where lightfoot boys are laid

Miller's Bar, the place that brings the citizens of BC the infamous underground boxing ring, is the most popular joint at East Side, where members of all gangs and organizations can come and relax, have a drink and watch a boxing match, without fear of being caught in a life-or-death match with their enemies. Mr. Miller will not tolerate this in his bar. Every Sunday is boxing night, and only a select crowd is allowed in on those nights. The more than capable bouncers make sure of it. It is run by Mr. Miller, but owned by the Fierro family, to whom Mr. Miller answers.

where lightfoot boys are laid

Joined: 19 Nov 2012, 13:47

09 Mar 2013, 05:50 #1

“I don’t know, man. . .”

Cal’s argument began feebly, drunk-supple, and continued only to weaken like a fruit’s bruise underneath a steadily pressing thumb. He tongued the coral baby fat of his bottom lip with an indecision which served only to delay his surrender.

“Look, it’s really simple.” Mack Banner tugged a wooden chair closer to Cal and sat on it backwards. He moved crisply, classically assured and so traditionally villainous that it was disarming. Unrealistic. His approach, manipulatively patient, suggested that success was only a matter of explaining the situation correctly. Until Cal understood properly. He pulled his hands slowly together, slowly apart, in painstaking illustration. “We handle the stuff. Okay? That’s our responsibility. When we give it to you, all you do is make the exchange. It’s just, that’s the sensitive part, all right? We need you for that ‘cause your record’s clean.”

He knew he would give in when he rolled his head to the side in exasperation, when he exhaled heavily and gave them a pained and harried look, when he buried his hands in his jacket pockets, when he pled quietly to four faces demonstrating impatience in four ways: a stiff sniff, a tongue fishing inside a cheek, a tightening of jaw, a vicious scrub of forefinger on lips.

"Look, do you want Kane to fuck up his probation? He's trying to get straight. He's got two kids. Not one, but two baby-mamas breathing down his neck. You want him to get busted again? If you can't do this, we don't have to be here, man. We can leave you alone. Just say the word. We'll back off."

When he agreed, they drew him into their posturing, rustling nest. It was its own kind of tenderness. Their watchful glances, criminally protective, waited for a clear path for distribution. He was as new and precious as his cargo. The hand slipping into his jacket pocket was deft and caretaking. It petted his ribs briefly, rousing and rewarding at the same time—as good as a “good dog.”

He tasted the cold, bright sting of his tongue crushed between his molars. Hold. Still. He waited against the yellow-gray wall, facing the tile partially outlined in mold and various hostile, semi-coherent messages scribbled on the plaster. Be cool, they'd told him, and had no less cliché advice than that.
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Joined: 29 Sep 2007, 15:22

12 Apr 2013, 22:11 #2

He saw him first at the mouth of the narrow dead-end in no man's land, entering that secluded space without the right to fill it. The gods of prescience whispered coded warnings in his ears.

The weight against his leg increased by a fraction, the head of a young boy, thirteen at most, rested on it. He sighed quietly and continued his stilted reading. "He's so j-joll... Jolly?" The head tilted up in search of approval, but Michael was facing the other way, staring across the street at the mouth of the alley, narrowing his eyes and searching. He nodded gently, hand cupping the back of the young boy's neck, index finger tracing the scar running down its side. "Jolly," the boy repeated, and monotonously went on, "Inn... Inno-cent..."

It had been a man. Was it a man? Was it a beast? A threat, no doubt, dark and looming. A stranger.

"...that if you was-" Michael tapped the scar lightly, corrected him, "Were," and looked down at the mop of dark hair that spilled onto his knee, "Read the words." The boy nodded, went on, "Were to p-put your t..." and paused to shape his mouth around the letters.

Was it a familiar stranger? He found himself staring away from the warmth of his assembly. An impostor.

"Thumb," smiling, pausing for the pat against the side of his neck, an unspoken 'well done' that had him continuing despite the desire to stop. "To your nose and w-wave your...fingers...at-him-he-would-only..."

The mouth of the alley beckoned him. The voices hissed ecstatically into his ear. There. There. There's something there. They sunk their talons into his back. His shoulders tensed.

"W-won... Won-der, gr...gr...gra..." The two standing huddled at the bottom of the steps snickered, glancing with amusement over their shoulders at the makeshift student on the bottom step, and the boy lifted his head suddenly, leaned against the wall instead, sulked. "Ain't no one fucking talks like that anyway."

The alley beckoned him.

Quietly, Michael stood and drew alert glances from the other four that surrounded him. He shook his head, noticing their attempt to follow his gaze. "Gravely to himself what got into you," he stated, his voice level, his eyes fixed on the mouth of the passageway where he knew the shape was waiting. For him? For someone else? For how long? "Wait here."

He heard the beginnings of an argument, but ignored the growls of his abandoned cubs. The stilted reading began anew as he walked, crossed the street and warily moved to the mouth of the narrow dead-end. He peered into it, traced the longest shadows until his eyes landed on the figure that lurked there against the wall.

His eyes narrowed. No man at all, but a boy. He looked like a boy with that posture, that newness, the roundness of his edges. Predatorily assertive all of a sudden, he drew nearer, watched him with a snarl tugging at his lip and a steely edge to his eyes. "How does someone with lips as plump as yours find himself in this position?" He stood in the centre of the passage, demanding all the space he could soak up, slipping into the darkness and closer to him. "Hm? With purpose, no doubt. Intent."

