OOC: Just a test...since I've read a really good Kill Bill fan fiction by Erica Dawn (check it out, it's called Nine Lives) I decided to write one of my own. I know I really should be keeping up on S&S (and the other like 5 stories I've written and been meaning to continue) but this is just something I wrote today during SET in second period. I don't own Kill Bill or any of the characters in it, but Jack Knox is © to me, Rachel M. Smith AKA Queen of Hellions. Yeah…I'm possessive? So what? Speaking of the character…if you can't get a good visual for him here (or just for kicks, whatever…) think Steve Buscemi, or Mr. Pink X3 Leave a review please! I don't pour my heart and soul out for lurkers
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"I could have been somebody once."
He took a deep swig of the straight tequila contained within a gaudy, amber glass and resettled back into his chair with a soft sigh. This wasn't the typical chair, nor was it a stool of any type, but an old wheelchair was seemed so rusted and old it looked as if it were stolen right out of the pages of a history book. It seemed so odd it didn't even seem to fit in well in this poverty-stricken bar of Mexico. The man the cripple addressed sat beside him at the low bar counter. Only a half-empty beer sat before him, his dark eyes wandering to the edges of his optics to steal his first glance at the cripple.
Soon his gave drifted and he gave a questioning glance to the tender. The tender didn't seem to mind and continued on with his chores, which included using a dust-colored rag to wipe down the withered wooden counters and then proceed to give the gaudy glasses that had been turned in a good spit shine. Things were slow this afternoon, they always were, but it wasn't like he would pay much mind to two customers, let alone any, unless they called him to service for another drink or some other form of attracting his attention, such as a threat. The tender turned his back to the two men at the counter and walked out the back door to stand outside on the desert-floor porch of the adobe building.
With the tender's leaving the Hispanic man with the dark eyes turned to fully look over the cripple. He was a thin man with lanky brown hair that fell to the end of the bony divots in his cheeks. It must have been neat once, stylishly slicked back (but not long enough to hold back in a pony nub) with pomade or gel, but now it was just an oily former shell with no sign of receding, just continuing growth. His eyes were large, almost sickly looking like some disease, enveloped in deep folds of skin that did not seem to affect his age at all (he looked in his late 30s), his eyes still hold any ignorance that his youth might have had, a bright blue color. Though the man's skin was sallow-colored, surprising for one who lived in the desert and suffered the wrath of the sun, a flush of drunkenness stained his bony cheeks like fresh blood spatter upon the purest of white sheets.
"¿Perdón, señor?" meekly asked the Hispanic man that was so intently looking over the cripple.
A wry smile spread across the cripple's lips. He didn't seem to comprehend the man might not speak a word of English, it wasn't uncommon or unheard of in Mexico, but nonetheless he seemed ready to continue on now that he had the man's attention. His hand wandered to the end of the wheelchair arm and there he clenched it comfortably.
"The name's Knox. Jack Knox."
This the Hispanic seemed to understand, and quite well apparently. Perverse American phrases, what glee he got out of that, especially to hear two straight in a row that belonged to an individual such as this. He turned away slightly and curtly placed a half over his mouth to contain the humor he found in the name of the cripple. Apparently Jack didn't find this as amusing, he almost seemed sore about it. His sickly eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, reached down into his left boot and withdrew a switchblade. He flicked it open and rather than seeing a polished, shiny site of silver it was a worn piece spattered from tip to handle with a rye red color. As he turned back at the sudden action the Hispanic found himself caught quite off guard and fell back from his seat on the stool and landed flat on his back. As he sat up he found himself only a foot or so shorter than the man sitting in the wheelchair.
Eyes gleaming maliciously Jack nodded and mouthed something like "Yeah" with a deviously gleeful expression to the man who was staring up at him in disbelief. The Hispanic started to scuttle away in a seated position while pushing himself backwards with use of his legs. His gaze immediately averted to the back of the bar, but no tender had returned to see the source of the commotion. With both grace and ease as though he were just sitting in the wheelchair rather than confined to it, Knox glided forward and took the man's chin in hand, turning his head back towards him and held the switch blade to his neck.
"It's not very nice to make fun of other people, compadre. At least that's what they say."
Jack has no Spanish accent and the way he pronounced the Spanish word was typical, rye American. Gently he pressed the blade closer to the man's central neck region so the cool metal touched the Hispanic's tender, warm flesh. The blade was serrated, not with craftsmanship, but simply with age and neglect, snaggle-toothed where one should usually run smooth. In one swift motion Jack turned the blade over and peeled a layer of skin from the man's neck as if he had just stripped a layer of skin from some sort of bad orange that had turned a brownish color. The man howled in pain, but Jack didn't seem to notice.
"They also say you can tell a lot about a man from his weapon. Learned that the hard way."
He poked the bleeding muscle of the man's neck, for he was careful in his action not to slit the jugular and end it all so quickly, with part of the blade. The man grimaced and hissed in pain, yet he remained so rigid and still with sheer horror. Finally Jack pilled back and for an instant it seemed as though he would back off. No such luck. Seizing the man's pony nub of traditional ebony, Mexican hair near the man's neck and twisted it roughly to tilt the man's head off to the side. Jack's long pinky finger was kept close to the man's skin, in fact it started to dig into it and leave a small crescent shape in the tanned flesh of the man. Taking the knife up again Jack began to work the side of the Hispanic's neck with his blade, slowly cutting through the flesh and muscle, though he did seem cautious of what he was doing. Finally he spoke again.
"You like stories? Here's a doozy for ya."