Disclaimer: Well . . . I already did this once, but seeing as there's been such a dramatic lapse in time since the last one, I'll do it again for good measure, so everyone knows I haven't forgotten. Turkish, Tommy, Mickey, Gorgeous George and any others from Snatch aren't mine. I'm stealing them and twisting them far beyond anything that Guy Ritchie probably had in mind when he wrote the characters. I'm basking in the right of free speech whilst waving my creative license. Ha.
A/N: In the spirit of restating the disclaimer, I feel the need to restate my intentions, just in case you suspected they've changed. they haven't. There will be men doing terribly entertaining things to each other. Terribly entertaining homosexual things. If that's not your dish, piss off. If it is, read on! I do also feel that I should mention that I love to torture characters. Bad things will inevitably happen and I'm not sorry.
That's right, I'm back! I got one e-mail too many from the automated alerts telling me that people are reviewing and wanting more and setting me on their alerts and, well, I started to feel like a dick. So I watched the movie and I read my chapter and I kicked the gears around a tad so they'd start working for me again. After five years, sixteen reviews, six people adding the story to their favorites and 12 people adding it to their alerts, well . . . I couldn't take it anymore. You're dedication and persistence just made me feel all fluffy and fuzzy inside and I had to give something back. I'm here. I'm writing. I'm finishing. Come hell or high water, you people will find out what happens!
That being said, I'm sorry. I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry I was a lazy ass. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you a million times for pushing me, because I'm an attention whore and well, if it wasn't for all the attention, I wouldn't be doing this. I write for my audience and damnit, I can't very well go around neglecting that audience, can I? So here I am, here it is, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Enjoy!
Chapter Two
The world was pounding. There was something not quite right about a pounding world. It was pounding and spinning and . . .
Mickey was going to be sick.
He groaned, rolling over onto his back. He shifted around a little until his feet found the edge of the bed, then dangled them off, placing them on the ground. The linoleum tiles were cold under his feet, cooling him a little, and having his feet planted firmly on the floor helped to steady him out a little. It took the edge off the nausea just enough that he was no longer inclined to puke all over himself.
There was a strange buzzing in his head. Something like thought. Maybe a voice. Was someone speaking?
He cracked open his bleary eyes and instantly regretted it. The light sent searing pain through his eyes and head. He groaned again, his throat dry and squeezed his eyes shut. The experiment of opening his eyes succeeded only in telling him that it was daytime and it made his head ache even more. It was the beginning of a bad day.
"Afternoon, sleeping beauty."
Mickey grunted. That was the buzzing. A voice. Someone had been talking, maybe to him, maybe to someone else, but at least that explained the buzzing.
"What'd'ya think's wrong with 'im?"
"Well, fuck me, Tommy, you're extra dense today, aren't you? Did you see 'im last night? Or did you forget already? If you forgot that, did you happen to notice the fucking empty bottle of Scotch sitting on the floor right there? That's explanation enough, don't you think?"
"Was that bottle full when you gave it to 'im?"
"No, Tommy, ze Germans drank it. Then they put the bottle in the cabinet with a few drops left for me to give it to 'im."
"That was an expensive bottle of Scotch, Turkish. Why'd you give 'im that?"
"Fuck, Tommy, I thought he'd had a hard enough night that he deserved a drink. Where's you sense of charity?"
Mickey groaned. All the chattering was making the headache worse.
"Shad ap."
There was a moment of blessed silence.
"What'd he say?"
"I don't fucking know, Tommy. I can't understand him, just as you can't."
"Shad ap!"
"I think he's telling us to shut up, Turkish."
Mickey grabbed the first thing he could find - a pillow, as it happened - and threw it with all his might. He didn't open his eyes to watch the trajectory, but he hoped it would get his point across.
"I think you should shut up, Tommy. I think he's got in in for you."
"Well, you're talking, too."
Mickey rolled over onto his side and pulled the last remaining pillow around his head in an effort to drown them out. His entire body screamed with pain at the sharp movement, parts of him hurting that he didn't even know he had. He groaned loud, his parched throat sore, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Drinking water meant getting up. Getting up wasn't on his list of things he wanted to do.
"Maybe you should get out. Our Pikey friend here isn't seeming like he's much interested in our company. Don't argue, Tommy! I'll follow you in a few."
There was grumbling, incoherent but unhappy, then the caravan door opened and swung shut. Stillness and blessed, blessed silence almost lulled Mickey to sleep. Then the sound of nice shoes clunking on shit linoleum filled the air and Mickey feared more talking was coming.
"How you feeling, Mickey?"
Mickey grunted.
"Well, I guess that about sums it up, then, doesn't it? Is there anything I can get you?"
Mickey grunted.
A sigh. "You're version of English is hard enough to understand when you actually use words, Mickey. I don't speak caveman. Or . . . Cave Pikey."
