milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Wilford has had a few days to calm down and think about the current situation at hand.

No, that's not right at all. Wilford has had a few days to get riled up into a hair-trigger rage. His dog is still missing, and the responsible party has yet to nut up enough to admit guilt. Though, he has had some time to think, and may have changed his mind about some details. Not that Teja's smug ass will be getting any sort of apology, since he shouldn't have threatened to steal the dog in the first place.

At this point, the dog's been gone long enough that the guilty party should have been irritated enough to have returned the dog, because there's only so much dog puke even the most patient person can handle. Unless the person who took the dog already knew about that part. And that drastically narrows the pool of suspects to a handful of people - most of whom are children. And judging by the missing dog signs hanging around the bar, the kids are probably not the guilty party either.

And that narrows the pool down to two, as far as Wilford knows. Well, one, really. Since the second person always seems like he's about an inch away from pissing himself whenever the dog even looks at him.

It's with all this circling around in his head that Wilford is over by the fire, pretending to be going through notes, but in reality, being too angry to even focus on his own writing.

[ooc: there is no violence or dogs under the cut. There is violence in the thread with Jim.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Jim wanders in a some point in the evening, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and shades perched on the top of his head. He is looking tanned and healthy, and - for once - entirely relaxed. He's reading a car manual with such intensity, he doesn't seem to notice he's in the bar at first. He just stands there reading.

Once he realises the noise around him is less cliffside beach paradise and more interdimensional bar, he looks up, orders a tall fruity drink, and flops down on a sofa near the Window to relax further.

He feels it is going to be a very chilled evening.

Think again, Jim. And be real quick about it. Wilford spots him from across the bar and forgets all about trying to go over notes. It's a matter of seconds before he's got his gun out, and it's pointed straight at Jim's face.

"Where the fuck is my goddamn dog, asshole!?" he shouts.

Hi. Wilford's very upset right now.

Jim blinks slowly, his glass hallway to his mouth. Then he takes a sip, and sets the glass back down on the table. Then licks his finger, and turns a page of his manual.

'Pardon?'

Wilford isn't even in the vicinity of fucking around right now.

"Give me my fucking dog!"

He pulls the hammer back, hoping to get his point across.

Jim raises an eyebrow at him. This is not the first time he's had a gun shoved in his face. Also, if Wilford shoots him he will never get the dog back.

'I don't have your dog, Wilford.'

Not with him, at least.

"Bullshit."

Wilford does not shoot Jim, only because he wants his dog back first. Then, yes. He will decorate the walls with the inside of Jim's skull. Instead, Jim gets to experience the sensation of a .44 Magnum crashing into the side of his face. And if it happens to go off in the process, shattering a light above them, well that was entirely accidental.

...well, that was not unexpected. But it still hurts like a bitch; enough to make him draw a fast breath in and hold it, catching the pain and pulling it into a ball to control it, feeling it vibrate in a throbbing red pulse of agony in the hollow places of his skull.

He shuts his eyes until the urge to yell has passed. The copper in his mouth says his teeth ripped the inside of his cheek. His ears are ringing from the shot. And there are bits of lightbulb in his fucking drink.

He spits blood onto the floor.

'I don't have your dog.'

This is said just as easily as before, just as quietly. But there's an undeniable pull of menace under the words, even if Wilford probably won't catch it in a mood like this.

Edited 2017-05-13 18:20 (UTC)

Nope. Wilford is far too enraged for nuance right now. And isn't that really exactly what Jim wanted in the first place?

"Try again."

Wilford's done screaming and shouting. He'll let the Magnum do the rest of the shouting for him, by pointing it right between Jim's eyes.

"I want my fucking dog."

He spits more blood. His left hand searches his chest, waist, the pocket of his shorts. His head feels like it might actually explode.

'Nope. Still don't have him.'

There is a huge battle axe between them all of a sudden.

"Stop this."

Dead calm command.

"Cells. Now. Both."

It takes a lot to intimidate Wilford. Especially when he's in this kind of mood. A battle axe barely even registers, beyond being in his way.

