The Wretch

The devil's got nothin' on me, my friend. Leopold Stilwell. 1899.

[thatwretch]

itsvisceral·:

Showmanship was never a concern of Scout’s - she hadn’t a showman’s bone in her body - but the more Leo spoke, the more its possible practicality settled into the wheels and cogs of her brain. She was silent for a moment, taking another puff from her cigarette while she squinted up into the hazy midday sun. Then she turned back to her partner, offering a small shrug. 

“S’pose I could maybe see it as a warning,” she said, “but it might rile up the lawmen. Send ‘em after you harder, y’know?”

“Maybe,” the word floated on a puff of smoke. Scout was being far too logical for his liking, and his patience. “But who ever gave a shit about them?” 

“If you were gonna kill a truly, truly bad man, how would you do it?” It was not only a question, but a test thrown to Scout, to see if she could surprise him by coming up with something creative. ‘Crazy’ came easy for him, and oftentimes his own brand of chaos bored him; therefore it was much more entertaining to dig into the muck of others’ minds. 

[magdalenajune]

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[filmcuts]

[thatwretch]

shanncs‌:

he smells, is the first thing shane thinks as he enters the wagon: blood and alcohol and who knows what else in that mess, what kind of layer of filth that’s been gone unwashed for only god above knows how long. it’s almost revolting, almost enough to make shane turn away and find something else to spend his time on (cargo guard duty be damned) but he’s grown used to it at this point—and it’s sad, really, that leo’s the type of person that one has to get used to, but it is how it is, and shane’s not questioning it anymore.

and as much as shane wants to give him time of day, afford the older man some kind of patience or understanding, shane has never made any claim to be a patient or understanding man. leo’s voice drones on and on with no sign of stopping and shane is hard-pressed to remember a time where the old fool wasn’t talking: it feels like he’s gonna be stuck here forever in some kind of personal hell until—thank the lord almighty—leo finally stops.

“that so?” shane asks, almost spits out, but then he holds back: there is still an attempt—however weak or mild—at being somewhat civil. “you know, if you were half as good in actually contributin’ as you were at tellin’ these charmin’ stories of yours, i reckon you’d finally be half as useful as you could be.” he looks down at the wagon floor, extends his body so that his legs are all splayed out in front of him as a wry smile decorates his face. “as it is, i reckon you gone and made that up right now, didn’t you?”

“Whew!” Leo barked out a laugh, thick with spite. “Look who’s got some gumption all’a sudden. Shit.” The wretch rolled his eyes. A match was taken to the scuffed sole of his boot, sparking a flame that he used to light the cigarette between his teeth. Within him one would find no patience for those who doubted his contributions (whatever they were) to the Hounds. If they didn’t like him so much, nothin’ was stopping them from sending him packing, and yet he was still there. A few short pulls of the cigarette illuminated the tip of his nose in red before his head was lost in a cloud of smoke. “And here I thought we were pals.” 

The flame was waved away with the match pinched between his dirty fingers. “Every word I speak is the truth, and that’s no lie,” he gruffed. “Pardon me fer fillin’ the air with somethin’ other than the typical bitchin’ ‘n moanin’ that usually goes on ‘round here. Would you prefer a song? Somethin’ more lighthearted for the gentleman?” 

[thatwretch]

sweetwcters‌:

Maggie had heard him tellin’ stories, and she’d wanted a piece of that. She went to sit by Leo, nudging him with her boots that were stickin’ out the bottom of her dress. She’d looked nice today. No need for looking practical. She wanted pretty today.

“Hey, storyteller, weave me a song,” she teased, glancing over once…then twice. After another moment of not saying anything, she asked the question that’d been burning through her.

“You ever heard of a man in black? Ridin’ ‘cross Wolf Point. Heard tell that he’s got many a bounty on his head. Some of his crimes includin’…arson…’n the like. Figured a man of your knowledge might know.”

