08-17-2013, 11:09 AM
Jaxen was no street thug making the rounds through gang fights. Knives were for slicing your way in and out of things, not for jamming other idiots in the throat. If anything, they were for paying other guys to jam idiots in the throat. Or for betting on which blockhead appeared the least useless when it came to opening up carotids. Yet Jaxen wasn't without theory. He charged the brute in the door, fully intending to sack him and run. If the knife found a mark, all the better, but the object was to see daylight not add to the bodycount.
Not two long strides later, he found himself wrenched from the floor. Literally. But rather than flung to the wall like White's strong-arming Sicko for a dance, Jaxen simply stayed midair.
The brute clamped an ape-like grip upon Jaxen's exceedingly tender wrist, still red and bruised from the trick played on Sicko, and exquisite bolts of pain shot up his arm. He dropped the knife and grunted through clamped teeth. A ferocious gaze dared Michael to let him go. "Goddamn it, you all have hardon's for me,"
he uttered, assuming this new guy to be one of Sicko's little cult members.
Jaxen struggled against something. He flexed and reared every muscle in his body to get out of it. He was one of the greatest fucking thieves in the whole goddamn world but here he was still stuck in this shithole strung up even worse than earlier!
The guy knelt over Earless, and Jaxen prepared to tune out the moaning and slicing and chewing sure to come from that shadowy corner, but a spark of flame suddenly drew his attention that way. In an instant, a blaze reared up. The sheer intensity of it caused him to wince. There was no malodorous smell of lighter fluid clouding the air, but the future was not boding well for Jaxen's health.
He turned his attention back to himself. To staring overhead. To fighting whatever held him up. He stretched for the floor. Every vein in his arms, neck and scalp pushed themselves to the surface of his skin in the struggle. Against whatever invisible rope held him there. If he could just bust out of it.
Being eaten, burned alive, shot in the head or beaten to death was not in the fucking stars today. The determination brightened the world suddenly; painfully bright. More so than the horrid scent of roasted flesh and sickening pops of fireplace crackle accompanying Earless' cremation. Whatever it was, it spiked a magnificent torture inside his bones, and Jaxen forced it into submission.
Something gave. Whatever it was, Jaxen felt a snap hit him like a flicked rubber band. He fell from midair, but caught himself in a loud thud, landing nimbly on his feet on the floor. He was probably as shocked as Michael to actually break free. But he wasn't about to question his luck.
Not two long strides later, he found himself wrenched from the floor. Literally. But rather than flung to the wall like White's strong-arming Sicko for a dance, Jaxen simply stayed midair.
The brute clamped an ape-like grip upon Jaxen's exceedingly tender wrist, still red and bruised from the trick played on Sicko, and exquisite bolts of pain shot up his arm. He dropped the knife and grunted through clamped teeth. A ferocious gaze dared Michael to let him go. "Goddamn it, you all have hardon's for me,"
he uttered, assuming this new guy to be one of Sicko's little cult members.
Jaxen struggled against something. He flexed and reared every muscle in his body to get out of it. He was one of the greatest fucking thieves in the whole goddamn world but here he was still stuck in this shithole strung up even worse than earlier!
The guy knelt over Earless, and Jaxen prepared to tune out the moaning and slicing and chewing sure to come from that shadowy corner, but a spark of flame suddenly drew his attention that way. In an instant, a blaze reared up. The sheer intensity of it caused him to wince. There was no malodorous smell of lighter fluid clouding the air, but the future was not boding well for Jaxen's health.
He turned his attention back to himself. To staring overhead. To fighting whatever held him up. He stretched for the floor. Every vein in his arms, neck and scalp pushed themselves to the surface of his skin in the struggle. Against whatever invisible rope held him there. If he could just bust out of it.
Being eaten, burned alive, shot in the head or beaten to death was not in the fucking stars today. The determination brightened the world suddenly; painfully bright. More so than the horrid scent of roasted flesh and sickening pops of fireplace crackle accompanying Earless' cremation. Whatever it was, it spiked a magnificent torture inside his bones, and Jaxen forced it into submission.
Something gave. Whatever it was, Jaxen felt a snap hit him like a flicked rubber band. He fell from midair, but caught himself in a loud thud, landing nimbly on his feet on the floor. He was probably as shocked as Michael to actually break free. But he wasn't about to question his luck.