“Guns’re on the table, ‘kay, Pretty-boy?”
She took another slow sip of water and guided a block of ice into her mouth. She settled her elbow on the table, leaning on the polished oak while moving the glass around in little circles. icebergs clashed against one another and her hand muffled the sound of the crashing–it chilled her fingers until the color of her nails matched her eyeshadow. Revy paused, taking a good look at his mug before sighing and letting the glass drop to the table as melted ice dripped down her throat. Her throat felt tight.
Leaning back, she pulled out a smoke and offered the matchbox of rolled up poison over. sliding it over. Peace offering. She sighed hard and lit herself one. “So what’s got ya spooked, Sniper?” before she smiled the smile of a century–like she’s just seen a kid do a double backflip after one hell of a buckshot. “Ha,” with the corners of her lips upturned all sweet-like. What a face. Jesus, he had a fucking face.
–Same eyes; same scent. Same hands; same shit.
“Let’s have a conversation.”
‘ Just a conversation? No tantalizing stop-and-frisk to speak of? ’
He clicks his tongue once, leans against the shoddy chair, right arm perched complacently on its back. The air reeks of something: of what, he can’t be certain —— maybe it’s the cheap booze, or maybe it’s the capricious mien of his so-called “date”. His good eye never leaves her face. Instead, he offers a grin. It’s a derisive, cruel thing: wicked, jagged like a weapon; his thumb grazes the grip safety of his glock, fondling it idly as it’s set upon the table. Dangerously complacent.
‘ And here I was, hoping this’d be interesting. ’
Pretty-boy. Tsk. It almost warrants a snort. Still, he accepts a cigarette out of etiquette alone; it’s something to keep the hands occupied, at least, even if the stench sits ill in his stomach. Too much like the old days, he thinks; hell, this whole place is damnably indiscernible from way back when: scuzzy people with even scuzzier motives, huddled around some scuzzy counter. Well, well, well. Filth always did have its way of filtering back into the gutter: he's no different.
‘ Oh-ho, don’t tell me…you're looking for your juicy fill, aren't you? Fine, I'll bite. But it'll take more than a few catchpenny smokes to make me dish the goods. ------ Eye for an eye, and all that. Deal? ’
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