La Femme Fatale [Monroe and Bathos]

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Mon Feb 02, 2009 1:06 am

The rumbling of car engines, the high pitched whining of power tools, the clanging of metal parts as they fell to the concrete floor; human voices were nothing in comparison to the roar of the tire shop, so it was understandable that Weston didn't hear his visitors until they were directly above him and had called his name no less than three times.

"Maddux!"

The blonde-headed Texan rolled out from under the car and looked up (and up) at two suits. There was a tall one and a really fucking tall one, both of them dark haired, both of them looking simultaneously bored and irritated. Weston knew the tall one as Johnny. He didn't know the other guy, but silently dubbed him Lurch. Although he didn't know Lurch, he knew this song and dance and before Johnny could get the words out, Weston was on his feet and pulling the oil rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands.

"The boss wants to see you," Johnny said.

"Yeah," Weston said. "When's he need me?"

"Right now," Lurch said.

"Right now, right now?"

"Right now."

"Well, hell. Let me tell my boss. If I still got one after this."

So it was that Weston came to be standing in the middle of Mr. De Luca's office in stained blue jeans and a stained t-shirt with stained hands and a strained smile. He was nodding as the older man was talking, making little 'hmms' and 'uh-huhs' in the right places. He was only half listening; he only ever half listened, figuring the less he knew the better for his sleeping patterns. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"My boys could handle this, no problem," Mr. De Luca was saying, "but ever since that cocaine fiasco in Missouri, they gotta lay low. That's why I called you. Johnny has a piece for you to use. Just get in, do it, get out. Don't get fucking cute on me, Maddux, ya hear?"

Weston shrugged. "Sure, boss, no problem." Mr. De Luca was referring, of course, to the incident that had landed Weston in this mess in the first place. And when he said 'cute,' what he really meant was 'deranged and psychotic.' And when he said 'don't get,' what he really meant was, 'Don't forget that it's your own fault you're in this fucking mess, so don't disappoint me and I'll let you keep your miserable life.' But Weston understood him well enough, and kept smiling like an idiot. What else could he do? He wasn't exactly being given options.

From what Weston had gathered, some bozo had opened his mouth to the wrong guy and now his ticket was up. It wasn't the typical job that got handed down to Weston, but it also wasn't unheard of. When the local authorities started breathing down De Luca's neck--which happened more than either of the two men would have liked--he had to get creative about how he dealt out his punishments. All of De Luca's boys would be as far as possible from the scene, carefully constructing their alibis, while Weston did their dirty work for them. He wasn't thrilled by their arrangement, but given the alternative, he didn't have a lot of room to complain. The choice was between Weston's life or the other guy's. The Texan reasoned that the other guy was gonna get his comeuppance either way, so he may as well do as he was told. Sooner or later, De Luca would find some other poor schmuck to torture and he would be off the hook. His only hope was that this happened before Weston ended up in prison.

He pushed an oil stained hand through his shaggy blonde hair, turned to Johnny and Lurch and said, "All right, boys. Lead the way."

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Mon Feb 02, 2009 1:41 am

A bottle of pills stared obstinately at her. She stared obstinately back. This was a battle she could win, a battle in fact that she did win every day. Sabrina could hardly remember what the pills were for, but found them extremely unnecessary. She wasn’t sick… There they stood, arrogantly poised in the medicine cabinet of the bathroom.

“I don’t need you, little pills.” she cooed, gently setting the bottle back on it’s shelf. Her head lifted as voices drifted in from another room, a curious expression on her open, innocent face. Her father… Her idiot brothers… And another. Who was there? It was a voice she didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was someone who owed a debt to her family, she thought hopefully, exiting the bathroom with an inquisitive look. If someone owed her family, blood would probably be shed. Maybe her father would let her watch. Maybe he’d even let her participate.

Her long, pale fingers began toying with the necklace around her thin throat- a silver chain with at least thirty rings on it of all types. Wedding rings, thick gold ones encrusted with jewels, even a few delicate, feminine bands. It looked as if she was a collector and had quite the collection. Her thin fingers slipped in and out of the many rings, eyes looking ahead at the cracked door to the room her father was in.

The voices were stronger now, clearer than before. She didn’t enter right away and instead waited outside, peering in with wide, dark eyes at the stranger. How handsome, she thought. It would be a shame indeed to spill his blood. He was one of the rare people that looked better with it on the inside. As she listened, carefully snooping, the conversation began to make sense. No, he wasn’t in trouble. No blood would be shed, which Sabrina had mixed feelings about.

Her tentative hand reached out for the doorknob, and with a soft smile and empty, dark eyes, she pushed open the door, the light falling on her pale, innocuous features. A drop of ruby wetness glinted on her cheek, though she appeared to have no cut. She was oblivious to it.

Striding across the room, Sabrina kissed her father’s cheek lightly, eyes never leaving Weston. Her father wiped the blood off her cheek with a disapproving look, and she went to stand next to her tall, older brothers. They towered over her tiny, diminutive form, but they seemed to recoil from her a little, anxious looks on their faces.

