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(vignettes) the mad dog

 Post subject: (vignettes) the mad dog
PostPosted: Sat Dec 24, 2011 12:58 am 
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"Tell me what it means," he said with quiet intensity, moving the gun up along his chest to the spook's throat, leaving a wet trail of blood behind. The hand that was holding down his wrist shifted and found a new hobby: his thumb began to dip pressure into the fresh wound. For the time being, it was light. "Tell me."

"How to say it in this language? Shiha is the cruel dog. Do you have that word? Cruel dog." Dog, no -- it wasn't the right word, he knew, but he used it anyway. The story he gave was disjointed -- half an explanation. "They think he is a lion, but no." Stopping between words, panting. "They do not catch him until he has killed so many--" A tremor ran over his face, but he found the focus to finish his thought. His lips curled around his terrible smile. A quiet laugh, his tongue touching his teeth. "You look like one."

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 Post subject: Re: the mad dog
PostPosted: Mon Dec 26, 2011 7:32 pm 
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It was the third hour of the Black Sun mercenary's torture, his hands in vibrocuffs behind the piping of the little tub that was crammed in one end of the room. Jack crouched over him, cutting away the last of the wiring that he used to sew his mouth shut, bare-chested in covered in the mercenary's blood. "And the thing of it is," Jack was saying, rubbing at his jaw with the back of his wrist, "I don't even fuckin' like blasters, you know? Lemme tell you, buddy--"

Jack jammed his little utility knife into the merc's ribs while he gesticulated, speaking above his muffled cries. "You ever kill a man with your own fuckin' hands? Ain't nothin' better, I'm tellin' you. You wrap your hands around his throat and you feel the air tryin' to get in and the blood tryin' to get up-- fuck, they get this look in their eyes when you do it-- but you can't just fuckin' do that with everybody. Hey, you still awake there, buddy? Ain't naptime yet, heh." He dropped one hand, slapping loosely at the other human's face until his eyes regained focus.

"But like I was sayin'-- you can't just do that with everybody. It ruins it, you know? It's like-- it's like gettin' off for the first time. You get this fuckin' high and you spend the rest of your god-damn life tryin' to get it back that good again." He paused, laughing hoarsely as he pulled the knife out again and felt the body enough him arch in pain; his stitched mouth was beginning to tear. "What the fuck am I telling you that for? Shit, the best you've probably had is some Hutt's piece of shit twi'lek slave girl. Tell you what--"

Jack leaned in, tapping his bloody blade against the mercenary's lips. "I like you. You know that? I fuckin' like you. I'll show you exactly what I mean." A pair of scarred hands curled at the Black Sun's throat. He took his time. It was never as good as the first one, but he sure as hell could keep trying.

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 Post subject: Re: the mad dog
PostPosted: Mon Jan 02, 2012 12:36 pm 
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His laughter was grating and harsh, but the sound of it echoed around the cantina in a strange, flat way, head tipped back and posture gone momentarily slack as if someone had told him a very good joke. To him, it was. When it simmered down to a rolling chuckle, he grinned his vicious, terrible smile at her. "We don't fuckin' have destinies, Solace. People like you and me? We never will. We'll both die on some shithole rock somewhere and no one will give a single fuck or find our corpses. You get me?"


--


Jack hunched his shoulders, forearms against his thighs, his skin painted almost-gold from the yellow lights of his cabin and the little metal dog tags in his fingers catching the light. "I joined because my father did. I hated the fucker -- still do -- but on a shit planet like that there was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. So when the Republic came calling, I enlisted without another fuckin' word to him. Not that it mattered." He twisted the chain in his fingers: SGT. CODY, JONATHAN "JACK", a serial number he still knew by heart, his company name, and the Republic sigil all pressed into plasteel.

"Problem was that my father still had friends in high fuckin' places in the military. I figured they were all dead or mad by the time I enlisted, but I was wrong. My colonel knew him like they were fucking brothers. So when they threw me in the brig for the third time, that's when they sent word back to him. I was-- fuck, I was a good shot back then, you get me? I don't think they really wanted to toss me. Maybe the Colonel figured he'd give me some-- some parental guidance or some shit when they brought him in." The chain curled tight around his scarred hand until the tags were resting in his palm. He wasn't looking down at them now, but absently at the stacks of tablets strewn across his desk.

"He beat the ever-loving shit out of me. Heh. Right there in the fuckin' brig." The dog tags unwound from his fingers again and he tossed them with all the other bullshit on his desk that didn't matter. "Guess that's why he didn't fight it when they filed to discharge me. Colonel couldn't look me straight in the eyes after that--"

Jack rose to his feet and turned a look over his shoulder, his sith-corrupted gaze filled with intent. "--still didn't look me in the eyes a month later when I came back to kill him."

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 Post subject: Re: (journal) the mad dog
PostPosted: Wed Jan 11, 2012 1:00 pm 
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"You're a fucking coward."

Jack Cody stared at the ceiling, his body a miserable wreckage of half-repaired wounds and swelling bruises scrunched into a chair that did not fit him. Everything hurt and he couldn't sleep; what was worse was the way his mind refused to shut off long into the early hours of the morning. He heard her voice over and over again, and it followed with sibilant hissing he only half-understood.

He did not like Feelings. He didn't care for thm, didn't care to have them or think about them, but they were there, tangled up in his gut behind the self- and drug-induced apathy.

"Go somewhere and die."

