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Verse
Star
- Joined
- May 8, 2011
Dale Tiller came from a mining town one state over. He moved in with his uncle here in the city in his early teens. It was his mother's idea, to get him away from the backwater poisons where she'd birthed him; moonshine and meth and trailer park whorehouses, and hunting rifles that had killed more men than deer. A kingdom of elicit things overgrown with rust and moss and sweat. His father's kingdom.
Dale couldn't quit it, though. He'd seen enough of flesh on skeletons rotting in tall grass or posing, melancholic and lonely in snow, that he could only romanticize the value of life in a hard and bitter way. He already knew that chemicals governed people, and that violence was a surefire way to access them, and that drugs were slower, but easier to spread. It was an old power in a young body that moved to the big city with two carboard boxes, and a felt jacket. And a knife with a well-tended to blade, but with rusted screws in the handle.
There was a lot of that left in him, coming in to this apartment. The door said Joshua Wilkin, but he was just Joe to Dale's gang. Dale had sprung in height since first moving here. A mountain spirit come to steal the souls of the cityfolk. And so far he'd done it with drugs and guns, both of which would be here, tonight. It was a new spot, and while everyone attending would swear up and down they never worried about shit, they were criminals, and criminals are a superstitious lot. They didn't like switching things up. But Joe had been adamant in promising his home was perfect for deals, since it was in a sweet spot. Dale was used to people sucking up to him, especially climbers like Joe. But it checked out. This apartment was big enough to store some wares, and defensible. And the area was accessible for the street runners.
Dale clomped into the apartment with black boots. He liked to be able to move quickly, so his black jeans were close to his long legs. He wore a tanktop of the same color underneath his big jacket. Atop the lengthy neck coming out of the open collar, there was a well-cut jawline and old, brown eyes peering through healthy, youthful features. The strong brow reinforced him as a leader and the no-nonsense, new shave was a shadow over his scalp. It made his cheeks even deeper, and that in turn lifted his cheekbones higher. Dale was known for his mountainfolk apatite, but his skin was thin, like he couldn't pack on mass other than his height.
A handful of runners had already gotten to the location, and Joe had been sitting on the wares for three days. Since there was a lot of product in this delivery, Dale needed to be there, to divvy out the takes. It was a good opportunity to raise morale, so he'd brought along a duffle with rolls of cash for the troops. There needed to be emotion every time anyone saw him, his dad had taught him that. So he got rough with his runners, but he also paid them as much as he thought he could. It bred respect and loyalty and that's why Dale had a meteoric rise in the syndicate. That and he got shit done; sold what needed to be sold, and killed who needed to be dead.
He was an imposing person, coming into the livingroom that had a crate in front of the table, which was already full of saran wrapped bricks, and duct taped metal boxes. The young men greeted him enthusiastically, and one of them had to quickly slide out of the way when Dale sat himself in the middle of the couch and dropped the duffle over all the drugs on the couch table. "Joe." he said to the host. "Open it. Let these fucking animals have their allotted meat." The others were livid at the prospect of these cash bonuses, and would stare hungrily, circling the table, indeed like hyenas on a gazelle, when the zipper was drawn. There was satisfaction on Dale's face at seeing them excited.
"And where's the fucking entertainment, man?" he asked and waved one hand dismissively in the air, looking around. "I heard you got a girl. Where is she? Have her get me a drink or something." Everyone knew Dale liked vodka. "So we can get started with settling what goes were." That's why he'd come, after all, to give his stamp of approval, and arm his troops. It was an important formality, and not really something he could trust to anyone else. But that didn't mean it had to be boring. He remembered seeing a picture of the girl on Joe's screen saver once or twice, and noting she was a looker. Apart from being known for dealing out a beating that'd send you to the ER, Dale was also known to be something of a sex addict. And, in this line of business, addictions could be an asset or a problem.
The others were loud, looking the cash over, but carefully to grab what they wanted until Dale started saying who got what. By how everyone was standing while Dale sat, it'd be obvious who called the shots to anyone walking in. The others were like hungry but well trained dogs, looking at the gaping duffle, the longer he waited. He wanted to torture them a bit. But they became loud again when he leaned forward and scooped up rolls and started tossing to each of them, the amount on the bills equal to their worth to the syndicate.
