This was bullshit, plain and simple. Any of the over-dressed, self-obsessed dancing monkeys buzzing 'round District 1 could have handled this assignment but oh no, Merle had to stick his hand up and get saddled with the job. Riding on this goddamn rocket, leaving the food and the booze of the Capital for some fuck-ass district that'd only ever produced one victor in its entire, miserable history. What was the point in 12 even bothering with the whole draw two names out of a hat act anyway? Didn't matter whose heads were on the chopping block, the pair of poor fucks that got chosen weren't gonna be crowned the victor, not in this story.
Only way they were getting out of that arena was in a body bag, pure and simple.
He knew the score, shit everyone with even a lick of sense knew what was what. Waste of time, sending him out to fetch two more pigs for the slaughter. That's all these kids were, numbers in a game where the odds weren't ever in their favour.
The only time the odds worked for you was went some other sucker had their name in the draw a shitload more than you did.
Merle grunted, watching the countryside flash past as the train sped along the tracks and further towards District Shithole. Sometimes he couldn't even remember why he'd volunteered for this gig; leading a pair of kids on a first-class trip straight to Hell. Everyone had their role to play in all this outlandish production though…that was just the price you paid for living in the great nation of Panem. At least it weren't Merle's own ass on the line out there. He'd served his time, entering his name in the draw each year 'til he aged out. His brother Daryl played by the same rules and he made it to eighteen, thankfully without ever having to set foot in a Games arena.
That was a damn-near miracle; him and Daryl getting off scot-free from the macabre lottery where a winning ticket weren't a luck to be celebrated. Now it was up to another batch of snot-nosed brats to take up the mantle, heed the call masquerading as patriotism and die for their country.
The one bright spot was the sooner this shit got done, the sooner he could be back in the Capitol where he belonged. Merle couldn't wait to wrap his lips around a bottle of whiskey and bury his cock in a young, wet pussy only too willing to hook up with the best looking games escort in history. He chuckled, thinking back to the last sweet young body he'd had in his bed only days ago. Couldn't remember her name or what the hell she looked like, but he sure as shit remembered how good she felt when she was riding him. Of course, that had been before he boarded the Tribute Express for this shitty round-trip to Inbred County.
He snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing throughout the otherwise empty train compartment. Brenda! That'd been her name…or maybe Breendia? Breeta? Whatever it was, she'd been a demon in the sack and that was all Merle needed to know. He'd tried palming the girl off on Daryl afterwards but baby brother would have none of it. Merle Dixon did not do sloppy seconds but that didn't mean Darlena couldn't get in on the action while the getting was good.
His brother was the sweet one, but man, sometimes even Merle struggled believing they were blood. That boy didn't act a lick like the Dixon he was.
There was something just not right about that boy, turning down decent tail when she'd already earned the official Merle Dixon tried-and-tested seal of approval. Over the years Merle had put out all the stops trying to make a man out of Daryl but nothing worked. Seemed baby brother was hell-bent on dying with his precious virginity intact.
The escort snorted with derision. Fuckin' pussy.
The girl had been up for it. Hell, she'd offered him the complete round-the-world tour. She'd even tried coaxing the brothers into a little three-way spin but Daryl was too much of a ball-less wonder to bite the carrot she was dangling right before his eyes.
Merle smirked, eyeing his reflection in the train window as the surrounding countryside whirled past in a mismatched flash of greens and browns. It dawned on him then just why he'd volunteered for this gig into No-where's Ville. The coveted role of escort did come with some fringe benefits; high-end pussy being numero uno. It was one of the perks of the job, along with riding in style, all the way to the top. This year was his first rodeo but that hadn't presented a problem; chicks were like bitches on heat when they heard you worked for the Games Committee. Those girls were ready, willing and able to please, no matter the demand. Every single one of them Merle had come across had stars in their eyes and ten types of quality shit flowing through their veins. District 1 had the best of everything: the best pussy, the best booze, and the best pharmaceuticals.
The Capitol was filled with blowhards, bullshit artists and low-life crooks. Assholes only too willing to crush another so they themselves would come out smelling like roses. Yes sir, Merle Dixon was right at home in that particular cesspool. Excess was the name of the game and Merle did not deny loving life's excesses. He couldn't wait to get this shit over with, get his ass back where it belonged and start reaping the benefits brought forth for shepherding the sacrificial pigs from 12.
He rubbed his hand through his short, neon-purple hair, savouring the short, sharp pain of nails scratching across his shorn scalp. Considering the destination, that small slither of discomfort was probably the most excitement he was going to experience for the next few days. The rest of his get-up was all flash and show – metallic fabric designed to catch the eye, loud patterns that refused to be ignored, the enormous, gleaming belt buckle that drew women's eyes straight to his most prominent attribute. Hell, if the view outside the train was anything to go these people would have never laid eyes on a man like him before. He'd bet those hicks had never seen purple neither. Merle wasn't that much of a fan of the ghastly color but women loved raking their nails through it when he was buried balls-deep inside whatever hole they'd opened up for him. That alone was good enough reason to keep dyeing it. That purple shit was worth its weight in gold as far as he was concerned.
The train decreased in speed, snapping the man back to the here and now. He watched with contempt as the green of the countryside slowly morphed into muted greys the closer 12 grew.
Now, that shit right there's just damn depressing.
When the train finally pulled to a stop at the saddest excuse for a station he'd ever seen Merle stood and adjusted his jacket with a sharp tug, smoothing the fabric southward with both hands. He'd been sent as far from civilization as you could get but he'd still work the outfit. Man had to take pride in his appearance, even out here in the middle of nowhere. That shit was what got you laid, sticks or city-slickin'.
"Time to get this show on the road," he sniggered, stepping through the newly opened carriage door and out into the untamed yonder District 12 had to offer.
A/U: Thank you for taking a chance and reading this. The idea for this fic came completely from a conversation on tumblr about what TWD characters would slot into THG and in which role. Of course, I couldn't help but picture Merle in Effie's place, ferrying around the tributes and being his usual, charming self in the process. The question is, who will be those tributes be? Tune in next chapter to find out!
P.S. This is dedicated to The Readers Muse, for without her vision I never would have pictured Merle in this role.