“I can take him.” the young woman volunteered, a hollow smile on her face. She turned it from her father to Weston unblinkingly. “Come.” she said, and exited the room in the direction of the garage. She had no idea where he needed to go, but felt certain she could be of assistance.

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Mon Feb 02, 2009 9:38 am

[OOC: Does that beautiful minx happen to be Audrey Tautou?]

Suddenly, the attention of all three big De Luca men focused on something behind Weston and not a one of them looked overjoyed. Instinctively, Weston turned. His blue eyes widened minutely as he drank up the sight of a little dark haired woman with a sweet face. He reasoned that he was setting eyes on the young De Luca sister for the first time. He noticed Mr. De Luca frown and wipe at the girl's face like an overbearing mother. Those big dark eyes of hers never left Weston, though, and he met her gaze evenly.

"I can take him," she said and then she ordered him to follow. Weston hesitated. Ultimately, he took his orders from Mr. De Luca, but all of the De Luca household collectively held his leash, he knew. He glanced askance at the three men. The brothers shrugged and Mr. De Luca waved him on with an expression of exasperation.

"Wait, Maddux," Johnny said and pulled a .22 caliber pistol from his jacket. "Keep it," he said as he tossed it across the room to Weston. He caught it easily, but had no place to put it. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Weston slid the gun into his waistband and turned to rush after the littlest De Luca.

He caught up with her in the hallway, falling into step next to her and taking his time in looking her over. 'Cute little thing,' he reckoned. 'Too bad she's a De Luca.' Weston had a feeling the woman's father would not be pleased if he, say, invited her out for a drink. In addition, if she was anything like the rest of her family, her shit was way too complicated to get involved in willingly. He dipped his fingers into his shirt pocket, brought a pack of cigarettes, and shook one loose from the rest.

"I got the address, unless you already know where we're goin'," he said as they reached the garage, Texan drawl in full form, dropping consonants and drawing out vowels. "Hope you allow smokin' in your car?"

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Mon Feb 02, 2009 6:09 pm

((Yes it is, from the film Amelie. Good eye!))

The tiny, dark haired woman faintly smiled as the lumbering sound of Weston’s footsteps fell into synch with her own. She didn’t glance over at him, but her lips curled in. At the door, Sabrina picked up a lumpy purse hanging from a hook and let it swing in her hand. With her other, she dug around for a set of keys and opened the door, leaving it open for the man a half-step behind her.

“Smoking’s bad for you.” she chided, hitting the button to unlock the doors. A small, shiny black car’s lights flashed and she looked at it as if she weren’t sure that was her car. She shrugged and opened the front door. The key fit, so she decided she must not be too far off.

Her eyes lit on Weston and his cigarette. “I suppose you’re not the kind of man who worries too much about his health.” she noted. “Otherwise you would not have gotten involved with my family. I don‘t care if you smoke, just don‘t burn the leather, doll.”

Her voice had a hollow note to it, almost as if every statement posed a question. Her tone was soft and empty, with a quiet, echoing quality. She slid into the front seat and waited for Weston to get in. When he did, she shut her door and started the car. “Tell me where to go.” she said, pulling out of the driveway. “I don’t even know what it is daddy has told you to do. I just needed to get out of the house. I’m surprised he let me go. He tries to shelter me so.”

Her words had an ironic note to them and she smirked at Weston. “Why do you think that is? Is it because I’m a girl? Or because I’m his daughter?”

She waved away her own questions, running frazzled hands through her hair, disheveling it’s short lengths, driving with no hands for a moment of terrifying limbo. “No, no, that’s not how I want to start.” she said, shaking her head. She drove far too fast and paid little attention to the traffic. “To start, what’s your name? Has daddy sent you to kill someone today?”

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Tue Feb 03, 2009 12:13 am

The cigarette was already perched between Weston's lips before the woman's chiding reached his ears. He'd only posed the question as an empty gesture of politeness; he hadn't really suspected an answer to the negative. Luckily, she was as flighty as a summer breeze and, next thing he knew, he was lighting up and watching her sort out her automobile situation.

If he hadn't known better, he'd have believed she was boosting a car. As it stood, he did know better. She was a pampered rich girl and had such a fleet of vehicles at her disposal that she didn't even know which keyring went to which car. Some people may have begrudged her this fact, but Weston didn't much care how allowance her daddy paid her. He found it mildly amusing and a ghost of smirk briefly curved his mouth, but that was the extent of it.

Obediently, he planted his ass on the leather seat and pulled the door shut behind him, cracking the window to let out the smoke. He dug the pistol out of the small of his back and laid it on his lap, casting a sidelong glance at his companion to make sure he wasn't breaking some unknown rule. He was satisfied to find out the sight of a pistol didn't terrify her.

