This chapter turned out to be a long one, as well, but it was also the one I struggled with the most. Really, I had a very hard time getting it toegther, it took me an entire week, which is awfully long compared to the usual writing pace I'd acquired with the rest of this story. But I did get it done. Devil had some workings to do, and apparently, so did I, because the epiphany Devil has at the end of this chap was one that came to me literally while writing it. I guess this was the roadblock I'd been so afraid of - this is the longest thing I've ever written, ever, fanfiction or otherwise.

Now, a thing or two about the content: The OC of John Bourgignon is based on John Candy's role in the 1988 comedy "Going Berserk" (I've never seen it, but judging from the wikipedia summary, it's gotta be terrible), and the OC of Craig Allan Shaun is based on the second, no, third probation worker from Misfits, you know, Shaun, the cool one.

WARNING: Use of the n-word and the c-word, talk about prostitution, explicit descriptions of violence, hints at PTSD.

Enjoy!

The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1

The Understudy

Chapter 11

"So, I received your text last night, or should I say, early this morning, and I'll say this" Wynn Duffy said. "I am very, very happy right now, Mr. Devil."

"That so" Devil said, picking at left-over dirt under his fingernails.

"Why, yes!" Duffy spread his arms so wide his left hand bumped against a wall of the confined storage room. He shook it to get the sting out. "Ow. I had someone call someone who works at the Sewer Department in Georgetown, and they said the cement was poured in first thing this morning, without any incidents. Now it really is done. We got away with it, Mr. Devil, and I have to thank you."

Devil nodded.

"Really, thank you for your input!"

"Yeah, whatever."

"Well, seems like you're not that happy right now. You tell me. Do you feel bad about it?"

Devil rolled his eyes. "Look, man. I ain't in the best of places because I didn't sleep at fuckin' all last night, because, oh, wait, I had to spend most of it buryin' a body for you. So excuse me for not dancin' you around the parkin' lot."

"Alright, alright. Fair enough." Duffy folded his hands in his lap. "You're tired, I get that. But there are still some things I need you to do for me before you can actually say it's a job well done."

"What now. There someone else I need to kill? You just tell me, cause it seems I'm on a roll or somethin'."

"You most certainly are. The Norwegians were on the news, you know."

Devil's head jerked up. "They were?" How in the hell could he have missed that?

"Yes, they were. Made a big thing out of it, too, but, what would you expect?" Duffy asked with a big grin. "You shot them in a public park! There were children around who could've gotten caught in the crossfire."

"Not in MY fire they wouldn't have. I knew what I was shootin' at."

"I know, I know. And I know it wasn't your call. Seems to me that when it comes to business transactions such as these, Quarles's got a flair for the dramatic. Anyway."

Duffy fished a folder out of his bag and handed it to Devil, who took it slowly and opened it, frowning. "What am I lookin' at?"

"That's one of the guys that you're going to pay a visit to, uh, make sure they know where they stand with the bids for the whore house."

"Well, that one's a fat bastard" Devil said, studying the picture. "John Bourgi… Bournign… what is it?"

"John Bourgignon" Duffy said. "He is indeed a fat bastard, looks like a giant baby with a toupet, and he's got about as much fight in him as one, too, so you won't have much trouble with him. The other one, though, he's a bit more tricky. But you'll just have to be a bit more… violent, alright? I think you can manage that."

Violent, Devil thought. Like I haven't had enough of that.

About an hour after he'd finally laid down next to Nina to try and get some sleep, her alarm clock went off and she'd had to get up for work. And Devil was exhausted, so goddamned exhausted, but he just couldn't sleep. Pictures of what he'd done flashed through his mind. Images of him looking into Granger's eyes while she died. And what kept him awake about it was not him feeling bad about it, as Duffy had to think, but the absolute, complete absence of guilt. All Devil really remembered was a tremendous, almost prodigious sense of relief that he'd gotten it over with. And Devil just had this nagging feeling that something wasn't right about that.

