@simmonsized inspired me to post some more write-y stuff so like, here’s some more gay mobster cowboys in space
The first punch knocks the air from his lungs.
The second crunches his nose in a spurt of blood.
The third knocks a tooth loose.
Dex Carrigan looses track after that.
The rope cuts into his wrists, and though he can’t look at them he knows they’re raw and bloody as well. How stupid of him to choose a white shirt this morning; it’ll take damn near forever to get the stains out.
He thinks on that, and not the heavy chk-sss of someone digging into the sand.
Someone lands a kick to his ribs, and he doesn’t bother to keep himself from falling. Sand speckles his face and get stuck in the tacky wetness of his eyes. The sand sticks to his bloody body like powdered sugar on Marnie’s fritters. He’d probably look the part, too, if the sand weren’t so damn green. It should feel hot, after being in the sun for so long, but Dex is long past caring about things as silly as physical sensations.
Not when he’s staring at his own grave.
He coughs wetly and finds his voice to ask, “D’y’all need help digging that? Who brought extra shovels?” He coughs again, dark red sprinkling the sand in front of him. “Caber, I know you can’t dig for shit-”
A boot connects with his jaw, and he feels more than hears the dull crack of something in his jaw busting loose. Distantly, the part of him that still recognizes the pain notes how it radiates up his face and down his neck.
“Shut your mouth, Carrigan.” The guilty boots step around into his field of vision. They’re old-school leather, imported in from one of the poles and patched to hell and back. They’re unique not only in that they’re covered in Dex’s blood, but because the heels are solid rose quartz. He never personally got it, having stone heels. Maybe it was supposed to reference something, nose to the grindstone while grinding someone beneath his heel. Either way, they were ugly as sin and Dex knew only one man brave enough to commit the act.
“I mean, there’s not much that can help you at this point,” Mange continues, “but you can at least do me one last favor and keep your goddamn mouth shut.”
Dex doesn’t bother to lift his head. Mange is so clear, so visible in his mind’s eye. His clothes are all pale pastel colors, set in contrast with his deeply tanned skin and pitch-black hair braided down his back. His narrow shoulders make him look like a fence post, and he has all the muscle to match. And every expression on that damned face of his got highlighted by how crazy pale his eyes are.
It hurts to breathe, hurts to open his mouth. But he does so anyways.
“Fuck you, Mange.”
“I’m sure that pretty little thought put you to sleep plenty of nights, now, but let’s discuss the issue at hand.” Mange never moves from where he stand, but Dex flinches when another set of hands grab his shoulders and force him back up to his knees. Vertigo spins his vision and spikes nausea through his gut.
“Dex, what in my own fucking name got into you?” Mange crosses his arms as easily as he breathes, like this was merely a friendly chat. “All the years I put in with you, all the loyal and tireless service, and you botch a job so simple even my own gramma could do it in her sleep?”
Dex doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say, truth be told.
