Smoking pussycat
Quiet shifts lately. Mostly domestics, and it's too cold outside for even the rapists and the pervs to get up to much. Take your pecker out of your pants and it'd freeze solid in under a minute.
Primary on a couple of dead strippers down in the district. Never thought I'd get sick of looking at naked women, but today's the day. If I have another one shaking her cans in my face to try to distract me, I swear I'll start thinking seriously about batting for the other team.
Corelli's got some bug up his ass about Tucci. Got back to the precinct this morning and found Kant breaking them up. Yamaguchi had that damn chess set out. Asshole won't stop harassing me for a game. Paperwork finally cleared on the badge that old Pezhead threw out into the reservoir, at least. Committee cleared me. Apparently, it's not my fault Magneto tied me up like a Christmas present.
My self-esteem is consoled.
---
It's a grey night in the city with a mix of snow and sleet having fallen just a few hours earlier, leaving behind a bitter cold that even the most hardened of New Yorkers are loathe to be out in. "Did you not see the sign?" A voice snarls unhappily from a doorway moments before a man's body comes careening from inside. Two bouncers step back away from the door as a woman clad in little more than a thin, black dress, a pair of fishnets and thigh high black, leather boots comes strolling out, presing the pointed heel of her boot into the man's spine before he can get back up. "Or did you think it just didn't apply to you?" She digs the heel deeper as she leans down to grab one of his wrists twisting it behind his back as he squirms, trying not to let the heel puncture his flesh. People begin to slow, some scattering to the other side of the street, others stopping to gawk. Myra seems unaffected by either the stares or the cold, her attention focused soley on the man who's arm is starting to twist painfully in the wrong direction.
New York is unlovesome this time of year: much like its denizens, who crawl and scrabble along its more unwholesome byways. For the man who strolls down the slush-hagged sidewalk, the commotion is hardly a spectator sport. Hands thrust in overcoat pockets, leather collar drowned by a scarf's ophidian bind, Det. Rossi squints through puddles of municipal lighting and turns his inquisitive, reluctant steps tither. "Hey," baritone lifts, chasing a swift glance. "What is this, street ballet?"
Myra strains for a moment as she twists, gripping the wrist with one hand and the now free one reaches for his pinky finger. One solid motion is all it takes before the tiny pop of bone can be heard, followed by the howling of a grown man who's now struggling despite the heel. Dark eyes peer up through fiery red strands as Myra glances to the man who's daring to interupt her. "Sure thing. Except this fellow didn't make the cut. So I'm helping him become a little more..." she pauses to push down on his arm, any more weight and it's likely to pull right out of the socket, or snap at the elbow, she's fine with either."..flexible."
"I think you've done enough," interjects Rossi, fielding the last few feet with a fair imitation of haste. The Brooklyn-tainted voice lifts over the man's yells, the edge in the accent grudging the cold; he passes through the mist of his own breath, shedding it in the hitch of a shoulder and the flash of a gold badge in a gloved hand. "Let him go, lady. I know a little exertion warms up the blood, but it's too damn cold and too damn wet for this."
Myra's eyes narrow as she glances towards the badge. Fucking cops, always sticking their nose where it doesn't belong. She's hardly even gotten started. She grabs his freshly broken pinky and squeezes, twisting it one last time as the heel pulls up from his back, allowing him to roll over on the ground. "Tell that to grabby-Mc.lately." she snarls and let's his hand go at last, taking a step back. "Next time you feel like grabbing an ass, make sure it's own. Asshole." A solid kick to his now exposed side before Myra turns her full attention to Rossi.
Sympathy? The cop's face is remarkably lacking in it, either for the woman or the man. The badge, flipped back in its cover, disappears into the inner recesses of a pocket. "Christ," the detective exhales, democratic in his annoyance with both participants. A sludge-rimmed shoe nudges at the man with the uncharitable recommendation, "You probably want someone to take a look at that. --And you," he begins to Myra, only to interrupt himself with a blank, "You go outside like that? You got anti-freeze for blood, or what?"
And it's a good thing to, Myra wouldn't respond well to sympathy. She hardly needs it, after all, she took care of the situation well enough. "I was /working/ and I wasn't about to go breaking his arm inside and interupt Candy's show. That's just rude." The adrenaline had been enough for her, but now that the cold's been pointed out, the goosebumps begins to form over the woman's arms and there's a faint shiver noticable along her spine.