Devil was rather realistic about stuff like that, had always been. Whenever he'd had to kill someone before, like those Bennett thugs while Boyd was at the town hall to have a chat with Mags, he didn't feel a thing, other than pride when he hit, and anger at himself when he missed, and that crack in the windshield of Dickie Bennett's truck still pissed him off to no end. An inch, just an inch further to the left, and at least he would have been able to make up for Ava getting shot. But those two Norwegians he'd had to shoot for Quarles, the guilt and dread he'd felt afterwards, they'd changed his view on this business, on murder. He'd had to tell himself over and over again that he'd done it for Funny, that he'd had to do it or Funny would have died. Devil guessed this kind of thinking had implanted itself into his mind so impertinently that he'd anticipated it to come to life with another murder.

But it didn't, and Devil didn't understand. What was so different about this?

"Yeah" he said slowly, frowning, not looking at Duffy. "I can manage that."

John Bourgignon was a fat bastard who ran a human trafficking circle through a small whore house that he owned in Elizabethtown, and he wanted Granger's big establishment for obvious reasons. He had the money, too, enough money to make a relevant bid, at least, and so Devil made the one-and-a-half-hour drive to Elizabethtown to pay him a visit.

It was a small, dirty whore house that smelled of piss and other bodily fluids that turned Devil's stomach and made him think of the nigger boy and what had come of him; was he dead yet? Or had he maybe managed to escape? Devil didn't know, would likely never find out, was at this point even beyond caring. The lack of a reaction to Granger's murder left him feeling hollow for the past few days. He was even behaving differently towards Nina right now, kind of apathetic, and he could see she was worried about him. So far she hadn't said anything about it. He was scared of when she would, and she would, he was sure.

It was a warm September day, not hot, just warm, but inside the dirty little whore house it was sweltering, like the place didn't have a single window and the heat was constantly cranked up. The few girls he came across all looked thin and unhappy, their make-up smudged, some of them flinched back from him when he walked past them, like they were scared he would lash out. Devil could see bruises on their arms and faces. Jesus, he hoped the fat bastard would put up a fight.

He sat down at the bar; the room it was in was small and sweltering, too, only that here, it didn't smell like waste and jizz, just like booze and vomit. Devil preferred that. The bar maid was a fake blonde in her late thirties, maybe early forties, or maybe she was even older, he couldn't tell. The light was dim and she was wearing a lot of make-up. She wore her hair in a high ponytail and had her big boobs pushed up so high they were in danger of falling out of her top. Long fingernails painted red were splintering at the edges and appeared unkempt in general.

"Hey there, champ" she said, smiling at him a little, the edges of her eyes crinkling up and making Devil sure she was older than he'd first thought. "How can I help you?"

"Hey. I, uh, need to see your boss."

She halted in wiping the glass she held in her hand. "Sweetie, what d'you wanna see him for?"

"I think that ain't none of your business, now, is it. Could you please just get him?"

"Sweetie, you don't wanna talk to him" the bar maid said, leaning forward a little, resting her breasts on the bar between her elbows. "He in some mood today. Don't know what's gotten into him."

"Why, what's he doin'?"

She shrugged. "Hit one of the girls for sayin' hello to him this mornin'. An' then, couple minutes later, right, he comes out of his office again, smilin' big an' lookin' at me like I'm the fuckin' sun, sayin' shit like, 'Lauren, today's a good day' an' to make 'em girls breakfast and lunch today cause we can afford it now."

Devil raised a brow. Dear Lord, he hoped the fucker would put up a fight. "That so."

"Yeah! Like, can you believe it!" Lauren the Bar Maid shook her head and made her ponytail flip from one side to the other. "He ain't usually that moody. Like half an hour later, while I'm makin' breakfast for 'em girls like he said, he's lookin' at me like I'm crazy and goin' all, 'Ey, what you doin'? We can't afford to have 'em girls eat breakfast, what am I, a money machine' an' shit. Now they don't get no lunch today. I dunno what's gotten into him."

"I might have an idea" Devil said. "An' that's why I gotta go see him. And don't worry" he added when Lauren opened her mouth again, "I can take care of myself. Jus' got some business to talk about."

