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Post: 57966567_1 created on Mon, 18 Jan 2010 02:44:53 +0000
Posted: Mon, 18 Jan 2010 02:44:53 +0000

A revolver is a repeating firearm that has a cylinder containing multiple chambers and at least one barrel for firing. As the user cocks the hammer, the cylinder revolves to align the next chamber and round with the hammer and barrel, which gives this type of firearm its name. In modern revolvers, the revolving cylinder typically chambers 5 or 6 rounds, but some models hold 10 rounds or more. Revolvers are most often handguns, but other weapons may also have the design of a revolver. These include some models of grenade launchers, shotguns, and some rifles.

[BILLY (as Roxie)]
And yet we both reached for the gun
Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes we both
Oh yes we both
Oh yes, we both reached for
The gun, the gun, the gun, the gun
Oh yes, we both reached for the gun
For the gun.

[BILLY AND REPORTERS]
Oh yes, oh yes,
Oh yes they both
Oh yes, they both
Oh yes, they both reached for
The gun, the gun, the gun, the gun,
Oh yes, they both reached for the gun
For the gun.

( wiki source, photo from google )
( chicago; both reached for the gun )

B...... User Image

S......

( icon credit )

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Post: 57966567_2 created on Mon, 18 Jan 2010 04:52:44 +0000
Posted: Mon, 18 Jan 2010 04:52:44 +0000

Archie Hicox decided that it was a good move to have shaved off his moustache before landing in America. In England, it had given him an air of dignity, of poise. Such a thing was part and parcel of the high society; to be swirling brandy in a wide bottom glass, whilst discussing current events in the glow of a fire. It suited the crisp, cool environment.

He was a man who had been born into affluence. Archie, from a young age, had access to everything he could have possibly desired. Not that he simply demanded, oh no. It would have hardly been becoming for a strapping English man to merely demand. Rather, he had been schooled from childhood to gain what he needed via education. From when he started walking, did he begin to take riding lessons. From when he could speak, did he partake in German lessons. From when he could read, was when he was given literature to engage with. And when he was of age, he was sent to be finest English schools that had been established.

Thus, upon eighteen, he had entered society as a grand example of a well to do English bachelor. Archie was clever, skillful; he was well spoken and prideful. He knew how to converse with aristocrats, how to entertain ladies and how to be a perfect gentleman.

Following formal education at school, Archie pursued a career in law, a path set out for him from the moment he had been born. Graduation had seen the man obtain the highest marks possible, to which followed a year abroad before he settled down to work.

To say that Archie Hicox was a success would perhaps be somewhat arrogant, but an otherwise correct assumption. So much so that the man had found it necessary to move to America with the intent of extending the success of his legal practice overseas. America, perhaps, was a touch ambitious for a man who had generally kept to Europe. Various associates and family members had suggested moving to Australia instead. There were benefits, after all, in the country having ties with the motherland. Surely Australia wouldn’t have been too dissimilar from the United Kingdom. But Archie had delicately refused. No, no. Australia was much too uncouth and uncivilized, hardly a place for an established English gentleman.

And so found him in America.

One of the first impressions of the country was merely that of being overwhelmed. England, with her rolling hills and country charm, the business of London and the quaint yet busy air was nothing against the influx and outflow of Americans. It was almost like being in another world altogether, and, for a moment, Archie found himself very lost.

He had to battle the human flow of traffic head on, pressing past bodies of people who, frankly, didn’t give a damn to a poncey English man however charming he happened to be. And Archie was rather thankful, when he finally slipped in the seat of a Royce belonging to an American associate, to be leaving the humdrum of the Los Angeles airport.

“Was your trip pleasant?.” Mr. Churchill questioned, amusement colouring his tone as he watch Archie relax against the leather interior of the car, and his eyes slipping shut in some measure of exhaustion.

“The trip was pleasant enough, thank you. It was just the part following departure from the aircraft.” Archie could feel a bead of sweat running from the crop of his hairline, prompting a feeling of gladness at having shaved his moustache prior to arriving. The first thing, after all, that had struck him long before the crowds did was the heat. It was near unbearable.

Churchill laughed at his expense, causing Archie to glare at the older man through a narrow slit of the eyes.

“Really,” He said, tone light and only half serious, “A warning would have been sufficient – I hardly knew that Americans were that vicious when it came to travelling.”

“Such is a lesson one needs to learn by oneself, Mr. Hicox.” Responded the other man, far too amused to be fair, “Now, my dear sir, would you care for a tipple?.”

“Water and scotch would do quite well.”

--

“Get a move on, Little Man.”

Smithson glared, brows furrowing over his dark eyes as he passed the speaker. It was one of the German crew. He had been thumbing through a well worn book when a movement in his peripheral caught his attention. He had glanced up quickly, more out of reflex than anything else to meet the eyes of one of those guys. One of the Germans – Nazis, they had called them, a crude and racist slur by all means – glaring back at him.

Smithson was quite glad that he and the Nazi both were quite alone, and somewhat surprised at each other’s presence to have really started something.

Perhaps it was simply because of history, or some crazy sort of coincidence that the two groups would fall into racial hate. Smithson himself was part of a gang that was predominately Jewish. They had been friends as kids, as the only practicing Jews in the school that they had attended, and their friendship had stuck out way beyond school to be a major part of their day to day lives. He supposed that was how the Nazis worked; those with German roots were actually quite common, but those with German roots who embraced it?. Not so much. World War II had passed several decades ago, but its repercussions extended further than those few years of war.

Smithson ignored the guy, shoving his book in his bag as he swung into a small convenience store.

“Hey, Shosanna.” He greeted, as he entered the establishment. The woman at the counter regarded him coolly from behind the pages of a book, another French novel Smithson noted, before she quirked her lips to a small smile in response and returned to the pages. Shosanna was like that – somewhat detached and aloof. But with her sleek blond hair, shadowed blue eyes and tiny frame, her manner only served to attract, rather than deter attention. Not that she cared for it either way. She was quite taken by a Frenchman who went by Marcel.

“Another admirer?.” Smithson asked vaguely as he fiddled with the fridge, trying to find something that he actually wanted.

“Hardly.” Shosanna responded as she turned a page, “Just another customer on the wrong side of the tracks.”

“Huh.” He replied, as he made his way to the counter, a hand shoved deep in a pocket of his jeans whilst the other held a coke. He threw a dollar bill onto the surface.

“You still owe me 35 cents, Utivich,” Shosanna said without even glancing,

“I’ll give it to you next time, Shosanna.” Smithson promised, already on his way out.

Shosanna’s gaze followed Smithson out the door, the faintest smile hovering on her lips as she did. Once the man had left, his stride inaudible, Shosanna set her book face down on the counter and grabbed the note. Her long, delicate fingers spread the paper outwards, soothing the creases before she lifted the slip to the light. The brief observation told her exactly what she knew already. Fake.

--

“You’re late, Utivich.”

“Sorry, Aldo.”

Smithson dropped his bag heavily on the floor by the doorway, ignoring the glare he received in response before crossing the room and dropping himself heavily on the sagging couch that took up a great portion of the area.

“Had a run in with a Nazi near the store.”

“A Natzee.” Aldo repeated, more interested in his snuff than to what Smithson had to offer. “What’s a Natzee doin’ wonderin’ ‘bout on the wrong side of the tracks.”

Smithson’s lips lifted to a smile at Aldo’s words, having recalled Shosanna saying more or less the same thing herself less than fifteen minutes prior. Aldo passed a gaze to the other man, having received no response, only to catch Smithson smiling to himself. Huh, a brow slid upwards in mild confusion. Not that he doubted his man’s integrity or anything, but Utivich could sure be simple sometimes.

Aldo Raine closed his snuff box shut with a deciding click, before straightening,

“Best I be off, soldier.” He said, “Got Natzees to hunt and s**t to do. Tell that Bear Jew o’yours that I dropped by, but I’ll quit doin’ so if he ain’t here for me to bother.”

Smithson murmured something in affirmation, watching idly as Aldo collected his gear and left promptly. He was a strange man, Smithson thought. He had just turned up one day, in that odd manner of his – easy going and lazy almost – attached to Donny. His accent betrayed his Tennessee roots, but that was all he knew of the man. He was almost sure that Donny didn’t know much of him either, despite their (very much illicit) relationship.

Whilst Aldo presented a man who probably knew more the working of the countryside and sheep-farming and all that, Smithson knew that Aldo was some ******** up, insanely clever albeit shrewd man. There was something about his air that suggested as such. And then there was that. That being the scar that ringed about his neck like a badly disguised secret. And Aldo didn't try either. Rather than being hidden behind a high collar or a well placed scarf, Aldo would cant his head back just so you could notice it. Then smiled when you squirmed. Yeah. A totally messed up sonnavabitch, Donny was a ******** masochist.

Smithson stopped his thoughts there, pressing his lips firmly together as if it helped. He had a free day, and he was hardly going to spoil it thinking about Donny, or Aldo or them together. ******** that s**t.

--

Archie watched the traffic ebb and flow through the streets. Safe in his hotel, he could almost forgive America for being as fast paced and hectic as she was. Honestly, what was he expecting?. The man brought a glass of whiskey to his lips, before he paused, contemplative.

Churchill had promised to drop by early that morning to show him about the city. But Archie entertained the desire to discover the immediate area for himself. What harm could it be, really?. It was hardly as if they spoke different languages (that said, he did have difficulty understanding what English lay beneath the cruder sort of accents). The glass was set to the table with a firm click, before Archie left the room.

