Songfic about the first meeting between Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. Based off the song "Devil in Mexico" by Murder By Death.
"Well I'll take two shots," said the devil to the man and laid a little book on the bar
Well, Lord knows the devil, he only talks shit and only drinks whiskey from the jar
And his hands were raw
And his eyes were cold
And his breath was pure alcohol
And the sound of his voice it never got old and
He talked and talked and talked through the night
Kept sipping his shine till the morning light
Tumbled in through the shades and as he started to go
I put three bullets in his back.
Why don't I tell you the story of how I met Jim Moriarty.
It begins in a bar, as all good stories do. I'd lost a few hands in the back room and I spent my last meal's worth of money on the cheapest whisky this shithole of a bar had. This little rat of a man strode in, and stuck out like a sore thumb with his suit and his cane and his impeccable personal hygiene. As someone who was sharing a room with a hooker on the best of nights, he looked ridiculous. So ridiculous, he would probably make for an easy pocket to empty later tonight. I wouldn't even need to pretend I had a knife. I couldn't help but chuckle before turning back to my drink.
Within a minute, the man was at my side. I tried to ignore him, but I could feel his eyes burning a hole in me.
"I think you're in the wrong place." I muttered.
"Well, I found what I was looking for, so I think not, Colonel." He replied.
I turned to look at him again. "Haven't been called that one in a while. Heard of me, have you?"
"Naturally. Jim Moriarty. I have a job offer you may be interested in."
"I don't think you and I run in the same circles, Jim." I layered his name with some not-so-subtle disgust.
"If you see the criminal underworld as a circle, I don't think you have any idea of what game you're playing, Moran." Moriarty was still staring intently at me, head oscillating slightly. Then again, it may have been my head oscillating from the amount of booze I had in me.
"I don't give a shit about playing your game, and I don't want your fucking job." I slammed my glass down a little more forcefully than I intended, before weaving my way towards the exit. As far as I knew, Moriarty didn't move an inch.
Outside, the sky was the bleary grey of early morning. I lit a cigarette and scanned my surroundings. No one around but the homeless regulars that inhabited this shady part of town. I made my way towards the nearest street corner, becoming uncharacteristically relaxed for someone leaving a seedy bar. Just before reaching the street corner, I receive a sharp crack to the right side of my neck, and I taste blood. Before I could turn, I cop a second hit to the back of my knee. I staggered to the ground, clutching my neck. As I put my left hand on the ground to steady myself, Moriarty stomps his heel over my fingers, possibly breaking a few. Cane raised like a baseball bat, he was still staring like a madman. If I wasn't in agony, I would have begun to wonder if that was simply his normal facial expression.
"The fuck was that for?" I groaned through the blood bubbling in my throat. I'd be fucking lucky if there was no permanent damage to my vocal chords after that hit.
"You may want to hear more about my job offer, Moran."
"I'm not fucking working for some freak that beats the shit out of people with a cane." I snarled.
"Something as simple as a gun doesn't get the same point across. A cane produces a much greater effect when used in such a vulgar fashion. Now, my job offer…" Moriarty ran his hand along the cane, holding one end in each and avoiding eye contact, for the first time since our meeting.
I said nothing. At this point, I just wanted to be rid of him.
"Before I begin, I have a few options for what happens if you choose to turn down my offer."
Let me tell you, these options were terrible.
To be continued.