"Polite strippers," marvels the detective, mockery skeining with the barest ghost of amusement. "I'll be damned. Or are you just being considerate of your customers? A real service industry." Paused as he is in watching the injured man recover himself, the cop spends a half-second's distraction in fishing cigarettes out of his pocket. Nicely, he offers somewhere between the assaulter (which?) and victim (which?), "Smoke?"
"Polite to those who've earned it. Candy has." Myra takes a slow step forward, her heel coming terribly close to the man's hand as he pushes himself up from the ground. The hand recoils quickly, drawing a pleased smile to the stripper's lips. "Thanks." The cigarette is plucked from the offered pack as she waits expectantly for a light to go along with it.
A black brow arches, curiosity mercurial behind the lift. A cheap Bic lighter is mined out of the recesses of the selfsame pocket; the detective strips his glove to flick it, lazing an idle, "Earned it, huh? What does a stripper do to earn respect? Shakes what God gave her? Or buys a better set of bumpers?" His fist offers the small flame, brave and buffeted by the wind.
Myra leans in just enough to light the end of the cigarette, pulling back away once it's lit and walking towards the door. She says something to one of the bouncers who hurries inside, reappearing with her coat a few moments later. The cigarette pressed tight between her lips, Myra slides the coat on and tightens it around her waist. "If you saw what that girl can do with nothing more than a g-string and a pole, you'd respect her to." She states, red brow arching in responce to his.
"I'll take it on faith," says the cop, dry, though a glance skims past Myra to the pictures of strippers promising SEXXXXXXXAH!!!! in the establishment's interior. His own cigarette takes a moment longer to light, and paints his face red behind the shield of a hand. "And you're ... what. The muscle?" A quizzical, skeptical eye inspects Myra. "Let me guess. Camouflage. Blend in with the crowd. Stealth bouncing."
"Shame. You should stop in one day. You're hot enough I bet she'd give you a lap dance for free." A smirk as she tilts, finding the wall with her back before taking a long pull from the cigarette. "Do I look like the muscle?" Probably best not to answer that one. "No, I let the boys do the tossing, I was just getting my two sense in since it was my ass he thought he had the right to be grabbing."
The cop's expression turns slightly sardonic at the compliment, and the broad brow furrows over the barest ghost of humor. "The vindictive bitch sort," he tells the unfortunate victim, tucking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth before jerking his chin at the other man, callous indifference planing across the urban tincture. "Scoot, dickhead. Count your testicles later. --He could end up pressing charges, you know."
Myra's smirk twists for the barest of moments into an actual smile. "Something like that. Yeah." It isn't the first time she's been called a bitch, and it certainly won't be the last. "He could, but then I'd just have to break his other arm. Besides, there's a sign inside warning them that they get grabby at their own risks. It's a strip club, not a whore house." Her complete lack of concern is enacted in yet another long drag.
"'Reasonable force,'" quips the cop, without enthusiasm; the quote falls flat and worn, rubbed shiny in the fashion of the well-used and -abused. Hands back in his pocket, he watches while Myra's victim beats a hasty (and prudently silent) retreat, before drifting to prop his shoulder against the wall. "Judge'd find in his favor. Kicking him out's one thing. Chasing him down and breaking his arm's another."
"Seemed reasonable to me." Myra says with a carefree shrug of one shoulder before she sends some of the ashes scattering with a single flick. "Besides I didn't break his arm, just a finger, and if you were him would you really want to tell your buddies you got beat up by a stripper?"
A pale eye scythes askance to Myra, assess her with wry amusement, then turns away. "Not likely," the detective says, brief: abnegating and preempting the possibility, even before the question. His cigarette winks a bloody eye at Myra, tangling its smoke with his white breath. "Next time, put a rein on your revenge kick. Dead of winter's a crappy time to be in the slammer."
"That's what I thought." The male ego, such a delicate little toy. Besides, she has other ways of making sure he keeps his distance. "I'll keep that in mind next time." Myra offers with one last drag before the cigarette is dropped and promptly pressed flat under the tall boot. "Thanks for the cigarette. I've got work to do." A single nod of her chin before Myra turns and starts to stride back to the door.
The cop nods acknowledgment for the farewell, the baritone a neutral half-step behind. "No problem." Conversation over, interest straying, he unhooks himself from the wall. With one last, cynical glance for the window ('The Catwalk,' reads a garish sign. 'Let Miss Kitty Stroke Your--') he heads back up the sidewalk, cigarette smoke curling a false halo around his head. New York angels. The damnedest things.
