Hookers and Blow, with a Dash of Serb

March 13, 2015: Shift takes Partisan up on an offer to drink hard liquor at her secret lair. Jericho shows up and the conversation gets… interesting. (Much vulgarity and drug references)

Chain Cutter's Union Secret Lair



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Mood Music:
"Bam Bam" by Sister Nancy

Kid these days don't know, but back before target existed and Walmart was still a corner store? It was Sears vs K-mart, and once upon a time this was K-mart's East coast distribution hub for both it's stores and it's catalog business. Nestled north of NYC in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, its enormous. When it was built it was the sixth largest building in the world in terms of internal volume, and this massive sprawling warehouse is where the Chain Cutter's Union calls home. It's far from empty mind you, despite the size. There are aproximately twenty aircraft, north of fifty cars, motorcycles, mopeds, and of course weapons. From field guns to 250mm mortars, from Anti-tank missiles to handguns. Explosives in an array perhaps unrivaled in the US, and thats just the tip of the iceberg. The whole place is given some sort've internal structure through the use of stacked shipping containers which themselves, are stuffed with all sorts of things. There are workshops, a gym, a particularly large firing range, cots, medical bays, whole containers filled with precious stones, obsolete currency, the tools and stock necessary for forging documents the old way. It's the sort've place the Partisan might be expected to run, am I right?

Tonight she's hard at work on an aircraft. A massive A-26 that she'd last used in the second world war. Currently in the process of being refit and brought up to a modern day spec, which is what she's got her hands busied with tonight. Muscling 27mm autocannons into their cradles, plural because she's got three others already mounted in the nose of the big aircraft. Theres a cigarette smoldering whilst she works, and….wait the fuck…is that Sister Nancy playing on the stereo?

The rumble of a motorcycle announces an arrival. Harley-Davidson Iron 883, 2013 model year, blacked out in gunmetal gray gather than chrome, because it's rider is more interested in polishing his adversaries than his own tailpipe. The machine packs a mean roar even while idling, and even though it's been through hell and back, a trained ear will recognize that it's mechanics have been well cared for.

The rider is decked out in black as well. A black leather jacket worn over the uniform of gunmetal gray, no helmet, mask lowered to keep the bugs out of his face. Shift drops the kickstand and kills the engine, swinging a leg over the bike before claiming a brown paper bag from the compartment in the back.

"Jesus… fucking… Christ."

Out comes a pack of smokes and a beat up, old zippo. Shift looks around a bit before lifting the mask, lighting his smoke and approaching the aircraft. "Swear to God, Part-dawg, you either go big or you… don't."

The music is appealing. For a moment, he's half wondering whether he should have brought a fat joint rather than a thick bottle of whiskey.

Partisan offers a smirk from her perch atop that aircraft, before finally letting the cannon down into it's cradle. "Well, I'm more'n a hundred years old these days. I been killin people for most of that, and I've learned in all that time that size does infact absolutely fucking matter."Sliding down with a grunt, before offering Shift a fist bump if he fancies. "Good of you to drop by, never thought you'd take me up on the invitation."Turning to snag an oil rag to rub her hands with. "C'mon lets have a seat and get something to drink, you eaten yet?"

A hundred years. Shift will always have a difficult time swallowing the concept of these immortal, or pseudo-immortal types. His upbringing was in Ghana; Old Testament types lived a very long time, if you believe in crap like that. "True," he remarks drily.

A gloved fist comes up for the bumping.

"I'm due out fah Paris in sixteen. Figuah a good hangovah might help stomach trans-Atlantic boredom in coach." He had the money to fly first class, but his trip to France was to be about subtlety. Flying in style was a damned good way to draw unwanted attention.

The paper bag is lifted, a bottle of Bulleit bourbon set down onto the nearest flat surface. "Like a pig," he answers. "Got forced into plasma mode last night. Burns a hell of some few calories." Somewhere in the Bronx, an apartment is littered with countless Chinese carry out boxes and a half dozen bagel wrappers. Burning calories in plasma phase is something of an understatement. "You like Kentucky bahbon?"

