Post by Valiant_ESQ on Apr 2, 2017 0:26:08 GMT
HOTEL INTERIOR, PORTLAND OR.
NOWHERE NEAR WHERE SHE NEEDS TO BE.
Nnnnnnow I've got you, you foul-smelling, room-service-wasting, secretary-kidnapping bastards.
"Alright, alright - easy does it..."
The breath I'm holding feels like a weight of lead in my gut as I slip the clear adhesive tape over the dresser and let it fall into place. As it sticks, the ghost of a few fingerprints form under it like talcum smudges, and stay in place as I lift the tape back up before hurrying back to the scanner popped open on the bed. The tape goes over the input tray and I cross my fingers behind my back while the computer searches for a match. It's running off a less-than-legal Interpol tap, which I'll likely have to smooth-talk an explanation for later -
"Dammit!"
- but, turns out it didn't need the tap, as the prints belong to one Hazell Fleming-Roake - her actual name, honest - who happens to work for me. A typist in the legal pool, far too meek and polite in that stereotypical English way to do anything this criminal or dangerous. And I'm fairly confident Melanie would kick her ass if it came to blows. No suspect.
(although speaking of 'blows', I had Hazell tagged as maybe-gay from her first interview so maybe that explains why she was in Melanie's room - shame on you for cheating, girl)
I take a quick glimpse at my watch and - urgh, throw myself onto the bed with my rubber-gloved hands clawing at my scalp. Been here for 4 hours already. The entire suite has been stripped out and covered in plastic sheets, there are blacklights casting the walls into ultraviolet glare, there's dirt and white dust all over my suit and I've pulled enough hair out of the shower drain to stuff a 6-foot teddy bear with.
And it's all been for nothing.
They always make this crime-scene crap look easy on TV, don't they? Every clue found always fits into the one case that matters. Turns out that's not how it works; instead you're stuck dredging through the detritus of human remains built up over years, and 99% of it is worthless. Even the 1% that fits the right time period and semi-plausible culprits seems to wind up as a long list of unrelated dead-ends without even the most spurious logic to connect them. Pretty sure I've solved the lingering mystery of who scrawled 'FUK BEEBER' and a cannabis leaf on the nightstand, and I found a severed bird's leg under a loose floorboard. Most likely a dove. Very weird, not relevant in the least. Fail.
Melanie...I'd do almost anything to just know where you are. No, scratch that - I'd do anything to have even one of your captors locked in a room with me. Because the bastards don't really care about you, girl, they just want to put me under pressure, and after everything they've already done? This is far beyond the last straw. When these people disappeared from my life last time, I let them go without following up and just moved on. That makes this, on some level, my fault for not destroying them when I had the chance. Consider that lesson learned: I am going to kill them with my bare hands and I am going to fucking enjoy it -
"Bad time?"
I sit up with a snort of surprise - very aware that my hands were making throttling motions at the ceiling while I idly dreamed of murder, like ya do - and glare accusingly at the unshaven slob that just waltzed in here without knocking. Wish I could be more upset but he's exactly the unshaven slob I asked for.
"Where you're concerned, there's never a good time, Carson."
So, introductions: Carson Israel, ex-Chicago PD, private investigator of some years now. Alcoholic, widower, Pisces. Likes money (preferably in crumped dollar bills), playing darts (preferably in the back of a smoke-filled bar), and women (preferably about half his age). He smells of Brut aftershave and mild desperation, and I've never seen him in clothes that he hadn't slept in.
How do I know a chump like this, you ask? Back when he wore a badge, Carson here spent the back half of his career obsessively chasing a deranged serial killer, one who murdered his wife and led him on a merry chase across the Americas. Said killer went by Tommy Chuckles - sound familiar? He was indeed my son, and once, I hired Carson through an intermediary to help me find Tommy so I could kill him. The Valiant family history is colourful and not always to its benefit, let's say. Obviously, I changed my mind later, and as an apology I used some discreet contacts to ruin Carson's career prospects, leading to his dismissal. That, he doesn't know, and I've no intention of telling him. But I kept tabs on him after that because, hey, he was useful once and could be again.
I'm hoping this is the 'again' in question.
