ArchivedLogs:Slash and Burn

Slash and Burn
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Razor
In Absentia	2013-05-02 '
Location <NYC> Baohaus - Chinatown
Despite its unlikely name, this restaurant dishes up some of the best hot pot in Chinatown. A great place to go with friends, come pick a broth, pick ingredients, and enjoy the Chinese version of fondue, cooking meals yourself in the steaming soup. And, of course, don't miss the signature buns the place is named for! She loves the stuff. A lot of people when she first took over made jokes about that stuff. Scottish AND Chinese? Italian gangsters rarely have anything good to say about either. Then Erin, aka Razor, or, by her goons, Boss, started killing people for the insult. The murmuring stopped. Right now, she sits at her own table, alone, enjoying some hot pot and sweet buns. The rest of the joing looks like a small scale Italian invasion, thanks to the small handful of goons in the restaraunt. Of the three sitting at flanking tables, one is an older gentleman with thin white scars on his cheeks an arms. In a tailored suit, much like their boss, he enjoys his own meal with a sort of quiet, dignified air. The staff of the place meanwhile hurries around as if there were nothing wrong. If word on the street was any indication, these people are used to this woman coming in here. She ate, hung out for a while drinking coffee or broth, then paid well and left. In a carefully cultured voice, she turns her head and asks the dignified gentleman,"How's yours? Mine's a little salty this time around. Go have a word with the cook?" So... mundane. *WHUNK*. There's a reason his momma named him /Murphy Law/. His iron-toed boot SLAMS into the door to that store, sending it reeling open so hard and fast that it almost comes right back into his face on the rebound. Glass shudders beneath the hit, /almost/ cracking, but still managing to hold it together. The man responsible for this sudden violent gesture looks - remarkably /haggard/, actually. You might think him for a madman if it weren't for the cut of that fine black wool coat - it's actually quite expensive, along with that nice white shirt and tie. He's got bandages swarmed around his throat and his palms; his fingers poke out like big, meaty, calloused sausages. There's a cigarette shoved between his lips - and a sort of /glower/ about him. As if the whole /universe/ was arranged in a configuration he found aesthetically /displeasing/. He stomps, then - unless stopped - straight toward Razor's table. See, there's a certain art to this. Walk into a crimeboss' brunch like you want something, and people will pick up on it. Walk in like you got a beef, and you're liable to get cut. But walk in like you're just delivering news - walk in like you're part of the /crew/ - and half the time, the goons'll all be too scared to touch you. They'll all be too busy figuring you for the new muscle the boss hasn't mentioned; worried that if they get between you and your Very Important Business with the boss, they might find themselves fit for a brand new Chicago Overcoat. So the trick is: Make it /look/ like there's absolutely nothing unnatural about what you're doing. Make it /look/ like you are, in fact, the boss' boss. Assuming no one stops him, this is precisely what Murphy does: He proceeds to sit down in front of Razor like he /owns/ this fucking place, thumping down with a rough *WHUMP*, like a sack of potatoes. And, presuming no one's stopped him /yet/, he proceeds to reach forward - like it just isn't even a big deal - and move to pluck up one of those sweet buns. And maybe take a bite. And then, maybe grunt, all /business/ like: "They ain't givin' you your /cut/, are they. On the fights." It's almost... laconic the way she manages it. Hand down, some sort of metal bar slides from her sleeves and into her hand. With a deft motion of her hand, she flips it around and through the air, catches it, and... voila... An open butterfly knife. She uses it to spear one of her own sweet buns. As she does this, the goons have reached under their jackets and half-risen... but haven't approached yet... Disciplined guard dogs they are! The staff of the restaraunt, meanwhile, has cleared the front of the restaraunt. And are probably praying the place doesn't get wrecked. The creepy thing? That self-satisfied smile she always has seems to get WIDER. Conversely, the wider that smile got, the more uneasy her goons appear to look. The older gentleman's hands even start to shake a little, though he doesn't quite stop eating. One thing becomes clear... they're terrified. Razor, though... she's calm and cool as ice. As she bites off of the bun on her knife, she grunts, and gestures for the man to continue. After swallowing, she grins at a couple of