Title: Drapper
Fandom: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Crime/Fiction—Transgression
Pairing: none
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,120
Warnings: Swearing, disturbing content, murder
Summary: It's just good business
IN the end, it was just business. Just "good" business.
Besides, it wasn't like Nick had anything against the poor guy. His bosses gave him his orders, and he said nothing: just nodded and was on his way.
It was as simple as that.
Still, the job had it's perks: what's-his-face (the man was already dead, why would Nick waste his time trying to learn a name he was never going to use again?) owned a rather well off Casino (if only he'd paid his money were his money was due), the girls that worked the bar weren't that bad looking…and hey, in the scheme of things, it wasn't like he wasn't making anything off the gig.
The workout wasn't half bad either.
Of course, the poor fucker had gone through the whole routine: try and talk his way out of it, try to fight back, beg like a bitch when he realized he'd been licked and this was his last hurrah. Only this time, it was more of a hoot then it usually was: he'd simpered and slobbered all over the place, offering Nick anything his little mind could come up with: cash, girls, the rather luxurious stack of blow he dished out to the so-called "high rollers". Only the problem was Nick made a fine living without the poor fucker's money, he could practically get any girl (or guy, he had begun to notice) on his own, and drugs were of little interest to him: steady hands and steady eyes makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise, and all that good bullshit.
And when the simpering had all run it's course, the dumbass tried to regain somewhat of his masculinity back.
By spitting in Nick's face.
Not a wise decision, not at all. Nick's face had gone from the cocky smirk to…well, something no one ever lived to speak of. Well…almost no one: those lucky enough to have ever worked with the so-called "Mad Dog" would describe it as something...monstrous. They'd said it would look as if all the humanity drained from his face…he wouldn't even talk.
He'd snarl.
They said that's where the name came from. Not from the almost single-handed massacres that bodies would end up in, not from the manic grin he'd have during the entirety of the..."situation".
It was from the snarling. From the all out roars that would tear from his throat when he pounded his fists into the poor fuckers in his way. Many were surprised that he didn't froth at the mouth when he snapped; most just backed away, let him go nuts, go fucking crazy, and didn't bring it up again when he finally calmed down.
And what a funny way of calming down it was. He'd stop, sigh, and ask for a comb and a shower. (Just another shred of proof to his ever-growing OCD, the others would murmur)
Which was just what he did when he was finished with the Pièce de résistance of the night: took a deep breath, shook out the kinks in his arms, and trotted off to use Fucker's shower (apparently, Fucker used the office in the casino as a pseudo-bedroom; Nick sure as hell didn't complain).
The air was misty when he emerged. Thick with humidity and the smell of decay. Death had a scent, Nick learned back-in-the-day, one he become accustomed to.
The body was still strewn in the center of the miniscule office, his face little more then a pile of hamburger meat. Blood pooled around him, and almost ruby-red colour, gently shimmering in the warm light of the room. In a way it was actually…very pretty.
Nick stood over the corpse, head gently tilted to the side. Well goddamn…it actually was quite a surreal sight: the way the blood glimmered in the misty light, it almost looked… unnatural…unearthly.
He knelt down, playing the tips of his fingers against the sticky liquid.
It was so warm…hot…the smell clinging to the air was almost sweet in its essence. Sickly sweet.
Clean up didn't take too long. Well, not as long as it usually did—Fucker was a short guy, lanky, almost pathetically so. But he still took his time, scrubbing the floor meticulously, straightening everything just so. Why was he to care? Everything Fucker owned, every man he'd employed for his "safety" was bought with mob money. Nick could have spent the entire night in the room, and not have come across a single soul until he so pleased.
'The benefits of being top man," he thinks, looking back over Fucker's…well, what used to be a face.
Hell. He hadn't looked half bad, Nick smirks as he glances at the pictures lined across the walls. Actually Fucker would have been quite a catch, if it hadn't been for his atrocious personality—firm features, soft grey eyes, sandy brown hair…
Nick had always had a thing for sandy brown hair.
Could he be blamed? The last (and best) girl he ever hooked up with had had sandy brown locks; they had always curled around her face in this almost angelic style...
Her passing had been a…well, Nick always chalked it up to an "unfortunate accident". What else was he to call it? She was just…
"In the wrong place at the wrong time" Nick murmurs, glancing down at the bundle at his feet. Fucker's body was wrapped up tightly, under the guise of a rolled up rug (cliché, he thinks with little amusement).
What was he to call it? She knew that he was dangerous…he TOLD her that…but still…She stayed with him.
Even when the night turned red. When the only thing he could feel was the inferno that had been eating at him since his youth. What had set him off?
He couldn't remember. He could never remember….
Even as he drives the rug out into the wilderness, down the same path he'd ventured so many times before…the same path he took her too the last night…it's all one giant haze. And there she was…sandy brown hair drenched red….
The smell of rotting gardenias...a dash of red light, crimson in it's hue
Mad Dog struck again.
But it was just a part of life, Nick thinks, watching the flames leap higher and higher, the sweet smell of roasting flesh and the a flash of brilliant colour. He'd long forgone the concept of "regret"—Fucker hadn't paid his debts, and had to be made into a "lesson" And the girl…that wonderful, sweet, angelic girl?
Well, he could call her a lesson too.
The light reflected almost serenely in the night sky and the flies have already begun to gather…
Greedy fuckers.
He'll relay this story in the future, to a sandy brown hair'd boy, with eyes that could hypnotize with a single glance. And the kid, that stupid, stupid kid will tell him that things will be different. That they'll be together for longer then forever, whatever the hell that means. But the only thing that breaks the ouroboros is death.
After all…its just good business.
Author Notes:
Oh hey , long time no see.
A few of you that follow me on my DeviantART page (see main homepage for link, if you like) will know that I've been writing this story for a while. And for once, I actually feel like I'm going to finish it! EVERYONE CELEBRATE!
So you can find this on my DeviantART and my Livejournal (in much better format no less) but I figured I'd brush off my fanfiction account and post. I know that this isn't going to be everyone's cup of tea, and each chapter is going to have the same format as seen here, so that we don't offend or upset anyone ;)
If I haven't cemented it before, I'm sure this'll help: I am SO not a "feel good" writer. That and my Nick has some real problems...
The Ouroboros is the subject of a lot of mythology, often seen a snake biting it's own tail. It's a pretty cynical symbol, in my opinion, despite the fact it's often found as recreation. To me, I've always seen it as something that will never end, and that will never change, unless something drastic were to happen.
Please let me know what you all think :)