"Alright then, sweetie" Lauren said and put down rag and glass. "Don't say I didn't warn you, though."

"I'll keep it in mind."

Lauren left and Devil wandered over to the juke box in the corner and randomly pushed some buttons. A sad folk-county song began and a yearning woman sang about being a goddamn coward and not knowing what to do. Devil rolled his eyes. What other kinds of demoralizing songs did they play here to remind the women of their situation?

He sat back down at the bar and looked at the dusty disco ball that hung from the ceiling. He would have liked to help himself to a drink, but the entire room appeared to him like he could get STDs from even just sitting there, so he refrained. A whore, who was just a girl, as far as he could see, passed him, her bathrobe hanging carelessly open and letting Devil see a hand-shaped bruise on the top of her thigh near her hip. A cigarette dangled from her fingers, and when she saw him looking, she gave him a tired smile that didn't reach her eyes. Devil gave her a two-fingered salute, and that made her smile at bit wider and more real.

The only similarities, as far as Devil could tell, between this rotten place and Granger's high-class, expensive establishment, were the fake smiles. This business seemed to live on that.

Apparently the juke box was on repeat, because the sad song played three times in a row before Lauren came back and told him the boss was ready to see him now. She shot him a worried look. "What kinda business was it that you need to talk to him about?" she asked. Devil gave her a grim smile that felt as fake as it should in this place.

"Girl, I think I told you it ain't none of your business… though maybe it is. I'mma tell you when I leave."

He moved his head to the side a little, and it made his neck crack. He grimaced. "Maybe get the first aid kit ready, if you got one."

"What, for your neck?" Lauren asked, confused.

"Nah. For your boss. Trust me, he's gon' need it."

Devil didn't see the shocked look Lauren sent after him, but he could imagine it pretty well. He walked through the narrow hallway to the only door that it led to. There was no sign on it that would have told any visitors what was behind it, but it was the direction that Lauren had come from, and there was only this one door here, so it had to be the office she'd mentioned. Without knocking he stepped in.

And there sat John Bourgignon in his office chair, fat spilling over to both sides of it because Bourgignon's fat ass didn't fit into regular chairs. He had a cigar in hand, a brand new one that was still packed in plastic wrappers. It seemed he'd been in the process of unwrapping and lighting it when Devil entered the room, and Bourgignon looked at the intruder with annoyed disdain.

"Who're you an' what d'you want?" were his first words to Devil.

"I'm here to talk to you bout Stacey Granger" Devil answered, crossing his arms. Five seconds were all he needed to be able to tell that this fat bastard was one of those 'All hat and no cattle' types who felt pretty awesome about themselves because they had a job where they could boss others around. The guy studied Devil with an amount of contempt that he really could not afford, considering the condition of the place he ran.

At the mentioning of Granger a deep frown settled over Bourgignon's fat face. "What d'you know about Stacey Granger?" he asked.

"I know she's missin', and I know you wanna buy her whore house, and, well, I can understand, when you look at the state of this place" Devil said, waving his hand around.

"An' what if I did? What's it to you?"

"Well, I'm here to tell you it ain't gonna happen."

"What ain't gonna happen?"

"You buyin' the whore house."

Bourgignon stood up, and Devil half expected the chair to be stuck to his fat ass. It wasn't, but Devil imagined it had to be a close call.

"An' why would you think that?" Bourgigon said in a low voice that was supposed to be threatening, but that had no effect whatsoever on Devil, who knew a threat when he heard one. Boyd and his Marshal friend, they could be threatening alright; they'd make you piss your pants with just a few words if they were pissed off enough. Nathan, Devil's cousin, could do it, too. But this fat bastard? Devil just wasn't able to take him seriously, although he was sure someone who didn't have the insight that Devil had gained could be impressed by the man's size. Bourgignon, in addition to his overweight, was about six foot three and had quite the imposing appearance. Shame that he only used it to abuse his employees and keep them under.

