Morden Man

Guardians of Infinity

Name: James Buchanan Barnes.

Superhero identity: Captain America.

Age: Technically ninety years old, but physically in his mid-twenties due to the magic of cryogenics.

Brief History:

Once the teenaged sidekick of Captain America, Bucky was thought lost in 1945 to an explosion caused by Heinrich Zemo. In fact Bucky was found by Soviet soldiers who wiped the sidekick's brain, fitted him with a prosthetic arm, and programmed him to assassinate enemies of the Soviet Union. In between assassinations "The Winter Soldier", as Barnes would come to be known, would have his mind wiped once more and be placed in a cryogenic sleep until he was needed again. It isn't until the fall of the Soviet Union that Barnes reappears under the control of Aleksander Lukin, former KGB agent turned Kronas CEO.

After some time Steve Rogers is able to break Lukin's hold over Bucky using the Cosmic Cube and restore his sidekick's memories to him. Bucky disappears, traumatised by the knowledge of the crimes he had committed, reappearing upon learning that Steve had been arrested in the fallout of the superhero "civil war" over the Registration Act with intents to break him free. Instead he watched on whilst Steve was shot dead. In the aftermath, Bucky is approached by Tony Stark with a proposition: carry the shield and keep Steve's memory alive by becoming the Captain America the world so desperately needs. A reluctant Bucky accepts, knowing he'd never be able to stomach someone else in Steve's uniform, and sets about trying to live up to the mantle.

Guardians of Infinity

Name: James Buchanan Barnes.

Superhero identity: Captain America.

Age: Technically ninety years old, but physically in his mid-twenties due to the magic of cryogenics.

Brief History:

Once the teenaged sidekick of Captain America, Bucky was thought lost in 1945 to an explosion caused by Heinrich Zemo. In fact Bucky was found by Soviet soldiers who wiped the sidekick's brain, fitted him with a prosthetic arm, and programmed him to assassinate enemies of the Soviet Union. In between assassinations "The Winter Soldier", as Barnes would come to be known, would have his mind wiped once more and be placed in a cryogenic sleep until he was needed again. It isn't until the fall of the Soviet Union that Barnes reappears under the control of Aleksander Lukin, former KGB agent turned Kronas CEO.

After some time Steve Rogers is able to break Lukin's hold over Bucky using the Cosmic Cube and restore his sidekick's memories to him. Bucky disappears, traumatised by the knowledge of the crimes he had committed, reappearing upon learning that Steve had been arrested in the fallout of the superhero "civil war" over the Registration Act with intents to break him free. Instead he watched on whilst Steve was shot dead. In the aftermath, Bucky is approached by Tony Stark with a proposition: carry the shield and keep Steve's memory alive by becoming the Captain America the world so desperately needs. A reluctant Bucky accepts, knowing he'd never be able to stomach someone else in Steve's uniform, and sets about trying to live up to the mantle.

Guardians of Infinity [Marvel]

I can't say I've read much of Waids run but I've heard mixed reviews, I'll probably read up in preparation :)

@Kablamicus

It's really, really good. Kind of takes Matt back to his more upbeat, "swashbuckling" ways whilst retaining the elements of darkness that Miller/Bendis/Brubaker-era Daredevil was renown for, and the art by Samnee is amazing. All around it's a pleasure to read from start to end, when Matt's mired in nothing but darkness it can sometime be a bit of a chore, even when well-written.

Also, expect a minimalistic CS to fill out.

@Ruby

That sounds great.

Guardians of Infinity [Marvel]

I really enjoyed Brubaker's run on Daredevil but I'm glad Waid took the character in a completely different direction. It was needed after the decade or so of Matt veering from one emotionally draining tragedy to the next.

Guardians of Infinity [Marvel]

The premise of this game reminds me of Kurt Buseik's Avengers Forever and to a lesser degree Exiles.

Both are great, so that bodes well.