Weston was content to let the De Luca woman ramble. He crossed his legs at the ankles, pillowed his head behind his left arm, and ashed his cigarette out the window. Her questions came in dizzying bursts and Weston was hard pressed to keep up. When she did finally wind down, he had to think about his answer. He wasn't in the habit of divulging his secrets to strangers.

Then, on the other hand, she was a De Luca, after all. "Wes Maddux," he said at last. "I'm supposed to be doin' a job for your old man." He squinted, as if it helped him recall. "South of here, on Massachusetts Street. Some guy called Frank Giordano."

After a pause, during which he debated getting conversational and pleasant with a De Luca, he said, "It's Sabrina, isn't it?"

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Tue Feb 03, 2009 12:38 am

The woman’s wide eyes narrowed as she laughed musically in a mix of delight and amusement. “Frankie?” she clarified, her voice an airy chirp. “Oh boy, you’re in for a treat.”

She said nothing more, but her lips remained quirked into a jubilant smirk. Her eyes often left the road, getting easily distracted by the things they passed. She weaved in and out of traffic and never used such inane things as turn signals. People honked at her angrily, but she was too used to that brand of noise to notice. She filtered it, the way a mother filters the sound of whining.

She looked down at the gun in his lap, glad he had it with him. Glad more for her own sake than his; frankly, guns just weren’t her style and she didn’t have a place on her form-fitting black outfit to conceal the weapon anyway. In her tight black pants and t shirt, any bulge would be noticed. Her bag wasn’t an option either. There was hardly room left in her ratty purse for another pack of tic-tacs. She had the bag of a runaway, filled to overflow with random necessities and a few objects of questionable purpose.

“Wes…” she murmured, repeating his name, sliding narrowly in front of a car and accelerating. “Yes, my name is Sabrina. Has daddy mentioned me? That’s sweet of him. Normally he keeps me quite under wraps.”

She chewed on her lip thoughtfully, contemplating why her family shied away from her and only let her handle certain types of business. She had a specialty, they said, but she had no idea what they meant. They looked at her with a mixture of fear and awe. She looked back with utter love and devotion. It was a perplexing relationship. All Sabrina knew was that she was wholeheartedly loyal to her family. Anyone who was an enemy of her father’s was an enemy of hers.

Sabrina turned onto Massachusetts Street and pulled into the house she knew belonged to Frankie. Her smirk grew, but her lips stayed firmly sealed. “Mind if I come in with you?” she asked. It didn’t matter. Whether he said she could or he said she couldn’t, Sabrina would follow all the same.

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Tue Feb 03, 2009 1:42 am

Weston sucked his bottom lip between his teeth as he considered Sabrina's request. She was a sweet woman, easy on the eyes, friendly, and the list went on. On the other hand, she was connected to the most violent family he'd ever met. He imagined they talked death and torture over coffee every morning, so who was he to dictate what she could and couldn't handle? Weston had never been particularly chivalrous, but inviting a lady along to a murder was crossing a line.

"Honestly, lady, I'd rather you didn't. It just wouldn't sit right with me." With an apologetic little quirk of his lips, Weston got out of the car and headed up the walk to the little house.

He heard soft footfalls behind and glanced over his shoulder as he ascended the porch steps. Sabrina was there like a shadow. Obviously, her request had also been an empty gesture. He frowned, but he knew better than to press the matter. He stabbed his cigarette out on the wrought iron porch rail and shoved the butt into his pocket. He didn't watch any of those crime shows that were blowing up on television, but he knew better than to throw his spent butt in the yard.

With one last disapproving glance at Sabrina, he rang the bell. His weapon was concealed in the back of his waistband again. He drummed his fingers against his thighs as he waited. After what seemed like several minutes to Weston, the door finally creaked open. The Texan's stomach tightened into a knot when he saw the person standing on the other side. His eyes widened and he took a step back from the door.

"Yes, what do you want?" It was a woman, dark-haired and plump and well into her thirties. She wore a simple summer dress, white with purple flowers.

And she was a woman.

"Ah, sorry to bother you, ma'am," Weston stammered nervously, glancing to Sabrina for help. "I'm looking for Frank. Ah, Frank Giordano. Is he around?"

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Tue Feb 03, 2009 3:28 pm

Sabrina sat still in the car for a moment, her lips pursed, as Weston denied her request and got out. The car door closed with a dull click and she giggled, then promptly got out, following hot on his heels, arms clasped behind her back. He looked back at her with a look of exasperation but otherwise didn’t stop her.

She stood directly behind him as he rang the doorbell, and while he did she began digging around in her lumpy bag. From it she withdrew a black pair of leather gloves and fit her small hands into them. The wrists were daintily gathered into a ruffle. Lucky gloves securely on, Sabrina looked up with a blinding smile as the door opened.

She giggled at Weston’s surprise, thinking him quite cute when befuddled, and slipped past him. She threw her arms around the woman’s neck, hugging her tightly. “Francine!” she exclaimed, looking over the woman’s shoulder at Weston with a wink. “Francine Giordano! It truly has been to long.”