"Cause I know a couple things. First off, there are bigger fish who wanna bid for it, and you ain't gonna be able to outbid 'em. Look at you, in that suit" Devil said, aiming for a voice filled with condescension, "what'd you pay for it? Thirty bucks?"

Bourgignon began to wheeze from anger, and Devil wondered if he was able to piss Bourgignon off so much that the fat bastard got a heart attack; that would solve several problems all at once.

"And" Devil continued, "I can tell you that if you did bid for it, bad things would happen to you. I ain't gonna go into detail if you don't want me to, but, well, jus' sayin'."

"Bad things, huh" Bourgignon said, walking around his desk, his huge stomach waving from side to side.

"Oh yeah."

"An' what kinda bad things, huh? Who the hell do you think you are? You think I'm afraid a'you, boy? You ain't got no idea what I'm capable of doin' to-"

As soon as he was close enough Devil drew his Beretta and shot Bourgignon in the foot. The fat bastard fell to the floor with an undignified high-pitched scream. The ground shook a little under his weight. Devil was at his side in an instant, pressing the barrel of his gun to Bourgignon's forehead.

"Listen to me, you fat bastard" He said. "You ain't got no idea what I am capable of, either. So you's gon' shut up now."

Just for the hell of it, Devil punched him in the face, hard. Bourgignon whined, and his hand stung, but it was worth it.

"You don't need to know who I am, jus' know that if you bid for the whore house, anythin', even if it's just a single fuckin' dollar, I'mma have to come back here and shoot you in your fat motherfuckin' face. You got me?"

Bourgignon didn't respond immediately, so Devil hit him in the nose with the butt of his gun. It started bleeding immediately.

"I'll ask one more time, fattie. You. Got. Me?"

Bourgignon nodded, tears in his eyes.

"Say it."

"I… I ain't gon' bid for the whore house."

Devil patted his fat shoulder. "Good, then. That's all I wanted to hear."

He stood up and stowed his Beretta in the back of his belt. Bourgignon made for a pathetic figure, lying in his fat on the stained carpet. Without saying good bye, Devil just opened the door and left. There were several girls standing in the narrow hallway, most likely they'd heard the shot and wondered what had happened in there. Devil passed them and stopped at the bar, where Lauren stood and looked at him with big eyes.

"You got the first aid kit ready?" he asked her. She just nodded.

"Go on then. He's bleedin' all over that shitty carpet of his."

Leaving the whore house and its sweltering heat felt like entering another world entirely; out into the sunshine and the fresh air, out of the stench and darkness. He felt strange about leaving this place behind; he knew he'd never see Lauren again, or that young whore with the hand-shaped bruise on her thigh that had smiled at him. They would continue to live their shitty lives and he would continue to live his, because that was just the way things went.

One down, Devil thought, sitting in his truck and turning the key in the ignition. One to go.

Craig Allan Shaun was a rich man from a rich family in London, England, who'd at some point decided to move to Kentucky and since then lived in a big-ass house in Lawrenceburg. He'd multiplied his family fortune with stock exchange. Shaun used a good portion of his money on the maintenance of the three gigantic aquariums in his house that each held about 1300 gallons of water, and when he'd heard of a gigantic whore house/money machine whose manager was currently missing, and would most likely stay missing, as well, considering the police had found her car abandoned on the side of a road and specks of her blood in the grass next to it, Shaun thought that it would be a nice opportunity for some extra income.

And now it was Devil's job to go pay him a visit in his big-ass house in Lawrenceburg and tell him it wasn't gonna happen.

The visit to John Bourgignon's dingy establishment was three days ago. It was a hot day, humid, really, and the sky was covered in dark gray, low-hanging clouds. It was obvious there would be rain later, maybe even a whole thunderstorm. The weather fit Devil's mood quite well, though; he felt like he'd been running around with some dark clouds over his head for the last week. He was starting to get worried himself now, because this wasn't normal. Why in the hell was he still feeling like shit? And what for, anyway? He didn't feel regret over Granger, just relief. That was what worried him the most. He had the feeling there was a storm brewing, and not just in the sky.

