Disclaimer: see Prologue
Title: taken from Bruno Mars feat. Damian Marley's Liquor Store Blues
Chapter Ten: Give me this one shot for my pain...
Jim managed to get to London without being seen. He immediately went to a cheap hotel in the East End and got comfortable there. Prostitution was big, but Jim had had enough of selling his body to men who weren't worth the dirt on his shoes. He needed something new, something that would earn him money, good money, and lots of it.
So he lay low and watched. His decision was made pretty fast. Drugs. He could see the addicts, walking around, always in search for the next shot, ready to do anything to get their fix. And there were so many… He would make a fortune. The only question was: where on earth would he get the drugs from? He lacked the contacts, he had not enough time to make some himself, and he definitely wouldn't spend his money on buying drugs and then sell them.
And then one night, he went out, armed with a baseball bat, and took down the first dealer he saw. He didn't even regret it properly. Sure, hitting somebody in the back of their head wasn't what a gentleman would do. But he wasn't a gentleman, and, frankly, people had done worse things to him. So he took the dealer's stash, tampered with the drugs to make them seem like more, made bigger portions and sold them for only a bit more than the initial price. It earned him a small fortune in a short period of time.
But what was more important, he listened. Listened to what the buyers said about other dealers. All fucked up themselves. Jim decided he needed to take a different route. He needed to stand out to get the clients. So, he went to buy a suit. Amidst all the drug dealers in their shabby band shirts and torn jeans, he looked like a trustworthy man, and soon, he got more and more clients; everybody bought his stuff because he didn't look dangerous. After all, he was still a boy, even though he wore a suit.
And because of his listening, he knew who the black sheep were, the guys that sold the really bad stuff that could kill you, so he made sure to never steal their stash. Because that was what he did, every night. Jump a drug dealer, steal his stash, resell it. It was almost too easy.
Soon, he had detected who was in charge of the drug business; the big boys. A Cuban gang, and the mafia. Of course, who else? Jim was pretty sure that the Cubans owned the East End. The mafia was probably selling cocaine in Westminster and Belgravia. He didn't know much about the Cubans, and barely spoke a word of Spanish, so he was rather clueless about their hierarchy. He just knew that drug dealers were expendable, and that many of them were offed if they lost their stash one too many times to him. The dealers changed, but their corners didn't.
And then it happened. Jim had lurked in the dark next to the corner where he knew the dealer carried the biggest stash because most clients came there. He waited patiently, and then struck. His bat landed on the side of the dealer's head; he went down without so much as a whimper. Jim put the bat away and knelt down next to the guy, looking for the stash. He had nothing on him.
Jim saw the movement to late. There was a swish, and he was out.
When he woke up again, his mind was clouded. It took him a while to realize what had happened. He had looked for the dealer's stash, something had moved, and… nothing. But his head was throbbing, and he felt nauseated. He had been knocked out cold. And he was… bound to a chair? Holy crap. How did that happen? He tried to find out, but his head ached too much, and he knew he was going to be sick. He fought it for a while, but then vomited. Damn it. My only suit. But the relief was almost instant. He looked around, careful not to make any rushed movements. Warehouse. Like in some cheap movie. He was tied to the chair with ropes. His upper body was tied to the back of it, his wrists behind it, his feet to the legs. No way out. He could do nothing but wait.
They let him wait for hours, until finally someone walked in. "Buenas noches, señor. I don't believe we have met. I am Clavo Torres. What is your name, hermoso?" Jim watched the guy. Tall, for a latino. Long curly hair of the deepest black shade Jim had ever seen. Skin the colour of cinnamon. Torres. Spanish. The Cubans. SO, they had finally got tired of him stealing their drugs. Well, he couldn't really blame them. "I'm talking to you, hermoso. What is your name?"
"James."
"James. Very nice name. Now, my boss is not very happy with you. Diego De La Garza." The Cuban drug lord. Of course Jim knew him. His name was whispered in the streets. Given that there were some other drug lords in London, but De La Garza practically owned all of them. And now he had his attention on Jim. That couldn't be good. "In fact, he would have come here personally, but he's got other vermin to kill right now. But he wants me to let you know that he does not like you."
"Aw, he doesn't? How am I gonna get over that? Is he angry cos I ruined his business? I'm really sorry…" The words were out before he had considered their impact. He was nervous, of course he was. He had left Dublin so the terrorists wouldn't capture and torture him to death, and now he was in an even bigger mess. Who wouldn't be nervous? Scared, even? But he couldn't show that. He had to hold on to his dignity. Not ever would anybody humiliate him again the way Carl Powers had done, and certainly not this thug. "It won't happen again."
"That's not good enough, hermoso. Diego wants his money back. Where is the money?"
"That's mine. I earned it. But you can work for me if you want?" Yeah, that's cool, Jim. Provoke them. "I sure could teach you something."
The fist came out of nowhere and hit him square across his jaw. Jim could see spots in his vision, his head was swirling. He tried to blink the spots away and whispered, "Fuck…"
The man patted his cheek, "See, hermoso, this will be painful. Mas painful. If you don't give us our money back, Diego himself will take over. And he knows how to break people. Better give the money up. What do you say, guaguito?"
Guaguito… His mother's nickname for him. Jim blinked again. So what if he died? He would be reunited with her. With her and his father. Why was he afraid to die? It would be good, leaving this shit planet and this life that held nothing but pain for him no matter what he did. Some more pain, and he would be back with his mam and da, and it would be heavenly.
He spat out some blood and said, and his voice wasn't quivering for a second, "You want money? Go to a fucking bank." Mam. Da. I'm coming. Don't watch now, though.
About twenty-four hours later, Jim crawled back home. He had failed. At some point, the pain, even to somebody who was used to it, had become too much to handle, and he had given up his address. They had send somebody to collect the money, and only when it was safe in their hands again, they had let him go. And now, he was dragging himself into his bathroom in this little shit-hole he called his own, now stripped of everything slightly valuable. He crawled into the shower cabin and turned the water on sizzling hot. As he watched the water run down the drain, painted a rather sickening shade of pink, he couldn't help but laughing. He had wished for nothing more than death, but no, the world clung to him and wouldn't let him leave. Fuck it.
He remained sitting there for about half an hour, before he got up, walked to the mirror and assessed the damage. There was a gash on his forehead, sinking in relatively deep, from where he had been knocked out. His nose was broken, and there were cuts below his right eye and in the corner of his mouth. He ran his tongue along his teeth; all still there. His ribs were badly bruised, but not a single one was broken. Clearly they were no amateurs: able to inflict a massive amount of pain on their victim, but leaving no permanent damage. Jim couldn't help but admire them.
Well, here he was again: broken, broke, and with no perspective. He limped over to his mattress and curled up in a ball. Not because he was sad, or weak, or anything. No. Jim Moriarty wasn't weak. He was thinking. He would come back. Stronger than ever. If the world didn't want him to die when it was everything he wished for, it would surely present him with a way out of this misery soon.
The church bell struck twelve. Jim raised his head slowly. If he wasn't mistaken totally, today was his birthday. And he wasn't.
"Well, happy birthday to you, Jim Moriarty. Seventeen years old, two murders. If that isn't a career."
Yeah...seems the greatest Fandom of the world is getting a bit lazy with reviewing...