He stopped a few steps away and watched him, eyes trailing from foot to waist, from waist to shoulders to arms and fingers. "But what intent?"


this wound cuts straight through me; I fear I shall never be whole again
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Joined: 19 Nov 2012, 13:47

24 Jun 2013, 02:03 #3

Cal anticipated someone thick and tall, mid-thirties, with black eyes and a neutral expression on his everyman face—someone who would seem to have been crafted with discreet, anonymous crime in mind—someone who made his abnormal unflappability seem like mundane stolidness when he gruffly grunted, “Do you have the stuff?” He didn't expect a lithe and slippery figure with conspicuous, peroxide blond hair and strongly saurian features disguising his age. He didn’t expect fanged, potent demands. The stranger’s vernacular was so odd, his features so alien, that Cal tried to detect the foreign accent that must have accompanied them.

“‘Plump,’” he returned the word to sender, infused and swollen with indignation and humor both. It was the kind of sentiment his friends in Miller’s supported but wouldn't have articulated. Their approach to him was a combination of seducing him into their fold and alienating him, shaming him for his clothes and his education (Meechalangelo, they called him, with a scorn that had varying degrees of sincerity). The accusation was familiar—you don’t belong here—even if the delivery was new.

It occurred to him how Mack or Kane would've described him to a stranger. They must've emphasized the parts of him that a criminal would take note of: the curls in his hair such unnecessary elaboration, his lips fat like woman’s or a child’s. He knew when to take pride in their sensual function; he knew when to be ashamed of their vulgar vulnerability. To them, it was a means to emasculate him, degrade him for his hapless status, and convince him that an excess of genetics was yet another way he was over-fortunate, blessed with gluttonous luck.

"Yeah, which one of them told you to say that?" he scoffed off the observation with bravado in the upward tic of his head. Then, a casually confiding complaint. “They think it bothers me,” followed by the rough, masculine sniff of someone who consumed too many toxic substances—an unconscious imitation. Because he thought it would make him seem more seasoned in shady transactions, he added his own skeptical and brusque critique. “Be a little more obvious.”

It took all of his energy to be so removed. Rather than lacking the emotions, he held their struggling mass back in quivering nets. The corners of his mouth twitched. His scowl sat on his face’s unsteady surface, driftwood on the waves.
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Joined: 29 Sep 2007, 15:22

17 Aug 2013, 20:40 #4

Slow in movement, in eyes and observation, he studied the man — the boy, the boy — with acute attention to detail. This was not something to be rushed. He was hardly reacting; he registered his words, his accusation of being told, with only the slightest twitch to his upper lip, a sneer that lasted less than a second, even less, before it faded into something akin to indifference.

But that sniff, its rough edge, its applied masculinity, it had his eyes rushing to meet the newness of this other man’s, this new pup that stood by the wall and practised his bark. It was the mark of the younger ones, he knew it all too well; they straightened their backs when they looked him in the eyes, they practised their growls, their sharpened looks, their darkened voices, and had this been one of his own young, it would have warranted a lesson in the form of a bruised or broken rib.

Obvious,” he mimicked, sounding out the syllables, and reached his hand over the boy’s shoulder until his fist met the cold, hard surface of the wall. He leaned forward against it, edging himself into the other’s personal space. “Do you imagine I met with these others of yours and lay scheming plans concerning the plumpness of your lips?” He arched a brow, tilted his head, carried on with his slow observation of the pup’s eyes and nose and cheeks and jaw, his neck and the set of his shoulders. It was the careful process of committing what he saw to memory. It could never be rushed. “Do you imagine they took circumspect care in scripting our interactions in order to, as you said, bother you?”

His voice went still and smooth and steady as he spoke, moving toward a monotone whisper. “How momentous a mouth yours must be, little prince, to occasion such a cabal.”


this wound cuts straight through me; I fear I shall never be whole again
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Joined: 19 Nov 2012, 13:47

17 May 2014, 17:52 #5

He told himself he knew this person. Had seen him sitting in Theory of Modern Art classes with his expression origamied into a perfect, pale portrait of sour distrust and bloodthirsty fetish for ostracization. I’m the only one who suffers this particular strain of modern, psychological disease. That was all, Cal assured himself—the leeched color was just the pretentious white of a sparse, contemporary, image-focused person. The reason he was here at all was because the world of art students was too abstract. Too spineless, washed carefully of guts or context. The avant-garde laved colorless bones into being then left them alone, unfurnished, afraid to build a real idea on their skeletons.

Aborted art bothered him because it couldn’t touch him; didn’t want to. Now this representative of its clean, surgical methods surrounded him. His words were a spider’s silver spit. The longer Cal listened, the longer he stayed still, the easier it would be for that sucking absence to winnow him to nothing. He thrust both palms into the cold sculpture’s chest, just below the collar, and rose to meet him with all his heat and strength. Lips curled, chest swollen. To give the impression of snarling down at him, Cal lifted his chin higher.

“I’m not playing this game with you, asshole. Over pot, for fuck’s sake. You wanna practice your vocabulary?—your intimidation skills? Do it in your bathroom fucking mirror. Sick of you shit-wits.” He ripped the plastic bag of marijuana out of his coat pocket and threw it at the stranger. It crumpled into his chest and landed in black, stagnating water puddling in the alley’s uneven concrete.

“You think you’re not just as full of shit as everybody else. Look!" With an exaggerated motion of his arm, imitating the theatrics imposed on him, he gestured toward the alley and its dingy, blank stare. "No one's watching! No one's impressed!"
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