"Hmph. Room already looks like a morgue. You do this yourself?"
"No, I left it to the furniture elves. I assume this won't be a problem?"
"Nope, saves me some time. 'Course, never had much faith in all this tech stuff. Go with my gut, usually."
"With a gut that size, I suppose it has to go first..."
"Funny. You checked over outside, too?"
If I roll my eyes any harder, they might fall out of my skull.
"Yes, of course I checked the hallway and got the camera footage from the security room. If there was anything to go on, I'd already have told you, wouldn't I?"
"I meant outside the window."
"We're on the 5th floor, idiot."
"So that's a 'no', then."
I sigh and follow after him as he goes to the window and pries it open, letting in the balmy mid-afternoon breeze. Sun's still high right now, and briefly I toy with the thought of heading up to the roof with a lounger, before the thought is buried under a mound of guilt. This isn't the time.
Carson grunts and strains as he forces himself through the window - more soya, less donuts, porkboy - and...ah. There's a fire escape. Dammit, I should've thought of that. This bastard's gonna be smug about it now. He steps onto the iron staircase and the thing creaks incredibly loudly, not to mention pulls away from the wall about half a foot. The way his face turns chalk-white in response has me stifling a giggle.
"Jeez, how much do you weigh?"
"Not that much. But this escape's old, and not built to hold too many people at once. Especially not - ah-hah, see?"
He shuffles sideways and gestures to the far-side safety railing - and standing out from the rusted bars is a thick clip of steel, silvery and unspoiled. It's some sort of climbing apparatus, which...shit.
"They got out through here?"
"And abseiled down to the street. Doesn't look like they came up this way, though. Wouldn't have been safe - just making the trip once almost pulled the stairs outta the wall."
"Is this the part where I'm supposed to bask in awe at your astounding talent for bullshitting your way to a lucky break?"
"How 'bout you save for that for - nnnnfff - "
This time I take pity on him and grab one of his arms by the wrist, to help pull him back through. He staggers and almost collapses once he's inside, face reddening from even this minor exertion.
" - for when I've followed up the lead enough to actually get somewhere. We've got a timeframe for the kidnapping, and know roughly where the perps hit the street. Cross-check with city CCTV and we should see where they went, if they were picked up, whatever. It's the first step in the chase."
"Okay, okay - wait, what time is...?"
Ah hell, it's already past 6. I should already be on a plane to California. As it stands, I can make it and just barely have time to squeeze in a work-out before this ostensible 'super card' that doesn't seem in any way different from a normal card. But...Melanie...
"Hhhh. I'm going to have to leave this to you for now. Here's the room key - lock up when you're done - and talk to my team in the lobby, they'll help you get talking with the police and city council. You learn anything from this, I'm the first person you tell, even if it's just as a voicemail. Got it?"
He takes the key and nods once, then fixes me with a stare.
"Fine. Just so we're clear, though - you're not keeping anything back from me? Because this whole thing stinks of a personal grudge, and usually that means the victim knows the perp already."
What am I supposed to tell you, Carson?
Do I tell you this was the work of the Shadow Council? Explain to you why you shouldn't laugh at that (admittedly pretentious) name? That they've been quietly sabotaging every successful element of my life for decades before now, and are so damn good at concealing their tracks that I couldn't reveal their existence to the public even if I wanted to? Do I warn you that, if they think you're on their trail, they will almost certainly kill you to preserve your silence?
Do I say that they were the ones who burned down the old family home while I was still in high school and left my father to die in the blaze?
I do not. Of course I do not. It's private business. So I turn away before he can see any hesitation in my eyes and head for the door.
"Lot of people hate me, Carson, and with most I never figure out the reasons why before I crush them. Not expecting this to be any different. Just find them, alright? In the meantime, I have a monarchy to topple. Catch you on the flip."
The door swings shut, cutting off any pithy comeback he might've made. Off to Cali, then.
Before you go, I'd like to make something clear here: I do care about wrestling. I'd like to think that's obvious, since if I didn't care I wouldn't complain about it nearly so much, but it needs reinforcement before this next point.
I couldn't give less of a damn about Cassius Reed this week.