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

There weren’t many basketball courts in Norman and most of them were barely maintained, the backboards were broken, the lines fading, and they had been that way since Deacon Augustus Harris had simply been known as “Gus” around these parts. He remembered the pick up games they played here back in the day, how the court had provided them with some form of sanctuary. That was before the drugs tore their community apart and took so much of the deacon’s life away from him. Looking back they seemed like happier times, but when Gus thought about it for a second he remembered them being no less dangerous or fraught with pitfalls.

The court was an oasis of tarmac amidst a sea of empty space, the fields on the horizon seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. A figure stood alone, putting up shot after shot and chasing after every rebound with a tenacity that one would expect in the middle of a heated game. It was Antwan Dixon, glistening with sweat, and he was completely unaware of Gus stood there watching him.

Antwan went through the legs a few times, making sure to keep low to the ground as he did so, before eventually cocking back a shot that he launched like a trebuchet effortlessly towards the basket. It clanked against the back of the rim loudly but its bounce took it down through the net. Gus applauded gently as he approached Antwan and smiled at the boy.

“Nice shot.”

Antwan walked over to pick up the ball and placed it under his arm, looking us Gus with a bemused look on his face. “What are you doing here?”

He'd heard that Antwan looked like Marcus Dixon, he’d even seen pictures of the boy in the local paper, but in person the resemblance was more eerie than Gus had expected. He certainly was his father’s son as far as appearance, though it remained to be seen if he was cut from the same cloth as Marcus had been.

“Your mother thought it would be a good idea for the two of us to talk.”

“She thought wrong,” Antwan said abruptly.

“My experience with mothers has taught me that they are very rarely wrong about these things, Antwan.”

“Yeah, well, something tells me your moms and mine don’t have very much in common.”

It was clear from his tone that Antwan didn’t exactly hold his mother in high regard. How could you after seeing some of the things he must have seen growing up? The deacon’s mother hadn't been an addict, that particular affliction was one he’d visited upon himself out of choice, but she endured hardships and they had made her a hard woman, quick to reach for a belt or a switch. He had memories of his own mother that he wished he could forget, like Antwan had of Michelle.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Antwan raised his eyebrows dismissively and then itched the corner of his nose, “What do you want, man? I’m trying to practice.”

“I thought, maybe, you’d want to talk about what happened last night.”

The boy looked around absently before glancing back at the deacon and shrugging his shoulders, “Nope.”

Undeterred the deacon placed his hands in his pockets and wandered from midcourt to a few feet back from the three point line. As he walked the most fleeting of memories came back to him of the times he’d played on these courts years back. He wasn’t sure whether they were memories or things he thought he remembered, but they flashed through his brain so quickly it was difficult to discern what was happening. A missed free throw here, a shoving match after a hard foul, and a three pointer sailing through the net without it moving an inch. What he would have given to have Antwan’s potential back then. It made his little brush with narcotics all the more frustrating.

“For a minute there you must have thought you’d blown it. Seen those recruiting letters from South Carolina, Clemson, Georgetown, and Duke all disappearing into thin air and in aid of what? Some weed? I know I’d have been scared if I were you.”

Clearly disgruntled by the deacon’s presence, Antwan began to dribble the ball between his back, slowly at first but quicker with each second. He did it so effortlessly that it was mesmerizing and Gus was certain that Antwan had barely heard a word he'd said. Finally the boy looked up and said with a hard look. “Well you’re not me, old man.”

The “old man” comment stung Gus more than it ought to have. The young didn't understand what it felt like to grow old, to have your body slowly begin to fail you, whilst your mind felt as young as it ever did. Though Gus looked fairly young for his age and kept himself in good shape, it was hard not to worry that all the years he had wasted getting high might catch up with him. The things he'd done back then, the things he'd seen, they haunted Gus to this day and in his darkest moments he often wondered how he'd survived that period of his life, whether he even deserved to have survived it.

But he was still here, old as he might have seemed to Antwan, and though he might never of had a fraction of the skill on the court that Antwan possessed, there was still some of that young man left behind.

“That I'm not,” Gus said with a nonchalant shrug. “I mean, I’d have sorted out that hitch in my jump shot by now if I were. Something like that might fly down here playing against trailer trash from Jardin but they’d eat you up in college with that thing slowing your release down.”