the goons, says in a playful tone,"Boys, you're so jumpy. Like someone shoved a knife up your asses. Have a seat. EAT for crying out loud. All these people standing up, makes me feel twitchy." Then she finally looks AT Murphy for a first time,"Go on. But please cut the fucking dramatics. You're on a sliding scale, buddy. The longer you at like the big man on campus..." She finishes off her bun with a swallow,"The more I start to think this knife looks pretty in your fucking eye." Murphy's quick to notice things; his eyes flick to the goons on his left as he munches on that sweet roll - he sees the one with trembling hands. The way they seem to shrink back in horror. And Murphy's quick enough to figure it ain't his bedside demeanor that's got them shaking in their boots. He swallows the bite of the sweet roll, first. Momma didn't raise him to be /rude/, no /sir/. Then, he goes right into it: "Heard how it is in this racket. Bein' top-dog 'n all, s'rough. Even rougher if you're a lady. Gotta have ovaries twice as big as the biggest pair of balls out there - else they figure you for easy meat. Second somebody's runnin' something under your nose, it's like blood in the water. All the sharks come out to take a bite. Figure you're /fish/ food." He takes another bite. Smaller, this time. So he can swallow quick. He's got a suspicion he's pushing her patience. So: "Muties been vanishin' off the street. Homeless kids, mostly. Been sniffin' around into it. Word is, somebody's organizin' /fights/. Makin' a sweet mint on it. So, first thing I figure: Must be Razor runnin' this show. Imagine my surprise," Murphy responds, licking his fingertips as he finishes the roll, "when I find out that these sorry sons of bitches /didn't/ cut you in." The woman's smile grows wider. And the wider it gets, the more... unhinged the people with her grow. It's worth noting... that smile is no longer touching her eyes. Not that it was warm in the first place. As the man goes on, filling her in, her knife begins to tap staccato on the tabletop. It gets... faster the longer he talks. Bizarrely, she says to the man,"I like your fucking eyes." Her tone makes it unclear whether she's just complimenting them or contemplating taking them. The way she licks her lips certainly isn't reassuring. Razor spears a piece of meat and dips it in the hot broth at the table,"I take a special interest in mutants, ya see. Real humanitarian, and all that shit. I always think of 'em as my community." Well, there's one confirmation right there. "Way it works out in this business, your community is supposed to be your responsibility." She eats the fast-boiled bit of meat with a quick popping motion, and leans back in her chair,"Seems that's a damned shame, then. Someone's gonna have to suffer for that. Hell, might even get your feet on the sidewalk and out of here." She leans forward, t over the table, lazily pointing her knife in the direction of one of Murphy's eyes,"So tell me, Blue Eyes... What the fuck kind of stake do you have in this, and who the fuck are you?" Bizarrely, her men inside the restaraunt all seem to heave what looks like a collective sigh of relief when she asks that. "Someone's ending up a statistic over this. Maybe this helps me decide who." Murphy's eyes narrow as he peers at Razor. A lot of different angles he could play this one from. But sometimes? The best angle is a straight one: "Just an asshole who doesn't like kids gettin' put in cages. Figure the quickest way to put the hurt on these chucklefucks is to tell you. Frankly, lady," and now, after that delicious sweet bun, he's reaching down - /slowly/ - for his wallet, fishing it out, popping it open... drawing out a business card. His name, neatly printed. MURPHY LAW. Telephone number, fax number. "...I'm feelin' a little sorry for them /already/. Either way, I figure we got a mutually beneficial arrangement, here. I help you find these fuckups. And you can help educate them on such refined matters as how you earned your current fuckin' 'nomme de guerre'. That'd require me /keepin'/ my eyes, by the way," Murphy adds, as if this were an after thought. Razor actually SIGHS in a disappointed manner when Murphy makes a crack at keeping his eyes,"No fair. You didn't get me anything for my birthday." She plucks the card from the man's hand, then tucks it into the band of her hat. "Well, not a total loss, I suppose. SERANO!" The older man rises, ramrod straight when called,"Miss O'Shaugnessy?" "Money for Blue Eyes, here. Standard contractor fee, plus an advance for expenses. Standard ten percent." Razor bellows shortly after,"CAN I GET SOME FUCKING SERVICE?" The servers and cooks flood back to their places. Either they're used to this, or they're brave souls. They go about business like everything is