Partisan smirks, snagging that bottle as she goes. "I like craft booze, Bourbon qualifies in my book."She slips that rag over a shoulder before leading on. "Paris, lovely city if you've got dollars. You going on business or pleasure, I think I've still got a cache stashed there in the sewers presuming nobody has lifted that shit. It'd all be very old, Vichy france old."Part has her mechanic overalls on, reggae on the stereo and Shift in tow as she slips amongst the maze of containers. "Yeah, It's sort've a bitch when folks take you getting shot as regular. Like it neither hurts nor burns calories and shit, fuck after that romp in the hospital I wanted to gnaw my own fucking arm off."Boom, through a door and it looks like some rather posh break room. "I got something snappy for you to drink though, you ever been to the Balkans?"

"Business." A rueful smirk winds it's way across the African's face. "Got de street address of a lowlife who jumped de bordah when his smooth empiah went to shit. I'm going dere to make sure dat his little world-spanning opahration finds a permanent home some six feet in de dirt."

Does Odame intend to assassinate Richard Dackleman? Absolutely.

"Balkans? Nevah. If you got hookahs and blow hidden in dis place, I just might move in." Is he joking? It's difficult to tell. Once inside the break room, he adopts a couch all for his own, making sure that when he kicks up his boots, they're hanging over the edge of an armrest. Wouldn't want to make a mess of things when he's a guest, after all. "Don't trust doctahs. Had to do some research regahding de X-Gene, but appahrently, my pahticulah brand of mutation involves a high level of enahgy consumption. Look up sublimation if you aren't familiah. Explains why I'm always stuffing food and don't end up looking like de fucking black Chris Fahley."

Sue him. Last time he smoked mad reefer, he watched Tommy Boy three times in a row.

There's the growl of an X5 engine not too far away and the shutting of a door as Jericho gets out, stretches and goes to find Partisan, unaware that she's got a visitor. "Hey Part!" He calls out, headed toward the aircraft where she spends most of her time in recent days. "Got a line on some new avio- oh, hey Shift." The hacker peers between the two. "Not interrupting anything am I?"

"I got something alright."She's digging around in the kitchen for a spell before snagging a clear bottle from the freezer and a pair of tumblers. "This is called Rakia, where I come from you ain't shit unless you can make it. Every family has their own way, most folks have their own spin."She gives the bottle filled with a soft pink fluid a swirl, before pouringit out. Holy fuck, who knows what the proof is but it's sharp enough to nearly buzz you by smell alone. It's a brandy sure, which in this case sat in a watermellon half in the freezer which she crammed ghost peppers into. So it's rather sweet, it's absurdly mind numbing sorts of hot and yes it's absolutely the better part of like 90 proof and then some. "Give it a minute to breathe, then you can fucking slug it if you want."

She doesn't have a like, hookah hookah laying around anywhere. No she has a, did she make a god damned hookah out've an old M60 parts kit, a .50 caliber ammo can and a carberator? You fucking bet she did! "Sit your ass down Jerry, we're about to get the party started."Theres a nalgene bottle brought out, full of the finest Colombian bud and a little tray of coals to get things going. "You want some Rakia Jerry, or did I scar you for life with it already?"

Damn accents. "Hookerrrs and blow." Maybe Partisan never rolled that way. Shift did a stint in Chicago; there are bittersweet memories of banging epic lines off some prostitute's ass crack before crushing adderol to ensure he didn't suffer from cocaine-dick. That was before he got more serious about his particular line of work.

Swinging his feet around, he plants boots on the floor and holds the cigarette aside, sniffing the concoction before wincing and squinting silver eyes a bit. "Jesus. Smells like a Mexican restaurant in the bad parts of South Side Chi-Town." It's the watermelon. For a fleeting moment, he wonders if the white folk will get it.

Jericho's entrance earns a half cocked eyebrow and a rueful smirk. "Just taking Part-dawg up on an offah befah I hit le Paree." Rant would have his balls, Jericho, you should know better. Thats the subtext behind the look Shift gives the hacker.

The Rakia is left to breathe. Instead, he's gauging what Partisan uses for a hookah, not to mention the dankness she just busted out. A low whistle is given. "Lock and load."

Jericho smirks back at Shift and his eyes gleam. There's something in that look Shift may find vaguely familiar. Something from his time elsewhere. It's far less malicious than other looks he may have been given, but the same… cast of the face is there. Just tilted toward mischeif and not malice. "Gotcha. Well I didn't want to interrupt anyhting important. You know, you're both Mercs, might be discussing things and so on. I'll take a bit of that Rakia, Part. Just a bit though. I have an appointment tonight."