Antwan was halfway into his shooting motion when he stopped dead in his tracks. Suddenly there was more emotion was on his face than there had been throughout their entire conversation. He shook his head vociferously as he approached Gus.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re right,” Gus smiled. “I’m just an old man, right? What the hell do I know?”

The deacon rolled up his sleeves and then clapped in Antwan’s direction for the ball. The boy looked at him, bemused, until the deacon clapped again and he passed it to Gus and stepped out of the old man’s way.

He got low to the ground, as low as his dress trousers would allow, and went through the legs a few times as he’d seen Antwan do earlier before dribbling normally for a few seconds. Gus took a single glance up at the basket and then dribbled the ball into the ground extra hard rather than bring the ball up to his head, as he’d heard Jerry West did to quicken his shooting motion, and let it fly with a little hop. The jump was by no means pretty and he barely got off the ground but the second the ball left the deacon’s hand he had a good feeling about it.

It careened through the air slowly towards the basket and passed through it without making contact with the net. A broad smile appeared on Gus’ face as he said a silent prayer for having grown up idolizing Jerry West instead of Dominique Wilkins like every other kid in Norman back then. Jesus and Jerry West could split the credit for that one having gone in, he thought as he turned to gauge Antwan’s reaction.

Antwan stared at Gus as unimpressed as if he'd run through Club 65 in a Klansman outfit. “Was that supposed to impress me?”

“You try knocking down a three-pointer when you’re fifty-two and have arthritis in your knees, boy,” Harris said with a chuckle. “Maybe then you’ll come to appreciate it.”

They stood in silence for a time before Antwan let out a sigh and looked in the deacon’s direction. “Look, I get that I fucked up, I don’t need you to tell me that.”

It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. From what Michelle had relayed to Gus of their conversation the other night Antwan seemed far less belligerent now than he had then. Time could do that.

“I’m not here to tell you anything, son, I’m here to listen.”

Antwan nodded and wandered slowly to pick up the ball. The second it touched his hands it was like the boy’s troubles, which had seemed an unbearable weight before, were lighter somewhat, more manageable. He seemed more at one with a Spalding in his hand than without it. Who could blame him? That thing had probably brought him more solace over the years than anything else. He eyed it as he turned the ball between his hands.

“I know it was irresponsible and I know I could have blew my chance at getting a scholarship, but it’s hard sometimes, man. People think I have it easy or something. Where were they when there was no food on our table? When I was showing up to practice on a hungry stomach?”

Gus placed his hands in his pockets with a sigh, “I understand, son.”

“No,” Antwan shook his head. “That’s the thing. No one does. No one understands what it’s like out here for me. The only people in the world that ever looked out for me, ever helped me without expecting something back, are Jayson and Mr. Spencer.”

From what Gus knew of Roland Spencer it certainly didn’t seem like he didn’t expect something back. He was a businessman first and foremost, and not a socially conscious one at that, not the type of man to ’t make investments without expecting a return on them down the line. It almost hurt Gus to bring light to that given the boy’s trust in him, but he figured it would hurt a great deal less than if he found out down the line.

“Tell me, Antwan, was Mr. Spencer interested in you before you had a basketball in your hands?”

“I see how it is,” Antwan muttered with a distrustful look. “That’s why she sent you. She wants you to turn me against Mr. Spencer as well.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

Antwan shook his head in disbelief and dribbled the ball away as if Gus weren’t there. He started putting up shots, chasing after them as ferociously as he had done earlier, over and over again until he was breathing heavy and his forehead was sopping wet. Eventually one of the rebounds rolled in the deacon’s direction and Gus put his foot atop the ball to slow it, lifting it up and placing it in his palms.

“You know, the other week I buried a boy by the name of Vontae Carter,” Gus said wistfully. “Maybe you heard about what happened to him on the news. I’m not sure whether kids watch the news anymore. Not sure they ever did, in truth. He was twenty-three years old, Antwan, and he was shot dead not a half hour from here over a pair of sneakers. Can you believe that? A pair a sneakers.”

Antwan wiped some sweat from his head with his forearm and looked at Gus, confused. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure,” Gus said, throwing the ball back to Antwan. “I guess I’m tired, is all.”