Any other week, sure, this would be a big deal. Irrespective of his skill, Reed has been the beneficiary of stunning good fortune and opponent idiocy during the same period where I was repeatedly stonewalled by unpredictable fate and enemies summoning uncommon reserves to deny me. That pisses me off something fierce - nothing worse than contrasting your misery with another's joy - and raining all over the king's parade just like I did with that Finn guy and his implausible winning streak sounds perfect, even before we factor in the possibility of future gold procurement as a result. With that little extra incentive? Sign me right up.
Any other week, that is.
This week, though, fuck it, and fuck him. Fuck the whole thing. Not literally, I don't want this cackling comedian's cock anywhere near me, but right now I don't need the extra pressure of a high-stakes match when I'm still fretting over the disappearance-maybe-murder of my right-hand minion...which of course is no doubt exactly what Seth Black was counting on. I drop out here and back to dark matches I go, and the smug bastard can innocently claim he gave me a fair chance. If he wasn't a fatuous scumbag I'd almost be impressed at such a manipulation of the truth.
Fine, then. I'm not backing down from you, Cassius. Got too much pride for that. But this isn't going to be some epic contest of wills between us. Whether you're worth that much effort or not, I don't have the patience for it this week. So rather than throw my forces against the walls of your castle, picking off its defences one by one until the gates finally give way to your vulnerable courtyard, I'm just going to excavate beneath the walls and let them crumble on top of you.
...was that too colourful for you? I mean I'm not going to play fair. I'm barely even considering 'wrestling' in the conventional sense. Maybe I'll hoodwink the official into disqualifying you. Maybe I'll stick a taser against your ribs discreetly and pin you down while you're too busy drooling and shaking to do anything else. Hell, maybe I'll pull your leg through the bars of a security railing, dislocate your kneecap, and leave you to get counted out. Whatever is quick and easy for me, so I can return to things that really demand my attention.
And then, next time we meet, when I've reclaimed what I've lost and you're putting that Rebirth title on the line? When you're done making excuses for your previous failure, and assure me - and everyone else who'll listen - that this time there'l be a real winner?
Then you'll see that this match was a kindness, when I burn your kingdom to the ground.
Final count: 2,189 words
NOWHERE NEAR WHERE SHE NEEDS TO BE.
Nnnnnnow I've got you, you foul-smelling, room-service-wasting, secretary-kidnapping bastards.
"Alright, alright - easy does it..."
The breath I'm holding feels like a weight of lead in my gut as I slip the clear adhesive tape over the dresser and let it fall into place. As it sticks, the ghost of a few fingerprints form under it like talcum smudges, and stay in place as I lift the tape back up before hurrying back to the scanner popped open on the bed. The tape goes over the input tray and I cross my fingers behind my back while the computer searches for a match. It's running off a less-than-legal Interpol tap, which I'll likely have to smooth-talk an explanation for later -
"Dammit!"
- but, turns out it didn't need the tap, as the prints belong to one Hazell Fleming-Roake - her actual name, honest - who happens to work for me. A typist in the legal pool, far too meek and polite in that stereotypical English way to do anything this criminal or dangerous. And I'm fairly confident Melanie would kick her ass if it came to blows. No suspect.
(although speaking of 'blows', I had Hazell tagged as maybe-gay from her first interview so maybe that explains why she was in Melanie's room - shame on you for cheating, girl)
I take a quick glimpse at my watch and - urgh, throw myself onto the bed with my rubber-gloved hands clawing at my scalp. Been here for 4 hours already. The entire suite has been stripped out and covered in plastic sheets, there are blacklights casting the walls into ultraviolet glare, there's dirt and white dust all over my suit and I've pulled enough hair out of the shower drain to stuff a 6-foot teddy bear with.
And it's all been for nothing.
They always make this crime-scene crap look easy on TV, don't they? Every clue found always fits into the one case that matters. Turns out that's not how it works; instead you're stuck dredging through the detritus of human remains built up over years, and 99% of it is worthless. Even the 1% that fits the right time period and semi-plausible culprits seems to wind up as a long list of unrelated dead-ends without even the most spurious logic to connect them. Pretty sure I've solved the lingering mystery of who scrawled 'FUK BEEBER' and a cannabis leaf on the nightstand, and I found a severed bird's leg under a loose floorboard. Most likely a dove. Very weird, not relevant in the least. Fail.