Mickey twisted his body, flinging the pillow away and glaring up at Turkish with hurting, bleary eyes. "What t'e fuck ya sayin', Turkish? Sayin' I'm any less o' a man than ya?"
Turkish looked a little stunned, holding up his hands. He paused, just to make sure he fully understood Mickey's words, then shook his head. "That's not what I'm saying at all, Mickey. I was just making a joke. You know, I say something funny, you laugh, I laugh, we all feel better. I didn't mean anything by it at all. There's no need to get touchy."
"Fuck you, touchy," Mickey muttered, rolling over again, presenting his back to Turkish. "Got every fuckin' right t'be fuckin' touchy."
"Right, well . . . I don't mean to pry or anything, but what the fuck were you doing out there all on your own, anyway? You Pikeys always seem to travel in . . . flocks. And I thought you left London, any way."
"'T'ain't none of yer fuckin' business."
"Fuck, Mickey, what's crawled up your damned ass and died? I mean, maybe I'm not a close fucking friend or anything, but I am the one who scraped you off the damned sidewalk and gave you a bed to sleep in for the night. And a damned expensive bottle of Scotch, too. I think I deserve a little fucking respect, if not a little gratitude."
Mickey squeezed his eyes shut, wincing inwardly. Turkish was right, of course. But fuck, did those words sting and he'd be damned if he had to apologize to any living soul. Apologizing was a show of weakness and Mickey was anything but weak. So he said nothing.
"Right, well, seems like you've got a long list of places you'd rather be. So if you want, I can drive you home. Wherever . . . home is for you these days."
Mickey gritted his teeth, clenching his fists around the blanket, even though it hurt. Home. What a word. What a cruel, ugly fucking word. He'd kill to be home. But home was further away than it had ever been in his entire life. Home was unreachable.
"Mickey?"
"I fuckin' 'eard ya. I ain't . . . Ain't ready to go home jus' yet. Jus' . . . gimme 'til tamorraw mornin' an' I'll be outta yer hair. Deal?"
Turkish shifted from one foot to the other, processing and translating. "Tomorrow morning?"
"'S right. Tamorraw mornin'."
"Right, then. Tomorrow morning. I sure as fuck hope you're a little more peachy tomorrow. I don't right feel like listening to your fucking growling all the way to . . . wherever you're going."
Mickey said nothing, wishing Turkish would just leave already. Finally, he heard that clunk and the caravan door opened. Before he could stop himself, his voice was working.
"Turkish . . ."
Turkish paused. Mickey turned toward him, squinting at his silhouette in the doorway. He wanted to say something nice, something that showed he wasn't really as much of an ass as he was making himself out to be, but the words 'thank you' were sticking in his throat and 'I'm sorry' was out of the question. Turkish was staring at him, waiting, expectant, but his patience wasn't going to last forever and Mickey just could say the nice things he'd had in mind. He settled for the next thing that popped into his head.
"Ya got anymore o' t'at damned fine Scotch?"
Turkish sighed heavily. "No, but I do happen to have a bottle of bourbon. But I don't want you drinking it all and I sure as a sweet fuck don't want you this bitchy tomorrow morning. So if you want to drink yourself stupid, by all means, go ahead, but leave some for me and make damned fucking sure you can keep yourself civil tomorrow."
Mickey raised a hand to his forehead in a mock salute. "Yessir."
Turkish rolled his eyes and turned from the door. He found the promised bottle of bourbon in the cabinet and handed it over.
"I want half the bottle left, Mickey. You understand?"
Mickey nodded as he opened the bottle and took the first pull. Turkish shook his head and left. Finally alone, Mickey made a good start at drowning his brain in booze.
"So? What's going on, Turkish? Is the Pikey leaving?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow . . . ?" Tommy scoffed. "Fuck me, Turkish, how the fuck are we going to get any fucking business done with a fucking Pikey passed out in our fucking office?"
Turkish paused in his walk, turning an angry stare on Tommy. "Since when are you so fucking concerned about business? Ever since that fucking squeaky mutt and the diamond, all you've been interested in is sitting on yer lazy ass and spending your share of the money. So when the fuck did you get concerned about business?"
"I've always been concerned about business," Tommy muttered, but the half-hearted self defense was a pretty good indicator that he knew he was full of shit. "Anyway, that's not the point, is it? Why the fuck is there a Pikey using our office as a fucking hotel?"
"Holy shit, Tommy, did you see 'im last night?" Turkish demanded. "The man had the living shit kicked out of 'im. I think he could use a safe place to sleep after a night like that!"
"That fuckin' Pikey 'asn't given us nothing but trouble! So why are we helping 'im? That's all I want to know!"
"It's just human fucking decency!"