He glances behind him at his blade and some of the kit they keep here. "Would have already kicked it over but I want to make sure certain individuals are there."

"I fought in Nam with the CIA Shift, don't act so fucking surprised. We grew pot on base, shit starting in like 69' I had a cocaine binge that lasted me until the late 80s. No third world army fights sober, especially when almost every modern resistance movement the world over is funded directly by the drug trade."She packs the bowl expertly, before getting a coal going and letting it sit. She does offer Shift the hose, confident he knows how to get things rolling as she attends to the matter at hand. "You don't see it exported up here from Colombia, but mescaline and pot are the big two drugs down there. Back when I was hunting down Pablo Escobar the entire team I ran was full of Sicaros for the families Pablo had fucked over, most of those guys couldn't get out've bed without a line and a joint to keep them even. I'd just gotten out've the coke hole, or I'd have been in heaven. Ware houses looked like god damned ski resorts."She bolts that Rakia with a wince, before pouring another and offering it towards Jericho. "Whats up Jerry? You can talk business if you want, oh and Fussy Gus! I've got him all armed and ready for a proper gun test, Avionics are a little sparse but functional. FLIR, the radar and the datalink on those hardpoints is still unfinished though."

"Chicago. Fleece Neats, Southie Boys and a wing of the Crips that refused to back down." Shift's approach to mercenary work was unique, to be sure, but anyone who knows a thing about North American Ghetto narcotics trade knows just how heavy that world can be. It's part and parcel of why he was so uniquely positioned to bring down the smooth. That world is a nightmare in its own. He won't talk about the gang rapings he witnessed. Part and parcel of why he'd bought his own ticket to board the cocaine train.

Lifting the hose, he takes a few to get things properly cooking. "Mescaline," he quips between drags. "Had its run here befah dope took ovah. You want to talk about a cash cow." He shakes his head, having suffered under the needle himself. Another few drags are taken, the hookah only now starting to fill with white swirls of Columbian heaven.

Jericho gets a knowing smirk. Yeah, he's familiar with that look. There's a reason he's unlikely to talk much about his relationship with Rant. It was unique. From the outside looking in, they're mismatched. This is why the particulars remain very much a secret. He does, however, lift an eyebrow and asks, "You evah hear her sing?"

Its certainly an experience.

Another priming blast proves that the hookah is ready when Kwabena pulls the hose away and coughs violent a few times. "Yep," he croaks, before lifting the Rakia and slamming it. "………. shit."

The hose is casually passed to the left.

"Can't say that I have." Jericho responds. He knows about appearing mismatched for sure. And he's had the rather unique experience of having Rant inside his head. When she asked for a fighting skill upload that was rather… jarring. He wonders whatever happened with that.

Jericho sips the Rakia while the other two take pulls on the hookah. "Oh, I got a line on someone who'll sell us the avionics and guidance package from an old EC-130J. You know. So long as we don't ask where he got it or mind patching up some damage." It's good stuff. A bit old but it might be made to fit something like Fussy Gus.

"As for the other, there's a genetics lab on the outskirts of Gotham." Another one. "I'm going to chat with the cheif tech."

Partisan raises a brow, and accepts that hose with a roll of the shoulders. Sneering at Shift as she pours him another. "EC-130J huh, is this joker Chinese by any chance?" Then well, she's got a lovely hookah here. So she gets to pulling, and hey lung capacity is a beautiful thing. Passing that hose over to Jerry as she leans back, taking the bottle with her incidentally. "Gotham huh.."All but croaked out, before she finally exhales with a happy little grin. "You know that Oracle chick is going to lose her fucking shit if we go over there and fuck that shit up, I mean I shot a guy and he survived. She still went sort've nuts at me, We go over there and fuck around she's going to have all sorts of fucking issues. You thought about having one of those gotham capes handle it, just to keep shit diplomatic?" Holy shit, Partisan just said the D word.

At this, Shift draws his lips into a thin line. When Dackleman moved his op from the boroughs to Gotham, he followed. The Tin Roof club had becomea second home to him. He'd managed to avoid getting into trouble with the capes or the elusive Oracle, which is primarily due to the asset he has there; an asset he fully intends to keep safe.