Melanie...I'd do almost anything to just know where you are. No, scratch that - I'd do anything to have even one of your captors locked in a room with me. Because the bastards don't really care about you, girl, they just want to put me under pressure, and after everything they've already done? This is far beyond the last straw. When these people disappeared from my life last time, I let them go without following up and just moved on. That makes this, on some level, my fault for not destroying them when I had the chance. Consider that lesson learned: I am going to kill them with my bare hands and I am going to fucking enjoy it -
"Bad time?"
I sit up with a snort of surprise - very aware that my hands were making throttling motions at the ceiling while I idly dreamed of murder, like ya do - and glare accusingly at the unshaven slob that just waltzed in here without knocking. Wish I could be more upset but he's exactly the unshaven slob I asked for.
"Where you're concerned, there's never a good time, Carson."
So, introductions: Carson Israel, ex-Chicago PD, private investigator of some years now. Alcoholic, widower, Pisces. Likes money (preferably in crumped dollar bills), playing darts (preferably in the back of a smoke-filled bar), and women (preferably about half his age). He smells of Brut aftershave and mild desperation, and I've never seen him in clothes that he hadn't slept in.
How do I know a chump like this, you ask? Back when he wore a badge, Carson here spent the back half of his career obsessively chasing a deranged serial killer, one who murdered his wife and led him on a merry chase across the Americas. Said killer went by Tommy Chuckles - sound familiar? He was indeed my son, and once, I hired Carson through an intermediary to help me find Tommy so I could kill him. The Valiant family history is colourful and not always to its benefit, let's say. Obviously, I changed my mind later, and as an apology I used some discreet contacts to ruin Carson's career prospects, leading to his dismissal. That, he doesn't know, and I've no intention of telling him. But I kept tabs on him after that because, hey, he was useful once and could be again.
I'm hoping this is the 'again' in question.
"Hmph. Room already looks like a morgue. You do this yourself?"
"No, I left it to the furniture elves. I assume this won't be a problem?"
"Nope, saves me some time. 'Course, never had much faith in all this tech stuff. Go with my gut, usually."
"With a gut that size, I suppose it has to go first..."
"Funny. You checked over outside, too?"
If I roll my eyes any harder, they might fall out of my skull.
"Yes, of course I checked the hallway and got the camera footage from the security room. If there was anything to go on, I'd already have told you, wouldn't I?"
"I meant outside the window."
"We're on the 5th floor, idiot."
"So that's a 'no', then."
I sigh and follow after him as he goes to the window and pries it open, letting in the balmy mid-afternoon breeze. Sun's still high right now, and briefly I toy with the thought of heading up to the roof with a lounger, before the thought is buried under a mound of guilt. This isn't the time.
Carson grunts and strains as he forces himself through the window - more soya, less donuts, porkboy - and...ah. There's a fire escape. Dammit, I should've thought of that. This bastard's gonna be smug about it now. He steps onto the iron staircase and the thing creaks incredibly loudly, not to mention pulls away from the wall about half a foot. The way his face turns chalk-white in response has me stifling a giggle.
"Jeez, how much do you weigh?"
"Not that much. But this escape's old, and not built to hold too many people at once. Especially not - ah-hah, see?"
He shuffles sideways and gestures to the far-side safety railing - and standing out from the rusted bars is a thick clip of steel, silvery and unspoiled. It's some sort of climbing apparatus, which...shit.
"They got out through here?"
"And abseiled down to the street. Doesn't look like they came up this way, though. Wouldn't have been safe - just making the trip once almost pulled the stairs outta the wall."
"Is this the part where I'm supposed to bask in awe at your astounding talent for bullshitting your way to a lucky break?"
"How 'bout you save for that for - nnnnfff - "
This time I take pity on him and grab one of his arms by the wrist, to help pull him back through. He staggers and almost collapses once he's inside, face reddening from even this minor exertion.
" - for when I've followed up the lead enough to actually get somewhere. We've got a timeframe for the kidnapping, and know roughly where the perps hit the street. Cross-check with city CCTV and we should see where they went, if they were picked up, whatever. It's the first step in the chase."
