June Character Development Exercise for tenebrae_nostro
Fire.
Fire. One very nice sized, growing-ever-larger, fucking fire. Flames, huge ones, reaching out from around a mushroom cloud on the horizon to burn up the very air around it. The mushroom cloud explodes up from a pool of oil. Oil? Oh hell, maybe gas, or something else. Something toxic, something deadly. Something dirty. And that in turn, the oil or whatever it is? Gushes up from the depths of Hades itself.
It's a nice picture. Gives me ideas. I like it. A lot.
***(happens before he meets up with the lovely and delectable Mrs Lovett)***
The smoke was rising into the sky, thick and black. Top rested against the hood of his rented jeep, watching as it filled the air in loops and swirls, only to drift away on the warm afternoon breeze. He took a deep breath, let it out with a satisfied sigh. Some things just seemed to be better with fire, as if the fire cleansed all the decay, all the infection away. And that was exactly what this place was. Infected, decayed.
It had taken Top days, literally days, to track down what had become of the woman who's face he'd seen on the back page of the Los Angeles Times. He wasn't certain, couldn't be sure - but damned if the profile didn't look like Cinderella. So he flew to New York City, and he did some talking. Some of it with his mouth, and some with his wallet. And some talking? Some of it he did with his fists. An on-the-ball security guard at Mount Sinai had taken down the helicopter registration number as part of his 'med flight' incident report, and for a mere twenty bucks he gave Top the information.
From there, Top tracked the crew of the med flight, talking to first one, then another. Finally, in frustration, he'd waylaid the copter pilot in the hospital parking lot, and beat the ever loving fuck out of him. Put him back into the hospital, courtesy of the emergency entrance this time. But he had the flight log, he had the information.
And now, this, THIS! was the culmination of all his hard work. This isolated little psych hospital out in the middle of nowhere. Top had called in some favors, quite a few in fact. And even flown a couple favors in from Detroit for the barbecue. And after all, what's a barbecue without an occasional burned piece of meat?
It was a small building, and as hospitals go it was almost minuscule. The sleep lab down one wing was empty, and the twenty bed behavioral patient's ward was only half full. Add that to a few doctors, a couple techs, some nurses - face it, they never carried a full staff on the weekends, after all? What could happen then?
Top happened then. Top and a couple fists full of men, and more than enough fire power to take out a small police station happened then. And the operation was smooth, almost too sweet. It went down like clockwork.
See, first you take down a telephone pole, take down the initial power supply. Man in disguise walks through the front door and tells the inside guard sitting there that he's there to check the generators, the back up system that keeps the place going. And you know, the guards are all expecting someone to try and get out. They're never expecting someone to try and get in.
Pop the guard in the head with a silenced 45 cal, and take the men down the halls. Sweep the place, gather everyone one wing, and separate staff from patients. And once they are out of sight of each other? Take out the patients right then and there. Bastards are all crazies of one type or another. Suicides, or junkies or alcoholics. Problem is, they might not be fucked up enough. Not quite. So remove them from the picture. They aren't the ones you need, and they'd only be in the way anyhow. A distraction.
And now? Now it's time to get down to business. This is when the men get to play, and Top gets to play even harder.
And he did.
And he got names, oh yes. Someone remembered the redhead - someone talked. A few someones, even. Female, just recently having given birth, had total amnesia they told him. Traumatized, couldn't even remember her own name, much less what happened to the babe. But no one knew where she went, and no one, not a single person, could find record of her anywhere.
But they knew of people who would know - guys like Charles Bowman, former Chief Operations Director of the hospital. He'd retired early, moved to Florida they told him. And with him went one of the psychologists on staff. Those names and addresses he got, those he kept. So was it Cinderella? Who the fuck knows? But it was a closer lead, it was a better tip than he'd had for weeks. And Top was determined to follow it to the end. All the way to Florida, and right down the the screaming fucking throat of one Mr. Charles Bowman until he found his wife again.
And the staff members who helped him? He helped in return. Quick, merciful, clean deaths. No playing with these few, no they were under his protection. No one got to touch them, no one got to hurt them. Top had promised them that, and Top always kept his word.
The place was burning now, the bodies laid out on the floor in a small room in nice neat rows and isopropyl alcohol was sprayed over the bodies, above the puddle of gasoline that lay beneath them. Men with masks did this part of the work, as it could cause nausea and dizziness if this shit got inhaled. A trail of gas led down the hallway, gas on manila folders, and files, and on and around a few more bodies.
Top lit the book of matches himself, dropping it down into gasoline-soaked hair of a womans' corpse. And leaving the deadly vaporous gas to ignite behind him, Top walked out of the building and turned to watch it burn.
They kept his wife from him. They would pay, and they did pay. And so would anyone else that fucked with the family of Top Dollar.
Top Dollar
Fandom: The Crow (movie)
Words *inc Rorschach Inkblot description*: 1132
(PS. the views displayed here, in regards to behavioral health units or hospitals for psychiatric care and the patients within - is the opinion of the muse himself and NOT the opinion of the author).