"This has nothing to do with you," he says, edging back into shouting and screaming territory.

He pulls the hammer back again and presses the barrel of his gun against Jim's face.

"Dog. Now."

Because Jim is totally already dead, right? What's one bullet going to do to him?

Jim just blinks, a bored expression pulling over his face. His eyes are completely flat, dead, uninterested. There's no fear, because he doesn't know how to do that.

'I don't. Have him.'

Look around, Wilford. Do you see a dog around here?

His eyes flick to Teja.

'I haven't broken any rules.'

He was just lying here! He has committed no violence whatsoever.

"Oh yes, and my cats are all bright pink," Teja sneers, batting away the gun with a quick flick of his axe-shaft.

Disadvantage of modern fire-arms: people rely on them too much.

Oh, fuck this all. Wilford's sick of playing by their rules. It's time to play by his.

Except Teja bats the gun away, and screws up his aim. When the gun goes off, it misses Jim's head by just enough to make it clear that he didn't mean to miss.

"Stay the hell out of this!" he shouts at Teja, while keeping the gun on Jim.

Next time, he won't miss.

Riiiiiiiight next to his ear. Goodbye hearing for a few days

'For fuck's sake.'

He still sounds bored, but he very definitely doesn't feel very well by this point. His head is spinning like a bitch. He picks a bit of sofa-cushion fluff out of his mouth, and sits up. Which is a bad idea, as it turns out. The room spins a bit.

''I'm sure your cats look good in pink, but I've done nothing wrong. Calm down, Wilford. You can see I haven't got him.'

Teja takes Wilford into a chokehold with his axe-shaft, grabs the gun, and slowly but inexorably pulls him off Jim.

"You will be in the cells," he tells Wilford, "until you stop."

With whatever he is doing here.

Oh, hell no. Wilford tries to fight back and get out of Teja's grip, except he's forgotten something crucial again - that he barely tops 100 pounds, and completely lacks the muscle memory gained from years of bouncing between various fight clubs.

"Get the fuck off me!" he shouts, rather uselessly.

HA. This is funny. If he weren't feeling a bit dodgy, he'd be laughing...

...oh wait, no, he's going to laugh anyway. Quite a lot, even if it hurts.

'Throw away the key, Teja. Do us all a favour.'

He flops back down on the sofa to watch. Entertaining!

"Get up and follow me," Teja says. "I need your report, and then I shall decide about the colour of my cats."

If Wilford was angry before, now he's furious. It's the complete feeling of helplessness that's really getting to him. He doesn't like being in a position where he can be so easily overpowered.

All he has left is to try to squirm away while endlessly swearing at everyone around him.

Jim watches Wilford far more than paying attention to Teja. Look at that feeling of helplessness. Look at that touch of panic. Enjoying yourself, Wilford? He half-smiles at him, pure malevolent amusement, not giving a damn if it's seen by Teja or not.

He probes his teeth with his tongue for a minute, then sits up. Involving Security is not his preference, but they involved themselves in this case. And Wilford obviously needs to cool off a bit. His reaction has been interesting, to say the least.

'All right,' he says calmly, and gets up. The room spins again, and he can feel the colour drain out of his face. A .44 in the face is a .44 in the face, even if the person behind it is a weakling.

"You need the infirmary," Teja states. "Once you are done in the Security office, I shall call somebody."

Wilford's glad Jim's face is all fucked up. Or he would be, if he were thinking about anything other than getting Teja's hands off of him.

"Get the fuck off me! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He won't be going anywhere willingly right now, it seems.

He shrugs a shoulder at Teja. Fine, whatever. He doesn't think his cheekbone's broken, so it doesn't matter. He might need a stitch or two on the inside of his cheek, but that's no big deal. Easier to get it done here than finding a doctor in Los Santos, or doing it himself.

'Shut up,' he says in Wilford's vague direction, and waves a hand. Like, if they're going, can they go now? He has a headache.

"I am with Security, and you are under arrest," Teja says. "Where is your dog?"