For the moment, he turns to eye the fresh cup with silver eyes. The liquid is rolled around a bit, and just for fun, his fingers begin a slow, crawling transformation to black smoke. Focusing heavily upon the density, the smoke coalesces to something between solid and gas, keeping the cup held aloft in spite of the decidedly lighter material that once was his hand. He holds it there for a few moments — practice, you see — before his hand reforms and the cup is nocked back.

That one earns a wince.

"Not sure de capes are much for taking requests," he notes. "Way I hear it? You gotta get dere attention, and get 'em on yah good side. Tougher to crack dan Protestant poon."

Man's got a way with words when he's drinking.

Jericho laughs at that one. A way with words indeed. "I've got an understanding with Oracle regarding my operations in Gotham. So long as I don't kick up too much of a fuss, neither does she. HYDRA is entrenching in Gotham and if they get their claws sunk in too deep, they'll never get rooted back out again. Much as she hates the way I do it, she'll look the other way. I'm doing her and hers a favor and she knows it." He does hear, through the net, that the local vigilantes have turned on the snakes. So much the better too.

Partisan smirks, taking a pull from that bottle before reaching over to refill Shift oncemore. "If they don't play ball, then they're in my way. If they're in my way, I'll fucking kill them. I like capes, I'd rather not make it adversarial but I wouldn't lose sleep over it. All these capes here, they're fucking pussies."And another hit, goodness she gets a little severe when she's boozed up doesn't she? " Only three things have ever changed the world, the three big Bs. Bodies, Bullets and Bombs. Not hope, not money, not capes. You either talk, or you go to war. These fucks over there, they try to do this like pretend war bullshit. Oh we're fighting "crime", which is itself a crime I might add, but we ain't gonna kill anybody. How many fucking times have the heavy hitting bad guys over there skipped out of jail and gone right back to it? That shit ain't working, if they beg to differ then where the fuck were they when humanity needed them the most eh? Which civil war, ethnic clensing or blood fued was stopped by capes who didn't kill again? Could you guys remind me, because I just plum forget."

"Well." Shift takes the hose next, gesturing with it toward Jericho. "Soon as I'm back from Paris, you can count on my help cleaning out dese HYDRA fucks from Gotham. Ain't my fight, but getting rid of smooth is." He smirks ruefully, lifting the hose. "Don't do drugs, kiddos."

-bubble bubble bubble bubble bubble-

Shift's eyes water a bit as he holds in that hit, letting the shit do it's magic. It comes out from his nose, face scrunching up a bit while fighting off the cough. Following this, he looks to Partisan with raised eyebrows, only to cough out a little bit more smoke before he speaks. "Ain't like de news likes 'em. Paints dem as killahs, might as well prevent de next big Arkham break by ramping it up to 11."

The cup is taken and drank slower this time, at which point, an honest to god smile comes across the African's face. It's that sort of shit-eating, just-got-pretty-stoned-and -took-shots-from-hell face. "I'm claiming dis couch for de night," he declares, once again swinging his boots over the side of the armrest and letting them dangle lazily.

Jericho chuckles. If he were tapped out right now he'd probably record this to show to Rant later. That's him acting - quite literally - a bit impish. But as things stand, he's quite happy to have the Ghanian around. They don't come from the same worlds or see eye to eye all the time, but hell that's true of he and Part too. "You do that." He grins.

"Guy's Serbian, Part. Never screwed me before though. If you don't think we should though, let me know." Part's question gets a shrug. He agrees with that one ,really. Same discussion he's had with Oracle time and again. "I've warned them that a reckoning is coming. And it is. Unless something drastic changes we'll have Martial Law in Gotham inside a year. I promise. It's just getting too bad." He sighs. "But at least they won't have HYDRA."

"Of course he's a Serb, A Serb Hydra agent. Well we don't need to do that ourselves Jerry, look we can just round up some Albanians and send them down to Gotham and it'll sort itself out. Then we'll have to dig up some F-117s to drop precision airstrikes on both parties."Part accepts that hookah hose and well, gets to pulling. "You wanna go fuck him up Jerry, we can go fuck him up. You wanna go fuck him up in Gotham, we can go fuck him up in Gotham. Oracle isn't a fan of me anyway, so I'm not going to lose much if she has a fit anyway."She offers a glance after Shift's claim on her couch, but well she doesn't say no.

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