The house this Craig Allan Shaun lived in really was big, almost a villa. White, with a huge porch with pillars and embellishments and all that shit, and Devil was sure there had to be a pool somewhere, too. He wasn't sure how this was supposed to go. Should he just knock? And when Shaun opened the door, he'd say "Surprise!" and shoot him in the foot like he'd done with Bourgignon? Devil didn't think it would work like that. Duffy had said this guy was a tough nut to crack, way tougher than that fat bastard.

For lack of a better idea Devil did end up just ringing the door bell, not knowing what to expect. He absolutely hated Duffy for making him do this. When the door opened, Devil was ready to pull his gun, but it turned out to be a housekeeper, not Shaun, and he left his Beretta where it was. Of course the fucker had a housekeeper. Of course.

"Hello?" the middle-aged Hispanic woman said.

"Hi, uh. I'd like to speak to Mr. Shaun…"

"He's in his study room, Sir, I can show you…" Devil noticed how she regarded him with caution. "Is he expecting you?"

"Nah, I don't think so, it's a surprise visit, really. Jus' tell him I'm here cause of Stacey Granger, he's gonna wanna see me."

"Okay, Sir. Your name was…?"

"I'm here cause of Stacey Granger. Go on, tell him."

The housekeeper walked away from him with a big frown and left Devil standing in the big lobby with marble floors and an honest-to-God chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It smelled clean and fresh in here, and the air conditioning was running full force, a welcome relief from the humidity outside. Devil was rather tired, he hadn't slept at all the last night. Just lying awake, he'd listened to Nina's breathing and the cracks of thunder he could hear in the distance. He hadn't called Boyd in too long, he thought; he needed to do that as soon as possible. Nina had finally asked him what was wrong, and he'd said he didn't know, which was at least partially true. He could see she didn't believe him, though. It was after all only a partial truth, but that was all she was going to get.

The housekeeper came back, followed by a tall, lanky man, in statue similar to Boyd's Marshal friend, but lacking his imposing demeanor. He had dark blonde hair that was gelled to the side and made him look a bit like he'd been a boy band fan stuck in the 90s.

"So" the guy that had to be Shaun said, "you're the bloke that wants to talk to me about Ms. Granger, yeah?"

"That's me" Devil said and Shaun looked at him like he was worth less than the dirt under his shoes.

"Well, pleasure to meet you, my name's Craig Allan Shaun, and you would be?"

"Here to talk to you, so where'd you like to do that?"

"What's wrong with my lobby?"

Devil snorted. "Nothin', man, just, trust me, you don't wanna do it here."

Shaun squinted his eyes at him. "Okay then" he said. "Follow me to my study, please."

"Nice aquarium" Devil said when they entered the study where there was a gigantic aquarium with dozens of small colorful fishes in it, as well as coral algae and stones. "It's… big."

"Why, yes, it is big" Shaun answered. "Take a seat, please."

"Nah, I'mma just stand here."

"Alright then. Don't mind me taking a seat."

"Nah, I don't mind."

"Good." Shaun sat down in a chair behind a large oak desk, and Devil thought that too many people had desks to sit behind. He was getting tired of this kind of scenarios. Too many people that sat behind desks ended up getting shot by him. Devil considered telling Shaun this, but he refrained because, where would be the fun in that?

"Now, Mr. Nameless, would you care to tell me why you show up here unannounced and want to talk to me about Ms. Granger?"

"Sometimes it's good, you know, to remain nameless" Devil said, admiring the aquarium the stood to the side of the room, along the entire left wall. He tapped the glass to get the fish to pay attention to him, and they strayed away from him.

"Please don't tap the glass, thank you."

"Because, Mr. Craig Allan Shaun" Devil continued, "you know what they say bout guys with three first names where I come from?"

"No, what do they say?" Shaun sounded highly annoyed.

"That you can't trust 'em."

"Do they say that."

"They certainly do. Makes me think that maybe it's true and I should be watchin' my back with you for what I'mma tell you now."

