Of Rats And Men (Kneedles)
Sept 17, 2012 7:08:30 GMT -5
Post by heartwood on Sept 17, 2012 7:08:30 GMT -5
The first one wouldn’t even feel it, the weigth of a surprise attack would knock him out cold. The rest would stand there in a stupor, completely unaware of what’s going on. That’s when the second body would drop. By this time, the third and the fourth would have registered what was going on. They would reach for their pistols, but by the time they both aimed, one would be completely disabled. The pistol would be in the boy’s hands, the third peacekeeper would be held hostage. The fourth would make his demands, but before he finished his sentence; he would be shot by his companion’s weapon. Not in the head or chest, the boy was a violent one, but he wasn’t a murderer. Maybe the leg, maybe the hand, either way, it would take one shot to take him down. The fourth would be writhing in pain, incapable of retaliation. The third would be the only one left. He could snap his neck, or he could choke him out, putting him to sleep. That’s what he would do. He wasn’t a murderer. With the Peacekeepers incapacitated, they’d have to tie them all up. Silo and Astor would have to find something to do with them, something to make sure that they were safe from the law. But even someone as simple as Silo Reed knew that was impossible.
The sirens blared; how odd it was for those looking to work with so much discretion to make so much noise. It was distracting and it hurt Silo’s eardrums, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. The Peacekeepers were there and they were going to do what they want; no amount of physical force would be able to stop them from taking Astor to the detention center. He was a dead-man walking. As Silo watched from the fields, he could only hope that Astor had gone out for a drink without him; but the sigh of a man walking out of the front door in handcuffs had disillusioned him from that train of thought. It was barely close enough to make out the detail on his face, but the fact his skin had been a hot pink had meant he had either struggled or he was drunk out of his mind. Silo had figured it was a little bit of both. Astor caught site of the hulking boy, still pretending to be tending to the crops. He shot a quick, toothy smile at him. Astor knew he wouldn’t be back. Silo could only hope he was wrong.
Silo wondered what Astor had gotten pinched for. Usually his illegal activity had gone on unnoticed. When the heat was on at it’s worst, Astor knew a few Peacekeepers that could be paid off with money or contraband; but for some reason, he was unable to buy himself after this particular predicament. Could it have been the drugs? Astor had always said the drug game was risky, at least for the adults. For some reason teenagers had always made a killing; there was a kid with the same name as some animal that just managed to dodge the peacekeepers left and right. Astor had tried to push Silo into the business, but he simply had no interest. Drugs weren’t his forte; all he wanted to do is fight. Occasionally he would run enforcer tasks or be a look out for some of the local thieves, but never would he get his hands dirty: he only wanted them to be encased in blood.
But times were changing, as Astor was loaded into the car and taken away to the detention center; Silo was left without his mentor. The life he lived was too difficult to handle alone; Astor had managed him so cleanly, so perfectly; it would be hard to bond with anybody else. Tending to the fields seemed unbelievably pointless now, because really, who cares what grew on a farm abandoned by it’s criminally charged owner? Silo took his bag and hauled in as much as he could; if he was going to be without Astor, at least he could take advantage of a surplus in food. Silo made his way back home, and stashed his food in the refrigerator.
“Where’d you get that?” asked his father, a mix of surprise and excitement crossed his face when he saw the food being loaded for storage. “Mr. Price said I could have it.” It was a lie of course, but it wasn’t harmful. Astor would want Silo to have it wouldn’t he? They had grown close over the past few months. Silo had learned a lot from Astor Price; and in return, Silo had made him a good amount of money in the betting. The underground arena had been their private playground. They could have everything they ever wanted there; and they did, until now.
His father didn’t press on, he would never expect his son to lie to him, and even if he did, he wasn’t just going to turn down extra food. Silo left as quickly had he had arrived, on his way to a bar frequented by derelicts and hoodlums. Silo felt in place amongst the outcasts and the misfits. Even though he was one of the youngest attendees each and every night, his size and stature commanded a room like no other. He enjoyed being looked at just as much as he enjoyed being feared. He knew it was going to feel different this time, without Astor. But he had to show that even without him; business was going to happen as usual.
