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Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 1, 2016 11:06:40 GMT 2
It would have been a calm niht tonight as well if it weren't for the occasional....Lets say casualties. Indeed around six o'clock, as he wandered through the hallways, he was called downstairs at the front desk. An old customer was standing there yelling and being a nuisance for anyone who could hear. Old customer who had been thrown out several weeks before for being a tad violent with his night partner. It wouldn't have been a problem if he had paid for such treatment and stayed in the boundaries of what the worker allowed, but as expected he didn't. And to crown it all he broke some furniture. And here he was, ranting about the treatment he received post this incident, saying he should sue the establishment for such an attitude towards customers. "You did not read our terms sir. Should I read them with you?" Bishop spoke to the customer, a tone of warning being used as he rose his voice. Displeased customer, step one. Step two, being asked to leave. Step three, denial the customer doesn't budge and he doesn't seem to see that he isn't in power to negociate. Step four, ask him to leave again. Step five, customer stands his ground. Step six, you dialed the number of the beast. Bishop punched the man once in the jaw, sending him to the floor to be dragged outside. "Have a good evening sir."
That problem being solved, Bishop went back to wandering the hallways when he remembered that the addict from last night didn't come see him today. He didn't notice anything in his locker that may tell him Spencer dropped the stash inside by some miracle, nor did he pay enough attention to the names on the checking list. He walked down, yet again to the front desk to ask more questions. He couldn't remember the man's name, convinced it was something with an S in it but also sure he wasn't called spider. So he wandered the list until he found Spencer Blackwell, seeing that he checked in earlier today. So either the bastard forgot, or he was being provocative. Either way it only told Bishop that he didn't make himself clear enough the night before. He resumed his rounds, deciding to take care of the matter later during his dinner break. He finished his shifts so late, a break was simply necessary for him to eat, even if it was just a 15 min one.
He finished his dinner, a simple sandwich he ate in the local, and after brushing his teeth, he set up to go find Spencer and get his ideas straight. He walked in the hallways of Spencer's room level, howevery he did stop at the broken door to curse, appauled by the incapability of some to solve simple problems. As he reached Spencer's door, he didn't bother to knock and what he found inside was just really miserable. The man was crying, bawling in some corner, his stash scattered on the floor like it was thrown away. Uh, Bishop closed the door, guessing this brat was just the biggest drama queen there was in this establishment, stealing the crown from any othr girl here. Annoyed by the situation, thinking Spencer was just being dramatic again and probably took too much heroin already, Bishop took long loud strides to the man and lifted him up by the shirt to sit him in the nearest chair like a child. "Did I not make myself clear enough last night?!" his voice was already rising with anger as he towered above the man, his distinct frown drawn on his face. It won't be long before his hand or fist flies, so Spencer better have a good excuse for this.
A New Day in Hell And here's the devil's bouncer |
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Post by Spencer Blackwell on Apr 1, 2016 19:35:31 GMT 2
I was never one for pretenders but everything I tried to be just wouldn't settle in. He was miserable. Every inch of his body ached from lack of sleep and drugs. His mind was focused on that one thing, depression overwhelming him to the point of considering suicide, just enough to perhaps become dependent on risky decisions. And just as it really sank into his bones, the door open. He hardly had a chance to catch a glimpse of who before he was dragged up by his shirt collar, becoming face-to-face with Bishop. His eyes and expression held a dead-look, but for once, it wasn't intoxication.
The voice was loud and booming, his shoulders tense initially, but slacked completely when he was finally doing nothing more, but holding him in place and angrily staring, waiting for an answer. At first, he considered not saying a damn thing... but then that spark of aggression bubbled up, he distaste for his own life the flavor of it.
"Go fuck yourself, Smurfette. You don't know anything," he retorted, a frown glued to his mouth. There was no such thing as even forcing a smile, despite how amusing it probably would of been to call this man a female smurf. He watched Bishop's lips, just waiting for death to come, no matter how painful. He was just too tired. He couldn't be bothered to explain things. He couldn't be bothered to follow instructions. He couldn't be bothered to survive.