He considered, and not for the first time, that it would be a hell of a lot easier if he did. But people like Jack didn't die, no, he knew-- they never, ever get to die.

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 Post subject: Re: (journal) the mad dog
PostPosted: Thu Jan 12, 2012 1:50 pm 
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“What do you want, shiha?”

Shiha. The word hung on the air, hissing through his ears. He didn’t even know what it meant. His head lolled back against the chair; the pain of the knife departing his shoulder never registered, just smoke and eyes and a soft voice. It sounded kind.

“Kill you,” he repeated. He was sweating. His hair stuck to his brow. He was shivering, but he was warm; the drugs crawled through his body, never slowing, never stopping. “I want,” he said slowly, and repeated it under his breath: I want I want I wantwantwant I—

“Hurt you, I want— I— you’re never afraid, why are you— it’s so nice—” Who was he? He wasn’t sure any more. “J—ahh. Jack.” Did he even say something? Everything was so far away. It was someone else speaking. No fear. Nothing. Just a voice, a kind voice. “Give it to me.” Give me pain. Give you pain, misery. Fear. See it. Hold it.

I want screams. Yours, mine— all of them.

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 Post subject: Re: (journal) the mad dog
PostPosted: Fri Jan 20, 2012 5:16 am 
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The cantina on the Imperial fleet was still packed with barflies when Jack abandoned it, leaving the sly-eyed agent with his new dog and the shadow of Solace close by. It was late and the smell of Lasarus' burning flesh (slamming his face into the fire-hot grate, hearing him scream, watching him twist and writhe) was still fresh in his mind; everything in Jack's world was quiet with tension. Tonight he would kill.


--


The blaring holo-ads that scrawled across every facet of Nar Shaddaa camouflaged him behind a blue haze of constantly moving text as he lay on his belly across the short span of a rooftop. That is where he laid for the better part of an hour, went through half a tin of cigarettes and a handful of mild stims as he watched the world through the lens of his rifle. The little holotablet beside him flashed the same series of faces over and over again: a bald-headed cyborg, a woman with pale eyes, a child-going-teenager with a facial tattoo. Jack chewed on the end of his cigarette and waited. Far part midnight now. Temperate, maybe a little cool. Life support only: no wind. Some distance away, a group of men talking, oblivious.

Jack was a different person before a kill. All of his temper and anger dissipated until he was nothing but a calm copy of himself, carefully watching his mark through a scope, waiting with a patience he otherwise didn't have. He barely breathed, and he couldn't recall blinking. His finger was tense on the trigger.

Down below, the woman with the pale eyes departing a meeting on the Promenade. She knew the Watcher, helped facility his escape when Jack chased after him to the station, probably paid decent money to do it, maybe a friend-- most likely not. Jack didn't care. She tugged her jacket closer around her shoulders and waited in line for a taxi while Jack quietly counted down the seconds left on her life.

Slugthrowers, not blasters, Solace once said with surprise (so messy, so painful)-- she was right, he preferred them. Blasters were quick and clean and never really satisfied him the way that a knife or his hands or a primitive slugthrower did. The way a person's insides splattered was more than a fair indicator that the job was done and there would never be recovery-- it was one of the few things that Jack could watch and felt satisfied for without ever bloodying his hands.

The woman never even had time for foreboding or alarm: far away, cool and indifferent, Jack Cody emanated nothing more than a strange and nearly passive intent. His finger pressed over the trigger and her body sprayed red across the promenade; the scope of the rifle disappeared from over the edge of the rooftop, and distant cries of alarm echoed through the city. He would be gone before they even realized which direction the shot came from. It was one death which brought him closer to others, ones that mattered-- ones that made his gut tangle, that he caught reflections of in a pair of sly red eyes. Patience, Jack. Patience.

--

"Everyone around you dies, Jack. I'm sick of it."

"Then they should have never stood in my way."

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 Post subject: Re: (journal) the mad dog
PostPosted: Sat Jul 14, 2012 3:13 pm 
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He stood over the still dying body of the little twi’lek dancer. He was smeared in her blood: it was on his skin, underneath his fingernails, in his mouth, on his cock. Jack expected her to be dead by now, but there she was, still breathing, her eyes half-glazed and looking up at him in dilated terror; the wound in her throat prevented her from anything more than a wet sucking sound. It wasn’t the first time he tried again – tried to remember what it was like to touch a woman, to tease and fuck and abandon her there on the bed, covered in his sex and a couple of creds. But now the only thing that crawled under his skin with want want want was the feeling of torn flesh beneath his hands and tasting blood on his teeth.

You’re a monster, Jack.

Something cold and hard balled up at the bottom of his spine as he looked down at her with baleful red eyes. She’s still alive, Jack, she’s still alive, kill her, save her, do something anything oh god oh god what have you done again and why does it feel so good. He leaned down over the whore, her own blood still dripping from where it congealed on his chest, and pressed his scarred palm over the tear in her throat. He felt her pulse flutter beneath his wet fingers, just barely sustaining itself. His own heart was pounding and it made his entire body ache with guilt and self-loathing. His fingers flexed.

When the haze of death began to enter her eyes, Jack let go again; the blank look of defeat in her face was more satisfying than anything else she could have done for him. A monster: he fucked her again, fucked her until he was sure she was dead and his teeth and nails and the little knife had made her body into meat, until the cold-dead-thing inside his heart was buried and gone again.

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