Silo wasn’t a big drinker. He wasn’t a big smoker either, he just never felt the urge to change the way he thought about things, and adrenaline was the only thing that he was addicted to. Hopefully a fight would break out at the bar, maybe Silo would be at the center of it. Silo envisioned the beauty of it all. Broken glass soaring through the air, bottles slamming against the stone walls, fists flying and blood splattering; it was like pure poetry in motion.
As soon as he entered the bar, he immediately heard the whispers coming from the far corners. Astor had been tagged for extortion and operating an illegal gambling ring; and much to Silo’s dismay, the fighting arena had fell under that category. The Peacekeepers knew about it the whole time, and apparently they wanted a cut; unfortunately, Astor refused. Some whispered that he even begged for them to come and get him, he taunted and prodded – the combination of alcohol and adrenaline had severely impaired his judgment. Silo took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer, and like that – the whispers disappeared.
Silo’s head turned around the room, gazing and peering throughout. Dice games were being played on the tables in the back; card games were being played in a room off to the side. The aroma of tobacco and alcohol filled Silo’s nostrils; even though he had never had a penchant for drinking or smoking, the scents had a way of putting him at ease.
Music was playing extremely loud near the bar; a couple of hillbillies were bumping some sort of horrible noise, it was music Silo didn’t care for. The hillbillies were a possible option, he could tell them to shut the damn music off, they might tell him to mind his own business, and a fight would erupt from there. Maybe Silo could interrupt a dice game, or purposely cheat at cards. He was far too ready to rumble.
“Fuck it.” He said, ordering four shots of whiskey for himself. This was a special occasion; Silo was going to be on his own from now on. There was no arena, no money to be made. There was only him and his anger, his quiet rage that had been boiling since he imagined the murder of the four Peacekeepers that had detained the only man who could ever tell him what to do, what path to follow. He took the first shot, wincing at the pain it caused in his throat. The second shot felt much better, and by the time he got to the fourth, he had already begun to feel a slight buzz.
He looked over to the hillbillies surrounding the jukebox, and rocketed a shot glass right in their direction. It shattered on the machine, cutting the hand of the man who had been selecting the music the entire night. The whole place went quiet.
“Shut that music off.” Silo said. His voice was deep and drone, a brief period of silence was broken by an eruption of laughter, and the crazy bunch of hillbillies in the corner just went back to what they were doing. It seemed like nothing was going well for Silo Reed today; and without his mentor, it was hard for him to see things getting much better anytime soon. Silo ordered another shot and tossed it back, spun around on the stool, and stood up to get ready to leave.
(1513)
The sirens blared; how odd it was for those looking to work with so much discretion to make so much noise. It was distracting and it hurt Silo’s eardrums, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. The Peacekeepers were there and they were going to do what they want; no amount of physical force would be able to stop them from taking Astor to the detention center. He was a dead-man walking. As Silo watched from the fields, he could only hope that Astor had gone out for a drink without him; but the sigh of a man walking out of the front door in handcuffs had disillusioned him from that train of thought. It was barely close enough to make out the detail on his face, but the fact his skin had been a hot pink had meant he had either struggled or he was drunk out of his mind. Silo had figured it was a little bit of both. Astor caught site of the hulking boy, still pretending to be tending to the crops. He shot a quick, toothy smile at him. Astor knew he wouldn’t be back. Silo could only hope he was wrong.
Silo wondered what Astor had gotten pinched for. Usually his illegal activity had gone on unnoticed. When the heat was on at it’s worst, Astor knew a few Peacekeepers that could be paid off with money or contraband; but for some reason, he was unable to buy himself after this particular predicament. Could it have been the drugs? Astor had always said the drug game was risky, at least for the adults. For some reason teenagers had always made a killing; there was a kid with the same name as some animal that just managed to dodge the peacekeepers left and right. Astor had tried to push Silo into the business, but he simply had no interest. Drugs weren’t his forte; all he wanted to do is fight. Occasionally he would run enforcer tasks or be a look out for some of the local thieves, but never would he get his hands dirty: he only wanted them to be encased in blood.