She released the woman from her grasp, who looked quite petrified to be seeing the youngest De Luca (or any De Luca at all, for that matter), and Sabrina stood back on her heels to survey Frankie. “Oh dear, you really have upset Daddy, haven’t you, Francine?” asked Sabrina with a sharp tisk of her tongue. She rubbed her two pointer fingers together in a ‘shame on you’ gesture. Frankie gulped.

Stepping back, Sabrina patted Weston on the back, drawing him forward and shutting the door behind him. Her lips formed into a thin line and she crossed her arms over her small chest, heaving in a deep breath as she assessed the situation diplomatically.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you just get away with offending Daddy. That would be rude of me, wouldn’t it?” she said, and then her eyes widened in sudden surprise. “Oh dear, I am being quite rude! Let’s all have a seat, why don’t we. Then, you can tell me all about what it is you’ve done, and we’ll brainstorm and try to figure out a solution.”

She ran a gloved hand over Frankie’s cheek tenderly, her dark eyes sparkling with affection, and then led her into the living room. Though quite smaller than Francine, Sabrina managed to push her down by her shoulders onto the couch. The black haired pixie sat next to her, legs crossed daintily, hands clasped together over her knees.

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Tue Feb 03, 2009 9:58 pm

[OOC: Dig the banner immensely.]

Dazed and pliant, Weston allowed himself to be pulled inside the house. His mind was working double to catch up, but he was stubbornly refusing to accept the events that were unfolding. He paused as the two women went further inside the house, hovering near the door as he considered the option of bolting. It was never a good idea to get into the business of disappointing the De Lucas, but on the other hand, what use was a good business plan when he'd never sleep another night of his life? Then again, to borrow a cliche, he could sleep when he was dead. If he bolted now, that day would come a lot sooner than originally planned.

Reluctantly, he shuffled a few steps into the living room. He should have been pulling the gun out of his waistband then. The longer he delayed, the more cruelty there as in the act. But Francine's face held an expression of such terror, Weston's instinctive response was to make it better. He'd been brought up to be chivalrous toward women and every fiber of his being was straining to go to the woman and ask how he could help her.

His gaze shifted to Sabrina, desperate for guidance. She looked like she was enjoying herself, like a little child at a funeral, unable to differentiate between the grim occasion and just another happy day of her youth. Confusion mingled with indecision and Weston lost his cool. He opened his palms in a gesture of helplessness.

"There's gotta be some kinda mistake," he said, silently willing her to confirm this conclusion.

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Tue Feb 03, 2009 10:44 pm

“Oh, there’s no mistake.” disagreed Sabrina with a tinkling laugh. “Frankie’s a snitch.”

The woman fervently shook her head. “No…” she denied quietly, eyes wide as she glanced back and forth between Weston and the De Luca boss’s terrifying daughter. Sabrina sighed in irritation, flattening her hands over her legs.

“Frankie, I don’t like it when you lie.” she said sharply. “You ratted Daddy out and now he’s in trouble. Do you think I like my family being watched? Well I don’t. It puts us in a very tight situation.”

She looked down and caught sight of Francine’s ring. Her fingers began toying with her necklace of rings, an avaricious smile lighting her sweetly delicate features. “Oh Francine, that is lovely.” she noted, picking up the woman’s hand and holding it tightly in her own. Frankie began to struggle, trying to pull away, but Sabrina proved to have a surprisingly strong grip.

“You know, that’s the least you can give me for my troubles.” she said, free hand fingering her necklace. The many rings clinked together metallically. Tears began forming in Francine’s eyes.

“Please, have it.” she choked. Sabrina smiled.

“Oh, thank you so much! That is so sweet of you.” she said in a kindly tone. She gently tugged at the ring and it didn’t immediately give. Sabrina clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, raising her eyebrows in a sharp look. “Looks like it won’t come off.” she noted. Francine began to panic, trying to pull away from Sabrina’s vice-like grip on her hand.

“Please, please, it’ll c-come off!” she stammered, trying to move past Sabrina to remove it. The small, black haired woman swatted Frankie’s hand away impatiently.

“No, no. I can do it.” she said with a glittering smile. Her free hand dug into her purse and she removed a pair of bolt-cutters. Francine began crying, tears streaming down her face, making feeble apologies and pleas. Sabrina appeared to be deaf to them.

The bolt cutters gleamed silver and heavy and menacing in the light streaming in through the crack between the curtains on the windows. Frankie struggled against her and Sabrina’s hold only tightened. With a smile she brought the bolt-cutter to Francine’s finger and easily cut the digit off. Her ring finger fell to the floor as she woman screamed in agony. Blood splattered against Sabrina’s pale, olive face and the ring she had admired rolled across the ground.

Bending to retrieve it, Sabrina grinned maniacally at Weston. She unclasped her necklace and slid the ring onto the silver chain to join the other thirty or so. Frankie had fallen off the couch and was writhing in pain, howling for mercy as the blood from her severed finger began to pool, soaking the material of her dress as she clutched her hand to her breast.

