DOGS fanfic - When the Going Gets Tough
Title: When the Going Gets Tough
Author: kami_krazy
Ratings/Warnings: M for mature language/themes. Shades of Heine/Badou.
Summarry: There's something that Heine doesn't know. Or if he does, he doesn't want to think about it. Or if he thinks about it, he doesn't bring it up. Goddamned elephant in the room.
I wonder, sometimes, if that goddamned mutt understands simple shit. Like odds. 'Cause there's a shitload of evidence to the contrary, and it's more than a little unsettling.
For example: the odds of twenty gunmen with fully automatic firearms hitting something the average size of a watermelon when it's standing still. Or, more appropriately, the odds of all twenty fuckers with their goddamned glorified pop guns for assholes (my semis don't count, I have no depth perception) firing at him while he stands there and takes it failing to hit his goddamned head. The jackass should be dead by now, and I have a feeling he knows it. Bastard.
I can understand the other shit he doesn't understand if he doesn't get odds like that.
Like, if he doesn't even have a grasp on that much, he probably doesn't get how his pals in whatever-the-fuck shadowy organization are probably bound to fuck him over every time they come into contact with one another; considering they're better funded and kitted out than he is. And he probably doesn't have a handle on how unlikely it is that he'll be following any of 'em back to their hidey-hole down to the sub-basement of this piece of shit city.
Or how likely it is that I'll end up dead before he gets there.
I mean, seriously? Of any of the guys that hang around him -- with maybe the exception of Nill -- I'm the first in line to get fucked over. I'm missing an eye and not in the somehow good, semi-omnipotent way that the blond guy in the priest outfit at the church has managed to swing it. I get shit lobbed at my head when I'm working at the general store as a part-time job and I can't catch it. Or dodge it. Because I can't fucking tell where it is. No more 3D vision for ol' Badou. And then there's my fucking smoking habit. Three packs or more a day, every day. I'm puffing on a fucking cancer-stick from the time I wake up to the second I hit the sack at night, and the filters for the stupid things are sometimes the only shit that crosses my lips. Living on my nerves like I do, I forget to eat more often than not. Add onto all that the fact that I'm genuinely psycho and seem to have a goddamned knack for running face-first into shit-tons of trouble, and you only come up with one conclusion: I'm living on borrowed time. And with the city filling up with nigh-invincible creeps, the seconds are ticking by faster and faster every day.
But I can appreciate a healthy amount of denial. I live in it constantly, denying the fact that I'm likely to have just had the last cigarette of my life or the fact that my legs can't quite get me the whole distance from one rooftop to the other, and it works, most of the time. But...
Big words don't really amount to anything. Dave showed me that much. And fucking around with Heine and letting him slap me around for being an idiot...well, they're one thing.
Knowing that there's gonna be a firefight that I just won't be able to pony up and win...that's something else altogether. And even if he's not as oblivious as I think he is...those puppy-dog eyes of his make it hard to bring up the thought that there might not be a later for yours truly.
Author: kami_krazy
Ratings/Warnings: M for mature language/themes. Shades of Heine/Badou.
Summarry: There's something that Heine doesn't know. Or if he does, he doesn't want to think about it. Or if he thinks about it, he doesn't bring it up. Goddamned elephant in the room.
I wonder, sometimes, if that goddamned mutt understands simple shit. Like odds. 'Cause there's a shitload of evidence to the contrary, and it's more than a little unsettling.
For example: the odds of twenty gunmen with fully automatic firearms hitting something the average size of a watermelon when it's standing still. Or, more appropriately, the odds of all twenty fuckers with their goddamned glorified pop guns for assholes (my semis don't count, I have no depth perception) firing at him while he stands there and takes it failing to hit his goddamned head. The jackass should be dead by now, and I have a feeling he knows it. Bastard.
I can understand the other shit he doesn't understand if he doesn't get odds like that.
Like, if he doesn't even have a grasp on that much, he probably doesn't get how his pals in whatever-the-fuck shadowy organization are probably bound to fuck him over every time they come into contact with one another; considering they're better funded and kitted out than he is. And he probably doesn't have a handle on how unlikely it is that he'll be following any of 'em back to their hidey-hole down to the sub-basement of this piece of shit city.
Or how likely it is that I'll end up dead before he gets there.
I mean, seriously? Of any of the guys that hang around him -- with maybe the exception of Nill -- I'm the first in line to get fucked over. I'm missing an eye and not in the somehow good, semi-omnipotent way that the blond guy in the priest outfit at the church has managed to swing it. I get shit lobbed at my head when I'm working at the general store as a part-time job and I can't catch it. Or dodge it. Because I can't fucking tell where it is. No more 3D vision for ol' Badou. And then there's my fucking smoking habit. Three packs or more a day, every day. I'm puffing on a fucking cancer-stick from the time I wake up to the second I hit the sack at night, and the filters for the stupid things are sometimes the only shit that crosses my lips. Living on my nerves like I do, I forget to eat more often than not. Add onto all that the fact that I'm genuinely psycho and seem to have a goddamned knack for running face-first into shit-tons of trouble, and you only come up with one conclusion: I'm living on borrowed time. And with the city filling up with nigh-invincible creeps, the seconds are ticking by faster and faster every day.
But I can appreciate a healthy amount of denial. I live in it constantly, denying the fact that I'm likely to have just had the last cigarette of my life or the fact that my legs can't quite get me the whole distance from one rooftop to the other, and it works, most of the time. But...
Big words don't really amount to anything. Dave showed me that much. And fucking around with Heine and letting him slap me around for being an idiot...well, they're one thing.
Knowing that there's gonna be a firefight that I just won't be able to pony up and win...that's something else altogether. And even if he's not as oblivious as I think he is...those puppy-dog eyes of his make it hard to bring up the thought that there might not be a later for yours truly.