The next few minutes found the man trying out the streets of LA for the very first time. The lights, sounds, colours and people arrested his attention – having him turn this way and that as he lost himself to the glamour of America. Hence, it was no surprise really, that moment with Archie flicked his head back to see from whence he came, that he realized that he had become lost.

“Oh.” The man thought idly, as his gaze swept the area for something familiar, “this is something of a bother.”

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Post: 57966567_3 created on Mon, 18 Jan 2010 08:53:45 +0000
Posted: Mon, 18 Jan 2010 08:53:45 +0000

her

would

happen

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Post: 57966567_4 created on Tue, 19 Jan 2010 03:10:51 +0000
Posted: Tue, 19 Jan 2010 03:10:51 +0000

Aldo stepped heavily onto the sidewalk, pausing momentarily for his eyes to become used to the glare of the sunlight. He had wasted a good measure of the day waiting around for Donny. Not that he was terribly upset or anything. That’s what he liked about the man; he was unpredictable. And Aldo, being Aldo. He sure did hate for things to be predictable. This merely meant that their next meeting was going to make up for it. The thought prompted a crooked lift of the lips from Aldo, the man nodding to some other pedestrian as he strode past with a degree of satisfaction.

His name was Aldo Raine. Or Aldo the Apache as he preferred to be known. The one and only person who could control the equally as infamous Bear Jew, and who the one and only person who could lay any sort of claim on him.

And together, however unnecessarily dramatic it sounded, they and some eight others, they made up the Inglourious Basterds. Yup, Aldo’s lips curled to a smug smile, his Basterds. He had stumbled into the then petty group of thugs some years back. They had simply been some low life gang, dealing with the usual garbage like drugs and counterfeit cash. Nothing special, but apparently special enough to catch the attention of two sets of people.

The first was him, and, if he was to be entirely honest, it was hardly the gang who captured his attention. It was Donny, pure and simple. On a physical level, the man was something else. Aldo had never fallen for anything other than blue eyes, and blond hair like himself. Hell, Aldo was sure he had never fallen at all (and still hadn’t, just saying) – but that deadly combination of fathomless eyes, and that dark fall of hair?. Well, if not for the violence that was promised in them, it might have been another story.

Theirs was a ******** up game. A power of wills at every exchange: Aldo struggling to contain Donny, and Donny fighting, not wanting to be caught, but yet flirting with the concept of it.

The rest of the Basterds came with Donowitz, like a part and parcel deal; 'buy one!. get seven free!'. Not that Aldo had cared especially much at the time, barely casting a glance to the rest of the men when they rocked up; carefully avoiding Aldo’s gaze as much as they tried to ignore the bare expanse of skin between he and Donny both. However, it didn’t take especially long for both parties to accept each other. In each of the men - Utivich, Wicki, Ulmer, and the rest of 'em - Aldo had struck gold. And, under his command, their notoriety grew.

This, of course, led to the second party interested in the Basterds, as well as the particular attention of one Hans Landa. Some neighbouring crime lord with his own quarry of men. There had been spats between the two gangs before Aldo; petty things such as turf, and minor racial disputes. But, at some point in time, the mutual dislike exploded into pure hatred leaving one Nazi (as they had been dubbed by the Basterds) – dead. Gutted in an alley way with the swastika carved on his forehead.

It was a good goddamn thing he had trained his Basterds well. There were no casualties under Aldo’s watch, none of his Basterds at least, the man had eyes and ears that seemed to be one step ahead of the Nazis.

“Nothin’ but a whole lot of Jew-haters,” Aldo muttered to himself, fingers fiddling with his tin of snuff as his thoughts trailed along familiar territory.

He wondered if war between the two would erupt soon as his calloused fingers took a pinch of snuff and inhaled. Things have been mighty quiet on the Western Front, and Aldo couldn’t help but wonder, despite his birds informing him of the lack of anything brewing on Nazi territory.

Aldo’s pace slowed to a halt, the man paused momentarily, heavy in thought. Perhaps it was necessary for a little Nazi infiltration, Aldo supposed, a smile teasing at the edge of his lips. The man resumed walking, his stride brisk in a manner almost militant. Yeah – things have been too quiet, it was ‘bout time they stirred things up a little.

--

Shosanna’s eyes lifted, acknowledging the entrance of another customer. And, upon recognition of who it was exactly, she sighed. Not that it ever did anything to discourage Fredrick; she had learned that ages ago, but the gesture had long since been less for show, and more just a resigned acceptance that the man just didn’t get it.

It would be difficult to return to her book now, with the man idly chatting away, asking her about this and that. Not that Fredrick was a terribly bad person per se. He was open, earnest and charming. Shosanna supposed she could have been interested. Perhaps if it were more sincere than what the man peddled it for. Fredrick, after all, had revealed a more arrogant, ignorant and self-important side to his person in their exchanges, however brief; the man betraying himself with an act too forthcoming, too engaging to be entirely honest.

Although, it was entirely possible that Shosanna was biased. Fredrick Zoller was German, and her roots were that of French-Jew. Not that history would have served to affect her current notions, hardly. It certainly wasn’t his fault that most of her family had been hunted down in the war. Fredrick was not the person to blame for their suffering, nor could he be accounted for whatever the Nazis did by simply being German himself. But she knew, thanks to her connections (one heard quite a bit being the owner of a local convenience store) that he was involved with Hans Landa, one of the more notorious gang leaders of the area. The one, in particular, who had an outright hatred for Jewish people. One of those gangs who went out of the way to maim, torture, and harass her Jewish kinfolk where they could.

And, word was, that Fredrick Zoller, this very same man who tried, often, for her attentions, was one of Landa’s more efficient killers. During the course of their exchanges, however brief, Shosanna had found herself scrutinizing the man – trying to discover where the murderer lay beneath the pleasant demeanour. At times, when Fredrick was particularly charming, Shosanna would find it hard to believe. His stumbling attempts at flirting, and his otherwise polite manner hardly presented a man who could raise a gun to another person, let alone fire it. But then she’d see his temper flare, and the glint in his eye when she was being particularly difficult, and that would be enough to leave no doubt in her mind whatsoever.

That day, however, the man appeared to be in a genial mood. All smiles and chit-chat, and Shosanna hoped that he wouldn’t harass her for very long. Idly, she wished for a smoke before allowing her novel to droop in her hand so as to address Fredrick wholly;

“I haven’t,” She said, leaving it at that before she lifted the book once more.

Vaguely, Shosanna wondered what type of mess she had gotten herself into. Her quaint little store, inherited from her aunt, was midway between the gangland of the Germans, and that of the Jews. Essentially, should anything happen, she would be in the crossfire. She turned a page, head canting to one side in thought. What would happen the day Hans Landa and Aldo Raine tread upon the stoop of her store simultaneously?. She served members of both gangs without bias, without preference just as she served every other customer in her store. She received Smithson just as simply as she accepted custom from Hellstrom, but did they know that?.

Shosanna glanced to Fredrick from beneath her lashes. Half her clientele didn’t even know her real name.

She sighed inwardly, suddenly feeling rude as Fredrick always somehow managed when he was being polite and charming. Not bothering to rush, Shosanna marked her place with the fake dollar bill that Smithson left her earlier and set the novel aside.

“What would you like today, Fredrick.” She asked simply, head tilted upwards to regard the man opposite, her expression carefully neutral.

--

Archie hadn’t even been aware that he had spoken aloud, but he had, clearly, judging by the response he received. The Englishman turned wholly, not wanting to have any part of his back presented to the man. He had been following him for some time now, trailing after him like a bad dream. Archie had privately hoped that he would simply lose interest; he had nothing on him to suggest excessive wealth or drugs, or anything the man could possibly want, so, logically, there would be very little to gain in harassing him.

They stood now, face to face, separated by some few feet. He took the opportunity to study the man, noting his dark hair, dark eyes… a brow slid upwards then, noting the bat that was held, restless, in the man’s grasp. Somehow, Archie thoroughly doubted there to be a baseball match up the road that the man was late for. There were two ways the situation could play out; either he was left unharassed, or become victim to some excessively violent American. And judging by the almost feral look of the man, Archie was starting to doubt the first option.

Still, however, Archie wasn’t exactly one to be deterred easily. No part of his breeding included a stock for fear. He met the other’s black eyes easily, his own features betraying nothing in response;

“Apparently,” Archie started, his accent all the more obvious against the slang of the other man, “I’ve become lost.” Not that his presence warranted an explanation.

“If you could so kindly direct me to the St. Ives hotel, it would be much appreciated.” Archie wondered if the man would simply laugh at him outright. All things considered, when most were approached in the dark by a man whose face promised torture, the first thing they would be asking would likely not have been assistance. It would have more been for their lives.

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Post: 57966567_5 created on Wed, 20 Jan 2010 02:23:28 +0000
Posted: Wed, 20 Jan 2010 02:23:28 +0000

Hans tucked his pipe away. He had no idea Aldo Raine was coming to the same conclusion he was, but it wouldn't have surprised him. Hans knew that in spite of Raine's idiotic accent and lack of proper grammar, he was a formidable foe. He wouldn't underestimate Raine and he hoped Raine wouldn't underestimate him. It would have made things easier if Raine assumed Hans was less intelligent than he was, but it would have been a tremendous blow to Hans' ego.

Sitting here thinking about Fredrick’s natural inclination to be a simpleton was no way to spend Hans' precious time. There were much more important matters at hand. The Basterds had last made a move against his men and two of them had been discovered recently, brutally beaten. The whole thing dismayed Hans. He couldn’t let the Jews and their ridiculous hillbilly leader think they could continue to get away with such brazen offensive actions. You had to strike quickly at times like this. The more time that slipped away, the less of an impact that could be made. Hans was all for biding his time but there were moments to sit and affect civility, then there were moments to put every pretense aside.