“I’m bored, Wes.” she said, joining him. “Finish her.”

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Tue Feb 03, 2009 11:27 pm

The blood drained from Weston's face as he watched the scene before him. Time seemed to have slowed down and he was able to think of a great many things in the span of just a few short moments.

First of all, he concluded that Sabrina was psychotic. Her big, sweet eyes and her beautiful face were almost grotesque when her underlying nature took prominence. Unbidden, a memory came to Weston, of a painting he had once seen depicting Saint Michael the Archangel, wings unfurled and stabbing violently into his foe with an expression of divine contentment upon his face.

Second, he noticed that she collected a trophy, which she slid onto her necklace to join countless others. He wondered how many of those rings had been obtained in exactly the same fashion and how many of them were ladies' rings. This thought caused his vision to swim and his stomach to churn--or perhaps it was the woman writhing on the floor, begging for her life and spilling copious amounts of blood with every twitch and thrash. Either way, he abandoned that line of thinking.

Third, Sabrina was looking at him expectantly. She was waiting for him and he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what she wanted. The feeling was reminiscent of a dream in which everyone knew something they weren't telling the dreamer, irritating and overwhelming.

Then, as if he'd been slapped, Weston came back to himself, shaking his head as if physically ridding it of the cobwebs. His eyes were sharp again, his brain was weighing all the alternatives to killing the woman, but her screams were getting more desperate and the blood was spreading down her dress. It was all over the floor. She was suffering, crying, begging. Her finger rested beside her, lifeless. The room had grown too loud for him.

Weston made a sound in the back of his throat, something cracking and high pitched, like a pained animal. He pulled out the pistol, thumbing the safety as he brought the barrel level with Francine's head. There was a loud pop, the discharge muffled by the sound suppressor. There were two more pops, three in all, forming a tight little group of entrance wounds in the top of Francine's head. The blood gushed now, like a busted pipe, and Weston took a few steps back. He put his arm across his mouth and heaved, but managed not to lose his lunch. Francine had gone still and the silence was like a cool breeze across his face.

"I'm going straight to Hell," he said softly, as if it were a revelation.

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Tue Feb 03, 2009 11:49 pm

Sabrina was utterly confused as to Weston’s dilemma. She saw the way he looked at her, and the queasy look that came over his handsome, southern face, but it completely and thoroughly perplexed her. The woman’s screams were merely a backdrop to the young woman as she looked at Wes. Finally, as if he really had to think about what he was doing, he shot her and her screams ceased.

Sabrina sighed as the silence filled the house, fingers delicately playing with her new little charm. “Jesus, Wes.” she said lightly. “I thought you were in the mob.”

She rolled her eyes as he dry-heaved, and kissed her gloved finger, then touched it to Francine’s temple. “Sweet dreams, Frankie. I’ll see you in hell.” she murmured, smiling serenely. The crimson blood was still splattered across her face and she could feel a drop hanging heavy from her lower lip. She licked it and then considered thoughtfully. It didn’t taste nearly as good as it looked…

“Oh Wes,” she said, standing very close to him and looking up at the much taller man. Her dark eyes were wide and innocent- she held no qualms or guilt about her actions. “Don’t be sad. Frankie was a rat, and rats deserve to be killed. You did the world a favor.”

She ran her finger down the center of his chest and a sudden thought occurred to her that made her smile. She slipped her hand into his and pulled him toward the door. “C’mon, let’s go get some lunch! That’ll take your mind off this.” she said brightly, pulling open the front door. Francine’s lifeless body was sprawled across the living room floor in a pool of her own blood, eyes still wide open. The couch almost blocked her from view though.

Once out of the house, Sabrina removed her gloves, putting them back into her purse beside her bolt-cutters and her peppermint lip balm. She was a woman of contradictions. She climbed into the car and started it happily. It purred to life as Weston got in and she pulled out. “I know the sweetest little diner.” she gushed.

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Wed Feb 04, 2009 12:29 am

With stiff, robotic movements Weston tucked the pistol away. He couldn't take his eyes off the body for a long time, even as Sabrina chattered on about rats. He finally looked at her, eyes darting quickly over the splatter across her face. To say he was conflicted was an understatement. Try as he might to let the guilt of what he'd done sink in, there was only a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and a numbness spreading through his limbs.

He looked down at her dainty little finger as it trailed along his stained t-shirt. Then she took his hand in her smaller one and tugged him out the door. At an utter loss, he allowed himself to be dragged back to the car. Once inside, he tucked the murder weapon under the seat and, though he didn't need or want it, shook another cigarette from the pack. He inhaled deep, expelled the smoke out the open window, and leaned back into is seat.

Lunch? He didn't have much of an appetite, but he could sure use a drink. He considered this for a long time, glanced at the clock on the console, and decided the rules of polite society did not apply to him, at least not for today.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. "As long as there's a drink menu and a smoking section, I got nowhere to be." He shot a sidelong look at Sabrina. "And you better clean your face up. You got wet wipes in that magic bag of yours?"

