Leave Before the Lights Come On {Charity}
Sept 15, 2012 16:38:53 GMT -5
Post by kneedles on Sept 15, 2012 16:38:53 GMT -5
Scooter 'The Scoot' Ramsey
[/blockquote]A good little career would have been tucked up in bed a long time ago, but The Scoot, armed with a lead pipe which he began to bounce in his open palm in an affected but no less threatening manner was far from a good little career. Or so he liked to think. Honestly though, he was a little out of sorts tonight- what with his brothers not converging around him like an army of wild dogs and Ramsey's usually traveled in packs, leaving The Scoot unsure of what to do with himself. Still riding high on his gold medal win at the Panem olympics, not being chosen for the Hunger Games had less of the sting than it might have done usually; last year when he hadn't been picked he'd ended up whacking a lot of things with his pipe. Doors, windows, brick walls shins- all of that stuff. Hitting stuff made him feel better when he was angry. And when he was feeling good- a medal around his chest- hitting stuff felt fantastic.
It was a warm night and the last traces of the sun still kept a navy sky from fading totally into inky darkness. There were no stars out yet that The Scoot could see and the moon was a smug bastard high in the sky. He couldn't get into a bar to save his life; proprietors were taking one look at him, with his lead pipe and his- c'mon freaking adorable baby face and shaking their heads. Jealous probably. He'd get all the bitches in any club he ever walked into. The pipe weilding Adonis, the dangerously psychopathic Narcissus. Too hot to let in, that was his problem. The fact that his first thought was to start hurling abuse the minute that he was kicked out of any given club was probably not helping matters in the slightest.
Standing in the middle of the street, the paving shimmering from the light rainfall that had sailed over them as quickly as it had come on, The Scoot spat thickly into the ground, before turning his chin up towards the bouncer of the bar. He was, like all bouncers that The Scoot seemed to fall foul of, a large bald headed man with a ruddy sort of complexion like a freshly basted ham and an arm the size of The Scoot’s weedy (freakin’ wirey) body all by itself. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with brother… .” The Scoot started, frankly unperturbed by the size of the guy, well- not enough to stop running his mouth of anyway. That was how it went for The Scoot, there was no filter going on in his mind…no point where he thought, maybe I ought to cease and desist before the gentleman in front of me decides to beat fifty shades of shit right out of my body, instead he just kept talking. “Im a mother lovin’ athlete you know that? You see this,” The Scoot pulled out his medal, “They give these out to winners, freakin big deals, the kinda person that this shitty little bar needs to give its clientele a boost, you freakin’ hear me? They don’t give them out for being, fat pieces of shit bouncers in…”
There was a wet sort of thud that reverberated through The Scoot’s brain, a cracking sound and an explosion of pain with his nose at the epicentre. Staggering backwards, clutching his face, The Scoot felt the blood gushing from his nostrils warm wet and the brightest red shining in the street lights like the puddles in the paving, spitting, “You fucker!” at the bouncer who didn’t seem interested at all, simply turning back to guard the door. He was just lucky The Scoot didn’t want to get avoxed- his tongue was his second favourite body part, get the meaning ladies???- otherwise he would have killed his giant, saggy, fat ass all kinds of dead.
Crimson splashed onto The Scoot’s shirt, and it was a nice one too as he begun to sway as though drunk, the pipe in his bloody knuckles. He was done now, that was for damn sure. He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not, but the sound of laughter filled his ears. Stopping at the curb outside of an alleyway a few streets down from the bar, The Scoot slumped heavily onto the paving like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum, scuffing the heal of his shoe into the dirt, bashing his pipe against the concrete.
“Fuckin’ fucker doesn’t know who the fuck I am,” he mumbled to himself, tasting blood on his tongue as he did so. It wasn’t the pain that was bothering him, when you’re as much of a little ass as The Scoot happened to be, it wasn’t all that rare for him to get hit in the face- it’s just that bleeding like a stuck pig wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time. Tipping his head back, the Scoot pinched the bridge of his nose and dried to think- unbleedy thoughts; meat cooked til it was bone dry, winding lengths and lengths of bandage around something, an old broad past the age of fifty five. It was no good though. With a sigh he had to admit that it sorta was a little bit pathetic that he was stuck out here, while his brothers all out having a good time. It was tragic that he was out on his own, without a single girl, a single drop of alcohol or anything. After coming back from the Olympics, gold medal in hand no less…The Scoot had just kinda figured that everything was going to fall into place. People would part for him on the street like severe haircut, girls would swoon whenever he walked by. Only, that didn’t actually seem to be happening. It was just the same as it ever was. Same old Scootersame old virgin.
And there was nothing freaking wrong with that, the Scoot told himself firmly. He was the man, the myth, the legend after all. He was everything ladies ever wanted and everything men ever wanted to be, he was…finding it difficult to breathe through the clots in his nose.