Dale couldn't quit it, though. He'd seen enough of flesh on skeletons rotting in tall grass or posing, melancholic and lonely in snow, that he could only romanticize the value of life in a hard and bitter way. He already knew that chemicals governed people, and that violence was a surefire way to access them, and that drugs were slower, but easier to spread. It was an old power in a young body that moved to the big city with two carboard boxes, and a felt jacket. And a knife with a well-tended to blade, but with rusted screws in the handle.
There was a lot of that left in him, coming in to this apartment. The door said Joshua Wilkin, but he was just Joe to Dale's gang. Dale had sprung in height since first moving here. A mountain spirit come to steal the souls of the cityfolk. And so far he'd done it with drugs and guns, both of which would be here, tonight. It was a new spot, and while everyone attending would swear up and down they never worried about shit, they were criminals, and criminals are a superstitious lot. They didn't like switching things up. But Joe had been adamant in promising his home was perfect for deals, since it was in a sweet spot. Dale was used to people sucking up to him, especially climbers like Joe. But it checked out. This apartment was big enough to store some wares, and defensible. And the area was accessible for the street runners.
Dale clomped into the apartment with black boots. He liked to be able to move quickly, so his black jeans were close to his long legs. He wore a tanktop of the same color underneath his big jacket. Atop the lengthy neck coming out of the open collar, there was a well-cut jawline and old, brown eyes peering through healthy, youthful features. The strong brow reinforced him as a leader and the no-nonsense, new shave was a shadow over his scalp. It made his cheeks even deeper, and that in turn lifted his cheekbones higher. Dale was known for his mountainfolk apatite, but his skin was thin, like he couldn't pack on mass other than his height.
A handful of runners had already gotten to the location, and Joe had been sitting on the wares for three days. Since there was a lot of product in this delivery, Dale needed to be there, to divvy out the takes. It was a good opportunity to raise morale, so he'd brought along a duffle with rolls of cash for the troops. There needed to be emotion every time anyone saw him, his dad had taught him that. So he got rough with his runners, but he also paid them as much as he thought he could. It bred respect and loyalty and that's why Dale had a meteoric rise in the syndicate. That and he got shit done; sold what needed to be sold, and killed who needed to be dead.
He was an imposing person, coming into the livingroom that had a crate in front of the table, which was already full of saran wrapped bricks, and duct taped metal boxes. The young men greeted him enthusiastically, and one of them had to quickly slide out of the way when Dale sat himself in the middle of the couch and dropped the duffle over all the drugs on the couch table. "Joe." he said to the host. "Open it. Let these fucking animals have their allotted meat." The others were livid at the prospect of these cash bonuses, and would stare hungrily, circling the table, indeed like hyenas on a gazelle, when the zipper was drawn. There was satisfaction on Dale's face at seeing them excited.
"And where's the fucking entertainment, man?" he asked and waved one hand dismissively in the air, looking around. "I heard you got a girl. Where is she? Have her get me a drink or something." Everyone knew Dale liked vodka. "So we can get started with settling what goes were." That's why he'd come, after all, to give his stamp of approval, and arm his troops. It was an important formality, and not really something he could trust to anyone else. But that didn't mean it had to be boring. He remembered seeing a picture of the girl on Joe's screen saver once or twice, and noting she was a looker. Apart from being known for dealing out a beating that'd send you to the ER, Dale was also known to be something of a sex addict. And, in this line of business, addictions could be an asset or a problem.
The others were loud, looking the cash over, but carefully to grab what they wanted until Dale started saying who got what. By how everyone was standing while Dale sat, it'd be obvious who called the shots to anyone walking in. The others were like hungry but well trained dogs, looking at the gaping duffle, the longer he waited. He wanted to torture them a bit. But they became loud again when he leaned forward and scooped up rolls and started tossing to each of them, the amount on the bills equal to their worth to the syndicate.