He was coming back down to Earth. He recognized all the signs. The feeling was returning to his face, the world was accelerating back into real time, and he was craving something strong that would burn all the way down to his stomach. Depersonalization. He knew the term from a brief series of doctor visits in his youth. His parents had shelled out buckets of cash just to be told what they already knew: their dear boy, Weston, never took responsibility for shit.

He nearly smiled at the memory. Nearly. It was just sinking into his brain that he was going to lunch with Sabrina De Luca, the daughter of a notoriously vicious criminal and a full blown psychopath. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up in more trouble than when he'd started out. This was a Bad Idea. So why, then, did Weston find himself turning toward the young woman and asking, "So aside from torturing and maiming, what's a girl like you do in her spare time?"

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Wed Feb 04, 2009 5:31 pm

The De Luca daughter pulled onto the highway and then grabbed Weston’s hand so he would hold the wheel while she dug around in her enormous bag. After a moment of precarious passenger-driving, Sabrina sighed and withdrew a silky, floral scarf.

“No wet wipes.” she groaned, wetting a corner of the scarf in her mouth and then using the rearview mirror to look at herself and the blood on her face. A car honked from behind them and she flicked the car off, then began dabbing at the blood splattered on her face. When she was satisfied, she stuffed the scarf back into her bag and took back over the wheel. Her driving was atrocious- too fast, too reckless, and she didn’t seem to pay very much attention to other cars, or even the road for that matter.

“If we’re going to get a drink, we’ll have to change directions.” she said, swerving across three lanes to make a sudden exit. They were now headed toward downtown, and Sabrina turned into what looked like a back alley. There didn’t appear to be any legitimate establishes around, but she was sure of herself.

“Well, when I’m not severing fingers and slitting throats,” she said with a smirk. “I like doing what any girl likes. Narcotics, grand theft auto, picking up minors in chat rooms...”

The look on her face made it impossible to tell if she was kidding or not. She winked at Weston and shook his shoulder playfully. “What about you, Wes? What do you do when you’re not stuck in Daddy’s pocket, doing his dirty little deeds?”

She giggled and pulled into the parking lot of a small hole-in-the-wall establishment. “This is it.” she said happily. “But it’s a shame. Anything we do now will seem boring in comparison. I mean, admit it. It was kind of exciting, wasn’t it?”

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Wed Feb 04, 2009 10:08 pm

Weston kept a white knuckled grip on the wheel as Sabrina dug around in her bag. His right hand still held a lit cigarette, which he kept extended toward the open window. His anxiety was obvious in the set of his jaw and the tension in his posture, but his expression betrayed nothing but intense concentration. When Sabrina took back the wheel, he relaxed visibly, although he was well aware that he wasn't in any less danger.

As Sabrina rattled off her list of pastimes, there was a brief moment when Weston thought she may have been exactly his kind of woman. Then he realized that she was probably joking, or at least he hoped she was. Either way, when she echoed his question back to him, he shrugged and replied blandly, "The same."

When she referred to the scene at Francine Giordano's house as 'exciting,' he gave her an incredulous look. A wiser man would have bitten his tongue, but Weston didn't get to his current station in live by following a path of wisdom. "Exciting," he repeated slowly. "I guess you could say that, if you were bat shit crazy."

Rather than waiting around for the impending reaction to his comment--whatever it may have been--he pushed the car door open and climbed out. Pushing the door shut behind him, Weston spun slowly, gaze sweeping the alley in search of a restaurant. He dropped his cigarette on the ground, stomped it out, and looked to Sabrina as she emerged from the driver's side.

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Wed Feb 04, 2009 10:55 pm

Stepping out, her black flats clipped lightly against the asphalt and she slammed the car door shut. “I’m not crazy,” she protested with a serene smile. “Really, ask anyone.”

This, of course, was a ridiculous statement. Anyone he could find to ask would either be a member of her family, and therefore too loyal to speak badly of her, or would be too scared shitless to say anything that would put her on their bad side. Her mental state was not a secret- indeed, it was quite obvious to most who met her. For that reason, her father kept her safely tucked away so few knew about her. Indeed, most of his ‘associates’ had no idea he even had a daughter. To be sure, Sabrina had skills that were invaluable to the mafia. She just had to be kept on a short leash. Her father feared what she might do if left to her own devices.

On the other side of the small, alley parking lot was an industrial metal door with white, chipping paint. “Prytaneum.” she explained, pushing open the door. Inside was a dark, smoky restaurant and bar with dark woods and lots of seedy looking men in suits. The maitre d saw them enter, appraised Sabrina with a curious frown, and led them to the back of the restaurant, then promptly left. Sabrina daintily sat, folding her hands on the table top.

