So, the mission begins. A new character in this one and a cameo as well. Hope everyone enjoys.
Skovko, I figured that it would be a good way to rile Stephanie so it seemed appropriate!
Ohana1337, Glad you're still enjoying it...wish granted, here is more!
Andrew27king, They certainly do, in a big way as well!
AngelOfDeathOfWrestling, Aww, thanks, someone loving your work is always a great compliment to get. Don't worry, more is on the way!
Scrapheap City
The victims had been from an area of Suplex known as The Battleground. It was a forgotten sort of place. A place that young guys struggled to get out of and find opportunities outside of crime or a box. The entire borough was run-down and just grimy and the whole place lacked life or any kind of hope. Dean had grown up in a place much like it, but The Battleground made even his neighbourhood look good. Frankly, the place was suitable for nothing except heavy demolition or, like, a Biblical flood, which was why it was so completely unsettling that in terms of his appearance, Dean looked like he belonged.
As in really looked like it.
The locals seemed to think so anyway, because in the – close to – three hours he had been hitting up bars there, no one had batted an eyelid his direction. No one had asked who he was or what he was doing there and no one had beaten him into a pulp.
So far so good.
In fact if it wasn't for the minor detail that the place was a crap hole, Dean might have chosen to start his new life there. Why not? He obviously already had the look down. Surely that was half the work?
There was a crackle in his ear and he winced just a little and spun in the direction of a van parked down the street,
"Hey uce, you okay?"
Dean flapped his hands at it, making the gesture as discreet as he could.
"It's just you weren't moving – ,"
"Well forgive me for fuckin' thinkin'," Dean shot back testily, aware that of the both men could hear. In their absence as a functioning team, some obvious technological advances had been made. Among them were covert surveillance equipment because god were the earpieces miniscule now. Dean was half-worried he would lose the thing internally and it would stay there forever just drifting round his brain. He wondered if you could die from it, or if it was even possiblebut was rudely interrupted by Roman speaking again,
"The next bar's just a little further down the road. We'll hang back here. Shout if you need us. If you're lucky we might bust in and save your ass."
"My ass has been doin' just fine without your ass, so how 'bout we leave this one to me, huh?"
He could practically hear them smile over the wire and he hated that it almost made him smile back. Putting his head down, he stepped into the bar and then promptly almost stepped straight back out. None of the bars he had been in that morning were exactly classy, but this was easily the worst.
For a start the place was practically in darkness and lit by a variety of novelty neon signs. Half of them were for beer brands that had folded up years ago and the other half were random words like bullshit and buzz. It was a long, thin bar, with tables down one side and a variety of disorganised bottles on the shelves. The floor was chipped and actually sticky and the whole damn place seemed oppressive as hell. Choosing a bar stool that wasn't ripped to pieces and then badly taped back over again, Dean hopped onto it and dropped his elbows on the bar-top, trying to avoid the many puddles of booze,
The bartender didn't even bother to look up at him and simply slung him a bored sounding –
"Yeah?"
"Give me a beer," Dean replied brusquely, flipping a few notes over, "Whatever you got,"
A bottle was shoved down the counter towards him, ploughing through the middle of a spillage on its way. Dean scooped it up and tried not to look unhappy as someone else's beverage trickled right across his thumb.
"That's four dollars."
"I've only got three man," Dean turned his hands over, "Can you let a brother off?"
The bartender was tall and pretty thin-set but muscular, with a goatee and slicked back black hair. His arms and the chest underneath his white t-shirt were a mass of bright, interconnected tattoos and his eyes were sharp and coolly appraising. His expression gave Dean his answer.
No.
He would definitely not let a brother off and so Dean fumbled quickly around in his pocket and pulled loose some change,
"Hey, look at that, huh? Had some more after all."
The bartender responded with a grunt of pure malice and hastily Dean passed the money across. If it was possible then the area behind the sticky counter was even worse than the rest of the place itself, with seventies-style kitchen cupboards badly taped together and more cheesy stickers than he had thought could exist.