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Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 1, 2016 20:45:28 GMT 2
The look in Spencer's eyes, it wasn't one of someone who was completely smashed, it was closer to someone who was emotionally struck. There weren't many expressions on the man's face, so one could argue about that statement. But he kept the man on his seat, a hand on his shoulder as he explained the situation, and it seemed the man wasn't even listening that much. "Are you listening to me?!" asked the bouncer with a frown right before Spencer started to speak. Angry was he? And that reference to Smurfs, as if Bishop didn't hear it enough. However it wasn't because he heard it a thousand times before that he wouldn't do anything about it. This man was acting like a diva when he didn't even deserve the treatment of such. So he'll get it, the treatment he deserves for being this way without any explained reason, or an apparent reason for that matter.
Bishop's frown defined itself further, his fingers slowly curling around the man's shoulders, true weights like a snake coiling around someone, slowly imposing the kilos of weight possible to inflict to the victim. The folds of Spencer's clothing slowly pinched between Bishop's fingers, soon allowing him a safer than safe grip on the man. Enough of this. Bishop raised himself up like a spring, lifting Spencer up with him yet again and dragging him across the room, not caring to lift him up enough from the ground to avoid the man's legs to brush on the floor. In every room, there was a bathroom. In every bathroom, there was a sink, but there was also a toilet, and ofc, a tub with a shower head. "I'll show you blue." he walked through the bathroom door with long strikes, still dragging Spencer behind him with one hand.
He reached the tub and flung Spencer over the edge, blocking him between his legs and pushing his head down, grasping his hair to get a better hold before turning on the shower head with the other hand. He set the shower to the coldest water he could get and pushed the shower over the man's nose and mouth. He stuck the man's hands under Spencer's body, between the shower's edge and his stomach. Bishop put a strong weight on the man's back, keeping his thighs closed against Spencer's sides so he couldn't move. He kept the shower head against the man's face until he deemed the man had enough. "Do you NOT UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?!" he yelled before setting the hose back on the man's face when he knew he had taken his breath back. This time a little longer. When people heard Bishop yelling, they usually stayed away. Intelligent people, but obviously Spencer didn't know who he was calling Smurfette . He repeated the process until Spencer would become paler and his lips took a blue, purple hue. "Did you have enough Blackwell or should I continue?" he asked, his face close to the man's so he could lower his voice a bit. There was anger in his voice, only aimed to show he wasn't joking about this.
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Post by Spencer Blackwell on Apr 2, 2016 2:53:04 GMT 2
I was never one for pretenders but everything I tried to be just wouldn't settle in. That grip... it felt like he was breaking his shoulder with his one hand. Then, in the next moment, he was being dragged to the bathroom. His threat wasn't unheard, but wasn't taken seriously initially. Being thrown into the tub was less than pleasant. He made an "oomph" as he landed, ready to react, but unable to. In the instant, Bishop was on top of him, hand wrapped up in his hair mercilessly.
As the water rushed his face, panic ensured. Adrenaline began to pump through every inch of his body, fueling the thrashing and squirming. It was dreadful. He'd never had any experiences with drowning, but he figured this was probably just like it. Just as horrifying and painful. He could feel his lungs strain, even as the water was pulled away. As soon as he got his gasp of oxygen, it was back. His rhetoric was unregistered. The cold numbing his skin until it felt warm. It was, in every sense of the word, pure and utter torture.
Words were spoken and at first, it didn't quite register. He panted heavily with coughing and wheezing. His body trembled from all the effort it, technically, didn't have the energy to handle. He swallowed hard when he finally caught his breath, refusing to open his eyes, feeling Bishop's breath hit his chilled skin. Had he had enough? He wasn't even sure. Honestly, he'd hoped this was the end, but apparently it was only the beginning.