“In ancient Greece, Prytaneum was an elite club for the highest ranking officials.” she informed him knowledgeably. “It was very elite. During his trial, Socrates had the audacity to propose a membership to Prytaneum as his sentence. And we all know what happened to Socrates.” she said with a smirk, and drew her finger across her throat in a slitting motion. “Executed.”

She looked around with interest at their dim surroundings. “Makes for an interesting restaurant though…” she murmured, eyes glowing in the dim light of a hanging lantern suspended over another table. She traced patterns into the table top with her short, uneven nails.

“You’re lying to me though, I can tell.” she said, suddenly referring to what he had said earlier. Her brain seemed to dart about erratically as her hands. “You thought it was exciting too. I could tell. Sure, it sickened you for a second, but you wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t have it in you. Who gives a shit if she was a woman? We’re all the same. We’re all dying- you just got her there a little sooner.”

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Wed Feb 04, 2009 11:28 pm

In response to Sabrina's confident denial, Weston could only raise his eyebrows. There was no point in arguing with her. If it hadn't already dawned on her that she was certifiably insane, it probably wasn't going to; least of all because of him.

As the pair stepped into Prytaneum, the familiar aroma of tobacco and food greeted Weston's nose. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, still obediently following the woman, who followed the maitre d, who didn't look too happy to see the two of them. Weston didn't blame him. If the maitre d knew Sabrina as well as he knew Sabrina--which was to say, not at all--then he had every right to be upset. The added annoyance of an oil-stained slob with a couple days' worth of stubble probably put a serious kink in his lunch hour routine. It occurred to Weston, fleetingly, to worry that the maitre d was scampering off to put in a call to Mr. De Luca. The thought passed quickly from his mind, replaced by Sabrina's near incessant chatter.

As he halfheartedly considered the woman's words, he pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and stuck another one between his lips. He didn't usually smoke so much, but then he wasn't usually riding around listening to the borderline nonsensical ramblings of a madwoman. He tossed the pack onto the table so it was within easy reach.

"Depends on your definition of the word, I reckon," he said at length, steadily watching her pretty dark eyes. "If by excited you mean my heart rate got up in the two-hundreds and I was sweatin' bullets, then I s'pose you're right. Still wouldn't compare the sensation to that of, say, bungee jumping. I don't get my rocks off puttin' people down like dogs."

Weston leaned back in his chair, sitting a little cockeyed so he could extend one of his long legs to the side of the table. He didn't sit, dress, or talk like a gentleman. And, a recent addition to the list, he also didn't kill like one. No sense trying to keep up a pretense that was doomed from the start, he concluded.

He went on, "I don't waste time tryin' to justify what I did, neither. It was her or me. I always pick me."

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Thu Feb 05, 2009 1:12 am

The young woman contemplated the packet of cigarettes that Weston had flung arbitrarily onto the table. “Mind if I have one?” she asked, not waiting for a response before she slid the pack toward her and tapped one out. She put the cigarette between her lips and dug around in her purse, withdrawing after a bit of blind shuffling a pink lighter. She lit it and inhaled, then proceeded to cough horribly. She brought a hand to her chest as she tried to clear her lungs, eyes watering slightly.

“I’ve never… smoked.” she stammered between coughing fits. The coughing subsided and she shuddered, then brought the cigarette to her lips for another short draw. This time she didn’t inhale; only held it in her mouth for a second and blew the smoke off to the side, trying to make an unsuccessful smoke ring.

“I’ve also never bungee jumped, but that sounds quite awful, so I think I’ll just stick to murder one.”

This time she did manage to blow a half decent smoke ring and grinned in delight. She flicked her eyes back to Weston. “Wes, I’ll level with you.” she said, steepling her fingers diplomatically with the lit cigarette safely perched on the edge of the ash tray. “You seem like an interesting sort. Why don’t we do a bit of business together? Daddy so rarely lets me play anymore. He says I’m messy and unnecessary and brutal, and that I don’t cover my tracks. I’m sure you can imagine how that makes me feel.”

She met him with a dark, serious gaze, assessing the man she found both attractive and riveting. Compared to the men she normally fooled around with- older, fatter, and usually balding- Weston was hot stuff. Her affairs didn’t seem to last long either. She either found out they had wives or they called her crazy. Both scenarios ended with them losing a finger and usually being suspended over the river from the bridge or else brutally disfigured. It all depended on how she was feeling that day. The longer she went without taking the mysterious pills her father insisted she take (but never did), the odder and more violent her acts became.

She never felt remorse.

“We should be partners, you and I. Wouldn’t it be perfect? With me beside you, you could knock out your debt to Daddy in no time. And then I won’t be so bored all the time. And you can make sure I stay out of trouble.”

She added the last part with a roll of her eyes. She was merely repeating what she heard her father and brothers say all the time. ‘Stay out of trouble, Sabrina. Be a good girl. Don’t hurt anyone today, okay?’ Well, she was sick and tired of it. Perhaps the handsome Wes wouldn’t treat her like a child.

bathos · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **bathos** on Thu Feb 05, 2009 10:00 am

Weston didn't know how children ought to be treated; or, at least, he'd never given any indication that he did. He certainly wasn't going to make the mistake of treating Sabrina like one. He did think she was completely off her rocker, but didn't have the good sense to let it terrify him. He was terrified, of course, but only of her name and connection to Mr. De Luca.