[Log ends]
Primary on a couple of dead strippers down in the district. Never thought I'd get sick of looking at naked women, but today's the day. If I have another one shaking her cans in my face to try to distract me, I swear I'll start thinking seriously about batting for the other team.
Corelli's got some bug up his ass about Tucci. Got back to the precinct this morning and found Kant breaking them up. Yamaguchi had that damn chess set out. Asshole won't stop harassing me for a game. Paperwork finally cleared on the badge that old Pezhead threw out into the reservoir, at least. Committee cleared me. Apparently, it's not my fault Magneto tied me up like a Christmas present.
My self-esteem is consoled.
---
It's a grey night in the city with a mix of snow and sleet having fallen just a few hours earlier, leaving behind a bitter cold that even the most hardened of New Yorkers are loathe to be out in. "Did you not see the sign?" A voice snarls unhappily from a doorway moments before a man's body comes careening from inside. Two bouncers step back away from the door as a woman clad in little more than a thin, black dress, a pair of fishnets and thigh high black, leather boots comes strolling out, presing the pointed heel of her boot into the man's spine before he can get back up. "Or did you think it just didn't apply to you?" She digs the heel deeper as she leans down to grab one of his wrists twisting it behind his back as he squirms, trying not to let the heel puncture his flesh. People begin to slow, some scattering to the other side of the street, others stopping to gawk. Myra seems unaffected by either the stares or the cold, her attention focused soley on the man who's arm is starting to twist painfully in the wrong direction.
New York is unlovesome this time of year: much like its denizens, who crawl and scrabble along its more unwholesome byways. For the man who strolls down the slush-hagged sidewalk, the commotion is hardly a spectator sport. Hands thrust in overcoat pockets, leather collar drowned by a scarf's ophidian bind, Det. Rossi squints through puddles of municipal lighting and turns his inquisitive, reluctant steps tither. "Hey," baritone lifts, chasing a swift glance. "What is this, street ballet?"
Myra strains for a moment as she twists, gripping the wrist with one hand and the now free one reaches for his pinky finger. One solid motion is all it takes before the tiny pop of bone can be heard, followed by the howling of a grown man who's now struggling despite the heel. Dark eyes peer up through fiery red strands as Myra glances to the man who's daring to interupt her. "Sure thing. Except this fellow didn't make the cut. So I'm helping him become a little more..." she pauses to push down on his arm, any more weight and it's likely to pull right out of the socket, or snap at the elbow, she's fine with either."..flexible."
"I think you've done enough," interjects Rossi, fielding the last few feet with a fair imitation of haste. The Brooklyn-tainted voice lifts over the man's yells, the edge in the accent grudging the cold; he passes through the mist of his own breath, shedding it in the hitch of a shoulder and the flash of a gold badge in a gloved hand. "Let him go, lady. I know a little exertion warms up the blood, but it's too damn cold and too damn wet for this."
Myra's eyes narrow as she glances towards the badge. Fucking cops, always sticking their nose where it doesn't belong. She's hardly even gotten started. She grabs his freshly broken pinky and squeezes, twisting it one last time as the heel pulls up from his back, allowing him to roll over on the ground. "Tell that to grabby-Mc.lately." she snarls and let's his hand go at last, taking a step back. "Next time you feel like grabbing an ass, make sure it's own. Asshole." A solid kick to his now exposed side before Myra turns her full attention to Rossi.
Sympathy? The cop's face is remarkably lacking in it, either for the woman or the man. The badge, flipped back in its cover, disappears into the inner recesses of a pocket. "Christ," the detective exhales, democratic in his annoyance with both participants. A sludge-rimmed shoe nudges at the man with the uncharitable recommendation, "You probably want someone to take a look at that. --And you," he begins to Myra, only to interrupt himself with a blank, "You go outside like that? You got anti-freeze for blood, or what?"
And it's a good thing to, Myra wouldn't respond well to sympathy. She hardly needs it, after all, she took care of the situation well enough. "I was /working/ and I wasn't about to go breaking his arm inside and interupt Candy's show. That's just rude." The adrenaline had been enough for her, but now that the cold's been pointed out, the goosebumps begins to form over the woman's arms and there's a faint shiver noticable along her spine.