Hans did not hesitate to select the right man for the job he had in mind. He reached for the phone on his desk and dialed Hellstrom’s number. Perhaps not as efficient as Fredrick where brute force was concerned, Hellstrom had the ability to detach himself from the situation. Simply put, he could think. He knew how to be subtle and how to properly play whatever part necessary. Hans thought he was probably the quickest thinker of the men in his employment. Hellstrom was invaluable, if a bit strange. Certainly he had never lost his head over a pretty girl.

He waited for Hellstrom to pick up, still staring out the window as he listened to the phone ring.

--

Fredrick was emboldened by Emmanuelle’s response. Sure, she had just answered his question, but it was better than her ignoring him or saying something impolite to him. His smile broadened as he gazed at her.

“Oh, it’s a wonderful book. The symbolism is incredible. The author is very good at conveying what the character feels without actually spelling it out for the reader.”

After a few moments, she even put her book down to talk to him. Fredrick took this as a very good sign. Maybe she was finally going to give him the time of day. He knew that if she’d just give him a chance, he’d make it worth her while. He knew how to take a girl out on a date.

“I wanted to ask you if you would like to get coffee with me this evening. After you are off work.”

He continued to watch her, his dark eyes earnest. He didn’t understand why she kept turning him down. It wasn’t as if she knew anything about what he did…he hoped. Fredrick assumed that as far as Emmanuelle knew, he was an out-of-work actor who moved to America for better prospects. He was, after all, trilingual, so it was plausible. If she knew what he was capable of, then he was sure that would give her a reason to reject him. He had trouble admitting it to himself even, but fulfilling the missions Landa issued him…that was inexplicably thrilling.

It disturbed Fredrick to know how much he enjoyed putting a bullet through someone’s brain or heart, whichever was the most likely to drop the target the fastest. He never missed. Nine times out of ten, the first shot was the only shot necessary. Every now and then he’d only maim the first time and would have to fire again but that was rare. He’d tried to tell himself that it was just business, that it was his job to kill. But deep down he knew very well that he loved what he did. Landa bothered him intensely and sometimes Fredrick considered going back to acting. Those feelings always passed though when he had a gun in his hand.

Fredrick waited patiently for her response. He’d wait for her for as long as it took, though even she knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer forever. Already he’d had a brief moment of impatience when she had been out-and-out rude with him. Fredrick could handle playing hard to get, he loved the thrill of the chase. But when Emmanuelle had insulted him to his face, he’d let his temper get away from him in a moment of weakness. He’d try to avoid that happening again. Though since then, Emmanuelle had been slightly less cold to him.

--

The Brit’s smarmy accent got under his skin in a way that even surprised Donny. To call it grating would have been an understatement. It was like a knife right into the ear canal.

Jesus, he was really in a crappy mood today. It was more than this dumbass and his high-and-mighty voice. Lots of things had been pissing Donny off lately. He still enjoyed thoroughly the physical aspect of his relationship with Aldo. Lately, however, Aldo had started to bother Donny. If he’d been a more articulate person, perhaps he would have said that he needed unpredictability and change in his life like he needed water. But he had never been great with words, so he all Donny could have told you was that going home to the same guy every night was getting just a little bit old. And then there was the fact that he hadn’t roughed anybody up in a week. Aldo had told him to cool it, so he had. Then he had put two other guys out to go after Landa’s men. What the hell was up with that?

If the guy had just gotten the ******** out of Dodge, Donny could have forgotten about him. If he’d just said “Dreadfully sorry, old chap, I’ll just be on my way, wot wot. Cheerio!“ or some s**t like that then disappeared, the fight would have gone out of Donny somewhat. But the fact that he was still standing here and had the balls to ask the Bear Jew for directions to some overpriced, snobby hotel like Donny was some well-groomed banker in a suit and tie, that pushed his buttons. He figured the Brit probably didn’t know him from Adam and if he had, he would have been a lot smarter about the whole situation. Ah well, he needed to be educated on how things worked around here. Better late than never.

Donny stepped closer to the taller man, his intense black eyes meeting the British guy’s slightly anxious blue ones. He was faintly aware that being this close, he could smell the guy’s expensive aftershave and a hint of whiskey covered up by the stronger scent of something minty. It was oddly appealing. The fact that Donny was attracted to this guy only made it that much worse for him. It’d be a lot of fun to kick this guy around like a soccer ball but some rarely-heard voice of reason had stayed Donny’s hand. Instead of just messing him up and leaving him for some hobo to find in the morning, he was going to play nice for now. But if the Brit acted stupid, he wouldn’t hesitate to sock it to him. Donny’s grip on the bat in his right hand tightened instinctively.

Donny smiled again, this time even nastier.

“Oh yeah, sure. Been there a million times. I’ll show you where it’s at.”

With that, Donny turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction of the St. Ives.

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Post: 57966567_6 created on Thu, 21 Jan 2010 05:43:41 +0000
Posted: Thu, 21 Jan 2010 05:43:41 +0000

A quick glance to caller ID told Dieter all he needed to know. Nobody else he knew had their number set to private,

“Landa,” He greeted, his tone honey smooth and betraying the genial smile he wore, “A pleasant surprise,” Dieter spoke in German. He never did like speaking in English; the language was beneath him to speak, uneducated and backwards. No, German had an authority and command that English could never reign.

“Would I be incorrect to assume that you have a job?.”

Theirs was a simple arrangement. Landa pointed, and he killed. And the rest of the time, his job was to disappear into the background until his skills were needed once more. Neighbourhood gangs, you see, extended far beyond the small pockets that dotted various cities within the country. They were part of a greater unit; a hierarchy of sorts that all turned to their Führer for command. Landa happened to be in control of an entire sweep of LA, and whilst Dieter never troubled himself as to the particulars of Landa’s doings were, his authority was never questioned.

To more petty leaders of smaller gangs, his services were beyond their reach. But Landa’s power was expansive, and he was in good regard to their Führer, thus, anything that Landa required – Landa would receive.

Dieter Hellstrom himself played quite a different part in the grand scheme of things. He tied himself to no one, yet made himself utterly available depending on the status of the person in question. Dieter’s primary role was that of assassination. He could kill a man in a crowed street and disappear unnoticed. He could murder a person without being in the same room. His skills were unparalleled; his knowledge for human torture was beyond comprehension; his trail unreadable. He was the man they turned to for jobs that simply could not be achieved with brute force.

Patiently, he waited for a response.

--

Whatever response Shosanna had set, poised, on the tip of her tongue, it had died upon Fredrick’s request. And what had once been a carefully sculpted expression of detachment, arched into one of surprise – her blue eyes widening a fraction, whilst her lips remained parted just so for the answer which had long since abandoned her. But Shosanna recovered herself quickly, flicking her glance away for that instance before meeting Fredrick’s earnest gaze once more.

He was too convincing for his own good, Shosanna decided. Naturally, her initial response was to be a refusal decorated in the excuse of some prior engagement. But there was something about his face; something that touched her in a way that she refused to acknowledge, something that vetoed her initial response even before it crossed her mind.

She pressed her lips together, the action allowing her precious moments to think. Every one that passed by would surely encourage Fredrick further; she could see it in that damn face of his, the very same one that was starting to broach on hope at her delayed response. Usually, her answers were rapid, almost cutting in their point blank refusal.

“Mon Dieu,” Shosanna uttered almost inaudibly, slipping back into French, her English pretence forgotten thanks to her internal frustration. Her blue eyes settled upon Fredrick’s features once more;

“Je finis à 7pm,” Shosanna informed him shortly, “à 7.01pm, je pars. J'ai le travail pour faire maintenant. À bientôt, Fredrick.*”

It was both an acceptance and dismissal. She gave Fredrick a pointed look following her words, before she returned to her novel; flicking the thing open and perusing it as if the man wasn’t there. Not that she could actually focus on the words before her. Oh, God. What have I agreed to, her internal thoughts continued in French, the woman finding some comfort in her mother tongue.

If she was perfectly honest with herself, yes, Fredrick was attractive, even if just on a purely physical basis. His face was cute, God, it was almost ridiculing to be thinking as such, but yes. Even if they were not her own words, but of those from some young admirer who happened to be in the store during his last visit, yes – his face could be described as cute. His form was fine, too. Although hidden beneath presentable clothing, all clean lines and crisp edges, it was easy to determine that the man was fit; trim and muscular. Really, on a strictly physical basis, there was nothing Shosanna could fault.

It was just… he was sullied. Shosanna decided. The word clicking to place easily. His ‘cute’ face and ‘trim’ body was just a vehicle for the killer who lived inside. A sense of foreboding blossomed within the woman, causing her to shift uneasily in her seat. But he was ignorant to the fact that Shosanna was very aware of this piece of information. It made him ugly and deformed, inhuman from her point of view. Knowing this made all Fredrick’s other faults insignificant, yet all the more apparent to her.

She would let him down, Shosanna decided abruptly. She will tell him outright, in plain English, that she wasn’t interested. They had tiptoed around the issue for long enough, and, with her thoughts more currently occupied by Marcel, it wouldn’t be fair even if he happened to be the out of work actor he claimed to be.

Shosanna steeled herself, drawing strength from her decision. Yes, she thought, it was perfect.

