♟ OBV
Select from the following for my muse to respond to…♟:Patching up a wound
Management did not lack in enemies.
They did not lack in allies either; though they had certainly made quite a name for themselves in the past year, since the embarking of the Volstead Act. More importantly and, perhaps regretfully - allies came and went like the tide. In the business of manufacturing, importing and dealing in illegal alcohol, loyalty was a question of opportunity. Allies only went as far as the depth of one’s pocket. It was not something to be changed; empires rose and fell with the changing seasons; but rather something to be taken into consideration, to keep as a reminder at the back of one’s mind; and never to hold too harsh of a grudge when betrayed. The people who once gave up on you might return to your side once more, given a sufficient reason.
The loyalty of Galway Morgan, however – depended on something entirely different.
In retrospect; his life could have been made a lot easier if Management were to mysteriously disappear — or rather, brutally, cruelly EXECUTED right in the middle of their somewhat legitimate establishment.
Suffice it to say it was the least shady of the entirety of their business ventures.
Sure, his life would have been made a lot easier. His debt would be erased entirely; everything would rewind back to the beginning. Even if another man of their inner circle took their place, several other men, even; the Host was but a small fish- nothing to keep anyone awake at night. Management’s fortunes would be gone with them, in any case - and with them, the theoretic fortune they would have made if the Host was ever to repay his debt entirely.
… which would never have happened.
Bus alas, his loyalty depended on one thing alone - gratitude.
And grateful he was. They had picked him up from the gutters, pulled him to his feet, cleaned him up, and gave him the new opportunity he so badly craved; the opportunity to become someone new, someone he truly wanted to be; not the person he had been made into. Not the simple fisherman from Whitley Bay, not the wounded, decorated soldier. Galway Kenley Morgan, the Host, a man of luxury and charm. A man whose company both men and women desired. Carefree, clever and mysterious.
He owed them that much.
He owed them his L I F E.
He had been carrying his gun at all times since things got heated up with the Irish - a deal gone wrong. Management had advised him to do so - the Host was the last thing many of those poor bastards had ever seen. They could come after him, Management said; an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
Though things did not quite turn out the way Management had predicted. They were too powerful, they thought; the Micks might go after their men, though not directly after them. Too risky - retaliation would be too great.
Suppose the Micks were not as clever as they seemed.
The men had been present in the club for some time before they pulled out their guns. None paid any attention whatsoever to the towering ginger wandering around charming the crowd. The sharpshooter that he was, the Host had been quick to react. Patrons dropping to the floor, flat on their stomachs; men murmuring, women screaming at the top of their lungs; Management ducking behind tables and chairs. Some suffered mild injuries - hard to miss with a Tommy gun, after all - the club had been significantly damaged - though no casualties, save for, you know —- the Micks.
He had six bullets; there were three of them. He need not more. One shot in the general torso area for demobilization; another shot in the head for guarantee. The Host himself had sustained a bullet injury in his right thigh, as one of the Irish was quick to react when the first man went down; which could have very much been fatal (with meaningful blood-loss), if not for the…
Well, defining her was a tad hard.
The bird he held no ill feelings for, but never wanted to see again in his LIFE. The nurse that had previously tended so thoughtfully to his wounds, when he was still a soldier; who berated him when he left his bed without permission or assistance, who handed him chocolates and other sweets when she could, who bandaged his shattered knee time and time again when he would cause the stitches to tear open.
She had somehow found her way to his side of the world, to Atlantic City, to his kingdom better known to all as the Dreamland Ballroom —-
It was a mix of fondness and repulsion, nostalgia and dread, happiness and bitterness. No, he certainly did not hate HER - simply what she represented. A time in his life he NEVER wanted to relive, to remember; a part of his life he had drowned in gin and cocaine and countless cartons of Lucky Strike.
His favorite suit, ruined. His five hundred dollar tux, specifically fitted for his massive frame, now torn at the thigh and stained with his own blood. He was on the floor, back leaning against the bar as one of the other patrons handed her ahandkerchief to tie around his thigh as an arterial tourniquet.
”Never thought you’d have to tend to me again, ey?” He joked, voice low and hoarse. “Time goes in circles. We’ll always end up in the same place.”