I love pink taco.
Vanilla Gorilla.
Turbodog.
I heart guns.
The place felt almost borderline schizophrenic and the screen in the corner wasn't helping much, alternating wildly between blue lines of static and a sports channel with the colour contrast royally jacked up.
He could feel a headache starting to come on.
"Come on Dean," he heard Seth in his earpiece and he bristled instinctively, "We've not got all day."
"Fuck you."
The bartender looked round at him sharply,
"Did you say something?"
"Uh no, not to you. I uh – I just had an argument with my girl is all. She's complainin' about me not findin' any work. Money's been kind of tight lately, y'know?"
Considering that he was thinking on the fly – and damn it all Seth – it was a pretty good ruse. Certainly plausible at least if nothing else. Not that the bartender seemed much moved by it all. In fact the guy didn't even speak.
"Push him, see if he's got any contacts."
Damn it Seth, stop buggin' me.
It wasn't as if he didn't know how it worked.
"Hey I don't suppose – I mean – you wouldn't have any work goin' here would you man? I'm not lookin' for much. Just somethin' y'know? A few bucks here and there to put food on the table. It's not for me or nothin', I'm just tryn'a feed my kids."
The bartender snorted and looked back at him accusingly,
"Along with that habit I'm bettin' you've got."
Jesus.
Even this guy thought he was an addict. Maybe it was time he cut his fucking hair, or overhauled his wardrobe or had a make-over or something. Being mistaken for a junkie was getting old. Dean shrugged mildly,
"Well, I mean, maybe sometimes I have a little puff but who doesn't y'know?"
The bartender's expression briefly darkened and he shook his head to shut him down.
"I ain't got nothin' for ya man, but even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you."
Then he turned and walked off into the backroom, signalling abruptly that their conversation was done. Dean blinked after him in shades of amazement. What were the odds of finding a straight edge? A straight edge in The Battleground who owned a damn bar?
"So I take it that guy isn't our man then?"
Dean rolled his eyes at Seth's voice,
"No."
He wanted to throw in a snarky Captain Obvious but managed to stop himself just in time. Roman sighed down the channels of the earpiece and Dean could hear him rustling through the file,
"Want to try the next one?"
Dean slid off the barstool wearily, pulling loose a piece of the tape, instantly stuffing starting haemorrhaging from out it and he rolled his eyes.
Fuckin' great.
He was about to turn and simply walk out of there when a figure stepped in front of him.
"Hey there."
Dean stopped.
He didn't like what he saw.
The guy was white – as in ridiculously milky – but his pale skin was offset by vibrant red hair. It was shaven on both sides and then swept up into a mohawk that complimented his actually braided goatee. There was an accent too which was broad and lilting and –
Wait, were those fucking ornaments in his beard? Dean was so busy trying to figure out the answer that he almost forgot to say anything back.
"Oh – uh – hey."
"So I couldn't help overhear you talkin' to Punk back there. Sounds like you've got it pretty rough?"
Momentarily, Dean's body stiffened but outwardly he shrugged and tried to play it off,
"Times are hard. Everyone's strugglin'."
"Some of us more than others though, huh?"
The stranger smiled at him with a creepy expression and Dean scratched absently at the back of his head. Or, at least, it looked like it was absent. In reality it was a trick to draw the guy in. People who were itchy or generally awkward had less chance of being pegged as cops.
"You got that right," Dean whistled back, "Kinda startin' to get desperate now. Y'know how it is?"
The guy nodded,
"Sure I do. Say, what's your name there feller?"
"Jon – Jon Moxley,"
He held out his hand and the other man took it, pumping it up and down like a piston. Arm muscles bulged out from underneath his shirt sleeves and owing to what was no doubt some serious gym hours, the Irishman's grip was firm and strong.
"Name's Sheamus."
Dean nodded,
"Nice to meet you."
"Wanna join me at my table? I'll buy you another drink."