--

Archie had instinctively leant back when the man approached him, his features working themselves to a slight frown at the invasion of personal space. He didn’t give him the pleasure of taking an entire step back however. Such a gesture would indicate the other man to be having the upper hand. Though, a voice at the back of his mind pointed out, it would have not been far from the truth anyway. Archie’s blue eyes narrowed somewhat, his brow furrowing at what appeared to be the other hesitating. He had been almost sure that the man was going to strike; he had been almost committed to the transgression, steeling himself. All pomp aside, it wasn’t as if Archie couldn’t handle rough housing – he was hardly limp-wristed in that respect. However, regardless of what Archie was or wasn’t, the fact was the man appeared to have a change of heart. That said, Archie noticed the tightened grasp on the bat coupled with the feral upturn of the man’s lips, he wasn’t exactly sure it was for the better.

Still, however, still Archie wasn’t exactly in a position to do very much by way of self defense. A deft glance to the immediate area informed him that he had managed to box himself into an alley way – it tight and narrow, fool, Archie thought to himself in a tone almost bitter, bloody fool. He was careful not to allow any of his misgivings play upon his face, and merely inclined his head just so at the man’s apparent knowledge of the hotel. Archie Hicox was many things, he was a fine shot and fair fencer – but neither of these learned skills could help him, now, against some bat welding maniac in a space of some feet. Had they been out in a clearing, he may have had a chance. But, currently, with the only exits immediately before the other man, and immediately behind himself, there was not much Archie could currently do without compromising his safety.

There was, at this moment in time, no other option but to follow the others lead. Archie stared at the back of the man’s head, straightening to his full height before promptly trailing the other. Until they met either another person, or that the miscreant lead them to some place where he had at least an inch of a chance, there was no point in doing much more.

“Your assistance is much appreciated,” Archie said simply, his tone seemingly pleasant despite the situation. He didn’t offer more than that, thoughts pausing momentarily as he studied the man before him. In the half light, it had been difficult to observe terribly much. Not that he was interested in what the man looked like, rather, Archie was more interested in his body language. Being a lawyer, he had studied body language to some degree to assist with his cases; the man’s body had betrayed some tightly wound desire for destruction. Human or otherwise. It had been evident primarily in the fingers that wound themselves about the bat like it was an extension of the man itself. Coupled with the glint in his eye, the grip had tightened and loosened according to the others internal thoughts. To maim, or not to main, Archie’s lips quirked to a somber smile at the passing thought.

Currently, however, the man before him appeared satisfied that he had terrified his prey into submission. And, judging by the clip of his shoes on the pavement, briskly following the step of the man before him – it was an easy assumption to make. Archie flicked his head back towards the other end of the narrow street. Beyond that, he could see the play of lights that indicated the main strip beyond the mouth of the alley. He turned his attention forward once more, eyes critical upon the others form; studying what he could for intent.

Without breaking his stride, Archie back peddled – knowing that the mouth of the street was less than 100 metres off, and the man not entirely focused on ensuring his continual presence; he took the risk. Archie kept his pace for some few strides before pivoting on his heel and breaking for it. His hopes were, at that moment, that his tormentor wouldn’t notice till too late, that he would be far enough for an airborne bat to miss, and that the man wasn’t especially quick (Archie doubted it, going by the sheer bulk the other man carried on his form, most of it top heavy).

( * I finish at 7pm, and I leave at 7.01pm. Now I have work to do, see you later, Fredrick. )

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Post: 57966567_7 created on Thu, 21 Jan 2010 08:39:05 +0000
Posted: Thu, 21 Jan 2010 08:39:05 +0000

Hans’ effortless tone matched Hellstrom’s. The man’s fast, purposeful manner of speech comforted Hans almost as much as the fact that he was speaking German. He smiled, this time without having to manufacture the expression. He always felt just a little more at ease when speaking to Dieter.

The man had everything Hans prized -- a cool head, the ability to effortlessly switch between languages, an agile mind, and an utter lack of emotional attachment. On the less professional side, he was also well-read and a impressive opponent in most games. If Hans had been the type to really care for people, he would have said that he liked Dieter. However, Hans had neither the time nor the sentiment to waste on friendships. Especially with people who were in his mind little more than instruments to further the Führer’s campaign.

“Dieter, the pleasure is all mine. And you are very correct in your assumption. I do have a job for you."

Hans paused here for effect. "I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time. Would be so kind as to come visit me in my office when you are able? I’d much rather iron out the details face-to-face.”

Asking Dieter to make time when he could was merely a formality. Hans knew that Dieter would drop whatever he was doing and would report to his door in a matter of minutes. Among his other numerous good qualities, he was also very prompt. Dieter would come to his office, stand in that ramrod-straight fashion of his, and mentally file away Hans’ every word. He may ask a question or two for clarification, thought mostly he’d just listen. Then, possibly after a brief moment of enjoyable banter, Dieter would turn smoothly on his heel and vanish as quickly as he had appeared. Like he’d done a hundred times before.

After a few more necessary pleasantries, Hans hung up the phone. He knew he’d only be kept waiting a few minutes. Long enough for Hans to pour himself a glass of milk from the small fridge in his office while he thought about the task he was about to assign to Dieter Hellstrom.

--

Fredrick was hoping she’d say yes but inwardly he was steeling himself for rejection. So when Emmanuelle told him she’d be off at 7 and that she would meet up with him, he was caught off guard completely. He blinked, his face and mind both utterly blank. He was sure he hadn’t heard her right. Had Emmanuelle finally agreed to see him? The realization had left him temporarily speechless.

“Quoi?”

Frederick saw the brief frustration pass over Emmanuelle’s graceful face and immediately back-pedaled. He had seen this same scene before and he knew if he just stared at her and stuttered, she’d change her mind. Fredrick would just have to make up his mind to accept the fact that she’d said yes and marvel about it later. Instantly he was beaming. He’d always hoped for her to give him a chance and here it was. Fredrick nodded, smiling warmly at her.

“Oui. J'attends avec intérêt de vous voir cette soirée. À bientot.”

He continued to look at her for just a moment then collected himself. He realized he was staring and that was one of the many things she did not approve of. She had dismissed him and he had better listen. If he pushed the envelope and annoyed her, Emmanuelle might tell him no. Fredrick nodded at her one last time before turning on his heel.

When he was back out on the street, he took the time to really enjoy what had just happened. After these long weeks of patience and charm, Emmanuelle had finally agreed to coffee. Now Fredrick could really show her who he was. Well, not really, he corrected himself sourly. If he had his way she’d never know about his double life.

A sudden, horrible thought crossed his mind. What if she did find out? He’d worked a long time to get her to the point of just agreeing to see him. She’d be horrified to know that he was an assassin (and that he liked being one, a small voice in his head just had to add). Fredrick sighed. He’d make up his mind that she wouldn’t know. Even if, and though it was a very alluring “if” it was still just an “if“, Emmanuelle became more than just a friend of his, he’d protect her from that knowledge. Besides, if you ignored the fact that he killed people, Fredrick knew he was a decent person. He had a lot to offer a girl like Emmanuelle.

At precisely 7:01pm, Fredrick was standing outside her shop. Actually, he'd been standing outside the shop for about ten minutes prior to that. He couldn't have kept the cheerful expression off his face if he had tried. He was anxious and excited for this though it was just coffee. Fredrick had to keep reminding himself of that. Best not to get one's hopes up too high.

--

It took Donny just half a second to realize the Brit was taking off. He blinked owlishly. As soon as his mind processed what was happening, Donny was instantly enraged. This was what he was waiting for, the perfect catalyst to set him off. All the s**t that had been adding up finally had become too much for the mentally unbalanced Jew. Before the Brit had decided to ******** around, Donny hadn’t really had much of a plan for what he was going to do with him. Now though, it was crystal clear.

Archie should have been right. In 99 cases out of a hundred, a man with Donny’s muscle mass should not have been able to catch up with the slim British man. However, the push of adrenaline gave him a burst of speed to catch up. Donny threw out a hand and grabbed the Brit’s arm in a vise-like grip. With one powerful tug, Archie was on the ground and Donny was bearing down on top of him. For a moment he’d thought the Brit wasn’t going down. He was tougher than he looked, but it took a special kind of strength to handle Donny Donowitz when he’d officially lost his mind. The Brit wasn’t equipped to deal with that.

Donny took just a moment to savor the expression on the Brit’s face. A look of shock and -- oh yes, Donny had hit the jackpot -- fear. It pleased him greatly to see that the force of being thrown down had ruffled the Brit’s hair. Oh, a whole lot more than his hair was gonna be untidy in just a minute here. Donny planted his boot squarely on Archie’s chest and grinned at down him. He was only gonna smack him hard enough to knock him senseless, maybe mess up his pretty face a little. That was all Donny would need to just let off some steam. He wouldn’t kill him, that could get nasty. He’d settle for just putting the fear of the Bear Jew into him.

He was about to bring the bat down to the side of the Brit’s head and quite possibly shatter his jaw when a voice called out to him. It was a lucky thing for Archie too, since even Donny underestimated his own capacity for violence. He may not have meant to kill Archie but there was a good chance that if his swing had gone as scheduled, the Brit may never have seen the light of day again nonetheless. Donny’s surprise at the sudden shout threw off his aim and he instead clipped the Brit’s nose with an ominous crack. His black eyes murderous, he looked up from Archie’s dazed white face to see who’d been the jackass to ruin his fun.

“What the ********? Can’t you see I’m busy here? ******** off!”