"I-I....I d-don't..." fucking chattering teeth, fucking cold water, fucking asshole "...don't want to l-live, anymore."
Please, please end me. Just end me, because God knows I am too pathetic to do it myself. Just drown me, slit my throat, shove my needle into my arm and force me to overdose... I deserve to overdose. I deserve all of this. I'm.. I'm so sorry, Jenna.
Spencer was a mess. He couldn't sob, he was too exhausted, but he was making some sound that hinted his body was trying to. He continued to shiver, hardly from being cold anymore. Spence would never deny being a diva or a queen with drama overflow. Especially not in this moment. It wasn't on his mind, but if he was asked, he'd certainly jump on that train.
"I'm s... sorry... I'm sorry for.. saying that... j-just..." he couldn't finish the word, throat strained, so he finished in thought, hoping it would somehow project to Bishop; just kill me.
♕408 w. TW for suicidal stuff
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Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 2, 2016 10:30:22 GMT 2
Pathetic, that was the word defining Spencer the best right now. Even more so when he started to share his desire to leave this world. Bishop rolled his eyes, feeling like all this will take much more time to deal with than he had first intended. His fifteen min break was already nearly done, and Spencer was still in no shape to work tonight. The desire to drag the man outside and end him there like cattle brushed Bishop's mind more than once. However he didn't have the authorization to eliminate any employees unless he was given the order by Shaun or Theresa herself. But the idiot apologized, good news for him. It's always nice to apologies for stupid attitudes, apologies to the people you bring discomfort to because of your mediocre actions.
He took the shower head and balanced it on the faucet to turn it off with one hand while the other still held Spencer's hair. He then got up, grabbing the man by the shirt again. He couldn't care less if he wanted to end his life, but he'll have to do so after his work day was done and outside the building. Otherwise the PD would be sure to hold it against the Bianchi. Anything to make them guilty these days. Spencer was shivering, showing the cold shower did it's job correctly. With a room at this temperature, the man shouldn't get sick, so hypothermia was not an option. He took the man out of the tub, this time carrying him more than dragging him, and he set him back in the chair. He then set himself to find something rather particular in the room. Surely they must have it with all the discustingly kinky things they hid. And without surprise, Bishop found a set of ropes, which he took to tie Spencer to the chair.
As he did so, and if he didn't get any thrashing or defensive attitude from the man, he would explain his actions, like all good torturer would do. It's only fair to let your victim know what they were in for. It's also psychological warfar but no one needs to know that. "My fifteen min break is almost over." He tied the ropes tight enough so the man wouldn't be able to get out. And the way the ropes were tied was done in such a way that if Spencer tried to move his arms or legs to set himself free, chances are he will dislocate both his arms. "So you will have to wait the end of my shift before I can come back here and we can deal with this 'living' issue you have." He looked at Spencer, his face calm again, but always ruled by that serioussness that made Bishop, Bishop. He had no shame in what he was doing, and didn't care if Spencer was uncomfortable.
"Think hard about what you wish to say, it would be a shame if after hitting the bottom you'd want to end it all instead of climbing back up." That was Bishop's way of seeing suicide. To him, when you reached that point, you hit the bottom and nothing can appear worse. So by his logic, you can only get back up and things can only get better. He patted the man's face, forcing some blood back in those vessels. He would then get back up, and if nothing was said on Spencer's behalf, Bishop would leave the room and lock it. He'd then go to the front desk to explain Spencer's incapacity to work tonight. And like he said he would, he would resume his shift until it was done. And like promised, he will come back in Spencer's room to deal with him.
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Post by Spencer Blackwell on Apr 2, 2016 19:50:23 GMT 2
I was never one for pretenders but everything I tried to be just wouldn't settle in. That grip on his hair was fierce and almost drew him away from the agony of being cold as fuck. Before he knew it, he was heaved from the tub and carried to a chair, plopped into, then tied to it. He looked up at Bishop as he spoke, dreading the few several hours ahead of him. As Bishop walked out of the door with his final word of caution, Spencer released a loud and heavy sigh, letting his head sink down. He stared at his jeans for a moment, then closed his eyes.
