Cold, Calculating, Clever and Country
Buck rolled over in his bed, groaning loudly. His back popped, and his bones creaked as he sat up - his fedora still latched to his scalp. He scratched his chest lazily, rolling his opposite shoulder as he looked around the room. It was... very bland. The walls didn't even have paint. Why paint a house to look good if only you see it, right? He yawned, tossing his feet over the edge of his bed. He reached under the brim of his hat, and rubbed his eyes, looking out the slatted window. It was morning. Moreso, the morning of a new day. The gangs, rivals since they had formed, were joining together. Frankly, as one of the Key's oldest supporters, he hated the idea. He'd taken a shot at some of those other gang members, and he knew that they knew that he took potshots at them. He'd probably be heckled. Although.... frankly, he didn't give a damn. They'd have to get over it like he would.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Riiiight..." He murmured to himself, in the glowing dawn of the day rising.
Buck walked over the clothing rack he had nearby, his suits hung neatly. He'd pick one randomly; they all were identical anyhow.... He began to dress himself. He pulled his stark black trousers up to his waist, and buckled the suspenders to his trousers. The white dress shirt came over next, covering Buck's aging, semi-muscular chest. He pulled the suspenders over his shoulders, and clasped them in place, before pulling on his dress jacket.... Before he took it off again. He moved over to the end table next to his bed, and opened the drawer. The black leather holster seemed to gleam as he picked up the Python his father had gotten so long ago for him. The thing was antiquicated in it's time; it was worth a fortune now. But Buck wouldn't let this thing leave his fingers dead. He'd wrap the belted holster around his waist, at a reverse wear - he'd have to crossdraw. But it kept people from sneaking up behind him, and taking his weapon. He walked back over to his dress jacket, and slipped it on again. It covered up his revolver seemlessly. It was a phantom in his clothing, and untill he made his first shot... that's what it'd be.
Buck then went to his bathroom, and retrieved the black steel razor-bladed knife that resided there. A little known fact - his close range weapon really was his shaving tool. The weapon had a folded steel blade; sharp enough to peel skin off a man with more than a little force. Buck used the knife to give a few touch-ups to his gruff, wooly facial hair, making sure his beard was trimmed neat. He always wondered why he paid more attention to his facial hair than his actual hair, which was... actually quite messy. Noone ever saw his face. Not even the other Keys had seen it. But maybe, it was because he always wore his fedora. He diverted his thoughts back to shaving.
The old fellow walked out of the bathroom, folding his blade, and sticking it into his pants pocket. He gave his face a rub over, to make sure he'd not nicked himself anywhere. Confirming his smooth face, he decided it was time to grab something to eat...and fulfill another need. Buck would move his way to the kitchen of his home. It wasn't much. There wasn't even an actual stove - just a little kitchenette, really. But what he was after wasn't much of food right now. On the small round table in the middle of the room was a pack of cigarettes. Buck went straight for them, opening the pack, and withdrawing the last crinkled smoke from it. He felt around his suit... and eventually found a siver lighter. All of his suits had at least one in them. He flipped the lighter open, holding his fine smokable with his lips, ignited the end. He took a few puffs, making sure it was lit. The cheap ones either burnt like matches, or didn't stay lit. Assuring flame was present, he took a long drag, before setting the pack down. He enjoyed the soothing feeling of nicotine reentering his system after a light sleep. It took the edge off of the morning...
Buck went to his small icebox, and opened it up, pulling some of the contents out. It was last night's dinner, a bold soup with chicken. He looked at soup's container, before putting it back over a stove eye, and twisting the dial. Instantly, the stove kicked on, the eye quickly begining to glow with heat. Buck sat back in one of the two seats at the table, taking another drag on his cigarette. He looked back to the table, on which a small plastic ashtray sit.. in which, he tapped the monochrome ash into. He'd nestle the bent smoke into one of the 'fingers' of the ashtray, and moved back to the stove. The soup was bubbiling with new life, which made the rough-neck flip the stove's dial to off, and switching it to a cool eye. Buck looked around... and instead of reaching for the bowls... he'd go for the glasses. He'd pick out a moderate sized glass, and poured some of the hot soup into it. While Buck dressed nice, he was still a roughneck by life. Soup in a bowl took two hands to eat. He'd sip it from a glass, so he had one free hand. To smoke. To defend himself. To pinch his nose to help him get over the taste of his father's home-made soup recipe. He chuckled lightly. He never really liked it. It wasn't BAD, but it wasn't good either. But it kept his backbone from touching his belly, and it was filling and nutritous.
And that's what he did. Buck sat in the chair, and sipped on his cup-o-soup, occasionally chewing a bit of chicken, or a vegetable. His hand went back to his cigarette and took another puff. He sat there... eating (drinking?), smoking.... thinking. He was taking his day in strides at breakfast.
Ain't gonna be a great reception at the begining of our joining. Noone's gonna get a long in the begining. Especially me. He reasoned. He looked at his glass of soup. Hate the fuckin' Siren's the most. Bunch of girls in bright clothes. With whips. I remember when I could pay to sleep with those kind of people. Not that I would've. Too upstart. They think they can do everything. 'Don't underestimate us. Don't underestimate us. Don't underestimate us.' is all they say when you try to say something negitive.
"Those who claim they're being underestimated, often underestimate their opponent's ability to estimate their estimates." He said to himself, taking another long draw on his cigarette.
Poison. Rockers. They're also pretty upity. They're not in your face about it though. And they seem to have tact; instead of running in screaming 'Don't underestimate us because we're girls', they seem to have rational thought.' Buck reasoned with himself. They at least stay under the radar untill. I think I'll have the least conflict with them.
"Yeah. I'll eventually pick out a reason to hate them too." He said with a monotone voice, taking a heavy glug of his soup-drink.
Bullets. Gangers. Rappers. Breakdancers. All rap and hip hop is 'Sex, drugs, sex, beating women, sex, drugs, sex, selling women'. And then half of it claims that it's their real life. Not something I'd listen to, honestly... They're like the Poison fellows though. Other then their choice in music, I can't say that they're all that bad.
"Maybe I just hate The Sirens a lot. When I sit down and think about it... the other two aren't that bad." Buck said. He pulled another drag from his cigarette. Or... at least tried to. It only took him a second to find out he was sucking on a smoldering filter and had just finished breakfast. Buck would place his cup in the sink, and push the butt of the cigarette into his pack. He'd go back into his bedroom, and bring out two more packs. And as he was heading out the door, he'd reach over to an umbrella rack, littered with not only umbrellas... but his rapier. Yet something else to go around his waist. He picked up the scabarded weapon, and held it in his hand. Really, it was modernly useless. The rapier was used for gentleman's duels. The colichemarde, and estocs were more commonly seen in real combat. The only thing more uncommon was a foil. But Buck opened up his jacket, and unbuckled his belt. He slid the sheath for his weapon on upside down. His own rapier was very special. It had a latch on the scabbard, which made sure it wouldn't fall out on it's own. It's blade was shortened. It was overall fairly short for a rapier, really. But that's what he needed. With the blade sticking up, he could tuck it behind his back, behind one of his suspender straps. It held the blade close, against his back. The soft leather also dampened the shape. It was quite concealed.
Buck pushed open his door, stepping into the outside world. He turned to lock the place, before setting off into the ruined streets. He was a very short walk away from the Key's hideout....And on his way there, he would peel open his new pack of smokes, pulling out the first crinkled cigarette.