He was tired. Tired of watching Norman’s best and brightest surround themselves with the wrong people, make the wrong decisions, and pay with it with their liberty or even worse, their lives. It was a story he’d seen play out more times than he could bear and it was his desire not to see it play out in Antwan’s life.

It was then the deacon remembered one caveat that had seemingly slipped his mind amidst the deluge of information Michelle had given him. “Your mother told me that Jayson told the police the weed belonged to him. Did you know that?”

He could tell straight away it struck a chord with Antwan.

“What?” Antwan said with a shake of his head. “No.”

“He was willing to throw whatever prospects he might have away for you without a second’s hesitation to get you out of trouble,” Gus said as he began to roll down his sleeves. “You ought to think on whether Mr. Spencer would be willing to do the same for you if it came down to it. Though something tells me you already know the answer to that question, Antwan.”

The boy stood in silence as he contemplated the deacon’s words. His eyes were locked on the fields on the horizon past Gus’ shoulder and were glazed over as if he were lost in thought. Gus would have been in his position too, though if he’d had a friend like Jayson something tells him he’d never have found himself in some of the predicaments he landed in over the years. It was a rare thing to have a friend like that, especially in a place like Norman, and looking into the boy’s eyes it seemed that fact began to dawn on him.

“It was good talking to you,” Gus said with a smile. “You know where I am if you ever want to talk, son.”

Antwan smiled back politely as Gus turned his back to walk away from the court. As he reached the edge of the tarmac he looked back at the boy and pointed towards the basketball resting between Antwan’s hands with an encouraging smile.

“Remember to work on that hitch.”

Guardians of Infinity [Marvel]

Does this mean I'll finally be able to play Bucky Cap? If so, I'm all over this thing like white on rice.

All-Star Marvel: Audax Mundus Novus - Season 1 (Completed)

Alas @Morden Man continues to Lurk :P

@Sep

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

Stood over the bleeding Roland Spencer in the hue of Spencer's Tires and Rims blue neon lights was Billy Brown. For the past twenty minutes he had watched whilst one of his men had beaten Spencer until he could barely stand, instructing him to avoid the face. For the most part the muscle-bound brute had managed followed his instructions until a punch glanced off of Roland’s shoulder blade and split open his lip. Roland had never seen a man look so terrified in his life. Billy simply tutted and gestured to the man to leave then alone, which he did, silently thanking God that Brown was in a good mood as he left them.

Unfortunately for Roland, Billy was not in such a good mood with him. A distraught Roland had come to him on the phone to Scott Andrews pleading with him to release Antwan. Billy had got the boy released but he was far from happy with Roland.

“You know, there was a time when I thought you were a clever man.”

Past tense. Not that Roland blamed him. It made him sick to admit it but this was one beat down that he probably deserved.

“When you came to me with your business plan for this place all those years ago I was ready to laugh you out of the room,” Billy said gesturing around Roland's business. “But you convinced me, Roland, you made me change my mind. That’s not something that happens often.”

Billy leant against the desk at the front of the showroom and looked down at Roland, who was bleeding freely from his lip and holding onto his torso to stop the pain. It wasn’t doing him much good and he knew nothing he could say would do him any good. Instead he watched in cowed silence as Billy vented.

“But giving the boy drugs? What possible reason could you have to do that? I have racked my brains all goddamned night trying to figure out what could possess you to think that was a good idea and I’m still no closer to figuring it out.”

Roland’s stared down at the small patch of blood on the group beneath him where his lip had been dripping, desperate to avoid Billy’s gaze.

“Why on Earth would you give the boy drugs, Roland?”

Again Roland said nothing and kept his eyes locked on the ground. Billy shook his head in frustration and knelt beside, grabbing Roland by the hair and slapping him across the face. It wasn’t hard enough to cause him any real damage, though it stung against his lip, but it was certainly enough to grab his attention.

“What’s wrong? You can’t speak all of a sudden?”

“The boy asked me for the weed,” Roland muttered, “He said he’d been stressing out, he seemed like he was in a bad way, so I figured it wouldn’t do him any harm to relax a little.”