Fire. One very nice sized, growing-ever-larger, fucking fire. Flames, huge ones, reaching out from around a mushroom cloud on the horizon to burn up the very air around it. The mushroom cloud explodes up from a pool of oil. Oil? Oh hell, maybe gas, or something else. Something toxic, something deadly. Something dirty. And that in turn, the oil or whatever it is? Gushes up from the depths of Hades itself.
It's a nice picture. Gives me ideas. I like it. A lot.
***(happens before he meets up with the lovely and delectable Mrs Lovett)***
The smoke was rising into the sky, thick and black. Top rested against the hood of his rented jeep, watching as it filled the air in loops and swirls, only to drift away on the warm afternoon breeze. He took a deep breath, let it out with a satisfied sigh. Some things just seemed to be better with fire, as if the fire cleansed all the decay, all the infection away. And that was exactly what this place was. Infected, decayed.
It had taken Top days, literally days, to track down what had become of the woman who's face he'd seen on the back page of the Los Angeles Times. He wasn't certain, couldn't be sure - but damned if the profile didn't look like Cinderella. So he flew to New York City, and he did some talking. Some of it with his mouth, and some with his wallet. And some talking? Some of it he did with his fists. An on-the-ball security guard at Mount Sinai had taken down the helicopter registration number as part of his 'med flight' incident report, and for a mere twenty bucks he gave Top the information.
From there, Top tracked the crew of the med flight, talking to first one, then another. Finally, in frustration, he'd waylaid the copter pilot in the hospital parking lot, and beat the ever loving fuck out of him. Put him back into the hospital, courtesy of the emergency entrance this time. But he had the flight log, he had the information.
And now, this, THIS! was the culmination of all his hard work. This isolated little psych hospital out in the middle of nowhere. Top had called in some favors, quite a few in fact. And even flown a couple favors in from Detroit for the barbecue. And after all, what's a barbecue without an occasional burned piece of meat?
It was a small building, and as hospitals go it was almost minuscule. The sleep lab down one wing was empty, and the twenty bed behavioral patient's ward was only half full. Add that to a few doctors, a couple techs, some nurses - face it, they never carried a full staff on the weekends, after all? What could happen then?
Top happened then. Top and a couple fists full of men, and more than enough fire power to take out a small police station happened then. And the operation was smooth, almost too sweet. It went down like clockwork.
See, first you take down a telephone pole, take down the initial power supply. Man in disguise walks through the front door and tells the inside guard sitting there that he's there to check the generators, the back up system that keeps the place going. And you know, the guards are all expecting someone to try and get out. They're never expecting someone to try and get in.
Pop the guard in the head with a silenced 45 cal, and take the men down the halls. Sweep the place, gather everyone one wing, and separate staff from patients. And once they are out of sight of each other? Take out the patients right then and there. Bastards are all crazies of one type or another. Suicides, or junkies or alcoholics. Problem is, they might not be fucked up enough. Not quite. So remove them from the picture. They aren't the ones you need, and they'd only be in the way anyhow. A distraction.
And now? Now it's time to get down to business. This is when the men get to play, and Top gets to play even harder.
And he did.
And he got names, oh yes. Someone remembered the redhead - someone talked. A few someones, even. Female, just recently having given birth, had total amnesia they told him. Traumatized, couldn't even remember her own name, much less what happened to the babe. But no one knew where she went, and no one, not a single person, could find record of her anywhere.
But they knew of people who would know - guys like Charles Bowman, former Chief Operations Director of the hospital. He'd retired early, moved to Florida they told him. And with him went one of the psychologists on staff. Those names and addresses he got, those he kept. So was it Cinderella? Who the fuck knows? But it was a closer lead, it was a better tip than he'd had for weeks. And Top was determined to follow it to the end. All the way to Florida, and right down the the screaming fucking throat of one Mr. Charles Bowman until he found his wife again.
And the staff members who helped him? He helped in return. Quick, merciful, clean deaths. No playing with these few, no they were under his protection. No one got to touch them, no one got to hurt them. Top had promised them that, and Top always kept his word.
The place was burning now, the bodies laid out on the floor in a small room in nice neat rows and isopropyl alcohol was sprayed over the bodies, above the puddle of gasoline that lay beneath them. Men with masks did this part of the work, as it could cause nausea and dizziness if this shit got inhaled. A trail of gas led down the hallway, gas on manila folders, and files, and on and around a few more bodies.
Top lit the book of matches himself, dropping it down into gasoline-soaked hair of a womans' corpse. And leaving the deadly vaporous gas to ignite behind him, Top walked out of the building and turned to watch it burn.
They kept his wife from him. They would pay, and they did pay. And so would anyone else that fucked with the family of Top Dollar.
Top Dollar
Fandom: The Crow (movie)
Words *inc Rorschach Inkblot description*: 1132
(PS. the views displayed here, in regards to behavioral health units or hospitals for psychiatric care and the patients within - is the opinion of the muse himself and NOT the opinion of the author).