"Sounds pretty good, thanks man."
"No problem, I'm over by the window. I'll be right back."
Turning the guy headed back towards the counter and waited for the surly-looking barman to reappear. Dean watched him go with a frisson of excitement. This was their guy right? Like, he had to be? Either that or he was unknowingly being hit on which seemed pretty unlikely in that part of town. Letting out a sigh, he turned towards the table and slid himself cautiously into the corner of the booth. Describing the location as by the window was a stretch considering the thing was boarded clean up, but the darkness allowed him to tap at his earpiece and murmur quietly,
"You guys gettin' this?"
"Sure are," Seth responded, "You think it's him?"
Roman was more explicit,
"You okay?"
His instant mother-henning was strangely reassuring and Dean bit back the ghost of a smile,
"Yeah, I'm good. I'll see what I can get from him. Kinda feelin' like this could be the guy."
"Alright but be careful, this dude might be dangerous."
"Don't worry Big Man, I've done this before."
By the time Sheamus returned with two dripping bottles, Dean had already settled on an act. He was going to play his Moxley alter-ego as friendly and trusting and desperate for a buck. He was also going to play him as a borderline dependent and so as the beer hit the table, he snatched it right up. The alcohol tasted dirty and bitter and after twelve months without it, the suds burnt his throat.
Wow.
In many ways it was kind of pathetic. Once upon a time he'd been the king of hard booze. Now there he was feeling mildly light-headed after one lonely sip of what was essentially weak ass shit. After a life of sin and damn near debauchery, at the age of thirty one, he'd become a god damn nun.
Instead of saying that however, he held up the bottle and nodded his head,
"Tastes good, thanks man. I owe you – for real."
"What this? Nah, don't mention it. I'm sure you'd do the same for me, right?"
Dean nodded puppy-like back at him,
"Sure."
"So what's going on feller? Wanna talk about it?"
Dean shrugged,
"What's there to talk about? I got laid off."
"Which has made things kind of difficult at home, right?"
Dean snorted loudly,
"Man, you got that right. Y'know what my girl did? She packed up my crap and fuckin' threw me out. Now she's sayin' I can't see the kids until I prove I'm responsible or some shit like that."
For extra points on the sympathy front Dean laughed bitterly and threw back a few more chugs.
Yuk.
Sheamus however merely shook his head sadly and heaved a heavy-sounding sigh. If Dean wasn't a god damn professional bullshit spotter then he might have been tempted to believe the guy too.
"I'm sorry Jon, that sounds rough."
"You're tellin' me dude. It's the fuckin' worst."
As Dean rocked his bottle from left to right on the table – once again affecting an intentional unintentional tick – Sheamus took a little chug of his own beer but Dean could see him dribble it back down the neck. If his instinct hadn't pegged the guy as false already then that little number would pretty much have done the trick.
Why buy a beer if you weren't going to drink it?
Why pretend you were?
Surely it fucking had to be him.
"Any idea where you're going to find work Jon?"
Dean shook his head,
"No fuckin' clue. I've tried – like – every place I can think of. Why do you think I ended up here?"
Sheamus nodded back at him, achingly silent then made a big show like he was trying to think. It was a clumsy, over-the-top little performance – the moron actually tapped at his lips – but on the flip side it made Dean feel like Pacino and if it got them to the next stage then so be it.
"This guy sounds like an idiot. You sure it's him?"
For a man who had been out of the loop for almost three years, Seth's perceptiveness clearly hadn't warn off. He could seemingly tell an idiot from mere silence and although Dean still rankled at the thought of working with him, he couldn't help but stifle a grin.
Sheamus snapped him right back out of it,
"Look feller, I like you – I mean, you seem like a nice guy and we all need to help each other out these days, so I think I might have something that can help with your cash flow situation, alright? I'm warning you though, it isn't for everyone but if you do it then I guarantee your problems will be solved."