Time ticked painfully by. Soon enough, he'd gone 24 hours without a true high and it was starting to really hit him. He felt the sweat build up, the itching, crawling feeling in his skin nearly driving him mad. Struggling was futile. Only a few millimeters caused his joints to ache worse than being there at all. He began to whisper pleadingly, wishing for some kind of God-figure to appear and shoot him up so heavily it killed him. The best and worst way to go out. He'd overdosed before, but was saved. Complete foolish accident. He knew it was bad, and he knew it was how he wanted to die, at this point. The need for release from life and agony would of drive him to dive off a bridge by now, had he not been properly restrained in place. In this room.
Occasionally he sobbed a little, his addiction ebbing away at his insides while grief clouded every inch of his being. Luckily, he was able to "compose" himself before Bishop returned, but he couldn't stop staring at the spinning ceiling regardless, sweat pouring from his body as he incoherently apologized to Jenna on repeat.
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Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 2, 2016 20:26:59 GMT 2
He walked back in the room, only to see that Spencer didn't move one bit. It wasn't surprising, however what would have been surprising is if he had been able to get himself out of there. The man seemed in pain, and Bishop guessed he didn't get any shoots in quite a while. But he didn't have the intention of giving him what he craved, nor did he intend to release him just yet. He took a comfortable armchair, pulling it so it faced Spencer. He leaned back into the chair with a sigh, resting his head in one of his massive hands, caressing his temple with a finger while he locked his eyes on Spencer, asking himself what he should do with this man. It didn't seem like he was a very good investment for the Bianchi, and yet he still had quite a few clients each night he worked. He was disrespectful, considered himself above everything else and didn't seem to value his own life very much. Bishop wouldn't be surprised to learn the man didn't actually have a home.
And so it went on, the silent analysis of Spencer Blackwell. Bishop took notice of the sweat, the way the man looked at the ceiling, the emptiness in his eyes, the way he shook, all the marks on his arms from the shoots. He was probably coming to a point where he needed more and more to feel anything, and obviously a lot of his veins were done. Close to committing overdose. And maybe the man would have done it if Bishop didn't come to tie him up here. He adjusted his position in the armchair, leaning forward to get up from it and untie Spencer from the chair. He'd then step back and sit in the armchair once again, his eyes remaining on Spencer as he crossed his hands over his chest.
"I'm not here for therapy so just spare me endless whining of your poor life choices. Just explain, I don't cry for sad stories." he spoke in a low tone, ready to hear Spencer do all those things anyway.
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Post by Spencer Blackwell on Apr 2, 2016 20:45:42 GMT 2
I was never one for pretenders but everything I tried to be just wouldn't settle in. There he was. Bishop. Spencer was so obvious, up until he felt the ropes loosen. He adjusted himself so he could forward again, neck now cramping, but so was everything else, anyway. He gnawed on his lower lip as Bishop returned to his seat, big arms crossed and that stern look ever unrelenting. Spencer looked at the mess he'd made on the floor, heroin scattered and needle laying on the floor waiting for someone to step on it. He bit into his inner cheek, tasting blood almost instantly before looking away to a spot on the floor where it was to remain unseen. His body screamed for it, but he didn't want it. If he wasn't going to allowed to overdose, he'd just have to die from the withdrawal. Even worse than the drug itself, it seemed.
"Explain what?" he asked quietly. His face showed him straining to get his brain to function under his conditions, but it clicked. Being suicidal, you twit. "Jenna died last night." As if Bishop knew, but he figured Bishop didn't care, so he left it at that. Jenna died last night. Jenna overdosed on her drug of choice and he sat beside her as her body finally gave up, nothing more than skin, bones, and starving guts that couldn't feel much of anything, anymore. He wasn't too far off from that, at this point, although his face hadn't sunken in yet, thank god.
