One Nice Bug Per Day
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Peter Solarz

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@collectxr
“Andy, you’re the type of person that would be bitten by a mildly venomous garter snake. Put it back.”
"They're actually rear fanged, so it'd be difficult for it to envenomate me."
♟ Foma heard the footsteps and knew the man before he saw him. Or at least, he knew a little of his appearance—not overweight but not emaciated, a man not addled by old age, comfortable in his surroundings and walking with purpose. The sort who could zip clear out of his house and not leave a damn thing to show where he went. Or maybe Foma was just making things up to pass the time between the approach and the inevitable opening of the door. Sometimes, he couldn’t really tell the difference.
♟ The opening of the door and the man who came through it were both received with the same expression. Absolute and utter disinterest, as he quirked his head slightly to one side and took Anderson Walker in. His mouth moved independent from his thoughts. "The kind that warrants official investigation," he replied, and one foot subtly shifted forward as he spoke to settle closer to the threshold. Perfect position to jam between the door and the frame to keep him from slamming it shut. "Special Agent Garrett Vsevolod. FBI." He procured his badge, flashing it and then tucking it right back into his pocket. If this man was of the flighty sort, he’d hopefully think twice about booking it around an FBI Agent. Most people tended to think they were like SWAT or something—he never understood why.
♟ "Have you heard anything from Mr. and Mrs. Roman since their wedding?” He quirked his head to the other side, and his eyes bore the auger of curiosity deep in Anderson Walker’s skull. "You know—the couple that hired you on August 17th?" One hand fished into his pocket and felt the photographs stored there. He’d brought them along in case he needed to use them to dredge up some sympathy. Happy couple pictures, evidence boxes, so on and so forth. His pitch was to ask a few questions like it was just an interview, then go on to play like they’d found the bodies if this man was suspicious. Since it would be blatantly false information, it would likely rouse something. Then he could just go to insults and get out a rise, and so on and so forth.
♟ Or alternatively, he could just piss him off and get punched so he could take him in for assault. That would be much quicker, and then someone who actually gave a shit could interview him. But that was generally frowned upon. “They’re missing.” So boring. He was having more fun looking subtly over the stranger’s shoulder to see inside his house and gauge his sanity from there. He could smell reptiles—specifically, the particular kind of smell that a snake gives. He knew it well enough from spending time at the maid’s house when he was a boy. The woman’s husband owned a large boa constrictor and he often had to play beside it with their idiot son. He never did manage to get that smell out of his clothes.
♟ Funny thing about snakes. Psychopaths never really seemed to turn on them like they did other animals. They were predators, too—they squeezed the life out of prey and swallowed it helpless and whole. A mouse could not stand a chance against a snake, like a victim could not stand a chance against a madman. Foma enjoyed snakes, himself—but only when they were already dead. Snake taxidermy was fun to pose. Maybe if this fellow, by some stroke of luck, turned out to be the killer—maybe Foma could take possession of the snake. How much poison does it take to off one of those things?
♟ "But before I go any further—” A pretend attempt at a desire for secrecy. He honestly wouldn’t have minded shouting it from the fucking rooftops. “Should we discuss this inside?” He gestured almost idly to the street beyond. People could listen and start rumors. Would this man be the kind to be bothered by such things, or would he relish in being spoken of? Foma raised an eyebrow, but really, he didn’t give a damn. He just wanted to go inside so he could do a bit more profiling based on the rest of the interior. "I would hate to force you into this kind of conversation so close to the ears of the public."
"Mr. and Mrs. Roman? Yeah, I remember them." He pauses. "Last time I talked to 'em was when I handed off the photos. Haven't spoke since." They had paid their balance a week prior to the wedding, there wasn't really any point in keeping touch past reply to a thank you email a few days later. A wedding wasn't an ongoing project. Of course that didn't mean he hadn't seen them. Oh no, he saw them quite a bit. Quick glances to the room behind him don't go unnoticed. His eyes haven't left his face since his focus settled there. The idea of letting a special agent into his home doesn't bother him. Vsevolod could search his living space from floor to ceiling and find nothing but his secondhand furniture and the everyday items they were home to. He wasn't stupid enough to leave evidence out in the open. But the FBI couldn't search without a warrant anyways. The target of his gaze shifts to the houses adjacent to his. Would he mind chatting in public? No. Would refusing to let this man into his home be suspicious? Absolutely. "Yeah, come in." Andy recedes further into his house, pulling the door open wider. "Hope you don't mind snakes. I've got a couple."
’ Why do you care about snakes? ‘
His words followed a short pause and were spoken in a flat, disinterested, voice. Perhaps that was rude of him, not to show interest, but he didn’t pay it any attention. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested, it was more about exhaustion. Rai loved to talk about things that killed people.
"Because they're interesting." He had enjoyed snakes for as long as he could remember and didn't have any problem rattling off random facts to strangers, Regardless of how perturbing or annoying they might be to others.
”Yes I am, though I don’t know who you are.”
"Just a fan. You can call me Andy--I check your site everyday."
”You say that like it’s a problem.”
There's a moment of silence, the sudden realization of who exactly he was standing with clear on his face. "You--- You're Freddie Lounds."
