Disclaimer: See previous chapters.
Title: Last of the "Strangers Have the Best Candy" series. At least for a little while.
Tunes: Hopesfall's new CD "Magnetic North" - amazing. Really great stuff. Awesome for writing.
People: The ever-awesome Doctor Evil. Not to be confused with the also ever-awesome Dr. Sex Walrus. They both rock. I'd never get anything done without 'em.
Author's Note: I'm very aware of the quality of the next two chapters. I hope it's nothing you'll hold against me. They're shit, but I'm too lazy/wiped out for a re-write so you'll just have to deal. They get better, though, which is why I'm posting my sub-par stuff together. Just to get 'em out of the way. For an explanation of my absence see the newly added chapter of Sepia.
Archie "Snake" Simpson sighed tiredly and brushed sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He stepped back, squinting at the harsh glare of the single, swinging blub that hung from the ceiling. He rubbed his sore knuckles as Perino took over for him. He turned around, running a hand over what was left of his hair and shrugged off his suit-coat.
Perino grunted. "You like that, you little shit?" The meaty sound of fists a striking cotton clothed body. He heard the man in the chair grunt and wheeze. Huh… must've knocked the air out of him. Again. A muffled cry. Again. Snort of pain. Again. The man was choking pathetically. Quickly realizing things could go bad very quickly Snake turned around, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. He placed a firm hand on Perino's shoulder.
The dark haired man, whirled around, one arm half cocked back to deliver another blow. Snake leveled him with a blank stare. Perino could hit him. Perino could beat the shit out of him. But it would be the last thing that goddamn hothead did. Perino knew this, too. Quite well, in fact. He lowered his fist and stepped back a few paces to allow Snake to resume his interrogation.
Snake loosened his tie and dropped down to eyelevel with the man in the chair. Gently, almost tenderly, he took the limp man's head in his hands. It lolled side to side, sickly. His eyes were empty. His chest was the sunken canyon of a Junkie. Unkempt, short, wiry beard; dark rings around his eyes; scars and small sores on his face from where he'd picked at it restlessly in between fixes; snot and blood running out of his nose in one thick discolored liquid. Snake drew a handkerchief from his pocked and wiped the mucus-y substance from the young man's face.
"Tracker," he sighed the name. Sounding weary and concerned. It was a voice you wanted to trust, "Scotty… Jesus, kid. I'm sorry. I'm sorry it turned out this way. Really," the handkerchief continued delicately dabbing sweat and blood from the spots it collected on Tracker's face. "And I want this over as much as you do. Tracker, all you gotta do is tell us what you know. I'll pull some strings for you. Sully will forget about everything you owe him. Just talk to me, Scott."
The young man's only response was ragged breathing. Snake sighed and slipped his kerchief back into his pocket, "I'm sorry, Mr. Cameron."
He drew back, slipping a gun out of its holster, and slamming the butt of the pistol into Tracker's jaw in one fluid motion. There was a sickening crack and a shrill shriek as the bound man's head flew violently to the side. Blood, saliva, and fragments of tooth dripped from his mouth onto the floor. Agony, white hot and flaring, raged against his closed eyelids. He clenched his jaw unconsciously, only for it to drop lax once more as he screamed in pain. Tears leaked from his eyes.
Snake dropped back into his crouch and forced the Tracker to look into his eyes once more, "C'mon, kid. Don't make me do it again. This is the last time I'm going to ask you, Tracker. Please don't make me let Perino take over," over his shoulder Perino waved his fingers twistedly. Tracker shivered but remained silent.
Snake looked distressed, "Okay, P-"
"No."
Snake looked back at the bleeding man hopefully. "What was that, Mr. Cameron?"
He let out a shuddering breath and spit out a mucus-y substance, yellowish with red streaks of blood, punctuated by fragmented tooth. "I… I'll talk, Snake."
The middle-aged man grinned. "Atta boy," he clapped him on the shoulder, ignoring his wince and hiss. "Told you he'd come around, 'Rino."
The man grunted noncommittally and shrugged.
Snake reached into the pocket of the coat he'd hung over the back of a chair and withdrew a tape-recorder. Setting it on the table he turned it on.
"Now, son, I want you to tell me everything you know about our… little problem."
He sighed and glanced around nervously, "It all started with this Del Rossi guy. They call him Towerz…"
End Notes: See next chapter.
-Orange