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Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 2, 2016 21:53:02 GMT 2
He carefully watched Spencer yearn for his stash scattered on the floor. He looked like a dog circled with treats he wasn't allowed to eat. Bishop could see in the way the man bit his lip that he just wanted to run to one of those syringes so he could send himself to heaven with a small dose. That is if heaven is still close or if it slowly became distant after each usage. How many people had Bishop been asked to deal with who had drug problems? Quite a lot actually. You probably wouldn't be surprised to see that most Bianchi dealers or underground thugs were highly dosed on the subject. There were two ways he dealt with them: He either just eliminated them because they were disposable for the Bianchi. Or he went through an extensive and painful cure of their dependence where they learned the meaning of life the hard way. He wasn't supposed to do the same with with Spencer for the reason was that he wasn't a key element of the Bianchi business. Yes he worked for them, and yes he was disposable.
Tell that to that man now and you've got yourself an even more suicidal subject. However he listened to the man's words before trying to decide what to do with him. As suspected there was something that put him in this situation, and the reason was not extremely surprising. Bishop didn't know who this Jenna was and for all he knew it could have been the man's hamster. However, pet or not pet, lover, sister, brother, hamster, it didn't matter. Someone was dead, done. "Do you think it matters if someone's dead? You're still alive from my point of view. So you better get some work done. I can advance you for tonight since you were in no shape to host any clients. Even though I'm sure there are some who enjoy a sobbing man." he said, a bitter tone in his voice before he looked at the stash on the floor.
He made a head gesture towards it. "Go on, take a shoot" he said, taking out a cigar for himself, putting it between his lips but not lighting it for the moment, nibbling on the end of it distractedly. He then searched in his pocket for some money, knowing he'd have to pay either the man or the front desk for this. Probably both. He hated doing favors, especially for people he believed didn't deserve it.
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Post by Spencer Blackwell on Apr 2, 2016 23:14:10 GMT 2
I was never one for pretenders but everything I tried to be just wouldn't settle in. "The only thing you're right about is clients liking tears; I have more than I can count," was the first thing he spit from his mouth, practically hissing. Bishop could not care all he wanted. He could cling to that endearing fucking perspective all he wanted. However, it pushed a button in the brat. "Just because you don't care doesn't mean I don't. I mean, fuck. Obviously you don't give a fuck."
There was only a moment's hesitation before he grabbed his needle and his heroin off the floor. It didn't take him long to get the needle filled; he did something rather dangerous and pulled the plunger until every millimeter of it was filled with the stuff. Enough for a quick overdose. He stared at it blankly, the sat it on the counter before stealing a glance at Bishop... then walked out of the door in a hurry, leaving everything else behind.
There was no more desire for drugs or money. Just death... or a real life.
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Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 2, 2016 23:49:17 GMT 2
Again, disrespectful. It was starting to crawl into the man's mind, anger boiling slowly in his veins the more the man talked. Why was he so determined to be oh so godawful pathetic? Bishop's hands slowly clenched together, and so did his jaw, the line between his brows defining itself slowly. He put the money away, sliding it back into his pants as he saw anger boil in Spencer as well. He didn't look like the type of man who would dare face him, but strangely enough, despite the odds and anything else happening, the man still had the blind balls to insult him. Bishop, the man who worked to protect him and all the other workers here. "Fucking gratitude." he said of a low rumbling voice, like a storm slowly coming.
Spencer got up to get to his stash, filling the needle to a point of no return. Bishop eyed the thing with spite, slowly building up to the point of explosion. Despite himself never caring about anything or anyone, he found himself caring about a couple of things. And one of them was suicidal people. He had no respect for them, and when he could he would forbid them to end their lives, even if it meant forcing them to make him angry enough so that he would end them himself. So the sight of Spencer ready to end it here and now was hitting the end of the tunnel for the blue haired man. To him, life was to be lived, until the last second.