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Post: 57966567_8 created on Fri, 22 Jan 2010 01:30:52 +0000
Posted: Fri, 22 Jan 2010 01:30:52 +0000

The odds were against him, apparently. Archie’s strides would have taken him no further than some ten metres before he felt an iron-cast grip lock on his arm. He attempted to throw it off without success. What followed was a short struggle before Archie was overpowered utterly. He had never been one for brute strength, his own skills were in that of talk – but then, there was only so far talk could get him with a man so brutally unstable.

The asphalt was hard, that much was unsurprising, but the force of which he had met it had been enough so as to knock the breath from his lungs, it escaping from him with a harsh sound. Oh, he had really gone and cocked this one up. The thought ran through Archie’s mind, detached, as if it wasn’t he who framed it. He was staring up at Donny now, the initial shock and that brief second of fear that had been scrawled upon his face had since been replaced with another expression, carefully blank.

This is it, Lieutenant, Archie consoled himself inwardly, blue eyes meeting those black ones that promised him pain. He was especially aware, then, in those moments, as one was when they were to meet their maker. Archie would later recall the smell of the alley; musky with litter, and sour from old urine and bile. He could feel the bite of bitumen against his back, cold and damp thanks to a mixture of his sweat and the dew that sat on the cement as if it were grass; he could feel the weight of the boot, heavy on his chest and making it difficult for him to breathe. The sounds of the busy streets were beyond his auditory scope at that moment, it apparently to have narrowed to what Donny happened to emit: his breathing, rapid with excitement, the roll of the bat between his fingers, and the play of clothing upon his muscular form.

Archie heard the upswing, he inwardly surprised that it could be that loud. He steeled himself, blue eyes flicking to the crude weapon, then back to the black, fathomless pair that looked down at him cruelly. The bat descended, the sheer gravity of the situation rendered Archie blind and deaf to all other things save for the weapon; it moved slow to him, inching closer as it cut through the air like a knife through butter. And then, all off a sudden, it seemed to speed up.

It was pure reflex that had Archie turn his head, following the path of the strike. And it had worked for most part. Archie felt his nose break, the sound of it a sickening crunch, loud in the alley. And, as if by a switch, the entire world heaped upon him, the sheer velocity of it sending the man reeling through a tangled mess of sight and sound. The heavy, thrumming beat of the city life pounded through the man’s head – exacerbating the pain that coursed through him. Blood. The taste of it overwhelmed the man before it disappeared, leaving the thick, cloying presence of it to trail from his shattered nasal cavity, across his cheek, to drip to the asphalt inches below his face.

Whilst his reaction had saved him from what could have been a death blow, it still wasn’t enough to save him from being injured.

The boot was lifted off his chest, and Archie immediately scrambled away, ungraceful as he hauled himself upright, bringing a hand to his nose, testing, before wincing horribly at the extent of the damage. He had to breathe through his mouth, breathing through his nose felt as if it would crumble at the slightest touch or bare of weight. He couldn’t even bare to bring his sleeve to staunch the flow.

“Sind Sie einer der Männer von Landa?*” A voice demanded, Archie not bothering to think about his answer:

“Ja, ja!. Dieser Wahnsinnige...” His own voice sounded strange to him, muffled and wet. As if he was speaking through water.

Roughly, a hand grabbed his arm, hauling him through the remaining length of the alley. They emerged, Dieter stoic and Archie dazed. Immediately, the crowd cleared, people voicing their shock at Archie’s state. Blood flowed in a steady stream, and the man himself had since turned an unhealthy pallour. He didn’t even register being shoved unceremoniously in a taxi, wavering between passing out and consciousness that was born mostly out of shock and blood loss.

He would later wake in a hospital bed; confused and very much drugged from his mind. Archie learned that, yes, his nose had been shattered, that it had been lucky that, considering the force of the blow, it hadn’t torn it completely from his face. He had surgery later that day, resetting and reconstructing the feature before Archie was finally free to lie, placidly, in the hospital bed and recoup.

--

“No inconvenience, Hans. I shall be there shortly.”

They worked through the script beautifully. Truth be told, exchanges never really differed no matter the situation, but it created a barrier between them. Friendship never did flourish between people in their roles, it was far too risky to do so. And it was hardly due to petty things such as emotional attachment; only the weak grieved for past friends and lovers. It was more the simple fact that one had to hold one’s cards to his chest. To betray too much information was inviting trouble.

Dieter strode through the streets deftly, thoughts idly contemplating what matter of job Landa had in store for him. Landa always gave him the most challenging ones.

The trip was nearly completed as per their script, with Dieter cutting through a side street that would lead him no more than a block from Landa’s door. It played out differently that night, as if an untrained actor had taken the stage and effectively reshuffled the order of events. Dieter’s footsteps slowed as he approached the scene, the dark light making it difficult for him to work out what exactly was transpiring until he was some few metres away.

“Oh!.” Dieter’s features opened in surprise; apparently it was one of Aldo’s men. The warfare between the Basterds (as they titled themselves – crude, yet fitting), and Landa’s men was an open secret that even the authorities left alone. Currently, the bulky figure of the Bear Jew stood over the prone man on the ground, boot pressed firmly to his chest to effectively pin him in place. Dieter stepped forth, brow furrowing as he attempted to see, exactly, the victim the Jew had picked that night. He was aware, after all, having heard through various filters that Landa had recently lost a few of his men to the Basterds, and he wondered if he was to be saving yet another one that night.

“Entschuldigen Sie mich.” He called, suddenly, voice cutting through the thick silence of the alleyway. It was enough to send Donny’s swing off course, yet not enough to save the man from experiencing the power of the blow. The crunch was an ugly sound, it causing the corner of Dieter’s lip to curl downwards in distaste.

He didn’t bother listening to the abuse he received. But he answered; the discharge echoed through the small space, the sound, sharp, like a whip crack. The bullet would embed in the flesh of Donny’s arm, hardly a life threatening injury. He hadn’t been paid to kill someone yet, but Dieter supposed he could do Landa a favour and prolong the life of one of his men.

Dieter approached the scene, using his gun to cast Donny aside (the man would be too distracted with his gunshot to be bothered otherwise) whilst he wondered if he could get the man out safely without having to touch him; he wasn’t particularly fond of getting blood on his suit. The unidentified man managed to haul himself up, much to Dieter’s private relief. A quick glance was cast to Donny, assured of his momentary incapacitation;

“Sind Sie einer der Männer von Landa?” Dieter asked, voice clipped,

“Ja, ja!. Dieser Wahnsinnige...” The man’s tone was distorted due to his injury. Dieter could see the man’s pupils blown in agony, the shock starting to eat away at the man’s consciousness as he started to stagger on the spot. There was no avoiding it; he would have to get his hands dirty.

Dieter grabbed Archie, ignoring the blood that ran a river from his nose; it dripped against the flesh of his hand, warm and wet, and thoroughly off-putting. He led them both to the exit of the alley, out into the busy night street that thrummed with life and was packed with commuters. It cleared for them, however, the people parting as if he were Moses commanding the seas, witnesses already starting to make a fuss over the injured man. But Dieter hardly paid attention. Without bothering to ensure the comfort of a man barely clinging to consciousness, Dieter bodily maneuvered Archie into the closest taxi, threw some notes to the drivers face and instructed him to take his passenger to the closest hospital;

“And ensure he doesn’t die,”

All in all, Dieter wasted a good half an hour and what had been one of his better suits before turning up at Landa’s doorstep.

--

Closing time came far too quickly as far as Shosanna was concerned. Usually, on a quiet day with nothing more than her novel to accompany her, time passed slowly. But that day, it seemed to fly pass until the woman realized that she had to close for the night.

She didn’t cast a single glance beyond the door, already aware of the fact that Fredrick would be waiting for her. Instead, Shosanna completed the close of her store without hurrying or slowing down, and even then, as she slid the key to lock the register, time moved to quick.

Shosanna grabbed her bag, pulling the strap over her shoulder as she undid the ponytail that secured her hair. She ran a hand through the strands as she exited the store, locking the door after her before turning to regard Fredrick. He was there, as she had known, expression altogether too cheerful for what was merely a coffee.

“Fredrick.” Shosanna acknowledged simply, arms folded loosely against her chest in a measure of personal comfort.

She had, some months earlier, wondered what had landed her in the position of being so admired by the man. She had done nothing to encourage it, continued to do nothing to encourage it, and yet he always tried. She had seen the sort of attention that the man attracted, women tittered over him, favoured him with compliments, which he accepted with an air of grace. Shosanna guessed that it was simply because she was none of that; she wasn’t swayed by looks, or by practiced charm. She was unaffected to him exercising it over her.

She wondered if Fredrick thought himself successful – her agreement had been the most she had offered to the man, so it was likely that he had taken it as a sign that he had started to wear at her defenses. The notion caused the slightest upturn of her lips; he had, in some way, if not the way he wanted.

( "are you one of Landa's men?." "yes, yes. this maniac--." )

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Post: 57966567_9 created on Fri, 22 Jan 2010 08:15:50 +0000
Posted: Fri, 22 Jan 2010 08:15:50 +0000

had

that guy

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Post: 57966567_10 created on Mon, 25 Jan 2010 01:23:24 +0000
Posted: Mon, 25 Jan 2010 01:23:24 +0000

Omar had started at the loud sound that announced Donny’s presence, and he had been prepared to brush it off as another example of the man’s temper until he noticed the blood. Oh, s**t. His own blood ran cold at the sight of it. Not that Omar was terribly put off by gore or anything of the sort, especially seeing when he happened to be the cause of it at times. But this was Donny, and Donny never ******** got injured. It was simply not right; his face was not supposed to be that colour, nor was he supposed to be unsteady on his feet like that. It was only when Wilhem brushed past him, his footsteps hard and fast on the stairs did Omar seem to stir.