+paidsavior, releasethelounds, bxddestblood, a-quietsonnet, technicalxblondie
"You're in my picture."
+ nztvre, streunend, graham-rising, hxnibal, journaliist, gxtreal, quietdxspair
"A lotta people think the black mamba has the most toxic venom of all snakes, but that's not true. It's the inland taipan."
acceptoris
"Andy, where exactly did it come from?”
"One of the bushes outside. I mean, it's just a garter snake, so it's only mildly venomous."
[ +collectxr ]
♟ Foma Vsevolod bears no fondness for house calls. Of course, he rarely bears fondness for anything, but he particularly isn’t fond of house calls. It makes him feel like less of an FBI Agent and more like a door-to-door salesman. As he climbs out of his Imperial, he can hear the imaginary sales pitch rattling off in the back of his head. “Hello there, buddy! My name’s Garrett Vsevolod.” The high and chipper intonations of a young man who is trying very desperately and who is paid very well to play up being absolutely fucking ecstatic. "I’m here with a product I like to call ‘wasting my time by bringing up dead people and ruining your day’. Would you like a free sample?"
♟ A breath of a laugh was all he offered in response to his own imagination. He shut the door of his car with a sharp shove of one elbow to express his distaste with it. “Salesman Vsevolod, indeed,” came his dull voice, muttered into the slight breeze. Spidery fingers crawled up the front of his sweater to tighten his tie severely against his throat, closing a vicious and unforgiving vice on the narrow column. When he released and allowed himself to breathe properly again, it was perfectly situated where he preferred the knot to rest. This habit had been one of his stranger quirks since he was a teenager—when someone tried to choke him with his tie, he found that it settled in a rather comfortable place once he was released again and had taken a few good breaths. And so the habit became, and he hadn’t bothered to change it since. Even if it did tend to make people stare at him.
♟ Speaking of staring, he had to do that soon. Specifically, he had to do that to whoever it was that lived in this ugly building. One hand fished into his coat and retrieved his notepad. For a man with a memory castle, he sure did take a lot of notes—but then again, he had a habit of sacrificing space for short-term memory to favor long-term. So unless something was really, really interesting, he tended to forget it unless he took notes. Interview Anderson Walker, photographer, about wedding and missing couple. Right. A recently married couple had gone missing a month ago, with absolutely no trace of where they may have went. The case, usually none of his department’s business, had been recently turned over to the BAU after the missing woman’s breasts and left eye were mailed to Jack Crawford. A very direct method of getting things to go the killer’s way, he supposed. But Foma wasn’t complaining. He got the privilege of taking the box down to the lab. You know, the human breast is a strange and alien looking thing when partially frozen and separate from the rest of the body.
♟ If there was a body. That was what they were trying to find out. Hence why he was here, hand aloft, rapping his knuckles on the door in four short knocks. Each was a different pitch, carefully calculated to keep from repeating the same exact sound. He didn’t want to go into this already enraged. Then he might not get any answers, and he’d probably wind up with a black eye.
♟ "Mr. Anderson Walker?” Another knock, this time with the side of his fist. Polite but loud. As he withdrew his hand once more, he pondered a means of not arousing suspicion. After all, he did just say the fellow’s name. And what if he was the flighty sort? Or one of those paranoid freaks who fire through the door first, then ask questions later? "Pardon me if I’m intruding,” The word ‘pardon’ felt acerbic in his mouth, "but there’s been an accident." An accident, indeed.
♟ It wasn’t technically a lie. After all, there was an accident. It just wasn’t recent.
Snakes had been a lifelong interest for him. Or maybe obsession would be the better word. The passion had been set in stone the day he got his first one. He could recall it in vivid detail. The pet shop down the road, the sandwich bag full of bills and coins he had amassed over a period months, the amelanistic corn snake he brought home in a cardboard carrier and kept through middle and high school.
And it was the same obsession that had him where he was now; in his living room trying to coax a mildly interested boa into striking the limp mouse dangling above its head. Mumbled words of encouragement mindlessly slip though his lips, his patience waning despite his fondness for the animal. He could only stand there waiting for so long.
In the same moment the reptile strikes, sinking its needle like teeth into the rodent and coiling around its lifeless body, there's a knock at the door accompanied by muffled voice speaking his name. Anderson.
The sound of his given name is akin to nails on a chalkboard. It's tied to the condescending tones of teachers and the stern voice of his mother. He can't quite disassociate it from those things. Forceps are removed from the mouse's tail and set aside and the cage's top re-secured. Had the word accident not followed his name, Andy wouldn't have made an effort to answer the door
A click comes from behind the door as the deadbolt unlocked. He pulls the door open, revealing the man that had been rapping against it. Weary eyes underlined by dark circles quickly scan him before he speaks. "What kind of accident?"
❝ Of course not, my lawyer advises against that you know, and how do I know you’re not a rat? ❞
"Then what's the fun in that? And I'm not a rat. Why would I rat you out? That's no fun either."
innocentcriminxls:
❝ Do you think I’m innocent — based on the personal content of my book? ❞
"Are you gonna correct me if I guess wrong?"
❝So — you read my book?❞
"I did and I enjoyed it. A lot."