Kekse
Drifter
Being the lowest man on the totem pole sucked.
While it's true that everyone has to start somewhere, not everyone gets saddled with telling their boss's most important client that his weekly delivery wasn't going to happen. Especially when said boss was the city's top drug lord, and his client was the resident mafia kingpin. A kingpin who got more than a little antsy when his supply of 'the good stuff' was even an hour late.
Yet that's the position Van White found himself in on this dark, rainy Wednesday night. He huddled miserably under little more than a window ledge, the only 'cover' in the vicinity, waiting for what he was pretty sure would be a quick end. Rumors had flown in the the drug runner circle from the day he was dragged into it that those who displeased Mr. Mafioso Man would turn up in a field somewhere, missing something dear to them. Like their heads. Or their body. Which one was missing depended, really, on which one you in particular had stumbled on. And saying, "I'm sorry man, but our manufacturer was short this week, so we can't get you your candy" was definitely going to displease him.
Van tucked his hands into his armpits and watched the raindrops fall from the edge of his hood, barely missing his nose on their journey to his feet. He considered checking his watch, but it wouldn't do him much good. The mafia rep would arrive in his own time. He also considered skipping town, starting a new life as a circus juggler, and spending the rest of his life in hiding, but that sounded like a lot of work. And Benson wasn't about to just give up on finding someone who owed him money. If only Van had never gone to that party...never gotten his first taste of the hard stuff...never gotten hooked on drugs he couldn't pay for. Perhaps he might instead be sipping a fruity drink on a beach somewhere, scrolling mindlessly through his stock portfolio while his drop-dead gorgeous husband played sand volleyball in a speedo. But no. He'd gotten himself into a debt he couldn't repay and a 'career' he couldn't quit.
So whether he stayed or went, he was a dead man.
A clock somewhere began to chime midnight as a dark figure emerged from the rain. Van squinted in an attempt to catch any features of the newcomer, but they were wearing a black cloak and mask which totally obscured their identity. He stopped directly in front of Van and his eyes narrowed. "Where's the delivery?" asked a gravelly voice from behind the mask. Van swallowed hard, unable to answer despite the words sitting on his tongue like barbells. The man leaned forward and grabbed Van's collar, dragging him so close that Van could smell the man's foul breath. "Where. Is. The. Delivery?"
"The uh...the manufacturer was low on stock this week and so we couldn't-"
Van was cut off by the man wrapping what felt like a supernaturally strong hand around his throat and lifting him up off the ground for just a moment. "Are you telling me that I'm going to have to tell Boss that Benson has let him down? Because I'm pretty sure you know as well as I do that that news will not make him happy. Do you or do you not have the drugs?" Van managed to shake his head just slightly before the man pulled a gun from his pocket and Van's world went dark.
~~
He woke in a pitch-black room with a splitting headache and distinctly fewer belongings. That is to say, other than his shirt and pants, Van had been stripped of everything. He lay on what felt like a concrete floor with his hands and feet bound, his mouth gagged, and a chain clamped around his ankle for good measure. A soft groan made its way through the gag, though most of it got lost in the folds of fabric on its way out. How long he'd been...wherever he was, he had absolutely no idea. But hey, he was alive still, and that was more than he'd expected.
While it's true that everyone has to start somewhere, not everyone gets saddled with telling their boss's most important client that his weekly delivery wasn't going to happen. Especially when said boss was the city's top drug lord, and his client was the resident mafia kingpin. A kingpin who got more than a little antsy when his supply of 'the good stuff' was even an hour late.
Yet that's the position Van White found himself in on this dark, rainy Wednesday night. He huddled miserably under little more than a window ledge, the only 'cover' in the vicinity, waiting for what he was pretty sure would be a quick end. Rumors had flown in the the drug runner circle from the day he was dragged into it that those who displeased Mr. Mafioso Man would turn up in a field somewhere, missing something dear to them. Like their heads. Or their body. Which one was missing depended, really, on which one you in particular had stumbled on. And saying, "I'm sorry man, but our manufacturer was short this week, so we can't get you your candy" was definitely going to displease him.
Van tucked his hands into his armpits and watched the raindrops fall from the edge of his hood, barely missing his nose on their journey to his feet. He considered checking his watch, but it wouldn't do him much good. The mafia rep would arrive in his own time. He also considered skipping town, starting a new life as a circus juggler, and spending the rest of his life in hiding, but that sounded like a lot of work. And Benson wasn't about to just give up on finding someone who owed him money. If only Van had never gone to that party...never gotten his first taste of the hard stuff...never gotten hooked on drugs he couldn't pay for. Perhaps he might instead be sipping a fruity drink on a beach somewhere, scrolling mindlessly through his stock portfolio while his drop-dead gorgeous husband played sand volleyball in a speedo. But no. He'd gotten himself into a debt he couldn't repay and a 'career' he couldn't quit.
So whether he stayed or went, he was a dead man.
A clock somewhere began to chime midnight as a dark figure emerged from the rain. Van squinted in an attempt to catch any features of the newcomer, but they were wearing a black cloak and mask which totally obscured their identity. He stopped directly in front of Van and his eyes narrowed. "Where's the delivery?" asked a gravelly voice from behind the mask. Van swallowed hard, unable to answer despite the words sitting on his tongue like barbells. The man leaned forward and grabbed Van's collar, dragging him so close that Van could smell the man's foul breath. "Where. Is. The. Delivery?"
"The uh...the manufacturer was low on stock this week and so we couldn't-"
Van was cut off by the man wrapping what felt like a supernaturally strong hand around his throat and lifting him up off the ground for just a moment. "Are you telling me that I'm going to have to tell Boss that Benson has let him down? Because I'm pretty sure you know as well as I do that that news will not make him happy. Do you or do you not have the drugs?" Van managed to shake his head just slightly before the man pulled a gun from his pocket and Van's world went dark.
~~
He woke in a pitch-black room with a splitting headache and distinctly fewer belongings. That is to say, other than his shirt and pants, Van had been stripped of everything. He lay on what felt like a concrete floor with his hands and feet bound, his mouth gagged, and a chain clamped around his ankle for good measure. A soft groan made its way through the gag, though most of it got lost in the folds of fabric on its way out. How long he'd been...wherever he was, he had absolutely no idea. But hey, he was alive still, and that was more than he'd expected.
