Disclaimer: I do not own Reservoir Dogs.
In order to put Mr. Blonde here (and I will be mostly referring to him as Mr. Blonde, rather his real name, Vic Vega) in my plotline, I changed the plotline of the movie of Reservoir Dogs. I will probably describe the actual plot of the movie more later in the story here, if I make it far enough to do so.
References can be found in the forum for the contest. If you want to ask questions about his character, feel free to PM me; I think he's a harder character to nail down than my other guy and can be interpreted in more than one way... -ish.
I don't like this intro much, honestly. But I'll have more time to showcase his skillz later (should I survive long enough to do so). And, Reservoir Dogs fans, you probably know fairly well what I mean by that.
One more thing: there will be much swearing, much violence, mostly for the sake of staying true to the canon. You have been warned. It was a Tarantino movie, after all (if you don't get what I mean by that all, you're missing out).
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"Mr. Blonde" was never really one to act irrationally. So of course, when he woke up on a tropical island, it was jarring at first, but he came to his senses and figured someone must have put him there. That, or he was experiencing his twenties all over again and this was an acid flashback… a big one… the likes of which he hadn't seen, well, since his twenties!
You'd be glad to know that Vic "Mr. Blonde" Vega was handling this whole survival thing quite well. I even took inventory. I'm such a good motherfucking Boy Scout. On his person, he had a lighter, two packs of cigarettes, two sets of matches, one pistol, some nicotine gum (A fucking fat lot of good that does me!), a couple of shiny razor blades and one switchblade. He didn't know how much ammo he had in the gun. With any luck, he supposed, he wouldn't need to find out.
But of course, obviously if you're on a random tropical island, plucked out of your normal life, Then luck is not with you today. Therefore Mr. Blonde wouldn't AVOID using it… after all… he had a knife, right?
Right.
So where the fuck am I?
He sighed and took off his dark sunglasses to get a better look. He haphazardly tossed them onto the black blazer he had ditched thirty minutes ago.
Is this what the fucking Amazon rainforest looks like?
See, his location happened to be the more pressing question. He knew there had to be a valid reason he was there, and he assumed it was because someone was pissed at him. He also had a hunch it had to do with the fact that his last memory before this island… Mr. Blonde was driving to meet up at the rendezvous point that old Joe Cabot had assigned to him and his comrades… he was listening K-Billy's Super Sounds of the Seventies… sure, the jewel heist they planned hadn't gone quite right, but he personally didn't think it was a total total total disaster… there was this song playing he liked, what was it again?...
Oh yeah, and there was a tied-up policeman in his trunk.
Then some large black SUV type thing was tailgating him. Mr. Blonde was worried that they knew about what he was hauling, but you know, best not to act freaked out. Next thing he knew, it bumped him off the road, he blacked out, and now he was here.
The question was not whether or not he pissed someone off enough to warrant being there, but who exactly it was. Maybe it was Joe? Surely he couldn't have gotten word so fast of the botched job. What's more was that he couldn't have been able to pull strings fast enough to get him shipped out here. And if Joe really wanted him dead, couldn't he just have him shot?
The island was jungle-like, but there was a somehow pleasant breeze in the night sky. Or was it the morning sky at this point? He'd have to wait and see how long until the sun came up for him to be able to tell. He let his mind wander for a few minutes. His thoughts primarily consisted of something along the lines of:
1. This sure is a nice island.
2. I wonder if other people are here?
3. I guess if I want food I'll have to kill something.
4. I wonder how that cop is doing. Maybe he got out. Psh, or maybe not, fucking imbecile.
Oh well.
Mr. Blonde lit a cigarette, not worrying at all about attracting attention to himself... for what, he was sure, would soon become obvious reason to anyone or anything else in the area.