@thatwretch

He guess it really was true: there ain’t no rest for the wicked. Leo knew that much with the toe of someone’s boot in his side. One eye opened to check if whoever was bugging him was worth rousing for, and the second one opened when he saw it was Miss Maggie, lookin’ as good as a slice of peach pie. Leo sat up, but not after a moment of moaning and groaning. “What’chu want?” 

He laughed at her interest. If ever he’d been suspicious that she was a Pinkerton, that would have been enough to quell his assumptions. Scratching at a spot above his right ear, he thought, before saying, “you’re gonna have to be more specific, darlin’.” The amusement her inquiry brought him had still not subsided. “’Man in black with a bounty’ describes half’a the asshole honchos that think they own Wolf Point.” 

“But... I might know a little somethin’.” With those bright green eyes aimed right at her, Leo flashed that switchblade smile that never meant anything good was coming out of him. “My mind’s always a little foggy after a nap, but a bribe tends to clear it up.” He wasn’t expecting much, if anything, in return, but his own curiosity figured it was worth a shot.

[thatwretch]

itsvisceral‌:

Her own hand-rolled cigarette pinched between her teeth, Scout shot a sideways look at her…companion. She knew better than to join him in the wagon - anything with three walls and a lid was sure to become a hot-box when Leo was involved - but that didn’t stop her from lounging outside, close enough to listen to his ravings while still afforded fresh mountain air. One eyebrow climbed high on her forehead, but she took a drag before answering, exhaling a puff of smoke that immediately dispersed, rising and twisting on an early spring breeze.

“They what? Why would they waste their time botherin’ with all that? Seems like a waste of a good horse to me.”   

She didn’t believe him, and that was just fine by Lee. Most didn’t. Nothin’ new. You couldn’t blame a guy for taking an audience when he had the chance. Being paired up with Scout to watch over the goods was a blessing, in a way, as he’d been dying to talk all damn day. For as long ago as his vaudeville days were, much of that spirit from his youth still existed in his blood; which is surprising when one considers the amount of whiskey that was there already. 

Leo sucked at his teeth with nothing but scorn for the question. “It’s a lil’ something called showmanship,” he said as if the answer was obvious. “You spend all that time trackin' a truly wanted man down, you might as well have a little fun with it, right? Plus, they make a scene ‘n it tells anyone else in the area ‘don’t fuck with us’.” 

[5oil]

[michaeldavanzo]

[thatwretch]

scmsons‌:

“I’m callin’ bullshit on that one there, feller.” He sank back against the wood. His bones were achin’. They seemed to always be doin’ that shit nowadays. He wished he’d hanged. Least he wouldn’t have had to deal with all this painful shit.

“You gon’ roll my sorry ass one of those, or are y’gon make me beg?” He managed to lean forward, his bones aching again. God damn it, he couldn’t even move.

“Where in god’s name you get all these stories, amigo?” He asked, fingers absently picking at the cargo in the cargo wagon they were sittin’ in. Felt like…grains. Then again. Maybe it weren’t. What did he know?

"You know better than to ask me that. Do I look like a parlor bitch t’you?” Lee laughed lazily. Typically, the wretch wasn’t one for sharing, but for Samson (a kindred spirit if he’d ever known one) he would make an exception. Old horses had to stick together. Leo pushed the waxed paper pack of tobacco to the Hound, along with a paper he fished from his shirt pocket. 

“You can call all the bullshit you want, compadre, but it’s true. Heard it from the son of a medicine man. Believe it’r not if you talk to people they’ll talk back. Sometimes they tell you some wild tales.” Leo leaned back in his chair, and picked the few residual bits of tobacco from his tongue. 

“Who taught you that Spanish?” 

[thatwretch]

Sonneillon, Abraxas, and Mammon!

sonneillon: do you hate anyone?

“Mm.” He considers the question with a nail between two of his teeth. When he flicks the sliver of gristle that was extracted, he’s free to speak. “Nah. Well, yes, but no. Everybody I’ve hated ain’t in this life anymore---I made sure of that. No sense in hating ghosts now, is there?”  

abraxas: do you believe in any higher power? if so, what?