"Polite strippers," marvels the detective, mockery skeining with the barest ghost of amusement. "I'll be damned. Or are you just being considerate of your customers? A real service industry." Paused as he is in watching the injured man recover himself, the cop spends a half-second's distraction in fishing cigarettes out of his pocket. Nicely, he offers somewhere between the assaulter (which?) and victim (which?), "Smoke?"
"Polite to those who've earned it. Candy has." Myra takes a slow step forward, her heel coming terribly close to the man's hand as he pushes himself up from the ground. The hand recoils quickly, drawing a pleased smile to the stripper's lips. "Thanks." The cigarette is plucked from the offered pack as she waits expectantly for a light to go along with it.
A black brow arches, curiosity mercurial behind the lift. A cheap Bic lighter is mined out of the recesses of the selfsame pocket; the detective strips his glove to flick it, lazing an idle, "Earned it, huh? What does a stripper do to earn respect? Shakes what God gave her? Or buys a better set of bumpers?" His fist offers the small flame, brave and buffeted by the wind.
Myra leans in just enough to light the end of the cigarette, pulling back away once it's lit and walking towards the door. She says something to one of the bouncers who hurries inside, reappearing with her coat a few moments later. The cigarette pressed tight between her lips, Myra slides the coat on and tightens it around her waist. "If you saw what that girl can do with nothing more than a g-string and a pole, you'd respect her to." She states, red brow arching in responce to his.
"I'll take it on faith," says the cop, dry, though a glance skims past Myra to the pictures of strippers promising SEXXXXXXXAH!!!! in the establishment's interior. His own cigarette takes a moment longer to light, and paints his face red behind the shield of a hand. "And you're ... what. The muscle?" A quizzical, skeptical eye inspects Myra. "Let me guess. Camouflage. Blend in with the crowd. Stealth bouncing."
"Shame. You should stop in one day. You're hot enough I bet she'd give you a lap dance for free." A smirk as she tilts, finding the wall with her back before taking a long pull from the cigarette. "Do I look like the muscle?" Probably best not to answer that one. "No, I let the boys do the tossing, I was just getting my two sense in since it was my ass he thought he had the right to be grabbing."
The cop's expression turns slightly sardonic at the compliment, and the broad brow furrows over the barest ghost of humor. "The vindictive bitch sort," he tells the unfortunate victim, tucking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth before jerking his chin at the other man, callous indifference planing across the urban tincture. "Scoot, dickhead. Count your testicles later. --He could end up pressing charges, you know."
Myra's smirk twists for the barest of moments into an actual smile. "Something like that. Yeah." It isn't the first time she's been called a bitch, and it certainly won't be the last. "He could, but then I'd just have to break his other arm. Besides, there's a sign inside warning them that they get grabby at their own risks. It's a strip club, not a whore house." Her complete lack of concern is enacted in yet another long drag.
"'Reasonable force,'" quips the cop, without enthusiasm; the quote falls flat and worn, rubbed shiny in the fashion of the well-used and -abused. Hands back in his pocket, he watches while Myra's victim beats a hasty (and prudently silent) retreat, before drifting to prop his shoulder against the wall. "Judge'd find in his favor. Kicking him out's one thing. Chasing him down and breaking his arm's another."
"Seemed reasonable to me." Myra says with a carefree shrug of one shoulder before she sends some of the ashes scattering with a single flick. "Besides I didn't break his arm, just a finger, and if you were him would you really want to tell your buddies you got beat up by a stripper?"
A pale eye scythes askance to Myra, assess her with wry amusement, then turns away. "Not likely," the detective says, brief: abnegating and preempting the possibility, even before the question. His cigarette winks a bloody eye at Myra, tangling its smoke with his white breath. "Next time, put a rein on your revenge kick. Dead of winter's a crappy time to be in the slammer."
"That's what I thought." The male ego, such a delicate little toy. Besides, she has other ways of making sure he keeps his distance. "I'll keep that in mind next time." Myra offers with one last drag before the cigarette is dropped and promptly pressed flat under the tall boot. "Thanks for the cigarette. I've got work to do." A single nod of her chin before Myra turns and starts to stride back to the door.
The cop nods acknowledgment for the farewell, the baritone a neutral half-step behind. "No problem." Conversation over, interest straying, he unhooks himself from the wall. With one last, cynical glance for the window ('The Catwalk,' reads a garish sign. 'Let Miss Kitty Stroke Your--') he heads back up the sidewalk, cigarette smoke curling a false halo around his head. New York angels. The damnedest things.
[Log ends]