Unless your problems centred around dialysis, in which case they were far more likely to get worse. Dean sat forward in his chair like a child waiting for a present,
"You serious man? How?"
Two could play the hamming-it-up game only Sheamus was too damn stupid to know. Glancing quickly around the bar – which was still as deserted as it had been when he'd arrived – Sheamus leant in close across the table and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial hiss,
"There are certain things that other people want which sell for a fortune."
"Things like what?"
"Things we've all got."
Dean had to hand to the man he'd called a moron – he was keeping his cards pretty close to his chest. So far what they had was totally inadmissible and amounted to nothing more than a pep talk.
"Get him to say it Dean."
Shut up Seth.
Dean screwed his brows up and offered across a frown,
"I'm not sure I'm really gettin' you man. What the hell do I have that anyone would pay for?"
"You'd be surprised."
"I would, huh?"
Suddenly seeming to lose confidence in the whole thing, Sheamus shook his head and sat back against the booth. In the silence he scooped up his beer and took another swig and – yep – once again he spat it straight back.
Fucker.
"Look, forget I mentioned it. I can see it's not your thing – ,"
"No, no. I mean, I'm pretty desperate here, right? So – I don't know man – can you maybe tell me a little bit more? Like, what would I be getting into here? Is it dangerous?"
He was asking the questions that he assumed anyone would but also the ones that would highlight his interest. It was a balancing act between sounding too keen and sounding too nervous. Luckily however, he got it just right. The next thing he knew, Sheamus was leaning closer and looking around cautiously,
"Not here feller, alright? Not here."
"So where?"
The other man licked his lips like he was anxious, or maybe it was just from the thrill of the chase. Idly Dean wondered how much bringing in poor schmucks netted the guy. He was certainly wearing a pretty fancy watch.
Fancier than Dean's was at any rate.
"You know the old bowling alley on the corner of Austin and Rock?"
He didn't but figured it wouldn't take long to find it and he was rewarded with tapping and then a voice in his ear,
"Got it."
He nodded at Sheamus,
"Sure."
"Meet me there at nine tonight. Come alone okay? We'll talk a little more."
Partly because he thought he should – for the sake of character – and partly to rile him up, Dean frowned mildly and kept up the confused act,
"Hey man, why all this cloak and daggers stuff? You're startin' to worry me a little here, y'know?"
"No, no – I just don't want anyone else to overhear us. I mean, this is a favour I'm doing for you here. I wouldn't want everyone round these parts to know."
"Oh," Dean responded, nodding like he bought it, "I got ya man. Comin' through loud and clear."
"Once we're somewhere – you know – quieter, I can answer your questions. I'm guessing you've got a few?"
"Just one at the moment."
"Which is what?"
"Does it pay well?"
"How does five grand sound?"
Dean's mouth dropped in genuine shock.
Not fucking good.
Provided the guy was talking about body parts – which he had to be although he hadn't actually said as much – then kidneys could sell for twenty times that privately. Not that Dean should have been all that surprised. Criminals weren't big on sharing profit after all. But still, there he was near enough offering up his body and this Sheamus guy was selling him out.
"Sounds great man."
"I told you it would solve things but like I said, I can fill in all the gaps for you later. You still in?"
Dean blinked back at him, thinking for a second – or appearing to at least.
"Yeah – fuck it – what the hell, I'm in."
Sheamus grinned broadly,
"Don't worry, you'll be fine. I told you Jon, I like you, alright? I'll look after ya."
"I bet he will."
At the sound of Roman's voice in his ear, Dean smirked a little but reached forward to raise his beer. Sheamus caught on quickly and lifted his own up to meet it and the sound of chinking glass echoed up and down the bar.
"To new beginnings man," Dean smiled obliquely, "And – like – better things, right?"
"Right," Sheamus nodded, "Trust me feller. You're going to be a very rich man."
Don't ask me why Sheamus is the bad guy. He just seemed a good fit. We meet some friends of his in the next chapter and yes - before you ask - they're wrestlers as well!