ArchivedLogs:Goons for Hire

Goons for Hire
Dramatis Personae Trib, Joe
In Absentia	2013-11-20 Joe goes shopping in Trib's apartment. (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> 311 {Trib} - Sunrise Apartments - Clinton
For a room in the Sunrise building, this apartment is pretty well-furnished. There isn't much in the way of art - though on one wall, there are the beginnings of what appears to be a collage of articles; most boxing, although there are a few news stories and glossy physique images from muscle magazines. Against one wall is a plush brown couch is wedged between matching end tables, with a matching ottoman seated in front of it, and a blue throw blanket draped over the back. Set diagonally from that, next to a brass floor lamp, is a matching brown recliner - clearly, the three are part of a set. Decidedly /not/ matching that furniture is another couch on an opposing wall with stripes in varying widths in shades of blue, green, teal and brown; this one is a bit cheaper looking, with canvas upholstery and bare wood arms. Under it all, a mottled brown-and-ivory rug covers the hardwood floor. The only other wall with only space has a set of hooks screwed into it, which usually has a blue street bicycle hanging from it, and a skateboard leaning against the wall on the floor beneath it. The whole living room feels a bit cramped, though the relative lack of clutter keeps it from feeling too over-crowded. Through the small, dingy kitchen is the entrance to the bedroom, where a new-looking platform holds an oversized bed; the only piece of furniture in there. The door to the bathroom is closed, but it's likely stocked with bathroom-appropriate accoutrements. There is a quiet, here in Trib and Toru's apartment. That's probably because there's not a lot going on. Rolling blackouts and other concerns render doing anything that requires power almost impossible. Even now, Trib sits on his couch, feet stretched out in front of him as he regards the black screen of his phone. His thumb hovers over the power button, twitching every now and then as Trib lands on one side of the pro/con list of firing it up and then switches to the other. Dressed in a pair of cutoff sweats and a black t-shirt that shows a couple of bitten places and some bruising, the boxer doesn't look like he's going anywhere. At least, not any time soon. Out in the hall, the noisy footsteps of several people moving by are prefaced by a conversation which is not attempted at being quiet. "I don't /care/ what he said. Just fucking wait upstairs for me. This guy's cool, and I /owe/ him." It's clearly the reedy, weasely voice of one Joe Zerah. Some more heavy footsteps precede his actually knocking on the door. Through the peephole Joe can be seen standing back, back against the far wall, hands up, with his pistol dangling from his thumb stuck through the trigger guard. Trib looks up at the sound of footsteps in the hall, and he's on his feet with cat-like grace at the first voice. By the time he identifies the voice, he's at the door, a length of pipe claimed from its spot next to the door and held loosely in his hand. When Joe knocks, the boxer barely glances through the peephole before he's opening the door and glaring at the older man. He looks up and down the hall before he jerks his head at the interior of his apartment, stepping back to make a Joe-sized entrance. "S'ok if I hang on to this, this time?" Joe holds the gun out, in case Trib wants to take it. But then, Joe knows how to read people. He adjusts his posture, his angle, his eye contact just so. When he can tell Trib won't take it from him, he just nods, flips it in a flourish, and tucks it into the shiny new shoulder holster under his left arm, and pulls his jacket back into place. "Look, I promised you that money," Joe says, standing comfortably by the door. Gone is his terrified, kicked puppy routine, as he gradually attempts to shift Trib's perception of him. Watching the big man, he adjusts his strategy, "But you put me in a tight spot. I promised to pay you. You promised to do it for free. And we're both men of our words." Joe shrugs and slips in, "So how about a new job, instead?" Trib closes the door behind Joe, and leans against it. He looks relaxed, but there's a subtle tenseness ot his muscles that's poised to strike like a jungle cat. He raises his hand to scratch along his jaw as he listens to the smaller man, his face impassive. His eyes narrow a bit at the mention of payment, but then there is the question, and they widen just slightly. The boxer runs his tongue along the inside of his