“Jesus ******** Christ.” He breathed, the map and his plan forgotten. Donny glared at him, the expression not as biting as it should have been. Not that Omar would have been put off, they had been friends as far as they both could remember, and there was not much Donny could do that Omar was already used to.

The man stepped around the table, grabbing the nearest cloth and soaking it. His hands were shaking slightly as he wrung the towel, and Omar was surprised to discover that he was enraged. He was ******** pissed off. It was plainly obvious that the injury was Nazi born. Apart from those ********, the Basterds had few to worry about. They were the two biggest gangs in the city, and their borders fringed against each other throughout the town. Omar dropped to a crouch before Donny’s prone form, his dark eyes searching the other man’s features momentarily before he carefully wiped the blood from Donny’s face. His hands were shaking still, and his features; usually rather calm, were set: brows furrowed low, and his frown harsh.

“Donny.” He said, knowing that he had to keep the man talking and conscious. “What the ******** happened.”

His eyes slid to the site of the wound, gunshot, Omar concluded, noting the smooth entrance. He glanced to Donny quickly, eyes informing the other man of his intent before he moved a hand to inspect the wound. The blood had started to clot, thankfully. Had it been flowing still, Omar would have suspect some artery to have been hit, and then they would have really been up s**t creek. But no, the liquid oozed sluggishly now, crusting at places and even beginning to scab. Omar delicately lifted the fabric of Donny’s shirt;

“We’re going to have to clean it. Get on the table.” Omar straightened, then swept an arm across the tabletop, heedless to the items that fell, deaf to the sounds of breaking glass and cutlery and other junk that met the floor. He could deal with that later. Carefully, he maneuvered Donny onto the thing, ignoring what abuse he got for it. Donny was heavy, packed with muscle and thoroughly difficult, rendered useless thanks to shock and bloodloss, but Omar managed; spurred on by the simple fact that it was Donny.

“Holy s**t.” Came a voice from the doorway,

“Not helping, Smitty.” His response was clipped.

Smithson nodded jerkily, his eyes wide as he surveyed the scene before him. The man had been busy, earlier, shut in his room and cleaning his guns when he had heard Wicki thumping upstairs. He had frowned, Wicki didn’t usually thump around anywhere.

“Aldo?.” The man’s name had left Wicki’s lips almost desperate sounding, it followed by the bang of a door, loud, Wilhelm near throwing the thing off his hinges with the strength of it.

“********, Wicki.” Smithson had said, irritated, stepping out his own room to glare. “How the ******** am I supposed to --.” The words died upon seeing the man’s face; it twisted in both fear and anger.

“Shut the ******** up, Utivich.” The sheer force behind the words surprising Smithson. “Where’s Aldo?.”

“He left.” Smithson said, “What’s wrong?.”

But he received nothing in response, Wicki already off to the closest phone and punching the numbers in. Smithson heard glass shatter next, his head flicking to the direction of the sound before he headed downstairs, confused and agitated. He had not been prepared for the scene that met him. There was blood everywhere; a trail of it from the door, puddles, dark and viscous, Donny, semi-conscious upon the table with Omar bend over him, inspecting something.

“Holy s**t,” he said, the words leaving his mouth before he could think. He received a dark glare for it.

“Not helping, Smitty. And where’s Aldo.”

“He’s on his way.” Smithson said automatically, positive that Wilhelm would have gotten through to the man by now. He grabbed the towel that lay abandoned on the floor, picking it up. Omar had cut the blood soaked shirt free from Donny’s form by then,

“Try and clean it up a little.” The shorter man instructed him, voice wavering slightly. In anger, Smithson noted distractedly, as he carefully did as he was told, mindful of the pain he was causing Donny at every little touch.

“Aldo’s coming, Donny.” Omar informed the prone man, brushing a sweat soaked fringe from the other’s face as he spoke. “We’ll sort this out first, then deal with the guy who did it.”

--

To say that Aldo was unhappy would have been a bit of an understatement. He was thoroughly pissed off. The man dropped a gear roughly, swinging into a corner at some 30kms above the limit. He had been out and about earlier, checking out some Nazi trails, investigating some leads when he had got the call. It had been Wicki, the man barely making sense as he went on in disjointed English-c**-German, but when Aldo had heard ‘Donny’, and ‘shot’, he had hung up and jumped in the closest vehicle. The unfortunate bloke who had been on the receiving end of a punch in the face be damned.

Aldo shifted gears. Goddamn Nazis, he should have known it was coming. He had been expecting Landa to make some move against him, had been for quite some time. He dropped back into second, violently taking another corner, his driving reflecting his thoughts. He had been sure the safety of his men, what kind of leader was he if he could not promise that?. And especially Donny, ********. Aldo’s features were hard; Donny was his best ******** Basterd. ********, and he, and him. The thoughts jammed, a part of Aldo refusing to acknowledge just how deeply the concept of Donny being hurt struck to home.

The car was left abandoned, still running, outside their quarters.

“Git in there,” he said, shoving a bewildered looking man into the small, unassuming house before him. He had picked up their ‘local’ doctor at some point during the trip. Aldo’s blue eyes followed the trail of blood dotted haphazardly on the cheap lino floor.

The scene that greeted him was chaotic; shards of glass littered the floor, paper, knives, forks, blood. Smithson had trod barefoot on something, adding more damn bloody tracks. Omar and Smithson both were unsettled, the former bent over the table, talking on and on, whilst the latter stood of to one side, his lip caught between his teeth in distress. And then there was Donny. And, s**t. In their years together, Aldo had never witnessed the man in such a state. He was pasty, and sweaty, bloody, and barely clinging to consciousness. He still attempted to bite though. Giving Omar dirty looks at being questioned, trying to twist away from the incessant presence of the man, his dark eyes slipping shut intermittently as he fought against it all. Omar peered at him upon his entrance, his eyes cold as if accusing him for Donny’s state. Aldo’s lip curled in response. It was a silent exchange, their positions tested.

“Fix it.” Aldo ordered the doctor, mindless to his complaints.

Aldo strode up to Donny, shoving Omar aside as he claimed the other man’s place by Donny’s head. He peered down to the man, meeting his dark, disorientated gaze;

“Who did you ********’ piss off, Donowitz.”

--

Shosanna didn’t answer Fredrick immediately. She had been contemplating the entire night as to when to approach the rather delicate subject. She had seen the spark of the other man’s anger in an earlier exchange, and it had unsettled her. Coupled with the fact that he made a living from killing for Landa, well, Shosanna wondered with grim humour if she would leave the café unscathed.

She had humoured Fredrick the entire night, giving him vague smiles and even vaguer answers. Eventually, the woman grew weary of the entire charade. And, with Fredrick’s question, she took the opportunity. Shosanna delicately extinguished her cigarette, finished her latte, folded her hands upon the table and met Fredrick’s gaze.

“Fredrick,” She started, choosing to speak in French, “I have to be honest with you – I’m not interested.” She paused, letting the statement sink in, “There is someone else, and for me to pursue this with you would be unfair.”

There, she said it. Shosanna looked expectantly to the man’s face. He appeared staggered; his brow furrowed and lips parted just so. The woman moved then, not wanting to malinger; she collected her articles before standing, slipping a note towards Fredrick on the table as she spoke,

“For the coffee.” She informed him in English.

--

Dieter had been rather annoyed at having to learn that the man who he had saved from the Bear Jew was, in fact, not one of Landa’s men. He never did like making errors, or wasting time and ammunition, and he had done all three in that brief exchange. Landa, however, he soothed his agitation. Dieter had saved his life, and now the man was, whether or not he knew or understood, was forever indebted to the Fuhrer. It almost made it worthwhile, the thought prompting Dieter’s lips to curl to an ugly smile, he’d make the man pay in his own special way.

Dieter accepted Landa’s compliment graciously, canting his head somewhat as the other man spoke;

“For the better, I hope.” His quip was received in good grace, before Landa informed him of his next task.

Dieter left the building near an hour later, thoughts heavy with Landa’s words. The man was clever, Dieter thought idly, it was almost frightening how easily Landa could twist situations to suit himself, how simple it was for him to manipulate circumstances that would be beyond the control of any other person. He was to seek out that mystery man. Dieter had to ensure that it was he to check him out from hospital; he had to make certain that he was to go nowhere unaccompanied. Archie was to be their bait.

Landa had said during their discourse, that the Bear Jew nor Aldo would let the matter go unattended. It was certain that they were going to hunt him down, he and the mystery man both. The Basterds were unaware that Archie wasn’t a Nazi, just as Archie himself was ignorant as to the extent of the mess he had worked himself into.

Dieter was to befriend, so to speak, the person who he had rescued. They would ‘stick together’, a right pair, an easy target for the Basterds should they ever be uncovered. But before any of the Jews could even think about laying a bullet in either of Landa’s men, they will be blindsided. An ambush.

Yes, Dieter’s lips quirked upwards, the man’s steps almost carefree as he strode through the streets. Landa was brilliant.