The woman herself was kind of endearing, in a twisted way. She didn't bat her lashes, fish for insincere compliments, or use double talk to dance around subjects. She was straightforward, effortlessly beautiful, and had yet to be offended by anything he'd said or done. Chop off her surname, feed her a sedative to keep her from a murderous rampage, and she was the perfect woman. As if spurred on by his reverie, she pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it. Weston refused to believe that any woman was that perfect. She hacked and coughed and he was satisfied. He was also completely charmed by her antics and watched with a faint smile as she struggled to blow a smoke ring.

He was about to give her some pointers, but she figured it out herself and fixed him with a blinding grin. He found himself smiling back without even realizing it, but the smile faded as soon as she spoke. Therein lay the difference between them. She was itching for violence and Weston would just as soon work the rest of his life driving fat cats around the city than actually request a hit job. He had never wanted to kill anybody, except once, which landed him in his current predicament. It sufficed to say he had learned his lesson.

He struggled with his answer, opened his mouth to deliver one, and was interrupted by the waiter approaching their table. Weston looked up at him as if he were an angel sent from Heaven, a little wide-eyed and full of gratitude. He let the server get through his initial spiel about specials and wine pairings. After Sabrina had ordered, Wes pushed the menu away and said, "Whiskey and water, house brand is fine. That's it."

When the server had gone, Weston took a deep drag from his cigarette. He held it in his lungs, eyes fixed thoughtfully on some unknown point across the room. After a long moment like this, he exhaled. "Partners," he said, as if he were considering it seriously. Truth be told, he was considering it. It was probably too late for him now, anyway. For forgiveness from the Man Upstairs. He didn't have a clear set of religious beliefs, anyhow, but he'd always tried to be good when he could, just in case there was some merit to all that church business. If he took Sabrina up on her offer, he'd be selling his soul to the devil.

Satan sure was looking pretty today, though.

"I dunno," he finally said, truthfully. "Sure as shit, you'd be an interesting partner, doll. But I don't know if I'm ready to go volunteering for that kinda work. It's kinda distasteful, to tell you the truth. Murder, I mean. I don't like doing it."

Monroe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Monroe** on Thu Feb 05, 2009 12:14 pm

“Apple martini, please.” she requested of the ill-timed waiter. He was cutting into her conversation with Wes, and Sabrina was waiting on pins and needles for his response. With relief, the waiter strode away and she looked back across the table. Her eyes caught sight of the ashtray with her forgotten cigarette, burning to a long ash without her, and she flicked it off, bringing what was left to her lips. She inhaled and spluttered and stomped out the cigarette into the ashtray with a sense of indignity.

“Those are quite awful.” she said, offended that such a small article could cause her so much distress. Her lungs still felt feathery and a cough was rising in her throat that she tried to keep at bay. “I don’t understand how you can do it. It looks rather easy in the movies and when I see other people do it, but I don’t understand the appeal.”

Sabrina studied the man across from her, a pleased look settling on her face as she surveyed him. Inexplicably, Sabrina decided this was one man she would not kill. He had something… Something that required life to really shine. She had seen it from the moment she set eyes on him which, admittedly, was not that long ago. And she was feeling it now with a childlike sense of importance. Weston was a beautifully wrapped Christmas present, and Christmas was months away…

His choice of words left the woman befuddled. She raked a hand through her short, course dark hair, a line of consternation knitting between her eyebrows. Was this some sort of game he was playing at? Sabrina wondered if Wes was only joking with her, but no punch line seemed to be coming. She frowned deeply, glancing around in an erratic manner with her wide eyes as if the surroundings of Prytaneum held the answers. They did not.

“I always thought people were being coy when they said they didn’t enjoy murder,” she told him honestly, wishing she had something for her fingers to fidget with. She grabbed his pack of cigarettes and began mindlessly flipping it over and over, round and round. “But you’re being serious, aren’t you? I don’t understand what you mean when you say ‘distasteful’. Admittedly, things can get a little out of hand when I do them, but you… You seem like the sort to just shoot and leave. Where’s the problem in that?”

She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You’re not worried about, you know… God, are you?” she said, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if his omniscient presence was hovering over their very table. Her hands were flattened on the table top and she was leaning over it toward him, as if she were trying to keep the mysterious man upstairs out of the equation of their conversation. Her voice dropped even more, so soft that he would have to lean in to hear her. “Because, I asked Johnny, and Johnny said he’s not even real.”

She raised her eyebrows as if this were the juiciest bit of gossip she had ever heard. She slowly leaned back, waiting for Weston’s shock to sink in.

La Femme Fatale [Monroe and Bathos]

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