He should have known better than to trust those out of towners. They'd promised him they would be discrete but once word came back about Antwan being caught with the weed it had taken all of five minutes for Billy to found out where he’d got it.

Billy leant in close enough that Roland could feel the warmth of his breath against his face. “You don’t have the authority to make that kind of decision, Roland. You never did.”

“I understand that now.”

Billy released Roland’s head and stood up. He strode over to the desk and reached for some napkins atop it, wiping his hand clean of the specks of blood from Roland’s lip. Once he was satisfied they were clean he turned back to Roland and placed his hands on his hips.

“Do you think it was easy for me to get them out of the Sherriff’s Department? To get good, hard-working lawmen to turn a blind eye to cover for your fuck-up? You think that kind of thing comes free?”

Roland shook his head, “I can’t imagine it does.”

“It costs me capital,” Billy said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Capital that I might need down the line and find that I’m left wanting because of this little stunt of yours.”

Roland dabbed his lip with the sleeve of his shirt to quell the bleeding and Billy tutted again, grabbing some more napkins from the side and throwing them on the ground beside Roland.

“You were a clever man once. I’m not sure what happened to change that but I sure as hell won’t tolerate any more mistakes from you. Don’t make me come back here again. You hear me?”

Roland nodded.

He watched as Billy walked towards the exit without so much as a glance back. He made sure to wait until he heard the sound of tires screeching off into the distance before attempting to lift himself to his feet. He barely made it to his knees before he collapsed to the ground again in pain, resting his head on the ground with a heavy sigh. He laid there, his breathing laboured and uneven, whilst he damned the heavens for having entered into business with Billy Brown. Roland had climbed into bed with the Devil without a second’s thought and, having escaped with his soul once, went back for more. This time it was different though, his soul wasn’t his own to win back.

It was in the hands of a seventeen-year-old boy.

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

Ten Pickett Bowling was the only bowling alley in the entire county. Chew had vague memories of having visited once as a child. It was a few years before Michelle had been born and their mother had taken them with one of his many “uncles” as it was a special occasion. Someone’s birthday or something. They’d even let him take Marcus with him. He didn’t remember much else other than forgetting to wear his socks that day and the way the inside of the shoes they’d given him felt against his bare skin. The thought of it still made him uncomfortable.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. Heck, it was a lifetime ago. Yet here Chew Lewis was sat interviewing for a job at Ten Pickett Bowling like he hadn’t damn near ran this county once upon a time. How the might had fallen, he thought, as he watched the skinny middle-aged man opposite the desk in front of him look him up and down. He knew he wasn’t in with a chance before he’d even walked into the room but not interviewing despite knowing that wasn’t an option. He wasn’t a banger anymore. That wasn’t him.

The interview came to an end and Chew shook the man’s hand as he was reassured they’d be in touch. He couldn’t even maintain eye contact with him. So much for that.

Chew made his way towards Dante’s busted old pickup truck parked outside and sat down wordlessly. He drummed his fingers along the frame of the window as he glanced back at the bowling alley with a scornful look.

From beside him he heard Dante’s shrill, invasive voice pipe up. “How’d it go?”

He could tell from the look on his face that Dante was willing it not to go well. At every turn Dante had tried to talk him out of going straight, including the drive here. He didn’t understand, he’d not done hard time like Chew had, this gangsta bullshit still seemed to have some appeal to him. That wasn’t going to change until he was behind bars or in the ground, but he’d be damned if he’d let Dante take him down with him.

Chew shrugged nonchalantly and indicated to Dante to start the car, “Let’s just say I doubt I’ll be hearing back from them anytime soon.”

A broad smile appeared on Dante’s face.

“What’d I tell you? You’re wasting your fucking time. It’s hard enough finding work out here without a criminal record. The whole state’s full of kids with degrees working in coffee shops and shopping malls, man. Why the fuck would they employ you?”

It stung. In another life Chew would have been minded to lay hands on someone for talking to him like that. Not this one though, he’d changed, he was done with that. He bit his tongue instead and said through a scowl, “I’ll find something.”

