ArchivedLogs:Through Playing Fair

Through Playing Fair
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Jamie	2013-03-17 Murphy's done with playing fair. Calls in some massive manpower. Happens after The Hammer
Location The Shithouse
The call comes in. Late at night. Husky growl on the phone. Sort of voice that sounds like it belongs to a fella that gargles every morning with a mix of cigarette butts and hydrochloric acid: "Murphy. Shit's going down. Need to pull a favor." Then, the magic words: "Can pay. Little. Meet me at the shithouse." The 'Shithouse' is one of Murphy's old watering holes. It's an absolute dive -- the sort of bar that changes names and owners twice a month and sells beer that tastes like six month old horse-piss fermented in a barrel full of pickled pig lips. Somehow, through the power of sheer mother-fucking /persistence/, the bartender has managed to survive the constant rotation of new managers and new owners; he's a plump, middle-aged man who spends his day hoping Murphy will not come into his bar and /beat the fucking shit/ out of someone. Today, his hope may not come true. Murphy enters. Sits. Orders peanuts and beer. Plucks a peanut up, eyeing it, waiting. Behind him, in one of the booths, an old man with wirey gray hair has his head on the table, a puddle of drool forming beneath him. In another seat, two college studs are getting drunk and carouselling about St. Patrick's day. The bartender eyes them -- and then Murphy -- warily. Worried. Murphy makes no move. Today's not a day for random beatings. Today's a day for /plotting/. Today's a day for talking to /that guy/. And so he waits. For /that guy/ to arrive. THAT guy. Madrox, another of Murphy's seemingly inexhaustible list of personal investigators, the majority of which is probably taken up by Jamie alone. As with most things that The Multiple Man is involved with. When he shoulders in through the door, his face is screwed up in a foul expression, largely due to the smell. But he would look like shit even with a smile on. He has not cleaned up. In fact, he seems to have let himself go a little. He keeps hair on his face now, but its the sort of scrubby "I can't afford razors" look that is not chic when you don't look like a movie star. He drags himself in looking like he'd already sampled someone's liquor cabinet before he got here and takes a seat next to Murphy as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "First thing is first: this better not be about Chinatown." "It ain't." Murphy GLARES at the bartender. Who just kind of, well, melts back into the wallpaper. Like /that's/ gonna save the poor bugger. "Lots of shit to go over. And I ain't got time or energy. So I'll give you the short of it." Hand goes into Murphy's pocket. Pulls out an envelope. Fat. Slaps it down in front of Mr. Multiple. Inside, there are bills. Crisp. Clean. Fresh from the bountiful, fertile cradle of your local ATM. 500 dollars in twenties. "They got labs where they snatch folks like us. Dissect us just to figure out how we do the shit we do. Some fellas I know found one. Broke in, cut a bunch of 'em loose. Kids," Murphy adds, and there's an extra edge of acid to that. He cracks the soft shell of the peanut under his thumb, pops the pod into his mouth. *CRNCH*. Fuck you, peanut. "They didn't like that. So they brought the hammer down. Hit 'em where they live. Drownin' 'em in red-tape. You got shakey immigration papers? Fuck you, deported. You smoke a little ganja? Fuck you, jail. You tryin' to keep hold of your kids? Fuck you, foster care. All at once." The bartender has essentially /molded/ into that wallpaper. Jamie and Murphy may be in the process of beholding the emergence of a brand new mutant; this one's ability is to become /one/ with god-awful plaid in response to stark terror. The thing is: Murphy's telling Jamie all of this /right/ in front of the bartender. Like he doesn't give a fuck anymore. And maybe he genuinely doesn't. "Basically, I'm talkin' about shit-fuckers who got the police -- child services -- immigration -- you name it -- in their fucking pockets. And I want to burn them. I want to burn them to the fucking ground. I want them to sit up late at night wondering if I'm sitting out there outside their children's bedrooms with a knife, thinking of all the various ways there are to /hurt/ someone. I want them to piss their pants at the mere /mention/ of the word 'mutant'." Only now, after this lecture, does his gaze settle upon Jamie Madrox. Nothing. But sheer /hate/. "You don't want in, I understand. That's fine. Pay's gonna be shit and this is gonna be /nasty/. Ain't gonna kill anybody, not if I don't have to, but it ain't gonna be pretty. Five hundred up front, five hundred in a week. Expenses when I can cover them. That's all I can offer you. That and the satisfaction of putting the fear of GOD back into the lives of mother-fuckers who think they ain't got nothing to be afraid of." That flush envelope sits there on the bar for a few moments longer. It's obvious Madrox is eyeballing it, but there it remains for the time being. Finally, he swallows in his throat, and mumbles. "Jesus Christ, Murphy. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" He glances over his shoulder at the door, a fairly regular thing to do for the paranoid crowd. He looks back down at the bar. "I'd ask where you were planning on getting your army for this one, but I guess you think that's me," Madrox grouses for a moment, sitting back onto his stool a little. "I'm not shock troops and I'm not cannon fodder. You're never going to know what it's like to contemplate your own corpse, and you can thank your lucky stars for that. I'll help you, Murphy. I will. But...jesus. I reserve the right to back out if the rabbit hole is looking too deep. I've heard stories out of Striker's Island and they usually involve body bags." He puts his hand on the cash. "Yeah. I figured. Ain't askin' you to get yourself killed," Murphy responds, still just /glaring/ at that pure, terror-stricken bartender, like this is all HIS fault -- like somehow wringing his neck would make everything right again. Poor guy. "But yeah. I need an army. Not for shooting -- not /that/ kind of shooting. No guns. Blackmail. Blackmail, and sheer mother-fucking fear." "We need clout, Madrox. We need shit on the biggest players in the city. We need tasty photos. Incriminating evidence. We need /leverage/. The kind you can't just make go away. And yeah, we need it on dangerous people -- the sort of people who might figure explaining a body's easier than doing what we want. Blackmail's an art. Jim'll help you with that end. He's better with people than I am. Gonna need to work with a lawyer or two, see who's asses need to be burned to pull our people out of the fire." Another peanut. *CKRT*. "The other end, that's my take. Jim wants to save his friends. I want a little extra. I want /NAMES/." Madrox chewed on his lip, trying to get a bead on this bartender and puzzle out by sight what the hell he must've done. Coming up with nothing, he returns to the conversation at large. He pockets the money. "I've done worse for cash, I guess. Let's not get revenge-stupid and just take it bite by bite. Something about tigers with brooms on their tails, I feel like that's a saying. You know what I mean?" "Yeah." Still not looking at Madrox. Hell, Murphy hasn't given him a look this entire time. He's just been /staring/ at that bartender. But then: "The five hundred's yours even if you walk out on account of the heat. And you want to squeeze these fuckers for a little extra juice on the side, I won't shed any tears. But that's all there is, Madrox. Just a fucking pittance. But we need you. We need to hit /everyone/ at once and there ain't nobody who can put more feet on the ground than you." Then: "You ever do any legal work? 'Cuz we're gonna have a lot of legal work to do. That, too. We just need..." His fingers lift, squeezing the bridge of his nose. /FINALLY/, he lets the bartender off the hook, staring down at his bowl of peanuts. "Jesus, we're just gonna need you for the sheer fucking /manpower/." "Well, you've got me. All of me, for what that's worth, a value that is greatly exaggerated...but I've got to pay rent, so. I can do the thing where I stand behind their legs and push them over really well?" Jamie has decided he will not be ordering a drink out of the dirty glasses in this disease fertilization factory. "Like, I have a lot more practice at it than you might think. It's actually pretty damn useful." Jamie is keeping the straightest face here. He tends to do this, joke when the chips are down, but halfheartedly and shittily, and strictly out of anxiety. "Yeah. Alright. Alright, yeah. This might work," Murphy announces, although it's hard to say if he actually thinks it's going to fucking work. He starts to rise, chair creaking, eyes /glaring/ murder down at that poor, trembling bartender. At Madrox's joke, he snorts -- well, he doesn't take the joke /poorly/, at least. But Murphy's face seems to be locked in a perpetual scowl. He turns -- eyeing Madrox for the first time. "I appreciate it, Madrox. You're doing me a solid. I won't forget it." Yeah, but only because he /can't/. Get it? Ha. Ha. "Jim'll contact you with details. Tonight, probably. He's probably gonna need... some of you. To do some work. Get shit started." Ragged breath. Then: "Alright. I've got to sleep." He doesn't look like he's bothered with that for a few days, actually. "Then, gotta make some calls." Rousing up the cavalry. Jamie was first; there are others. Murphy is calling in favors. He's through playing fair.