"Since when are you concerned about decency, anyway?" Tommy muttered.
Turkish narrowed his eyes, as his lip pulling back in a primal snarl. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you. And I sure as fucking hell don't appreciate you implying that I don't give two rat's balls about decency. The man needs a helping hand, Tommy, and we're giving it to 'im. Frankly, I'm fucking disgusted that you're having such a hard fucking time accepting that."
He spun on his heel and started to walk away. Tommy scurried after him.
"But Turkish!"
"Shut the fuck up before I strangle you with that stupid fucking tie. What the fuck are you wearing a tie for, anyway?"
Tommy looked down at the tie in question, smoothing it out. "I thought it looked nice, is all. Why are you taking it so personally? That's all I want to know. You sound like you're defending your own blood or something."
"I don't want to discuss it anymore. He's leaving in the morning, anyway. That'll be the end of the whole damned issue and you can go back to sitting on yer lazy ass and spending your share of the money."
"But . . ."
"Shut up, already!"
"Alright, alright, I'm shutting up."
He fell silent and Turkish breathed a sigh of relief. They were out in the street, now, out in public where people could see and hear and he didn't feel like slinking away under the curious or outraged stares of passers-by. Tommy could be as dense as ten feet of concrete, sometimes. Why was it so hard for him to wrap his brain around this idea? The Pikey - Mickey - was obviously in a bad spot of trouble, or at least just a bad spot, and he needed somewhere to be safe. And even though Tommy was right, even though Mickey and his bunch had been nothing but trouble for Turkish in the past, how could he leave a human being laying there in the street, practically drowning in his own blood? Sure, London's underbelly was a sink-or-swim kind of place and sure, if Turkish took even every poor whelp he saw bloodied in the street, he could run a damned hotel service, charge fifty pounds a head and be bloody rich by Christmas, but there was something different about last night. There was something totally and completely wrong about what he saw last night that he could just walk away. Maybe it was because Mickey was such a brass-balls little shite that it would take a serious problem to lay him low. Or maybe, Turkish's mind was replaying the scene in his head far too vividly now, maybe it was that his belt was undone. Who undoes their belt in the middle of a fight? Or maybe it was just because Mickey was a familiar face.
Or maybe Turkish was actually taking it personally.
"I still say you're taking it personally."
Turkish almost shuddered. The words were too well timed with his thoughts, but there was no way in hell Tommy could know what he was thinking. For a moment, Turkish wondered if it had actually been Tommy saying it, or maybe it was just his own inner voice pointing it out so he couldn't hide from it anymore.
"What?"
"I said I still say you're taking it personally," Tommy repeated. "And I think I'd like to know why."
"I'm not taking it personally, Tommy."
"I know you by now, Turkish. I know when you're full of shit and I say you're full of shit."
"Fuck, that tie's making you ballsy."
"What? It's got nothing to do with the tie . . . Stop trying to change the subject!"
"No, Tommy, I'm changing the subject because I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm going home. You should do the same."
"But I want to know!"
"I'm not taking it personally!" Turkish roared.
Tommy paused, his eyes widening. The passion in Turkish's voice was more than Tommy usually got, even when he was grating on Turkish's nerves. Then his eyes got narrow when he realized it meant he'd touched one of those sensitive nerves. Like a bloodhound with a scent, he knew he was on the right track, fuck him. Turkish glanced around and realized that he'd gotten himself into exactly the situation he'd hoped to avoid. People were staring.
"Go home, Tommy. I'll see you tomorrow, after I drive the fuckin' Pikey home."
"Fine, then, be a stubborn cunt."
Turkish narrowed his eyes dangerously. "What'd you say? Be careful, now, pencil dick, or that tie is going to be your worst fucking nightmare."
"I, uh, didn't say anything, Turkish. I'm just glad he's going home tomorrow. And what've you got against my tie?"
Turkish rolled his eyes again and turned away, walking home. Tommy finally dropped it and let Turkish leave, but he wasn't through. He wasn't going to leave this alone. It was going to be a long fucking week.
That's all for now, folks. My back is cramped, my eyes are tired, my shoulder's doing something funny and, well, there just isn't anywhere else for this chapter to go. They will get longer as I go, this I can say because it's my modus operandi. Chapters always get longer until they're morbidly out of proportion with earlier chapters.
I part with the solemn promise that I will NOT take five years to come up with Chapter Three. Give me a week, more or less. Though maybe less as I tend to be mildly obsessive once I get going on something. I know this is going well because my brain was telling me what's going to happen later as I was writing the scenes, and, well, that's always a damned good sign.
I'll see ya's all again very, very soon. Or, rather, you'll see more from me . . . I know what I'm talking about, I swears it.
-Tashué
(PS. Uck. What a bad title. I may or may not be changing it. I'll give you all fair warning, though.)