But times were changing, as Astor was loaded into the car and taken away to the detention center; Silo was left without his mentor. The life he lived was too difficult to handle alone; Astor had managed him so cleanly, so perfectly; it would be hard to bond with anybody else. Tending to the fields seemed unbelievably pointless now, because really, who cares what grew on a farm abandoned by it’s criminally charged owner? Silo took his bag and hauled in as much as he could; if he was going to be without Astor, at least he could take advantage of a surplus in food. Silo made his way back home, and stashed his food in the refrigerator.
“Where’d you get that?” asked his father, a mix of surprise and excitement crossed his face when he saw the food being loaded for storage. “Mr. Price said I could have it.” It was a lie of course, but it wasn’t harmful. Astor would want Silo to have it wouldn’t he? They had grown close over the past few months. Silo had learned a lot from Astor Price; and in return, Silo had made him a good amount of money in the betting. The underground arena had been their private playground. They could have everything they ever wanted there; and they did, until now.
His father didn’t press on, he would never expect his son to lie to him, and even if he did, he wasn’t just going to turn down extra food. Silo left as quickly had he had arrived, on his way to a bar frequented by derelicts and hoodlums. Silo felt in place amongst the outcasts and the misfits. Even though he was one of the youngest attendees each and every night, his size and stature commanded a room like no other. He enjoyed being looked at just as much as he enjoyed being feared. He knew it was going to feel different this time, without Astor. But he had to show that even without him; business was going to happen as usual.
Silo wasn’t a big drinker. He wasn’t a big smoker either, he just never felt the urge to change the way he thought about things, and adrenaline was the only thing that he was addicted to. Hopefully a fight would break out at the bar, maybe Silo would be at the center of it. Silo envisioned the beauty of it all. Broken glass soaring through the air, bottles slamming against the stone walls, fists flying and blood splattering; it was like pure poetry in motion.
As soon as he entered the bar, he immediately heard the whispers coming from the far corners. Astor had been tagged for extortion and operating an illegal gambling ring; and much to Silo’s dismay, the fighting arena had fell under that category. The Peacekeepers knew about it the whole time, and apparently they wanted a cut; unfortunately, Astor refused. Some whispered that he even begged for them to come and get him, he taunted and prodded – the combination of alcohol and adrenaline had severely impaired his judgment. Silo took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer, and like that – the whispers disappeared.
Silo’s head turned around the room, gazing and peering throughout. Dice games were being played on the tables in the back; card games were being played in a room off to the side. The aroma of tobacco and alcohol filled Silo’s nostrils; even though he had never had a penchant for drinking or smoking, the scents had a way of putting him at ease.
Music was playing extremely loud near the bar; a couple of hillbillies were bumping some sort of horrible noise, it was music Silo didn’t care for. The hillbillies were a possible option, he could tell them to shut the damn music off, they might tell him to mind his own business, and a fight would erupt from there. Maybe Silo could interrupt a dice game, or purposely cheat at cards. He was far too ready to rumble.
“Fuck it.” He said, ordering four shots of whiskey for himself. This was a special occasion; Silo was going to be on his own from now on. There was no arena, no money to be made. There was only him and his anger, his quiet rage that had been boiling since he imagined the murder of the four Peacekeepers that had detained the only man who could ever tell him what to do, what path to follow. He took the first shot, wincing at the pain it caused in his throat. The second shot felt much better, and by the time he got to the fourth, he had already begun to feel a slight buzz.
He looked over to the hillbillies surrounding the jukebox, and rocketed a shot glass right in their direction. It shattered on the machine, cutting the hand of the man who had been selecting the music the entire night. The whole place went quiet.
“Shut that music off.” Silo said. His voice was deep and drone, a brief period of silence was broken by an eruption of laughter, and the crazy bunch of hillbillies in the corner just went back to what they were doing. It seemed like nothing was going well for Silo Reed today; and without his mentor, it was hard for him to see things getting much better anytime soon. Silo ordered another shot and tossed it back, spun around on the stool, and stood up to get ready to leave.
(1513)
