh is let loose with slumped shoulders. She needed that. That was going to be a cigarette she enjoyed, savored, even though the real her couldn't feel much, or anything at all.

"Your soul was never yours to sell, so to speak. This Devil can offer you so much more than the one that you currently have upon your back. So much more. All the women you desire, family.. money. Everything is within his power, and all you have to do is /ask/."

And do his bidding, but she didn't mention that, it goes with the territory.

"And all you have to do, is tell us her name. Besides, Barbosa can follow through with anything. He is just that good."

Inhale. Exhale.

"It is only a matter of time before it all catches up to you and the rest of yours. It will all come crumbling down, but really, it doesn't have to. Not at all."

Floyd Lawton chuckles, 'I don't know that wavin' Barbosa's big ol' dick at me threateningly holds much weight. Even if he survived me pulpin' the skull o' his last…whatever you wanna call it…I got plenty o' ammo do to the same to the rest." he says. He takes a long sip of his beer, tapping ash and rolling the idea around in his head for a moment before he answers.

"'course it has to come crumbling down. Ain't nothin' forever. We all got it comin', as William Munny said. An' honestly, I ain't never been one for power - I ain't interest in bein' the boss o' nobody, an' I got money and pussy t'spare. Hookers ain't hard to find. Most of all, I think you just have to understand that I, sweet tits, am a criminal. And, to a criminal, ain't no form of life lower than a god damned, low-life, scum-sucking, no-balls stool pigeon. I ain't gonna squeal. Yer gonna have t'find another pig."

"There is no dick-waving, no threats, only an offer." Veruca states clearly. Her own cigarette was ashed, and promptly snuffed out without another drag taken.

"But this is another point in which you are wrong. Barbosa is forever, along with the empire he builds. There is no stopping us, my friend. And the only way to stay ahead of the game and no be crushed by the undertow is to fall in line and get in it. Very soon, his reach will expand across the globe and you will be left wanting."

She stands from the chair, taking a step aside so that she could push it towards the table with ease. She wasn't upset, not at all. If anything, his faith in that woman was admirable.

"Criminal to criminal, there are no loyalties in this. Choose a side. You have sixteen hours to decide." She draws her hands forward, showing her palms to carefully reach into her top to retrieve a phone. It was one of those old flip phones, programmed and prepaid to dial her number should he need, or want to. Veruca saw herself being around for a very, long time.

The phone was placed upon the table and left in it's spot, a wry grin drawn upon features as she backs away and turns.

Floyd Lawton took the phone. Waller might find it interesting, although he'd call in first and make sure it went to a surrogate rather than the Queen herself. No point in just letting the assholes trace a GPS signal back to the boss. Probably nothing to be found on it, but ya never know. Forensics geeks were always comin' up with new shit. And who knows, maybe Waller had a dude on payroll whose power was swallowing phones and shitting out their owners.

He enjoyed watching her walk away anyway, lighting a fresh cigarette as he leaned back in his chair. "Sheesh, if I'd known you were gonna gimme the power o' the dark side speech, I'd have worn a black glove'n shit. But I ain't no Skywalker. I'm Han Solo, baby. Eh, maybe I'm Chewbacca. Either way, I know the truth is, whoever's in charge, I'm still the scumbag on the fringes. Good, bad…I'm the guy with the gun."

Back to: RP Logs

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License