The Hunt [HECTOR]
Dec 20, 2013 4:21:40 GMT -5
Post by Ezekiel " The Merchant" Harris on Dec 20, 2013 4:21:40 GMT -5
tyrus
The slums, or at least the part he needed to get too, were sometimes butted up against nicer neighborhoods. It was as if, as he moved from block to block, someone forgot to pay the light bills. Graffiti, broken glass, and gang-members became apparent on each corner. Minutes later, just a few feet away, some middle-aged housewife—complete with Stepford-apron—would be watering her wilting petunias. The two areas seemed to mix very little; Ezekiel had served members of both the suburbs and slums though. People weren’t too picky about their illegal dealers.
It was a decent afternoon, for the moment. Storm clouds, visible through the ceiling, lay pregnant with heavy rain. Then again, as all meteorologists were idiots, they had barked about precipitation for three days straight. Now that it was here, the air charged with it and tasting of humidity, the forecast called for sunny skies. Damn forecasters wouldn’t even know what rain fucking felt like.. Regardless of the inclement weather, or at least in spite of it, people bustled along the streets.
Ezekiel greeted each smile, wave, and greeting with a sneer or scoff. He had little patient for these morons playing dress-up in the apocalypse. The smiles were just idiocy; the ceiling could fall on their heads tomorrow, their Pokemon turn into their true savage selves, and their life end. They insisted on planting flowers, keeping up with their neighbor’s, and wasting money n walk-in closets. Rolling his eyes, massaging his aching left arm, Ezekiel turned off down a side street. He was following a string of leads. His little hound, a few feet in front of him, was muttering again.
The words were quiet; he knew better than to speak louder than a whisper when his master was present. “Still look like a shriveled up damn rubber—uglier though, bastard.” The little white snout wrinkled in distaste. His tail stiffened as he felt the soft-sole boot lifting. Toes slammed into his hip as the Rattata hit the dirt. “What was that beast, I must be going deaf, huh?” Dark grey eyes peered down; they were far worse than any storm clouds above. His lips, marred by scars and old burn-marks, lifted over white human teeth. The source of the comment, the recently shaved mauve-hair, drew the crimson eyes. Fifteen, the prostate Rattaata, found it nearly impossible to guffaw now. “Nothing sir, it ain’t nothing.” Boot applying pressure for a moment, bones grating, the man continued down the secluded alley.
The rodent hoped, he begged for someone to notice his limp. Instead, staring at the human male, all they sawwere his expensive clothing and small arm brace.
Ezekiel was on a job; it would not do, while the clothing would not stain, to dress like a butcher. With a bone saw in his jacket, some darts and syringes, he only was truly missing a cleaver. He needed a skull. Someone, a rich bastard who loved bones, wanted a particularly odd Pokemon specimen for his mantelpiece.
His long ears, which were always low to the ground, remembered tales of a very large Marowak—stinky old lizards. At least, when born, they killed off all the fucking mothers. Rising over a hill, twisting his wrist to try to gain comfort, Ezekiel spotted the Marowak. A charming smile emerged. It was a big fucker. The man would pay a lot of money. He just needed to lure it away from nosy neighbors. Remembering what he had learned, such as it being a guard, he moved down toward it. Putting on his car salesman impression, which came as easily as breathing, the black-market man approached Hector: He seemed to fidget with discomfort. Grey eyes moved up and down the street with nerves.
“I heard, sir, that you sometimes protect people and things for a price?”
He pulled an empty wallet from his back-pocket. The rat, told to play his part well, began to whimper and pace.