Sulfurlix
Member
Sucking in a breath of fresh air, the man shifted his back against the wall of the closing gym. The familiar thick, Spanish accented voices flew about the gym, along with the thick scent of sweaty fools. Ricardo slowly shifted his gaze around the musky room, his hand flipping the cheap, gas station phone around in his hand. He was waiting for Fernandez, and a call from 'the boss' about the next delivery of nothing but illegal substances. It was taking rather long, and his patience and nerves were starting to run thin. They were never late, so what kept them this time? Growling a few curses--in Spanish--under his breath, Ricardo dialed the number and put it to his ear, grinding his teeth together while glancing around. With no answer, he pushed himself from the wall, and started to the door. His boots hit the ground at a steady pace before he shoved the door open to step into the cool night air.
Brown eyes sliding over the mostly barren streets, Ricardo turned down to the left and walked a few steps. He stopped by his motorcycle. Flipping the phone in his hand a bit more, he debated calling again; the signal might be bad where the others were coming from. Seeing someone from the corner of his eye, he quickly turned to look at an unfamiliar man who began walking over, with a briefcase in his hand. "Quién es usted?" Ricardo questioned with a frown (translation: Who are you?). He received no response as the man just hurried forward to say something in a language Ricardo didn't know, and opened the case. Already being jumpy, Ricardo had his hand on his gun, fingers brushing the cool metal. "¿Quién te envió?" Ricardo asked as he gripped his gun (translation: Who sent you?).
The other man gave him a confused look, glancing down to the briefcase full of watches and other useless things he was trying to sell, blabbering off in his language Ricardo didn't know. " Vete!" Ricardo shooed the man away, pulling his jacket back over his gun (translation: Go away!). Where WERE they? Glancing around, Ricardo tugged at his dullish red shirt, one of their gang colors, as he started to walk down the street with a scowl on his face. Maybe these fools forgot, that tended to happen. He should know; he was one of the main 'dealers' for his gang. To hell if he was going to stand around and wait any longer, that was a waste of his time. Showing a hand through his hair, Ricardo shoved his eyebrows together roughly before glancing around.
It was a rather eerie night, he'd give it that. Taking a breath of the cool air, Ricardo wandered down the street a bit more, slightly enjoying the silence. He'd have to call the boss later, and tell him around the stand up. Too bad he'd never get the chance. Almost five seconds after the thought, he felt the sudden ache of pain smash against the back of his head. It's hard surface sent him crumbling to the ground with sudden blurred vision, a groan leaving his mouth. He heard yet another unfamiliar language drift into his ears. The last thing Ricardo saw was a boot stepping in front of his face before everything went black.
Brown eyes sliding over the mostly barren streets, Ricardo turned down to the left and walked a few steps. He stopped by his motorcycle. Flipping the phone in his hand a bit more, he debated calling again; the signal might be bad where the others were coming from. Seeing someone from the corner of his eye, he quickly turned to look at an unfamiliar man who began walking over, with a briefcase in his hand. "Quién es usted?" Ricardo questioned with a frown (translation: Who are you?). He received no response as the man just hurried forward to say something in a language Ricardo didn't know, and opened the case. Already being jumpy, Ricardo had his hand on his gun, fingers brushing the cool metal. "¿Quién te envió?" Ricardo asked as he gripped his gun (translation: Who sent you?).
The other man gave him a confused look, glancing down to the briefcase full of watches and other useless things he was trying to sell, blabbering off in his language Ricardo didn't know. " Vete!" Ricardo shooed the man away, pulling his jacket back over his gun (translation: Go away!). Where WERE they? Glancing around, Ricardo tugged at his dullish red shirt, one of their gang colors, as he started to walk down the street with a scowl on his face. Maybe these fools forgot, that tended to happen. He should know; he was one of the main 'dealers' for his gang. To hell if he was going to stand around and wait any longer, that was a waste of his time. Showing a hand through his hair, Ricardo shoved his eyebrows together roughly before glancing around.
It was a rather eerie night, he'd give it that. Taking a breath of the cool air, Ricardo wandered down the street a bit more, slightly enjoying the silence. He'd have to call the boss later, and tell him around the stand up. Too bad he'd never get the chance. Almost five seconds after the thought, he felt the sudden ache of pain smash against the back of his head. It's hard surface sent him crumbling to the ground with sudden blurred vision, a groan leaving his mouth. He heard yet another unfamiliar language drift into his ears. The last thing Ricardo saw was a boot stepping in front of his face before everything went black.
Last edited by a moderator:
