let's play with fire // mason
Jun 4, 2020 23:14:43 GMT -5
Post by Python on Jun 4, 2020 23:14:43 GMT -5
t a r o n .
"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."
His misery was like clockwork. Wake up to the bastard holding him prisoner, cook breakfast for said bastard, and pray to false gods that he wouldn't take his frustrations out on Taron that day. Run errands, have sex, follow orders - wash, rinse, repeat, I wish I was dead. His life was painted a million shades of grey, with one violent splash of red. Rudy, the sick bastard, had managed to carve out most of his optimism, leaving a bitter shell and remnants of a once innocent soul.
He was ruined now, forced to sin for a gang he didn't give two shits about. He would rather see them all killed.
They were his shadow. Quite literally; one trailed behind him on this very night, creeping forth through alleyways and abandoned buildings to complete a drug run. Taron hated doing these shitty errands for the boss. While he was out partying, Taron had to pick up the slack and surround himself with scumbags and morons? He would much rather be taking a nap, even if he did loathe the home Rudy had made his prison.
Taron paid no attention to his partner. Some idiot grunt, couldn't remember the name. He didn't care. Anything he had to say would swirl through one ear and out the other, a string of meaningless bullshit. Taron inhaled deeply, exhaled dramatically through his nose, and approached the inner core of the warehouse. Shadows danced around them, but nothing about it was scary anymore. If someone jumped out of the black abyss to shoot him in the face, oh well.
As they loaded the bags, Taron settled himself against a stack of crates. No help at all - he would let the other men do the dirty work.
"What's taking so long?" He complained. The big, burly stranger paused to glower at him. Tough looking guy.
"This is delicate work. How about you get off your ass and help us?"
Taron clicked his tongue, loading it with venom. A reckless opportunity to lash out had presented itself, and he always took the bait if it wasn't Rudy. "How about you work faster?"
They stared each other down. Taron sensed the steam rising from the other's greasy hair. Every gang grunt was exactly the same; short fuses, happy triggers. "You better watch your mouth," he growled.
"Or what? You gonna cry about it?"
This wasn't the first time he had tied a noose around his own neck. He challenged death around every corner, asking politely for its release, but it rejected him time and time again. Nobody noticed the lack of regard for his own life. Rudy would kill his family for it, and everyone else in the gang knew him as untouchable.
But this guy? He was new territory. A reckless way to get what he wanted.
Or, he might just get his ass kicked. If that was the case, then he would at least get the satisfaction of watching Rudy beat someone else to a pulp for a change.
The man withdrew a knife from his belt. It glowed silver beneath moon beams. "I'm warning you, kid."
He didn't relent. "Oooh, a knife," he sang, voice drenched in sarcasm, "Never seen one of those before. Are you gonna use it to carve a pretty heart for me?"
The man lunged. Taron thought his life might flash before his eyes, but instead he only saw the fire in the man's rugged gaze as he pressed cold steel to his throat. His heart threatened to lurch out of his chest in a sudden frenzy of regret - you don't actually want to die, do you? Too late. His life was in somebody else's hands now.