(no subject)
“Give me one good bloody reason why I shouldn’t shoot your between the eyes right now, Bungali.”
“Because it’s nearly Christamas, peace on earth cest'e none?”
I raised my arm, eyes narrowing as I aimed it for his head. His arms were flung up in a flash while Bungali took a step back.
“Okay! Okay! Kidding! Fou La Merde, do you not have sense of humor? I led you to the demon didn’t I? Mon Amie, have a heart!”
I snorted, lowering the gun slowly. Have a heart. I used to have one, but it shrunk and withered way long before my so called fake death. Not that anyone knew I was dead, and I preferred it that way. It made existing so much easier when you had no connections to keep you bound to this mortal coil. Sometimes - when I had one bottle to many - I wondered just who had turned out to be the real immortal.
Here I was, still walking around, breathing, heart beating, body moving. While Spike and Angel, who for all practice purposes were dead, were really dead. Dust, gone with the wind. Or rather, swept away in the drains of Los Angeles.
“You set me up with that particular demon and that wasn’t the first time. Now you, my dear fellow, are much to stupid to come up with such a plan. Failed as it was. You give me a name, and I’ll think about letting you walk.”
He lowered his arms and peered at me like the idiot he was. Talar demons are a born dumb and it doesn’t get any better when they grow up. But they are greedy, very greedy. No way in hell was I going to pay him for any kind of information this time. He had something else to bargain with this time. His life. I’m sure he appreciated that one as well. No life, no greed.
“You foecking kidding me, Pryce? Do I look like I want to die, Mon Amie?”
Sighing, I stepped closer to him, pressing my gun against his temple. “I’m not your friend, lets get that clear. Now, unless you want your family to have la boîte crânienne pate for the holidays? I suggest you start talking. “
He licked what passed for his lips and looked at me with panic in his eyes. As far as Talar demons are capable of panic that is. “Is powerful warlock! Like you, only with lots of contact. La fripouille will skin me alive if he knew!”
“You’d rather have a bullet between your eyes then? Because that can be arranged.”
“Merde, you canaille! I cannot tell! Can only say he’s not happy with you messing with his affairs.” Suddenly he gave me shrewd look and inched closer. “He’s after old amour of you,” he grinned. “Old...friend.”
Removing the safety lock from the gun, I cocked and put it between his eyes. “I don’t have any friends,” I tell him coldly. All my friends died, and its better that way. No more pain left for me, just what I have now and the memories. Those hurt more then enough. “A name, Bungali. Now. I’m starting to get very impatient.”
“Oh come on! Gimme chance!”
“One.”
“He will la mise à mort!”
“Two.”
“Ramos! Monsieur Ramos! Okay! Let me go!”
Pulling the gun away from his head, I looked at him thoughtfully. That name didn’t ring any bells what so ever. “Get out of here, before I change my mind.”
“Imbicile dangereuse,” he muttered under his breath while he quickly made himself scares.
“Oh...and Bungali?” I called out just before he inched through the door.
“What!” he groused, turning around to face me.
A shot rang out, his eyes went wide, mouth opening and closing but nothing came out while he hit the floor. A pool of purple quickly gathered around his head, or what was left of his head.
“Joyeux Noel,” I muttered, stepping over his corpse. “No babies for you this year, Bungali,” I snorted. “Now to disturb a wealthy and apparently powerful warlock his festive dinner.”