A/N: I don't know about you guys, but I decided to go ahead and make this two-part origin story for my favorite derelict. It's the least I can do before vacation and the next Ahab/Lost and Found update, so...here ya go, hope you enjoy!
FRANKENSTEIN OF DYSTOPIA
Part One
The eighteenth of August, midday. Hot as hell, and halfway there to boot. Quiet as can be in this pit they call THE SINK, but I think that'll change before too much longer. The dogs of the East End can't seem to stay away from this lovely spot. Good thing, too, 'cause I got some dinner to catch.
On the one side of this vantage point, there's myself, JEROME, occasional dog-killer and pimp extraordinaire. On the other, I've got BILLYBOY, four years old, a sad little snip of a pup, but a right nasty bastard once I've trained him up all proper. Since it's his official birthday, 18 August 2258, it's finally time that the Daddy of the whorehouse sees to his education. And since I've got him sharpening up my best switchblade this very minute, his first lesson's just around the corner.
"Oy, Tony! You done wi' that whetstone yet?"
The little pussy himself just glares up at me through those black wads he calls hair, but he don't dare talk back. He knows he'll get himself a cancer burn on the arm if he does. And so, rather than shoot his stupid mouth off, instead he creeps on over and shows me the blade up close.
"I see y' decided to get the edges right for once," I growl on purpose. No fucking way he gets off that easy, not when I know how he loves to cut corners sometimes.
"It looks sharp enough, Tony, but we better be sure. Why don't you give it a bit of a test?"
Oh, too bad, he's really confused now. Heh. Why wouldn't he be, spending all of his usual time around the sluts I have to manage day in and day out?
"Your arm, jackass. Test it on your arm."
He's looking a mite wary of me now, but this time he doesn't glare or think nasty thoughts. Instead, he aims that knife downward and gives his arm a little nick with one side of the blade; only enough to draw a tiny bit of blood, of course. Perfect. Nothing like a little fear of Bog to make a man appreciate his proper place. In fact, just as that one straightens himself out, I go and get my first peek of a big, shaggy Terrier prancing through the rusty gates.
"Blades up, Billyboy," I tell the pint-sized whoreson next to me. "School's in, and it's time for lesson number one."
He sees that mutt too by now, a nice fat one that's probably been let out to wander by its former owners. Either they all let 'em out to do some business, or else they can't look after the mongrels any further, and so send them onward to fend for themselves. Doesn't matter all that much to us, though. This pup won't be comin' home tonight.
"I go f'r the throat, yeah...?"
Five seconds, and he's already hesitating. Any longer, and we'll lose this potential meat pie to some other bastard.
"Yes, you fuckin' idiot, the throat! Now move!"
He moves, and a whole lot faster, too. That flea-ridden fuckhead doesn't even see it comin'. All he has to do is just grab the fucker's collar and give it five or six stabs, and boom. The mutt's gone in under two minutes; no fighting, no biting, no barking. All we get is a little whimper; then nothing. About time, too, 'cause both of these dogs were really startin' to piss me off.
"Jerome, Jerome, look! I got 'im!"
His clothes are a bit dusted up and he's got dog blood up to his elbows, but he didn't do too badly for a first try. I get this one to practice enough, he'll eventually learn how to keep his hands clean. Still...those five seconds of hesitatin' just don't feel right to this pimp, 'cause it means he's got a weak spot somewhere or other. Time I pushed the envelope some more, I think.
"So you did, Tony, so you did...now how d' you reckon we explain this to your Em back home?"
It's not long before he's mumbling apologies and begging me for soap, water, anything to hide what he's been up to. For that, I go ahead and share that water bottle I brought along, but only for today. Next time, the whoreson's on his own.
Anyways...once the pint-sized dogslayer's got himself looking presentable again, it's off to the butcher's we go, since this dead mutt has a long way to go before it's presentable for the eating. Long story short, I know this Russian guy, Ivanov, who's good at giving a bastard some freshly-cut up meat to take home, just as long as he brings the newly-dead animal in and a few rounds' pay for his troubles.
We'll be getting our meat pies after all, but that's not the only reason we're headed there. If this little shit's lucky, he'll get a second chance at fighting, 'cause I hope to Bog some other brat comes along with their pockets full of sweets or some other nice thing to take home. He'll earn himself a proper birthday present if they do.
End Note: ...After the many rounds of dark!fic that have originated inside this fandom, I've now decided that my old idea of Billyboy/Marty just wouldn't work in this gritty context, considering he'd be trying to avoid creating another victim rather than rushing in on her. Also, with the birth of Red, the female droog/sharp extraordinaire, perhaps it would be much more suitable (and safer) to at least lean this perpetrator toward someone who can at least give him a proper thrashing if he tries anything stupid. As always, though, I'm willing to hear any and all opinions by my fellow writers on this matter.
Anywho...please leave feedback if you wish, and favorite if you deem this beginning a success. Good night, and good luck.