lip, his brow lowering. He cants his head curiously, and lifts his eyebrows, raising his half-hand and jerking his fingers towards himself in silent entreaty for the older man to continue. "I saw what you can do, man," Joe says, letting himself be the first one to relax by leaning back against the wall next to the door. "And just between you, me, and these shitty ass walls we live with," Joe winks and touches his finger to the side of his nose, "I ain't just a cab driver. Fact is, thanks to you, I was able to meet some people I needed to meet. People who like an independent businessman, and they like what I can do for them." Joe speaks slowly, relaxed, like he's wary of Trib, but not afraid of him. He's carefully crafted every word and every tone, managing his posture and eye contact to just what he thinks Trib will respond to. "The problem is, they gave me these two fuckin' /meatheads/ who don't know their asshole from a hole in the ground, you know?" Joe's eyes flick up to meet Trib's just as he says, "You're a boxer right? Bareknuckle or gloves?" Trib's face is a hard read, mostly because his expression...isn't there. He remains a statue as he listens, his eyes shifting over his shoulder at the mention of 'meatheads'. His expression then appears, and clearly indicates a man sifting the adjective and the offer and weighing it for offense. Clearly, it holds none, as he's right back to something more neutral. When Joe shifts to boxing, the big man sighs mightily, and steps forward. "You done workin' me, or is there a big fuckin' finale to this song and dance?" He leans toward Joe, his brow lowering. "Get to the fuckin' point." Joe nods as if Trib had said something particularly interesting. "Depends on the party, huh?" he says, finishing his thought about what kind of boxing Trib does. "But see, man, this is what I /like/ about you. You're fuckin' smart, and you don't already work for the guy I work for. Makes you an independent. And I need a full time security guy." Trib's expression at Joe answering his own question is a bit darker, and his mouth pulls into a tight line. "Security guy," he echoes, a tinge of amusement in his tone. He glances at the door, and frowns. "Who you workin' for?" Joe smiles and holds his hands out to the sides. "Just to be clear, I'm not an /employee/. I'm a contractor. But right now, I'm doing some work for a guy called Fisk. You know him?" Trib does, indeed, know him, as evidenced by the immediate roll of his eyes, and the pained-sounding groan that slips from him. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, reaching up to pinch the ruined ridge of his nose. He closes his eyes, and his lips move silently as he counts to ten. "The fuck is /wrong/ with you?" Joe laughs and shrugs, sticking his hands in his pocket. "Hey, no sweat man. You like living here, doing charity work, that's your business. Me? I'm gettin out, soon as things get back to normal out there." Joe sticks his hand out to shake with Trib. "Thanks again for the help though. Let me know if you ever change your mind. Working with these dipshits is painful as hell." Joe points his finger in the rough direction of his apartment. "You know where to find me, for now." He takes a step towards the door, pausing for just a moment to make sure he read the situation correctly. Trib snorts. "They find out you're shoppin' for new goons, it'll hurt a lot fuckin' worse." He rolls his shoulders, and reaches out to shake Joe's hand. "I think I'll be all right without tweakin' the nose of Wilson fuckin' Fisk," he rumbles. "I'd like to fuckin' fight again, someday." He seems mildly impressed -- perhaps at the size of the balls that Joe is currently exhibiting. He nods at the offer, and folds his arms across his chest. "I know how to find you," he says, moving to open the door for Joe. "For now. Don't do nothin' to fuckin' change that. You still owe me one." "Hey, I /hear/ you man," Joe says, nodding. "But that's the beauty of being indie in this game. Those fuckwads are part of my /payment/, because cash ain't worth much when you got the walking dead tryin' to chew your face off, you know?" Joe snorts as well. "Got 'em on retainer, but I'd rather get my own group put together, send those guys back home." Joe holds up his hands apologetically. "Anyway, my bad bro. Didn't mean to offend or nothing. You take care. Look me up when you want that favor - ride to the airport, reservations at the club, whatever." Joe looks around again, "I ain't fucking helping move these couches though, shit dude. How much those things /weigh/?" Joe laughs and lets himself out the door.