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Verse
Star
- Joined
- May 8, 2011
A worn down building in a new city.
New City, or Yareli city, on the map, had a good flow of money coming in and out. The kind that attracted old monsters from old countries. While new on the international scene of stock-market levels of crime, Yareli was storied as a hub of illicit gains and rare goods. And underground feuds. Built around a river, with a bridge that served as the last bastion to filter through the wares trying to cross and supply both sides - an initiative from an inspired chief of police that was recently gunned down in an all out war with a Yakuza led, gathered criminal effort - Yareli had waterway veins and a chrome, high-rise body. Industry blossomed and rotted here, too. A playground for all of man kind, the "not all is fun and games" kind of sandbox.
The old, giant, boathouse had been moved to make way for even larger receiving structures, made for enormous cranes to take and catalogue myriad shipping containers. Now the gaping hole through it had been patched up with panels so it could serve as a warehouse. The upper floor was for management. The building made its claim between the outer reaches of the docks, and the beginning of the outskirts of the city itself. Rust and iron, to tell of the rough factory beginnings of this New City, but the lights from the mostly boarder up windows were in modern colors, industrial strength.
Technically under the Yakuza, but of no true bloodtie to any of the established families, well-meaning Ruskies, mob and even Triad could use the space. This meant it was a place of meeting, and also somewhere you could store low-grade things. Cutting and some distribution was also handled under the tin roof.
While not in charge of much, Kirosuki Ryaka had been a fixture here for some time. He fit right in. The youth in him staved away the human rust, and kept the bony face healthy, and the black hair thick. He still had some meat on his lips and the healthy whites of his eyes. Though those eyes were burdened by bags today, when he sat in his corner on the upper floor, in the booth the he called his bedroom. It was missing a wall and that drape was open now. Like anyone cared. He had the side of the bed furthest in, and there was a girl splayed out on the opposite edge. He had loved her intently for a couple of hours, and sans the endorphins that her pussy and mouth and eventually tears had given him, he now suffered the low that follows any such violent upswing in bodily happiness. He realized he'd just been staring at her instead of sleeping. He chuckled miserably, shortly, at himself.
"Hey, white girl." he said. Her name was Meredith because her parents thought she'd be someone elegant. She'd not been elegant when she made herself gag on him, or when he'd whacked her face with his palm for cumming before him, on drugs he'd pumped her full with. She didn't answer. He took another visual sweep of her. She was naked, technically, but he'd made her wear her g-string as a bandana. She represented everything about him that made him sick. He put his heel to her waist and shoved her off the bed. She groaned, but it took a while, and helped herself up with the bed. She looked at him dramtically. He gestured to the bottle on the crate that had been repurposed from transporting century eggs into a nightstand. She had tears in her eyes. Probably from the hangover more than his little love-shove. Fuck. Her face was swollen on the side where he'd loved it with his hand. She still had the pretty angular features on the other side, though. Why did it make blood rush to his groin, underneath the gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs to know he'd messed up something so pretty. She had a fake Versace dress here, somewhere, he remembered. It had stains that smelled like him, and her insides.
She picked up the expensive vodka and threw it to him. It landed half way and he had to lean forward to snatch it up as it was spilling on the indent she'd left in the sheets that were as genuine as her dress. He took a swig while staring at her. She swayed but something from having been fucked within an inch of her life after yesterday's partying in a FUCKING DRUG FACTORY, had taught her that Kiro got what he wanted. She whined, and it did sound like some broken little girl when she stepped out of the booth. He liked watching her limp. But it also made his chest sink because she looked familiar.
Hello. My name is Krio. I am fucking sex addict. I am zero hours sober.
He lowered the bottle that he'd mostly been drinking that hard to make an impression on Meredith. He looked at the brand. Shit. They better not miss this in the crates that he'd pilfered it from. Explained why it had been so smooth going down. Vodka breakfast. Top notch, idiot. At least it was fancier than the hawker stalls he usually went to, and might still try, if he could even SEE through this fucking headache. He doubled over and puked into the Meredith-shaped hole in his bed. Half of it was on his foot. The resulting soup was his first clue to last night. Glorious morning.
He got up after who knows how long. Cut his usual tall, skinny lines with miraculously vast shoulders. Dad came from a family of hard, sturdy workers and while Kiro didn't really eat well, he had the bones of someone who lugged rock for a living. Mom was an angel with a broken heart. Many sins there, in the Ryaka house, left behind. He wiped with his sheets and stepped into a pair of pants that were actually the real thing. Wasn't a lot to brag with when the material was worn to shit. He tied his hair back and also limped out of the booth.