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Post: 57966567_11 created on Mon, 25 Jan 2010 11:00:02 +0000
Posted: Mon, 25 Jan 2010 11:00:02 +0000

Finally.

was

The Godfather

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Post: 57966567_12 created on Wed, 27 Jan 2010 02:29:29 +0000
Posted: Wed, 27 Jan 2010 02:29:29 +0000

It was a strange thing to see Donny sleep. Knowing who the man was, knowing that he took pleasure in tormenting others, knowing that he had admitted to quite possibly beating the s**t out of some man earlier that night – to witness those angry lines soothing, and the perpetual frown on Donny’s lips disappear upon slumber was actually quite amazing. Aldo lifted a hand and soothed out the crease between the man’s brows, he only half aware of the action. Not that he was going to admit to watching Donny’s face when he was sleeping or anything, but he had seen it enough times to know that he was, quite possibly, a different person altogether when it occurred. Young, and handsome. Untroubled, even.

The blood was a bit of a juxtaposition though, Aldo’s lips twisted downwards. Omar hadn’t exactly been thorough with the job, and more of the stuff had smeared during the course of the procedure. Aldo could feel it – thick and sticky – drying on his arm where Donny had grabbed him earlier. It stirred him somewhat; a faint, instinctive tug in the pit of Aldo’s stomach before the man firmly shoved it aside. Not the ********’ time.

Aldo straightened, drawing himself from Donny’s prone form. He was fine now, the doctor had informed them.

“See to him,” Aldo said, his tone clipped, to which Smithson nodded and darted off, returning shortly thereafter with some notes. The doctor was dismissed, gladly leaving. Aldo knew that the man would, if questioned, deny ever having even crossed paths with the Basterds. His silence was paid well, after all. That and he was scared shitless of them.

Beside him, Aldo heard Wicki approach; the man clearing his throat before posing the inevitable question. (He took a moment to appreciate the fact that he was rather tactful about things, more than both Omar and Smithson could manage at least.) Aldo had been wondering the very same thing the second Donny had mentioned it. To become one of Landa’s men wasn’t what one would call an easy process. The man was particular; each of his men were carefully plucked from the entire German population of the city: the candidates clever and talented, wealthy and influential. They were then groomed to be each perfect lapdogs for the megalomaniac: responding to his every beck and call, willing to do whatever job Landa didn’t wish to dirty his hands for. Quite simply; they knew each member of Landa’s gang. Just as they knew each member of the Basterds. Aldo was just as picky as it came to his own men after all. And saw to it that he trained them well.

He took a long while to respond, turning all that he knew in his head, aligning it with what Donny managed to convey through the drugs and blood loss. Aldo’s blue eyes had returned to Donny’s slack, sleeping face; studying it distractedly as thoughts ran almost mechanical through his mind. Around him, the other men were silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Omar’s dark eyes settled upon Aldo shrewdly. Lately, he hadn’t been so sure of the man. Unsure of the path Aldo had led them towards, unsure that it was beneficial to anything whatsoever.

Before Aldo’s presence in their lives, they had been a close group. Sure, they engaged in some petty crime; money laundering, vandalism, theft, but they were still free enough to function in society. Omar glanced at Smithson; he had been a journalist once, Omar thought distractedly, recalling the other man in a pair of glasses before a computer. But now, there he was, pale and nervous with his arms folded tight before his chest and lip caught in his teeth.

He glanced at Wicki, whose own gaze was locked upon Aldo – waiting for an answer. He certainly didn’t recall the man being that dependant on another’s words before Aldo either. Omar’s eyes fell to Donny then; the man unnaturally still and deathly pale on the kitchen table. His fists clenched, nails digging into the skin of his palms. Donny. Donny was suffering the worst at Aldo’s hands. The man had been a renegade prior to Aldo; cocky and arrogant. He had found fun in harassing those close to him: teasing, fighting. Omar had met him in grade school, ********, they had grown up together. He had lived through the best and worst times in Donny’s life, just as the other had lived through his.

And then came Aldo. Aldo who encouraged Donny. Aldo who handed him the bat. Aldo who showed him how to be cruel, how to break a man, how to love how it felt to be the cause of someone’s death. Omar twisted his head from the scene in an attempt to rein his temper, his breath hard and fast. Aldo who got them involved with the Nazis. Omar was half certain that, if not for Aldo ******** Raine, Landa’s eye would have swept over them. They would have barely registered on the psychopath’s radar, as it had been all those years prior. And now look at them. The dregs of society.

“We’ll have to investigate this,” Aldo’s annoying, nasal voice interrupted Omar’s thoughts. “There hasn’t bin any talk of new Nazis, so I’d be disinclined to believe it.”

“Disinclined to believe it?.” The words burst from Omar before he could stop it, “Donny’s been ******** shot, Raine.”

“I’m well aware of that, soldier.” Aldo’s words were cold, and his eyes colder as he caught Omar’s dark glare. “An’, as I was sayin’, there’s bin nothin’ on the Western Front, but that Hellstrom. He ain’t hardly goin’ to go outta the way to help jus’ anybody.” Aldo’s eyes slid back to Donny momentarily before settling to the men before him;

“And Landa’s not gonna be a happy Larry when he finds out that the old Bear Jew here has gone and done bad against one of his men. One close enough to be picked up by Hellstrom at that. They’re gonna be out hunting us, I promise you this.”

Like that’s ******** unusual, Omar thought bitterly.

“So best we make the first strike. Pre-empt ‘em so to speak. None of this ******** around with the little men.”

“What, so. We’re gonna kill Landa or something.” Smithson interrupted, his tone sharp in surprise.

“Nice as that would be, Utivich, Landa’d be bit too smarmy for that.” Aldo’s tone had an edge of amusement, it serving to lighten the charged atmosphere slightly, “No. We’ll git the men who support him. You ******** with the base, you bring down the tower. That’s what we’ll do, son.”

Aldo glanced to Donny once more, the barest tips of his fingers touching the other’s shoulder where his hand sat upon the table,

“I think Donny here will be quite satisfied with that. I’d wager we’d have to save that new fella and Hellstrom for him.”

--

Archie was quite prepared to admit that his venture to America was beyond dismal, and not because it was due to a lack of investors for his business venture. He had woken from surgery some hours ago, sore and confused. Churchill had been there; the man’s large form squashed into one of the hospital chairs in a manner almost comical. He had received a call from the hospital, explaining that Mr. Hicox had been a victim of assault and was currently being prepped for reconstructive surgery. Archie could barely remember what had transpired before the man left; the memories hazy and inconsistent thanks to the drugs that flooded his system.

They had worn off now, and the resulting pain actually served to coax Archie from a light sleep. He had roused slowly at first, only half aware of the dull throb in his head that grew and grew, before it jerked him to consciousness with a sharp exclamation. Goddamn, he thought as he screwed his eyes shut. His head ached, hell, his entire face ached. Gingerly, Archie lifted a hand to touch his nose, wanting to feel the damage yet half afraid of the extent of it. It had been set, plastered into place as the cartilage healed. Some vain part of him panicked, causing his chest to tighten at the mental image of his face, twisted and contorted, forever grotesque thanks to one ill-adventure. He forced himself to calm however, easing his fists from the thin blankets as he breathed evenly through his mouth. ********. Self pity flooded in Archie’s gut, the foreign emotion leaden in the pit of his stomach.

A muted knock at the door distracted the man from his thoughts, and, half grateful for it, Archie responded. The man who entered was unfamiliar to him, but emitted an air of someone rather important, like of his more well to do clientele. Archie straightened, automatically presenting a professional front despite the situation. He drew comfort from the familiar exchange.

The edges of Archie’s lips tightened slightly at hearing his name come from the other man’s lips. Landa?. That, too, was vaguely familiar. With each second that slipped by did Archie grow more unsettled. He didn’t display it, however, couldn’t due to the discomfort of drawing an expression.

“Excuse me, Mr. Landa.” Archie interrupted suddenly, reaching forth across the bed as if he was to slide his hand upon the pages of Landa’s ledger in an effort to prevent him from writing. His tone was nasal, muffled due to his injury, but the panicked affliction that coloured it, however slight, was still present.

“I’m in America to expand my own company. I am a lawyer, Mr. Landa, specializing in business matters.” Archie had since collected himself from his initial outburst, his voice taking a rather sharp edge, “I hardly need to be employed by anyone else, and I don’t recall submitting my resume to anything.”

--

Shosanna didn’t immediately return home after her date with Fredrick. Rather, her feet took her along several blocks , leading her somewhere without thought. To be honest, she felt a bit guilty about the entire exchange. Shosanna recalled Fredrick’s expression when she had told him of someone else. He had looked… gutted. Honestly hurt. Whilst the man had been chasing her quite insistently, she had been half inclined to believe that she merely happened to be whatever flavor he had wanted that month. Those few months, some part of her corrected, the realization annoying. She had expected him to brush her off easily, laugh off her resistance, and tell her that, well, she wasn’t worth it anyway.

But he hadn’t. He had stared at her with those wide, brown eyes as if she had personally ripped his heart from his chest and buried her heel in it. That’s pretty much what you did, Shosanna, that irritating voice pointed out once more, causing the woman’s lips to turn to a soft frown. You certainly didn’t encourage it, but you certainly didn’t go out of your way to inform him of that ‘someone else.’ He’s a murderer, she informed that voice firmly. He works for Landa and goes around killing people at his bidding.

But even that didn’t quell the well of guilt. You’ve only heard things, that voice again, soft in the back of her mind.

Shosanna ignored it firmly, staring hard at down at her shoes before she steeled herself and peered to the door that she was standing before. She lifted a hand hesitantly, and knocked. A short moment later, the door opened, casting the woman in a dim glow. Her lips lifted into a small, sad smile,

“Marcel.”

