DISCLAIMER: D'uh, they aren't mine...If they were I could probably shut them up *shrugs*
"And shepards we shall be"
Watching the sun shine, peaking over the sky line Thinking I gotta get mine, gotta try at least one time Want to get near it, close enough to fear it, close enough to hear it Close enough to say that I looked it in the eye, then I turned away And I'm not scared, but I can't move I'm not scared, but I can't move - "I can't move" - Everlast
Crashing to kneeling, knees landing on the damp floor, he leans his head against the cool concrete wall. Elaborate crucifix clasped so tightly he feels his palms will start bleeding any minute, Murphy MacManus begins to mutter a prayer. His father's blood courses through him tonight, just as his brother's pride beats in his heart, anger flowing quite neatly beside both. Turning his eyes to the heavens, but seeing only mildewed ceiling, he gropes blindly for his gun, locates it, flicks the barrel out, studies it, flicks it back into place and presses it hard up against his temple, all in one fluidly determined gesture. Every muscle and tendon in his body tenses in readiness, eyes shut tight, lips curled in a resigned grimace. The empty chamber clicks over. No arch-angel greets him, there is no heavenly light to follow, just the blessed silence of the fetid apartment. He opens one reluctant, disbelieving eye, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Russian - fucking - Roulette, " His grief-addled brain still grasping the irony of the statement. He clumsily crosses himself, kisses the elaborate crucifix in his hand and is on his feet once more. Slipping well-worn jeans over narrow hips and pulling a bulky turtle-neck over his tousled hair, he leaves the apartment. Muttering and stumbling along the streets, past gawdy neon signs, every second one proclaiming "LIVE NUDE GIRLS!!" (like shooting fishing in a barrel), but he can't bring himself to care. Somewhere, let's say on the corner of Nowhere Lane and Desperation Avenue, a Bourbon-soaked Bum crashes into him, stutters something that sounds remarkably like "Asshole" and continues on his rambling way. Staring blankly after the Bum, Murphy realises he is two blocks past where he wants to be and backtracks until he finds the relatively unobtrusive building. Head tilted, eyes squinted against the harsh street light, he decides to take his cue from the worldly Bum and raises his voice to the heavens, "YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!" The building had nought to do with it, he knows this, and people are beginning to deliberately side-step him now, so with a sigh he barges through the front door of the apartment block. For a full minute he pounds at the apparently ineffectual elevator button before resigning himself to climbing the rather dank stairs and marching himself up to the third floor. The brass door number is mocking him, this he is sure of. Music is floating from the otherside of the door, music that Murphy recognises, but is willing to place money that Smecker has never heard of before. No matter. He is entitled to a little more venting. Fist almost busting against the heavy timber door, he begins to holler, "Smecker, you craggy-faced fuck! Let me the fuck in!" A sleepy looking youth with a bored expression answers instead, "Who the fuck are you?" The boy enquires politely. A beat passes and a glimmer of recognition sparks in the boy's eyes and Murphy bites his lip, "Yeah, yeah, you got it. Congrats, you go on to the $10, 000 bonus round." He pushes past the boy to take in the gawdy opulance of Smeckers apartment. "Soooo... where is the prick?" The boy rolls his eyes and closes the door behind him.
"Getting drunk a-fucking-gain." Instinctively, unconciously, Murphy's foot, closely followed by his palm, collides with the closest thing at hand - an over-stuffed sofa (inconsequently, much harder than it looks), curses "Fuck! Fuck it! Fuck...him," then turns on the boy, "Fuck you!" And, before his brain can catch up with his actions, his fist connects full-force with the boys jaw, blood blossoming over his knuckles. The boy gives an easy smile, making no effort to stem the flow from his badly split lip. "What?" The boy replies, "You don't think I'm used to this sort of shit?" He shrugs and heads out of the room. Seconds later Murphy hears a fridge creak open and can only assume the boy is grabbing a well-worn icepack. "Argh, this is all so fucked up," Murphy groans and sinks into the sofa, head leant against the armrest, thumb and forefinger boring into the bridge of his nose, eyes clamped shut against the world. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," Murphy begins, adressing the empty room.
"Yes My Child? Go on," The boy answers rather bemusedly from the doorway, adopting a fake Irish accent thicker even than Murphy's, slurred only slightly by the hefty bag of frozen peas he holds against his bottom lip. "I have killed a great many people, Father," he continues, somewhat habitually.
"Were they bad people, My Son?" The boy asks, already knowing the answer.
"The worst kind, Father, the absolute worst..." his voice trails off. "What's your name?" He asks, looking squarely at the boy.
"Father O'Leary, My Son," he responds, sending himself into peels of laughter. Murphy rolls his eyes, nods and continues to study the ceiling. The boy attempts to manuevre a lollipop around the clumsy frosted bag. A gunshot glitters in the hallway outside and there is the sound of plaster crumbling. The CD skips as Smecker violently enters the apartment, squinting and stumbling and swearing and adjusting his gun back into it's holster. He peruses the tableau for a second, blinks a couple of times, making an effort to focus his uncooperative eyes. From his place on the sofa Murphy yawns theatrically, and it's all he can do to stop himself from topping the fucker then and there. Still blinking furiously, not saying a word, Smecker's breath starts coming in short, dangerous sounding death-rattle rasps. His eyes roll sickeningly back into his head before he crashes to the floor, out cold. There's a soft cracking sound and for an instant Murphy thinks that Smecker has split his head in the fall, but it's only the boy crunching on his goddamn lollipop.