"And, do tell, what would that be?" Shaun folded his hands and gave him a cocky smile that hid his unease at the situation almost completely. Almost.

"You know bout Stacey Granger. Her disappearin'." Devil tapped the glass a last time before turning to give Shaun his undivided attention.

"Everybody does by now."

"Yeah, but you got special interest in that, don't you? Cause you wanna get your hands on that whore house a'hers, ain't that right?"

Shaun looked unimpressed. "Why would I? It's a bloody whore house. What would I want to do with that?"

"Make money. It's a fuckin' cash machine, everybody knows that, too. And lookin' around, I reckon you like makin' money."

"Just get to the bloody point here, mate."

"Alright then, 'mate'" Devil said, "I'mma get to the point now. You wanna bid on the whore house, and I'm here to tell you that's a bad idea, cause if you do, you might not live to actually buy it."

"Says who?" Shaun snorted. "Did Wynn Duffy send you? Really, you're the best he could do? Jesus, I could wander the street at night and pick up some rough sleepers who'd look more threatening than you!"

"Alright, Duffy sent me" Devil shrugged. "If you know he sent me here, you know the guy ain't someone you wanna mess with, so…"

"Why, cause he's the one who offed Granger? It's common knowledge the cunt owed him money, and lots of it, too. That doesn't impress me much."

"It should. I meant what I said, you know, bout you not livin' to buy anythin'."

Shaun sighed and grinned at him from his office chair. "Fuck off."

"Well, I did give you a choice" Devil answered and drew his gun, shooting at Shaun, who was quick, Devil would give him that; he ducked behind his desk as soon as he saw Devil's arm move. He just wasn't quick enough.

The bullet ripped open Shaun's left upper arm, and he shouted in pain as he was trying to go for his own gun that lay in a hidden compartment right underneath the desktop. He even managed to grip it, but before he could properly aim, Devil had kicked it out of his hand and crouched over him, pressing the barrel of his beloved Beretta to Shaun's neck.

"So now it's time to say goodbye" Devil said and then stopped. "Ain't that the name of a song?"

"You're not gonna shoot me, you git" Shaun ground out. "My housekeeper's seen you, she's probably calling the cops as we speak…"

"Yeah, but she don't know my name, does she. I'mma just kill her, too, and all's well."

Shaun swallowed. "Bollocks."

Devil put more pressure on his gun. "You wanna reconsider?"

"Okay, mate, just, uh, wait, will you? Just…"

"It's just one fuckin' whore house" Devil said quietly. "And you already got enough money, man. It ain't worth dyin' over, huh?"

"No…" Shaun cleared his throat. "No, I guess it's not."

"Good. So, will you bid for the whore house?"

"No, uhm. No, I won't."

"Glad to hear you say that, Craig Allan Shaun" Devil said, standing up. "And keep in mind, we know where you live, and, well, you don't wanna mess with Wynn Duffy, man, you really don't. Not over this." He saw the bullet he'd fired sticking out of the stone wall, and he fingered it out and pocketed it. Taking a tissue out of the box that stood on the desk, he wiped his prints off the aquarium and then used it to open the door to the study room. In retrospect he was glad he'd had the sudden intuition to press the door bell with the knuckle of his finger instead of the pad. No prints to wipe off there. Shaun was right, the housekeeper had most likely already called the cops. Time to step off now.

"Bye, Mr. Shaun, I hope I ain't seein' you again" he said. Shaun coughed.

"Me too."

The first drops of rain started falling when Devil was already on the road back to Frankfort for several minutes. It started slow, and then turned into a full-grown thunderstorm midway, where the rain was falling so hard and fast Devil could barely see where he was going, and the wipers were completely overextended. Devil slowed down and eventually decided it wouldn't be wise to drive on any further now. He was far enough from Shaun's house now, and the police would be just as overwhelmed with that fucking weather as he was.

Pulling over to the side of the road, he turned off the motor and leaned back, closing his eyes. The sound of the rain beating down on his truck calmed him. His heart had still been racing from the adrenaline that had been crashing his system in Shaun's study; he'd been ready to kill the man, and the housekeeper, too. He hadn't been kidding. If that was what needed to be done, Devil thought, he'd kill them alright, he'd do what needed doing.