--

Dieter could easily admit that, whilst he had no troubles in murdering people, he was, in no way, savvy with technology. No, Dieter was a man who preferred things to be straightforward and simple; he took pleasure in basic things like reading and board games, classic movies and vinyl records. He never did, and suspected, never would, appreciate computers, mobile technology and all associated ventures.

Quite unlike Fredrick. Hellstrom frowned at the familiar buzz that informed him of a message. He was positive that it was Fredrick, simply because no one else messaged him. The man sighed inwardly, he had told Fredrick time and time again that if he wanted to contact him, he would have to call, or do it face to face. Dieter refused to spend any amount of time hunched over the keypad of his mobile phone figuring out how to use the letter ‘B’.

With a frown set firm upon his features, Dieter extracted the message and read it. His frown grew further, before the man tossed the phone back from where it previously rested upon the table. Fredrick couldn’t make it, either. He had to admit that he was rather disappointed, having looked forward to unwinding with his friend. It probably had something to do with that woman again, Dieter supposed. After all, Fredrick’s infatuation with her was common knowledge, and, had they been in a different situation (and not living the lives the assassins for the Fuehrer), Dieter would have teased him mercilessly about it. He had been with Fredrick once in that little store of Emmanuelle's; the establishment itself was nothing special, but the woman who ran it… Well, Dieter could understand Fredrick’s enthusiasm.

It was rather amusing, actually, to witness who was perhaps one of the most efficient killers in the country state reduced to a love struck child; eager and earnest for the attention of one lucky woman. But what was more amusing still, was the fact that she seemed rather immune to it all. She treated Fredrick as if he were an annoyance, shoving his gestures back in his face as it if was nothing. Privately, Dieter thought Emmanuelle below Fredrick anyway. He could do much better, and yet he goes after some silly little girl in a convenience store. Dieter’s eyes lifted skywards, lips twisted in a vague smile. It wasn’t as if they could work out anyway, regardless of whether she returned his affections or not. Fredrick was better off sticking to one night stands or prostitutes, at least they were expendable.

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Post: 57966567_13 created on Wed, 27 Jan 2010 23:11:25 +0000
Posted: Wed, 27 Jan 2010 23:11:25 +0000

were

patience

wouldn’t

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Post: 57966567_14 created on Fri, 29 Jan 2010 01:59:09 +0000
Posted: Fri, 29 Jan 2010 01:59:09 +0000

Omar resisted the initial urge to plant a fist in Aldo’s face at his words. ********. He was already making plans to feed that demented part of Donny that Aldo buried there himself. He was no better than Landa, really, the thought clear through Omar’s rage. Setting us up, pointing a finger and letting us do the dirty work, ********. His dark gaze slipped to Wicki momentarily, belatedly realizing that the man was speaking. Wicki’s words made sense, and Omar felt a rush of gratitude towards the taller man. He didn’t so much care as to whether it was a trap or not, he just wanted for Aldo to ********’ stop. Hell, he wanted Aldo piss off and go back to hick-town whence he came.

“You’d think they’d do a clean job of it.” Smithson said, suddenly, eyes fixed on Donny before flicking upwards to meet Aldo’s. His gaze was shadowed somewhat, prompting Omar to wonder what the man happened to be thinking at that moment. He wondered if he, too, was becoming annoyed towards Aldo, if he was starting to hate the position they were forced into. Every day that lapsed had them sink deeper into this merciless hellhole; cooped up in a goddamn three-bedder with four other men because they could hardly obtain anything more decent seeing as they were ********’ criminals.

“Yeah.” Omar heard himself say, glancing back to Aldo with a dark frown, “maybe next time they won’t slip up and tag him properly – shut the ******** up, Smitty.” He didn’t want to hear whatever protests the other man offered, his eyes locked with Aldo’s.

“I’ve had enough of this bullshit, Raine. Who the ******** next, huh?. Me?. Wicki?.” He gestured wildly towards the men he named. “Whatever war you’ve gone and created, Aldo, I don’t want to be a part of it.”

“You are a part of it, son.” Aldo interrupted, blue eyes narrowed, yet his body betrayed no other emotion. “When you signed up for the Basterds, you were part of it.”

“I didn’t sign up for anything!.” Omar said, voice rising, “You ********’ joined us. You ********’ hooked up with us because you were ********’ Donny. Shut UP, Utivich.” The man paused there, breath harsh,

“No.” He started once more, the word falling hard from his lips, “You, and Landa. That’s your s**t. I’m not going to be your goddamn messenger, I’m not, ********’.” Omar’s words tripped up, his rage causing them to come muddled and confused. But he had made his point, and with one final, dirty look directed to Aldo, Omar swept out of the house, slamming the door hard after him.

Silence followed. The occupants of the room rendered stunned at Omar’s outburst. Smithson supposed it had long been coming. He had, after all, started to talk about Aldo. Asking him of what he thought about him, about what he had them do.

“Well.” Aldo started, as if it was nothing. And suddenly, Smithson felt that he couldn’t take it at that moment. He felt drained, tired.

Honestly, he didn’t really mind working for Aldo. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous life or anything, but then again, Smithson was always one satisfied with working under someone else’s direction. He didn’t bother to wait for what Aldo was to say, whatever it was, or however important it happened to be. And instead, the man turned and padded out of the room – limping somewhat thanks to a cut on his foot. He made his way quietly up the stairs, and into his room, pulling the door shut after him with a muted click.

Aldo’s blue eyes followed Smithson out, not bothering to stop the man. He knew – honestly, he would have been stupid not to see – that the Basterds were starting to crumble around him. Had he been a better man, he would have felt sorry for them, or at least responsible for the situation he had forced them into. But Aldo didn’t think like most men. He had been ******** up the day he felt the slide of metal upon his throat.

He didn’t bother addressing Wicki, all but ignoring the man as he turned and proceeded to gather Donny of the table. Aldo moved the unconscious man with a degree of difficulty to the couch, arranging him upon the thing before letting himself out. He wondered, as he made his way through the town, not how to fix the entire situation up and allow the Basterds to live their lives normally. Instead he thought how he could manage both Omar and Smithson, and set them straight on the path he had led them on.

--

“I can see to my debts fine, thank you, Mr. Landa.” Archie said coldly, nearly interrupting the other man’s words. He would have usually been more polite about the situation, but Archie could feel the underlying threat in every word, and in every action that left Landa. He drew his hand back towards himself, privately wishing that his head was clearer and things didn’t hurt so much. Archie knew that the man opposite was attempting to trap him, and it was evident that he was clever, too. And whilst Archie himself was quite talented at maneuvering out of unpleasant situations, none of any he experienced had occurred when he was so muddled with pain and drugs. Landa could, quite effectively, gain the upper hand if he placed a single word wrong.

“I do apologise for using your name for sanctuary, Mr. Landa. If you were so kind to consider that I was hardly in the right state of mind, and to what Mr. Hellstrom had happened to say – I merely responded with anything.”

Even with the answer, as honest as it was, Archie highly doubted that Landa would simply brush it off. It was then that Archie’s drug addled mind automatically concluded that this Hans Landa was part of some crime syndicate that was terrorizing the city. And the sheer notion of it almost had Archie laugh. Oh, God. This is ridiculous. The momentary flare of amusement died as suddenly as it had come, leaving only that sick feeling of dread coupled with the growing need for a cigarette.

Still, however, Archie presented the image of a man who was perfectly in control of himself. He knew that most of the exchange was by non-verbal language, and, at the very least, he could ensure a solid line of defense. I’ll be out of this God forsaken country by tomorrow, regardless of whatever this psychopath can manage, he thought suddenly, heart seizing momentarily as he recalled his passport and boarding pass tossed haphazardly on a desk in his hotel.

--

Her smile became more genuine once Marcel greeted her, drawing comfort from his warm nature, and the easy familiarity they shared. It was quite a different feeling, being around Marcel comparatively to Fredrick. Marcel was a warm and easy presence, whereas Fredrick made her feel confused and wary. Marcel understood her, and didn’t try to question her actions, whereas Fredrick attempted to probe every aspect of her person.

Shosanna frowned inwardly at the subconscious assessment of the two men. It was simple, really, she told herself. There is hardly any need for comparison. Still, though, now being at Marcel’s door, and having his smile directed towards her, and have his warm touch upon her arm – Shosanna found she would have rather been alone that night.

She smiled once more, the expression having slipped from her face during the internal battle.

“No. I couldn’t intrude, Marcel.” Her blue eyes looked away momentarily before meeting the brown ones of the man before her. She continued before he could speak;

“I just was in the neighbourhood, and thought to say hello.” The excuse sounded feeble to her own ears, but she knew that Marcel wasn’t going to question it.

“I was wondering, if, perhaps you would like to have a coffee sometime?.” The request slipped from her lips before she had even considered what she was asking, but it was there now; hung between them like a fragile curtain, and Shosanna found herself afraid for his answer. Whilst she knew that she felt some warm regard towards Marcel, and wanted him in a sense, it had hardly crossed her mind to act upon it. But it was just now, now that she had pushed Fredrick aside with the half-lie of there being ‘someone else’, the least she could do was commit to it.

--

Dieter was somewhat surprised when Fredrick called him back. He had committed himself to spending the night alone, and so he was privately glad that the man had managed to get over whatever happened to be troubling him. He knew that Shosanna was just a passing fancy after all;

“What have I told you about messaging me, Fredick?.” He answered simply, the barest hint of amusement in his tone. “Shall we see through the night as planned?.”

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Post: 57966567_15 created on Fri, 29 Jan 2010 07:52:23 +0000
Posted: Fri, 29 Jan 2010 07:52:23 +0000

could

-- A week and a half later --

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