The slim man got up and dashed to the door, ready to leave, but before he could reach it, Bishop had sprung from the chair and took long strides to get to him. He grabbed Spencer by the collar of his shirt and pulled him backwards, locking the door while Spencer flew back. He then turned around and grabbed the needle from the table before kneeling next to Spencer, emptying the needle mostly onto the man's clothing then taking his arm and slapping it a few times to get the veins to react. None seem to react enough for this to work so he held the needle between his teeth, and picked up the man to lay him on the bed, a hand on his neck as he pulled Spencer's pants with the others. There more veins could do the trick, so he plunged the needle in, caring to block the man tightly so he wouldn't protest. "Dying is easy you fucking coward!" and Bishop knew exactly what he talked about when he said that, previous episodes of his life, like Alaska, emerged in his mind, only participating in making his anger grow towards the man. He should put him to sleep with a simple strangle, keep him in the room or drag him back to the Bianchi Mansion so he could put him in the cooler there and get him to want to live life more than anything else.
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Post by Spencer Blackwell on Apr 3, 2016 0:04:54 GMT 2
I was never one for pretenders but everything I tried to be just wouldn't settle in. There was a choking down as his shirt collar was jerked against his throat. He flailed as he fell to the ground, head thudding against the carpeted floor. A headache sent colors through his brain, making him see spots. Then, there he was again. This fucker just didn't quit, did he? The slapping of his arm caught him off guard, but not as much as having his pants pulled down. He struggled, suddenly realizing what Bishop was doing.
"No... wait, wait NO!" he yelped. The needle dug into his skin, a familiar sting. As the plunger emptied the rest of the contents into his veins, he started to melt into the floor. His eyes rolled, just before his eyes squeezed shut. Heat filled him up from head to toe, breathing and heart rate slowing dramatically. He couldn't help but give a small moan; one he swallowed back as quickly as it started. Fuuuck this guy...
"Do..." he stopped talking as his head started to spin, the rush overwhelming even as it faded. "...you ever make up your mind?"
Don't do drugs, do do drugs. I tried to not do any of it at all and here he fucking is, forcing it into my goddamn system. Kill me or leave me alone!
At this point, if Bishop wanted to investigate any bare skin, he'd find a slew of various scars on Spencer's thighs, practically covering every inch of them. Deep and shallow cuts, cigarette burns, brands; you name it, it was there. Most of it was obviously from clients, but some of it could arguably self-harm.
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Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 3, 2016 0:28:15 GMT 2
He contemplated as the rush took the man, making his heartbeat slow down gradually. He noticed the scars and other fantasies on the man's legs and he didn't even need those to guess from which environment the man was from. The fact that this Jenna died last night already told him that Spencer wasn't the type to live in some fancy house on the coast. No it was very likely that Jenna was his companion and that she died of overdose, explaining why Spencer wanted to end it that way as well. He wasn't interested as to how or why Spencer fell into drugs, anyone could fall to it for various different reasons. What interested him more was to know how his daily life was, even though he suspected that it couldn't be very glorious. He worked at the tiger den and didn't seem to enjoy it, however it actually paid pretty nicely. If it was worth it was your own choice and taste.
All this action didn't leave Bishop's metabolism untouched, but he kept that well hidden. He loomed over Spencer, his frown still there as he shook his head. "Rome wasn't built in a day." he then took a few steps around the room after stepping away from Spencer, like a lion in a cage, unsure of what to do yet ready to jump at the bars. Until Spencer was officially fired or he officially quit, Bishop wasn't allowed to harm him to a certain extent. But anger was building up and he needed to do something about it. And since he wasn't the type to yell he made the armchair tumble away from him as he breathed through his nose, keeping himself calm despite the brutal action. He looked at the door, thinking he should perhaps go blow off some steam with any of the remaining workers who may be willing or just too provocative.