And then he thought of Caleb, the fella who'd so obviously been suffering from PTSD, and what he'd said, about creating an It and not being able to switch it off, and suddenly something inside him snapped. The room of the car seemed confining and there wasn't enough air for him, so he ripped the door open and jumped out into the rain. After the heat of the day the rain felt like a cool release on his skin, and in no time he was soaked to the bone. Sinking to his knees in the muddy ground next to the road, he buried his head in his hands.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Since when did he think like that about killing people? He'd honest to God thought about killing the housekeeper without batting an eye! And for Wynn Duffy, no less. The truth was, Devil had never thought about what it meant to take someone's life until he'd had to kill those two Norwegians, and how he'd done it imminently and directly for someone else, and not just Funny, but also Quarles. And the fact that he'd killed someone for Quarles, of all people, had been the thing that made him start to wonder about taking a life. What it meant, what it entailed.

Devil had killed before, but he hadn't considered himself a murderer until now. That was the difference, he understood that now. Quarles and Duffy had turned him into a murderer, for them and their benefit and no-one else's. He could tell himself all day it was actually for himself, and for Boyd, but in the end, it had been for THEM. He'd taken lives. Three people he knew nothing about. Sure, Granger had been a stone-cold bitch. And those Norwegians had not been business men, but gangsters who'd surely killed before. But Devil didn't know shit about them. If the Norwegians had had children, and wives. If Granger had enjoyed watching "Die Hard". What their favorite food had been. Or their taste in music. And he would never know, and they would never see their families again, never eat their favorite food and watch their favorite movies again, all because of Devil.

Devil let out a shuddering sigh as realization settled in. He'd been overwhelmed by the thing with the Norwegians because it had hit him unexpected, because he'd hoped he wouldn't have to kill them. With Granger, that hope had never been there, and in the absence of that hope, he'd done what Caleb had said: He'd created an It. And apparently now he couldn't switch it off anymore.

"Fuck that" Devil said into the rain. He couldn't become that. He wasn't a fucking cold-blooded killer. Wynn Duffy had made him one, but he wasn't, he really wasn't, because he didn't want to be. He'd known even back then, when he'd turned his gun on Boyd, that he most likely wouldn't have it in him to deliver a kill shot right then and there. He would have never been able to kill Boyd. Who had he been kidding? Mostly himself.

Tears stung in his eyes, and Devil angrily blinked them away. This was NOT who Derek Lennox was. Derek Lennox was not a cold-blooded killer, and it so turned out that apparently he wasn't a racist, either. Maybe it wasn't too late start second-guessing yourself, after all. His limbs felt like they each weighed a ton when he fought himself into a standing position. He'd been frosty and distant with Nina, and Devil knew he needed to make that right, because she was a good thing, a really good thing that had happened to him here in this place that otherwise mostly resembled hell. Sure, Nina was a whiny bitch sometimes, and she had a lot of baggage to carry around with her, the possibly psychotic ex being only the tip of the iceberg. But Devil liked her. He really, seriously liked being around her, liked banging her, but also liked just hanging out with her, eating, even cooking. Everything he did was just a tad bit better when he did it with Nina around. And he wanted to tell her that.

Nina would ask him what was up with him, Devil knew that. He'd just have to tell her as much as he was able to. No lying, but he couldn't tell her the truth, not all of it, anyway. She'd know, she'd understand, she'd been understanding about it so far, and Devil just had to hope she'd keep on doing that now. Right now he needed her understanding more than anything else.

The sad song that was played on the jukebox is "The Lion's Roar" by First Aid kit. Beautiful song.

Also, I've watched every available episode of Justified, The Walking Dead and Misfits and am currently catching up on Community. Anyone have any ideas about what TV show I should occupy my mind with after I'm finished with Community? I'm open to any and all suggestions you might have to offer me. Long as it ain't Homeland. Or Mad Men. Ah, just shoot.