They drove aimlessly for a time, talking sparingly, until Dante’s rumbling stomach led them to stop at Hobie’s Diner for something to eat. For a small man Dante could really pack away his food. Chew watched in shock as he scarfed down more grits and collard greens than any human he’d ever seen before. His appetite was tame by comparison, though prison would do that to you.

Eventually Dante’s seemingly endless appetite was sated and he sat back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. They sat in silence for a moment but the look on Dante’s face told Chew he had something he wanted to get off his chest. He started to speak, only to be interrupted by Gillian clearing up the plates. Chew smiled at her as she piled the plates up high and waddled away, balancing them precariously as she went.

Dante tapped the brim of his lemonade before clearing his throat and finally talking, “You remember DJ? Works for Billy Brown?”

“No.”

Chew knew Billy Brown. It was impossible not to know Billy Brown in Pickett. The man was an institution. You’d never know it from the look of him, in fact Chew’d never seen a man that looked less like a criminal mastermind than Billy Brown. But the man meant business. As wild as Chew had been back in the day even he eventually had to bend to knee and pay tribute to Brown once the dust had settled and the Normans were out of the picture. This DJ character didn’t ring any bells though.

“Before your time,” Dante said with a shrug. “Well, he’s good people. A friend of his might have some work for us. Nothing too heavy, a little bit of protection at a deal from the sounds of it, I told him we’d think about it.”

We? Chew crushed the can of sweet tea in his hand.

“I told you I was done with that gangsta bullshit, Dante.”

Dante shrugged nonchalantly as he picked his teeth with a toothpick. A mangled bit of collard green fell from between two of them into his reedy goatee. “Yeah, and how’s that treating you?”

Chew thought back to the beanpole back at the bowling alley that had looked at him like trash. It hadn’t been the first time. He’d seen that look countless times over the past few days. No high school diploma, no GED, not a day’s worth of legitimate work experience, and a sheet as long as your arm to boot. They thought he was scum, something to be scraped off their boot, and as much as he tried he couldn’t see that changing anytime soon. There was a lot he could stomach but being pitied wasn’t one of them. He was Chew Lewis.

As if sensing his indecision Dante reached across the table and jabbed Chew in his chest with his finger for emphasis, “It’s only a matter of time. You know that, I know that, everyone on these streets knows it. You either come aboard now while the getting’s good, while your name still rings out around here, or you’ll be forgotten about entirely.”

He wanted to reach out and break Dante’s finger but he couldn’t help but feel like there was some truth to his words. Even if he didn’t want to believe it.

“Make a decision. Are you in or are you fucking in?”

It was only a security job, Chew thought, as he glanced up at his friend with a heavy sigh. One job to line their pockets, nothing too heavy, and then he’d get back to looking for something legit. He was done with this gangsta bullshit. He wouldn’t be one of those bums that landed back inside after five minutes on the outside. Just a little something to get him started. That’s all.

“Fine,” Chew said with a reluctant shake of his head. “I’m in.”

*****

Dante knew Chew would change his mind. That working man shit? That wasn’t the man he’d grown up with. The kind of dog Chew had to him? No amount of prison could take that out of a person. Shit, it was hard enough to believe he’d applied for that crap down at Ten Pickett Bowling, but at least he’d come to his senses eventually and agreed to come to the meet. At least Dante wouldn’t have to turn up with nothing but his dick in his hand.

They were meeting Topher at Club 56 at eight and were running late. By the time they walked through the door it twenty-five to nine and Topher was sat in a booth with a curvy black woman sat beside him. Topher was a good-looking dude, Italian-American with a swimmer’s build and a penchant for black women. Liked to say that was what brought him to Norman. Dante knew better than that though.

“Sorry we’re late,” Dante said as the pair slid into the booth opposite Topher and the woman with her nose nuzzled into his neck. “This is my man Chew Lewis.”

Topher waved the woman away without a word and she strode away with a contemptuous look back at Chew and Dante, it brought a smile to Topher’s face before he looked back at them. “The Chew Lewis?”

“As he lives and breathes, motherfucker.”

“I heard about the job you did on those Georgia boys,” Topher said with a wry smile. “Is that thing about the cement blocks true?”