"And shepards we shall be"
Watching the sun shine, peaking over the sky line Thinking I gotta get mine, gotta try at least one time Want to get near it, close enough to fear it, close enough to hear it Close enough to say that I looked it in the eye, then I turned away And I'm not scared, but I can't move I'm not scared, but I can't move - "I can't move" - Everlast
Crashing to kneeling, knees landing on the damp floor, he leans his head against the cool concrete wall. Elaborate crucifix clasped so tightly he feels his palms will start bleeding any minute, Murphy MacManus begins to mutter a prayer. His father's blood courses through him tonight, just as his brother's pride beats in his heart, anger flowing quite neatly beside both. Turning his eyes to the heavens, but seeing only mildewed ceiling, he gropes blindly for his gun, locates it, flicks the barrel out, studies it, flicks it back into place and presses it hard up against his temple, all in one fluidly determined gesture. Every muscle and tendon in his body tenses in readiness, eyes shut tight, lips curled in a resigned grimace. The empty chamber clicks over. No arch-angel greets him, there is no heavenly light to follow, just the blessed silence of the fetid apartment. He opens one reluctant, disbelieving eye, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Russian - fucking - Roulette, " His grief-addled brain still grasping the irony of the statement. He clumsily crosses himself, kisses the elaborate crucifix in his hand and is on his feet once more. Slipping well-worn jeans over narrow hips and pulling a bulky turtle-neck over his tousled hair, he leaves the apartment. Muttering and stumbling along the streets, past gawdy neon signs, every second one proclaiming "LIVE NUDE GIRLS!!" (like shooting fishing in a barrel), but he can't bring himself to care. Somewhere, let's say on the corner of Nowhere Lane and Desperation Avenue, a Bourbon-soaked Bum crashes into him, stutters something that sounds remarkably like "Asshole" and continues on his rambling way. Staring blankly after the Bum, Murphy realises he is two blocks past where he wants to be and backtracks until he finds the relatively unobtrusive building. Head tilted, eyes squinted against the harsh street light, he decides to take his cue from the worldly Bum and raises his voice to the heavens, "YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!" The building had nought to do with it, he knows this, and people are beginning to deliberately side-step him now, so with a sigh he barges through the front door of the apartment block. For a full minute he pounds at the apparently ineffectual elevator button before resigning himself to climbing the rather dank stairs and marching himself up to the third floor. The brass door number is mocking him, this he is sure of. Music is floating from the otherside of the door, music that Murphy recognises, but is willing to place money that Smecker has never heard of before. No matter. He is entitled to a little more venting. Fist almost busting against the heavy timber door, he begins to holler, "Smecker, you craggy-faced fuck! Let me the fuck in!" A sleepy looking youth with a bored expression answers instead, "Who the fuck are you?" The boy enquires politely. A beat passes and a glimmer of recognition sparks in the boy's eyes and Murphy bites his lip, "Yeah, yeah, you got it. Congrats, you go on to the $10, 000 bonus round." He pushes past the boy to take in the gawdy opulance of Smeckers apartment. "Soooo... where is the prick?" The boy rolls his eyes and closes the door behind him.
"Getting drunk a-fucking-gain." Instinctively, unconciously, Murphy's foot, closely followed by his palm, collides with the closest thing at hand - an over-stuffed sofa (inconsequently, much harder than it looks), curses "Fuck! Fuck it! Fuck...him," then turns on the boy, "Fuck you!" And, before his brain can catch up with his actions, his fist connects full-force with the boys jaw, blood blossoming over his knuckles. The boy gives an easy smile, making no effort to stem the flow from his badly split lip. "What?" The boy replies, "You don't think I'm used to this sort of shit?" He shrugs and heads out of the room. Seconds later Murphy hears a fridge creak open and can only assume the boy is grabbing a well-worn icepack. "Argh, this is all so fucked up," Murphy groans and sinks into the sofa, head leant against the armrest, thumb and forefinger boring into the bridge of his nose, eyes clamped shut against the world. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," Murphy begins, adressing the empty room.
"Yes My Child? Go on," The boy answers rather bemusedly from the doorway, adopting a fake Irish accent thicker even than Murphy's, slurred only slightly by the hefty bag of frozen peas he holds against his bottom lip. "I have killed a great many people, Father," he continues, somewhat habitually.
"Were they bad people, My Son?" The boy asks, already knowing the answer.
"The worst kind, Father, the absolute worst..." his voice trails off. "What's your name?" He asks, looking squarely at the boy.
"Father O'Leary, My Son," he responds, sending himself into peels of laughter. Murphy rolls his eyes, nods and continues to study the ceiling. The boy attempts to manuevre a lollipop around the clumsy frosted bag. A gunshot glitters in the hallway outside and there is the sound of plaster crumbling. The CD skips as Smecker violently enters the apartment, squinting and stumbling and swearing and adjusting his gun back into it's holster. He peruses the tableau for a second, blinks a couple of times, making an effort to focus his uncooperative eyes. From his place on the sofa Murphy yawns theatrically, and it's all he can do to stop himself from topping the fucker then and there. Still blinking furiously, not saying a word, Smecker's breath starts coming in short, dangerous sounding death-rattle rasps. His eyes roll sickeningly back into his head before he crashes to the floor, out cold. There's a soft cracking sound and for an instant Murphy thinks that Smecker has split his head in the fall, but it's only the boy crunching on his goddamn lollipop.