He set the armchair back up and removed his suit, hanging it on the backrest before sitting back into the chair, ignoring Spencer for the time being so he wouldn't commit any mistakes while being the raging bull he had become. The cigar he had in his mouth earlier was now on the floor, but he wouldn't bother to pick it up. He wished he was elsewhere so he could break everything in sight. But this was why he was sitting down in this armchair, to avoid that from happening. Everyone in hell right now knew he could break Spencer in two right now if he wished to do so.
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Post by Spencer Blackwell on Apr 3, 2016 0:40:55 GMT 2
I was never one for pretenders but everything I tried to be just wouldn't settle in. Fuck... shit... dammit, I can't even... I can't even think straight. How much did he even give me?
Spencer slowly picked himself off the floor enough to sit up, scooting himself to the bed so he could lean back on it. He watched through a dazed look as Bishop paced the room, shoved the chair, then picked it back up again, finally utilizing it for it's proper purposes once more. He swallowed hard, nerves starting to stir up paranoia. Were either of them even in the right state of mind right now? He guessed probably not.
Rome wasn't built in a day, that was true. Unfortunately, it could easily be destroyed in one. He now found himself staring into oblivion, contemplating many things, especially this situation and how to get out of it. Did he really expect bribery to work? No, he really didn't. The anger on the man's face was obvious. Bishop was tense and he looked like he was ready to rip Spencer's head off and shove it down his throat. He idly chewed on his fingertips in thought, considering his options. He didn't have a lot to lose at this point, aside from limbs and life.
"Uhm... is there... well, is there a favor... I can do to, y'know... leave?" he asked. God I hope he knows what I fucking mean, he freaks me out too much to be forward, ugh. He flexed his fingers against the carpet, grinding his teeth without any notice of such. He was increasingly anxious, wanting nothing more than to haul ass out of the building and avoid it for a few days.
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Bianchi
Danger Zone!
Sexuality
Bodyguard/Mercenary
Occupation
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5suns
Offline
Jul 13, 2016 22:37:38 GMT 2
GMT +1
Tag me @bishop
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Post by Bishop Damian on Apr 3, 2016 1:15:24 GMT 2
3,2,1-snap. Bishop was gone, two fingers rubbing against each other while his arm fell on the side of the armchair. His gaze was lost in emptiness as he ran through his mind all the possibilities of torture one could possibly accomplish on a man. There was the bathroom, with all the water and the possibility to get hot and cold. There were chairs and tables, and the knife in Bishop's pocket could prove quite entertaining. He felt like reaching into his pocket, grab it and get on with the games. He had made a dangerous choice (for Spencer of course) to lock himself inside a room with a man who had the nerves to push him over the edge. Bishop was a man with a short temper, and his temper had lasted far too long.
He heard Spencer's voice pull him slowly out of his torpor, dream state of red, blood and violence. He turned his head slowly to the man, the desire to kill had grown in them. Bishop's anger was very gradual, and it was proven in this point. The man offered services, favors as he called them. The bodyguard looked at the man for quite a while, knowing exactly what he meant, but trying to decide if this was something he craved so bad. How much good would it do, and most importantly, how much bad will it spawn? He was willing to give the man money, and giving it freely was still an option. But the fact that the option to have something in return for the money was tempting. Bishop wasn't easily bribed, but this wasn't the type of bargain the man found himself to refuse very often.
He stopped rubbing his fingers together and got up, looking at Spencer silently as he loosened his tie, letting it undone, hanging on each side of his neck, he slowly came forward, removing the buttons of his shirt, his face tensed into a frown as he seemed to be judging Spencer with is eyes. He bet he had just earned himself yet another hatred pill, someone to curse his soul until his death, but considering who was sitting on the bed in front of him, he wasn't worried about the cursing lasting too long.
A New Day in Hell And here's the devil's bouncer |
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