normal again. And the man named 'Serano' nods,"Sure thing, boss." He disappears out the front door, only to return with a over-stuffed bank envelope, which he sets before Murphy's place at the table. "I hope you understand the significance that I'm paying you... Especially that I'm doing it in advance?" She eyes her last bun, then takes her knife and slices it in half and offers one to Murphy,"Kudos, by the way, for knowing the difference between 'de guerre' and 'de plume'." "'Course." The envelope of money is seized; Murphy doesn't bother to open or count it. He ain't /rude/, after all. He's also - mmmn. He's /remarkably/ callous, considering that they're discussing the current state of his eyes. Either he doesn't believe she's genuinely got it in her... or, more likely, he's accustom to dealing with people who intend to carve him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. "This is a downpayment on one of two things - the sorry sods who are pissin' on your good name - or my peepers." He reaches, then, to adjust his cigarette - taking a long, /thick/ drag. "And I'm mighty attached to my peepers." Murphy turns then - to go. But before he does - he turns back, looking over his shoulder at Razor - still glaring, still /scowling/. The man has no other expression besides 'scowl', it seems. It's then he thinks to ask: "Mind if I ask you a personal question?" When it comes to his life, Murphy's a bit of a gambler. Razor watches Serano as he returns to his seat with those eyes of hers flicking over his thin scars. It's almost lascivious in an entirely too creepy way. No doubt she PUT those scars there,"I bet you are. In your line of work... they're terribly important, aren't they. Eyes? Don't worry. You're right. I'll get my eyes one way or another. Lucky you, you're picking whose they are." Despite anti-smoking signs and laws, she pulls out a cigarette and lights it,"You know what? I'm feelin' generous, go ahead. Ask away. Damn, though, you make me want to smoke too." In other words: I have decided not to kill you at the moment! "Do you /know/ that you're a lunatic?" Direct. To the point. Asked with the fearless demeanor of a man who's anglin' to lose him some /eyeballs/ tonight. Murphy's glare becomes a /peer/, peepers narrowing as he watches for her answer. The smile never leaves Razor's face. For over half a minute, she stares, her eyes growing wider as her smile does the same. The restaraunt goes silent, all eyes on Murphy,"I'm a rabid dog, ya see. Sometimes, when a dog leaves a kennel, it comes out vicious and damaged. It's been beaten, and abused, and comes out snarling and biting at everything that comes near it. So it's gotta be put down." No, wait... They're looking behind him. If he's not quick, this is where Murphy might feel a hand on each of his shoulders, trying to twist his arms so his hands end up palm up. Immediately after, an exact duplicate of her appears before the man, driving a knife towards one of his bandaged hands,"Some dogs, though, are just born vicious." The smile on her face as the 'Razor' sitting in the chair dissipates into carbon dust leaves little doubt as to which sort of dog she believes she is. "Gngh." Murphy was not expecting /that/. The knife cuts deep; the bandage splits - just a strap of fabric. Underneath, blisters and meat; when it goes in, there's a brief flicker - some people close their eyes when they're in pain. Some people open them wider. Murphy? He just glares /harder/. "Fnff..." And then, unless Razor stops him, he's stumbling back - clutching at that deep bleeding razor-wound. "Fuck," is all he manages to say. As if - that's Murphy's whole take on the situation. It doesn't sound angry; it doesn't sound surprised. It sounds like someone just realizing they left the keys back home in their apartment. "Serano, meet me back at the office. Make sure you get some egg rolls and another order of buns, and have someone drop Mr. Law off at a clinic. Mr. Law, toodles. It was fun." Mere moments later, no less than three copies of Razor woman are waving in unison to Murphy as they crumble into carbon dust. The man named Serano rises, looks at Murphy, and begins pulling a small number of implements from his pockets: bandages and disinfectant, specifically,"You either got balls you need a wheelbarrow to carry around, or you are the dumbest fuck on the planet. You got off light." "Can't it be both," is Murphy's immediate, snap-back answer. When Serano comes with the bandages and disinfectant, Murphy shakes his head - /squeezes/ that bandaged hand into a fist. Lets the blood dribble a little. Man must like pain. Either that, or he's some sort of freak. "It'll keep," he tells him, and then he's turning around with a shrug, making his way back out on the street. He's got /work/ to do.