ArchivedLogs:Pulling Off Magic Tricks
| Pulling Off Magic Tricks | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-03-18 Murphy hires a thief to pull off a magic trick or two. |
| Location
A Random Bar | |
Murphy's one paranoid mother-fucker. He's been visiting bar after bar, shithole after shithole, to have conversations. With people. Some of them nasty -- some of them dangerous -- some of them just angry. At this point, he's gotten more death-threats than a banker foreclosing on the Hatfields and McCoys and more drinks thrown in his face than a PUAer. But he hasn't slowed down. Not one bit. He's meeting Remy at a place called "OHANIGANS". There's a big green glowing shamrock out on the sign. Of course, 'OHANIGAN' ain't a traditional Irish spelling, but don't bother telling the owner that -- fucker's Polish. The name's a stab for snagging some of that extra juicy post-St. Patty's day volume. Murphy's not here for drinks, though. It's late. Not too many people in the bar. A couple of local yokels playing pool; *click*, *clack*, *crack* goes the background. Here at the bar -- all by his lonesome -- Murphy sits with a drink he's yet to touch (and won't) and a bowl full of peanuts. Cracking them under his thumb, one at a time. Not even eating them. Just /torturing/ them a little. The crowd at the pool table is a little thicker then usual, and if one were to watch, it'd be clear why. the two people playing, one a broad powerful Irish man the other tall and thin... And the thin one has used nothing but trick shots the entire game. Overly complicated ones that seem impossible. And he's winning. Finally as he drops the eight ball after making it go five rails, the two shake hands and part ways, the tall man $100 richer. He smiles a bit, taking the seat next to Murphy. "Rumor is yah lookin' foh Gambit." "The rumor's true." That's a grunt. Murphy grunts a lot. He also isn't looking at Remy; he /is/, however, looking at the reflection Remy casts in the mirror hanging over the bar. Glaring at it. Like it's managed to somehow piss him off. He doesn't even wait for Remy to go on before launching right into it: "He shy about stealing from the po-po? Worries about pissing off dangerous people? Because if he ain't -- and he doesn't -- I got a job for him that's sure to piss /everybody/ off." Remy shrugs, taking out a deck of playing cards and shuffleing them casually, "Non, foh de right price, Gambit not too shy foh anyt'ing." He says casually. "Of course dats de rub isn' it... What de job wort' an' what it actully entail?" The peanut Murphy's holding pops up over his thumb. His hand moves into his coat -- still just staring at that mirror. He pulls out a newspaper. Tabloid. Still warm from the printing press. On the cover, Ryan Black -- a musician -- is shown being lead by police out of his apartment complex. 'RISING ROCK STAR FALLS: DRUG CHARGES?' -- and then Murphy's eyes narrow. "I need Gambit to pull off a magic trick. I need Gambit..." The thumb shifts. Subtle sleight of hand; Murphy's good, but no professional; Remy's probably already figured out how that peanut just vanished. "...to make evidence disappear." /NOW/, finally, he looks at Remy, eye to eye. "Some paperwork, too." Remy considers thoughtfully and nods, "Disipeared, or jus' rendered inadmissable in court?" he asks simply glancing at the paper for a brief moment and then taking a few of the peanuts and ordering a beer from the bartender... "Disappeared would be best. Want to slant it as police having it out for him. But inadmissable in court? I'd take that in a heartbeat." The peanut reappears. So much for its reprieve. *CRNCH*. "We'll get you the information on what specific evidence -- but it's going to be tricky. And if you fuck it up, we ain't gonna be able to bail you out. We're runnin' on money fumes as it is. Which brings up the second point: How much you chargin'." Back to the mirror, now. The peanut's shell is cracked; the pod clatters into the bowl. Remy leans back, seeming to consider the details that he has takes the beer from the man, "Ten t'ousand dollars, provided what needs ta go ain' any larger den a loaf of bread." he says after a minute, "But yah also said files need to vanish, and dat means accessing bot' de soft copy, dat is easy enough, but also de 'ard copies and dat means getting inta de Detective in question's private files." "Not files. Paperwork," Murphy says, and then he grimaces, oh how he /grimaces/ at that figure. Ten. Thousand. Fucking. Dollars. The peanut trembles in his fist, momentarily invoking a silent plea -- but no, fuck YOU peanut, ten thousand fucking dollars, that means he might have to put a loan on the /lady/. Just, /fuck/. *CRKT*. "That's the other thing. Should be an easier job, hopefully. Someone's decided to see about taking away the kids of a friend of ours. We want to see if you can gum up the works. Police send forms to child services; child services send forms back. We want you to snag 'em. Make 'em disappear. Make life /hard/ for 'em." Remy's eyes narrow and become quite dangerious, "An' why pray tell woul' Ah wan' ta make t'ings difficult foh a service whose job it is ta protec' and 'elp children." Oh, what a /harsh/ laugh Murphy makes. So vicious -- so brutish -- so devoid of joy. It's something like a Hyena's braying, except nowhere near as elegant and /pretty/. "A service. That protects children. That's a good one, guy. You tell good jokes. You do stand-up? Stoppit, I'm shedding /tears/." Murphy is not shedding tears. But he /does/ give Remy a look from the corner of his eye -- as he cracks another peanut. "Before I let you in on /those/ details, first things first: You got a problem with mutants?" Murphy asks that question so flat that it makes it hard to surmise the right answer. Maybe Murphy's helping mutants. Maybe this is an attempt to get mutants in trouble. WHO KNOWS. Remy's eyes are of course hidden behind dark sunglasses. His voice is level and calm though as he says, "Ah got no problem workin' foh dem or agienst dem, as long as de pay is good." he says simply. Murphy glares at Remy. Eyebrows crunching. Murphy's got a look to him, when he's trying to figure someone out. Like he's got gears grinding in his head, wearing down at a problem. Trying to solve Remy for X. But... fuck it. At this point, he's running on fumes of 'I-Give-A-Shit'. "Guy who saved the mayor. Known mutant. They're trying to take away his kids. 'Cuz he's a mutant, and 'cuz he did right." Back to the bar, now. "They want to protect these kids, the best way is to leave 'em the fuck alone. But somebody's going for him. Wants to hit him where it hurts. So, this gonna be a thing? We got a problem?" Remy considers, shuffleing the cards and then finally saying, "Non, no problem." he says simply and stands, "But before Ah go into dis, Ah need ta 'ave some more details on wha' Ah'm getting outta de cop shop." "Yeah." Another peanut, another *CKRT*. "We'll send that over to you. Got a guy, he's gonna get me the intel." One way or a fucking-nother. "You got contact information? Email, whatever." *CRKT*. That poor mirror. It's going to break under the sheer /pressure/ of Murphy's stare. Remy smiles and nods, "Mah card." he says and taps the base of the deck, a single card popping out of the deck, spinning in the air to be caught between Remy's fingers and laid on the table beside the man. An ace of spades with the email adressCajunLoveMachine@yahoo.com Murphy finally moves to swallow a peanut. Just as that card starts to pull off its flashy acrobatic trick. But when it stops, and lands on the bar... Murphy /chokes/ at the email address. Oh, fuck *ME* Jesus CHRIST. He takes the card. "Be in touch," he tells Remy, taking a swig of cheap booze to wash down peanut fragments. | |