“About as much as your Average Joe. I ain’t stepped in a church in some time now.” Lee laughs as his imagination pictures a chapel bursting into flames, elicited from him stepping on holy ground. “I believe in the father, the son, and the rest of his gang, but I ain’t devout or nothing.” 

mammon: when were you most greedy? for what?

“Used to be power, or what little I could grab at it. Now,” he pauses, both to take a violent swat at a fly and to think of the best answer. “Money, no doubt. Ain’t that we’re all here for?” 

[thatwretch]

starter ✗ open location :: inside a stationary cargo wagon

He reeks of whiskey, and the blood soaked cuff of his left trouser leg doesn’t necessarily do anything to help the stench. If anything it adds a new level to the depraved sight. Like a quartet accompanies a picture show at the nickelodeon, so does his stink to his reputation. It went unnoticed by him by that point. He’s the one who has to live with himself after all. And yet, in all of that there is still a shadow of the handsome man he once was. It’s in the curve of his brow, and the sharpness of his smile. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Between calloused fingers spun a precisely rolled cigarette as he spun his yarn. It’s a wonder he even chose to tell his tales anymore, as nobody seemed to believe a damned thing he said, save for the kookier members of the group. He’d take what he could get. 

“Anyways,” he droned, “that’s why a centaur ain’t no myth. It’s just a dis-com-bob-illated story of how that outlaw fella who was wanted a couple decades ago ran across the wrong comp’ny. They killed the horse first, then him, then swapped their heads and put ‘em on a line like laundry. The Natives came across ‘em and it spooked ‘em to high heavens---bad enough to make up a tall tale.” 

[74-shawty]

[being buried alive]

Murderer: *out of breath* how are you eating the dirt so quickly

[boydswan]

[kuutamosonaatti]

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[thatwretch]

leviathan, verrier, belias!

leviathan :: what do you believe lies in the unexplored areas of the ocean?

“Fuck if I should know.” The old brute chews his tobacco like a cow takes to cud, a bit of black liquid falls over his bottom lip to his chin as he moves the lump from one cheek to the other. “If it’s anythin’ like the earth, it’s probably filled with corpses.” A silver-capped tooth glints from within a crooked smile beneath the brim of his hat. “Maybe there’s mermaids feedin’ on ‘em.” 

verrith :: are you a patient or impatient person?

“Depends on the sitch’ation and who you ask. I’m patient for good food and women, I ain’t patient for money.” 

belias :: do you gossip?

“Well, sure. There’s not much else to do to fill the silences. This gang ain’t exactly skilled in the art of conversation. Shit..  I’m not opposed to spinning a tall tale if it’ll save my bored soul from being eaten by the coy’otes.”

[thatwretch]

* SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS

Macbeth:

the howl of wolves. moonless nights. dirt under fingernails. stained silk. chattering teeth. voices hoarse and cracked. rotting fruit. echoing drums. dry heaving. hanging cobwebs. stifling humidity. bloodshot eyes. the roughness of rusted steel. wild rosebushes. muscle cramps. the sound of splintering wood.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

crackling fires. ivy crawling on stone. the faint music of running water. petrichor. dirty, bare feet. tattered clothing. thistledown. wilted wildflower crowns. late evening birdsong. curling leaves. a symphony of croaking frogs. drifting feathers. the eerie sound of windchimes at night. humming bees. beds of clover.

Romeo and Juliet:

warm golden lamplight. worn shoes. crumbling brick walls. whispered poetry. embroidered satin. cool, hazy mornings. tousled hair. rosewater. flushed cheeks. distant orchestras. unfinished marble statues. cobblestone streets. loose threads. ink smudged on parchment. tapping fingers. dust illuminated by sunlight. poison vials.

Hamlet:

shattered glass. a cluster of fraying ribbons. unanswered knocks on doors. lingering dampness. white noise. inexplicable drafts. migraines. bleeding ears. the taste of metal. reflected mirrors. dry, cracked lips. the sound of tearing paper. fogged windows. memories of dreams. tarnished silver. protruding veins.

[mitskimaxims]

due to personal reasons i will be the cowboy