~~~Pure crack. Sorry about that. Been watching too much 'Castle'~~~
. .
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„I told you, Bill. I fucking told you."
Richie's words were poison, and Bill could feel it all the way from there, in the clown's deathly clutches. It was just another reason to moan in agony as he at last completely gave up on the futile struggles.
„I don't wanna die."
At Its menacing grin, Richie began pacing as to not having to look at Its face, counting on his fingers for emphasis. „You punched me in the face. You made me walk through shitty water, you brought me to a fucking crackhead house—"
The being did not like the title its residence was given and the grin instantly dropped to a dangerously low frown, and the grip on its captured victim tightened, but for once, Richie was immune to the look.
„And now..." Tozier reached over, pulling a fair-sized baseball bat which looked like it hurts, fixing his eyes on the unhinged entity, fury replacing fear in a flash.
„I'm gonna have to kill this fucking clown."
The yellow eyes burned even stronger as the being shifted—
But was immediately stopped, buried in place, paused, startled, by a noise.
Not just any noise.
A ringtone.
Not just any ringtone.
Tequila.
A globally familiar saxophone theme backed up by a guitar and the rhythmic percussion, echoing unmistakeably across the dark cistern. It came so surprisingly, actually, that even the everpresent, hungry tension reared back baffled, and if it had a face, there would be a definite frown of confusion planted there.
Richie's eyes traveled left and right. Beverly exchanged a slow eye contact with Stan, who seemed to be equally befuddled. Even Bill quit moaning and frowned, puzzled at this abrupt, snowball's-chance-in-hell unmistakeable change. Eddie and Ben, at the rear, turned their heads back towards the source of the noise.
Towards the only person who still stood stoically firm, crowbar gripped in a hand, ice-cold dark eyes staring forward.
Then Mike clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, reaching into his pocket. „'Scuse me", he mumbled, turning around and flipping the old phone open just as the guy was mean to drag out that tardy, idle ''Tequila''.
„Hello? ...Yeah." Mike's shoes echoed throughout the giant space as he took a few steps away. Nobody of the rest dared to move, let alone speak. Even Eddie held back the ˮWhat the fuck, dude?! Did you seriously answer a call now?!" that was doubtlessly lingering on the tip of his tongue, but his jaw hung open apart just slightly, not allowing anything emerge besides breaths.
The clown's face was twisted into something torn between confusion and rage, and when Richie took note of it, he couldn't decide if it was dementedly creepy, or genuinely funny.
„WHAT?!" the whole group twitched violently, clown included when Mike whipped back around, and his face was beyond livid, unlike anything any of the Losers had ever seen on him. Not even Pennywise. The thundering remnants traveled up, up high all the way to the opening with floating bodies.
„What do you mean slipped away?" the farmboy's voice was as sharp as an arrow unleashed from the bow's string, and it successfully hit all of his friends. Richie, who nearly dropped the bat at the thunder, was now holding it hanging a few inches from the floor. Hanlon turned and started pacing, jaw firm and teeth gritted.
„Look I don't care how many cars he's nicked or where he went", Mike paused, back turned against the scene. He obviously thought talking quieter would do him good when every word successfully bounced off the damp walls, dip launching down and into the ears of the struck spectators.
„Find him, tie him up, cut off his toes, one by one, skin him alive, boil his brain, and if he hasn't talked by then, have Ballamara stuff him in the fridge and throw him in the ocean. And get. me. my. money back, or it's you who's gonna end up in the fridge!"
Hissing out the final sentence, Mike folded back the phone with an exasperated sigh and furious eyes rolled upwards with a long inhale.
„W-w-what the—" any noun that Bill wanted to utter was prevented by the gloved hand coming to cup his mouth. It effectively shut him up, but the look on the boy's face hadn't faltered a bit.
Exhaling, Mike turned around and pocketed the phone, carrying a neutral expression the Losers have witnessed on him on daily basis. „Mafia these days..."
His posture was suddenly slackened, like that of a rebellious teenager, and he leaned on one leg, casually almost. Like hadn't just had a violent conversation with who knows who over the phone that made the rest of the Losers question who was more lunatic, the beast they've come to defeat, or a friend supposedly fighting next to them.
So they continued to stare, mute, awestruck. With the exception of It blinking once, expression unchanged.
Mike spread an arm out in question. „What?" if they didn't know better, he all but scoffed. „Can't a man have a hobby?"
An awkward silence stretched on for a few more moments, hanging in the air and making Beverly break eye contact and all of a sudden, the floor seemed very interesting.
Until Bill cleared his throat behind the gloved hand that still held his mouth, and it was all the trigger Richie needed, lifting the bat back up and snapping his friends back to reality.
„Welcome to the Losers' club, asshole!"
.
.
The club stared at the hole the creature had departed from a long while ago, scarcely able to believe the course of events that had just come to a close. Was it because they were all physically and emotionally exhausted or not recovered from initial shock yet, nobody cared to think it through. It was all over now, and that was all it mattered. To all of them.
Well... until 'Tequila' started up again, startling Stan out of whichever horrific trance he was trapped in. Mike didn't move his gaze from the gaping hole as the phone was once again on his ear, this time a lot faster.
„Yeah?
...
Oh, he paid? Huh. Weird, that doesn't usually happen, there's always somebody who screws up.
...
Well, ditch him, anyway.
...
Because that's what we do, now cut the crap, and get the fridge."
Click.