"Okay, okay - wait, what time is...?"
Ah hell, it's already past 6. I should already be on a plane to California. As it stands, I can make it and just barely have time to squeeze in a work-out before this ostensible 'super card' that doesn't seem in any way different from a normal card. But...Melanie...
"Hhhh. I'm going to have to leave this to you for now. Here's the room key - lock up when you're done - and talk to my team in the lobby, they'll help you get talking with the police and city council. You learn anything from this, I'm the first person you tell, even if it's just as a voicemail. Got it?"
He takes the key and nods once, then fixes me with a stare.
"Fine. Just so we're clear, though - you're not keeping anything back from me? Because this whole thing stinks of a personal grudge, and usually that means the victim knows the perp already."
What am I supposed to tell you, Carson?
Do I tell you this was the work of the Shadow Council? Explain to you why you shouldn't laugh at that (admittedly pretentious) name? That they've been quietly sabotaging every successful element of my life for decades before now, and are so damn good at concealing their tracks that I couldn't reveal their existence to the public even if I wanted to? Do I warn you that, if they think you're on their trail, they will almost certainly kill you to preserve your silence?
Do I say that they were the ones who burned down the old family home while I was still in high school and left my father to die in the blaze?
I do not. Of course I do not. It's private business. So I turn away before he can see any hesitation in my eyes and head for the door.
"Lot of people hate me, Carson, and with most I never figure out the reasons why before I crush them. Not expecting this to be any different. Just find them, alright? In the meantime, I have a monarchy to topple. Catch you on the flip."
The door swings shut, cutting off any pithy comeback he might've made. Off to Cali, then.
~V~
Before you go, I'd like to make something clear here: I do care about wrestling. I'd like to think that's obvious, since if I didn't care I wouldn't complain about it nearly so much, but it needs reinforcement before this next point.
I couldn't give less of a damn about Cassius Reed this week.
Any other week, sure, this would be a big deal. Irrespective of his skill, Reed has been the beneficiary of stunning good fortune and opponent idiocy during the same period where I was repeatedly stonewalled by unpredictable fate and enemies summoning uncommon reserves to deny me. That pisses me off something fierce - nothing worse than contrasting your misery with another's joy - and raining all over the king's parade just like I did with that Finn guy and his implausible winning streak sounds perfect, even before we factor in the possibility of future gold procurement as a result. With that little extra incentive? Sign me right up.
Any other week, that is.
This week, though, fuck it, and fuck him. Fuck the whole thing. Not literally, I don't want this cackling comedian's cock anywhere near me, but right now I don't need the extra pressure of a high-stakes match when I'm still fretting over the disappearance-maybe-murder of my right-hand minion...which of course is no doubt exactly what Seth Black was counting on. I drop out here and back to dark matches I go, and the smug bastard can innocently claim he gave me a fair chance. If he wasn't a fatuous scumbag I'd almost be impressed at such a manipulation of the truth.
Fine, then. I'm not backing down from you, Cassius. Got too much pride for that. But this isn't going to be some epic contest of wills between us. Whether you're worth that much effort or not, I don't have the patience for it this week. So rather than throw my forces against the walls of your castle, picking off its defences one by one until the gates finally give way to your vulnerable courtyard, I'm just going to excavate beneath the walls and let them crumble on top of you.
...was that too colourful for you? I mean I'm not going to play fair. I'm barely even considering 'wrestling' in the conventional sense. Maybe I'll hoodwink the official into disqualifying you. Maybe I'll stick a taser against your ribs discreetly and pin you down while you're too busy drooling and shaking to do anything else. Hell, maybe I'll pull your leg through the bars of a security railing, dislocate your kneecap, and leave you to get counted out. Whatever is quick and easy for me, so I can return to things that really demand my attention.
And then, next time we meet, when I've reclaimed what I've lost and you're putting that Rebirth title on the line? When you're done making excuses for your previous failure, and assure me - and everyone else who'll listen - that this time there'l be a real winner?
Then you'll see that this match was a kindness, when I burn your kingdom to the ground.
~V~
Final count: 2,189 words