Dante smiled as he saw a confused look appear on Chew’s face. Yeah, he’d heard the one about the cement blocks too, almost as far fetched as the one with the blowtorch. None of them were true but that didn’t stop people from talking about it. There’d been times over the years that Dante had resented Chew’s legend, thought maybe he deserved a little bit more love, especially given how things really went down in Georgia. That was done though. Georgia was in the past and Marcus was with it.

Chew stared at Topher without a hint of recognition, as if trying to summon up an inkling of understanding. “Cement blocks?”

“No matter,” Topher shrugged. “Has Dante told you the setup?”

“A little.”

Here goes. He had explained to Chew what the deal was on the way over but had left out some of the more juicy details. Well, maybe all of all the juicy details. It wasn’t as straightforward as he’d made out at Hobie’s or in the car on the way there but there was no way Chew would have agreed if he’d known. He needed to get him in the room first and that meant lying to him. Once he knew how much they were set to make he’d get past the deception, Dante was sure.

“We’ve been using the same Dominican crew to run packages across the county line for close to five years. Operation’s been smooth as for the duration. Few months ago, word comes back to us that the Dominicans have turned up dead down in Florida. You know the funniest part? Not only do the guy's responsible make no attempt to hide the fact it was them, they come to us saying they’ll fulfil the Dominican’s obligations. Turns out they’re ex-Cuban military or something.”

Dante noticed Chew’s ears prick up at the words “ex-Cuban military” but to his credit he shrugged and simply asked, “What’s the problem then?”

“Nearly two hundred thousand in guns and crystal went missing when they took the Dominicans out.”

There it was. Two hundred thousand. Topher had promised Dante a cut of whatever they got back, before Brown took what was his in taxes, and something a little extra if they got it done without catching too much heat. Dante glanced over at Chew who stared impassively over at Topher as he took a sip from the glass of Jack Daniels in front of him.

“You think they’re holding out on you?”

“Here’s the thing,” Topher said with a knowing point in Dante and Chew’s direction. “They want to set up a meet to give us it back.”

“Sounds like a trap to me.”

“That’s why we need good men like you and Dante there. If that Georgia thing went down how they tell it, you’re the right men for the job.”

Suddenly Chew sprang up from his seat and shook his head, “I’m not interested.”

Dante looked round, mouth agape, and grabbed Chew by his sleeve as if to pull him back down into his seat. Chew tugged his arm free from Dante’s hand and pushed his leg against Dante’s as if to motion for him to let him out of the booth. Dante kept his legs tensed.

Topher looked up at Chew bemused, as if he’d slapped him in the face with a wet fish. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Chew stepped over Dante’s legs and made his way to the exit and Dante sat in silence for a few moments, his face red with embarrassment. He made his apologies to Topher and then pushed through the crowds towards the exit and after his friend. Dante found him loitering by his truck with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. It took every part of him not to shake the fuck out of him.

“What the fuck? You don’t get to up and walk out on a meet like that, man. You know who that guy is around here?”

Chew laughed dismissively before puffing a smoke ring into the night’s sky. “From the sounds of it, nobody after he walks into the trap those Cubans are setting for him. What happened to this not being heavy, man? You can’t afford to be this stupid. Marcus isn’t around to wipe our asses for us no more.”

“Yeah, and whose fucking fault is that?” The words came out of Dante’s mouth before he had a chance to catch himself and contain his annoyance. The second they left his mouth he realised he’d fucked up, but it was too late, they were out. “I shouldn’t have s-”

Before he had a chance to finish Chew’s hand were on him. He threw him against the pickup truck hard and stood over him threateningly, his fist raised above his head as if about to strike. Dante held his side as he looked up at his him expectedly.

“Fuck you, man." Chew lowered his hand and shook his head. "Fuck you.”

Slowly Dante climbed to his feet and watched as Chew stormed off into the darkness on foot. There was a slight twitch beneath his eye as he considered going after him and apologizing for what he’d said, but it passed as soon as it had came and he sauntered towards Club 56 instead. Fuck him, if he didn’t have the stones for this life it was on him, not Dante.