Hello Kiro.
New City, or Yareli city, on the map, had a good flow of money coming in and out. The kind that attracted old monsters from old countries. While new on the international scene of stock-market levels of crime, Yareli was storied as a hub of illicit gains and rare goods. And underground feuds. Built around a river, with a bridge that served as the last bastion to filter through the wares trying to cross and supply both sides - an initiative from an inspired chief of police that was recently gunned down in an all out war with a Yakuza led, gathered criminal effort - Yareli had waterway veins and a chrome, high-rise body. Industry blossomed and rotted here, too. A playground for all of man kind, the "not all is fun and games" kind of sandbox.
The old, giant, boathouse had been moved to make way for even larger receiving structures, made for enormous cranes to take and catalogue myriad shipping containers. Now the gaping hole through it had been patched up with panels so it could serve as a warehouse. The upper floor was for management. The building made its claim between the outer reaches of the docks, and the beginning of the outskirts of the city itself. Rust and iron, to tell of the rough factory beginnings of this New City, but the lights from the mostly boarder up windows were in modern colors, industrial strength.
Technically under the Yakuza, but of no true bloodtie to any of the established families, well-meaning Ruskies, mob and even Triad could use the space. This meant it was a place of meeting, and also somewhere you could store low-grade things. Cutting and some distribution was also handled under the tin roof.
While not in charge of much, Kirosuki Ryaka had been a fixture here for some time. He fit right in. The youth in him staved away the human rust, and kept the bony face healthy, and the black hair thick. He still had some meat on his lips and the healthy whites of his eyes. Though those eyes were burdened by bags today, when he sat in his corner on the upper floor, in the booth the he called his bedroom. It was missing a wall and that drape was open now. Like anyone cared. He had the side of the bed furthest in, and there was a girl splayed out on the opposite edge. He had loved her intently for a couple of hours, and sans the endorphins that her pussy and mouth and eventually tears had given him, he now suffered the low that follows any such violent upswing in bodily happiness. He realized he'd just been staring at her instead of sleeping. He chuckled miserably, shortly, at himself.
"Hey, white girl." he said. Her name was Meredith because her parents thought she'd be someone elegant. She'd not been elegant when she made herself gag on him, or when he'd whacked her face with his palm for cumming before him, on drugs he'd pumped her full with. She didn't answer. He took another visual sweep of her. She was naked, technically, but he'd made her wear her g-string as a bandana. She represented everything about him that made him sick. He put his heel to her waist and shoved her off the bed. She groaned, but it took a while, and helped herself up with the bed. She looked at him dramtically. He gestured to the bottle on the crate that had been repurposed from transporting century eggs into a nightstand. She had tears in her eyes. Probably from the hangover more than his little love-shove. Fuck. Her face was swollen on the side where he'd loved it with his hand. She still had the pretty angular features on the other side, though. Why did it make blood rush to his groin, underneath the gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs to know he'd messed up something so pretty. She had a fake Versace dress here, somewhere, he remembered. It had stains that smelled like him, and her insides.
She picked up the expensive vodka and threw it to him. It landed half way and he had to lean forward to snatch it up as it was spilling on the indent she'd left in the sheets that were as genuine as her dress. He took a swig while staring at her. She swayed but something from having been fucked within an inch of her life after yesterday's partying in a FUCKING DRUG FACTORY, had taught her that Kiro got what he wanted. She whined, and it did sound like some broken little girl when she stepped out of the booth. He liked watching her limp. But it also made his chest sink because she looked familiar.
Hello. My name is Krio. I am fucking sex addict. I am zero hours sober.
He lowered the bottle that he'd mostly been drinking that hard to make an impression on Meredith. He looked at the brand. Shit. They better not miss this in the crates that he'd pilfered it from. Explained why it had been so smooth going down. Vodka breakfast. Top notch, idiot. At least it was fancier than the hawker stalls he usually went to, and might still try, if he could even SEE through this fucking headache. He doubled over and puked into the Meredith-shaped hole in his bed. Half of it was on his foot. The resulting soup was his first clue to last night. Glorious morning.
He got up after who knows how long. Cut his usual tall, skinny lines with miraculously vast shoulders. Dad came from a family of hard, sturdy workers and while Kiro didn't really eat well, he had the bones of someone who lugged rock for a living. Mom was an angel with a broken heart. Many sins there, in the Ryaka house, left behind. He wiped with his sheets and stepped into a pair of pants that were actually the real thing. Wasn't a lot to brag with when the material was worn to shit. He tied his hair back and also limped out of the booth.
Hello Kiro.