03-19-2015, 01:46 PM
Dane smiled ruefully as he curled down over the body of his present project. The plastic tarp protecting his clothes crinkled loud as he did. He really needed something better fitting. Perhaps a tailor could whip something up for him?
He stroked the hair from the face of the wretch beneath him. The man had been crying. As per the streaks down the side of his grubby face. The man was dark-haired and dark-skinned. Young enough to be without wrinkle, but for those caused by long hours working in the desert sun, but not so young as to be ignorant of the world. Nor to have gone without contributing to the darkness filling it, either.
The man looked away when Dane touched his hair. Likely riddled with lice, or maybe fleas, Dane wore latex gloves. They weren't for the blood, as he actually enjoyed watching the red streak through running water when he washed them, but lice disgusted him. The man's entire being disgusted him.
"I can't remember. Do you speak English?"
Dane asked, annoyed that the man would not look him in the eyes. He was stretched out on a regular table, something any family might have in their kitchen. Only rather than a comfortable little house, they were in a garage. The room smelled faintly of motor oil.
The creature whimpered, but he nodded. "Okay, good."
Dane responded. He hated dealing with translators.
"What do you want with me?" The bastard asked.
Dane was taken aback. "Oh! Have I not said?"
It was possible. He likely had gotten carried away. "Please forgive this oversight, sir."
His smile was charm itself, as though he were speaking to his Sunday School teacher. "Tell me where to find Donny Ramirez."
The man's cracked lips smushed together into a snarl.
"Never." He spat, barely missing Dane's face.
Dane straightened, examining the garage around them. His eyes fell into something on a shelf, which a curl of one power floated to him. "Are you thirsty?"
He asked, twisting the cap off a bottle of motor oil.
A tangle of power yanked the man up, where Dane put the bottle to his lips. Gloved hands wrenched his jaw open. "Since you don't want to talk about Donny. You can tell me how this tastes. Pretend its wine. A thick merlot."
And he poured. And laughed at the pitiful flailing.
He stroked the hair from the face of the wretch beneath him. The man had been crying. As per the streaks down the side of his grubby face. The man was dark-haired and dark-skinned. Young enough to be without wrinkle, but for those caused by long hours working in the desert sun, but not so young as to be ignorant of the world. Nor to have gone without contributing to the darkness filling it, either.
The man looked away when Dane touched his hair. Likely riddled with lice, or maybe fleas, Dane wore latex gloves. They weren't for the blood, as he actually enjoyed watching the red streak through running water when he washed them, but lice disgusted him. The man's entire being disgusted him.
"I can't remember. Do you speak English?"
Dane asked, annoyed that the man would not look him in the eyes. He was stretched out on a regular table, something any family might have in their kitchen. Only rather than a comfortable little house, they were in a garage. The room smelled faintly of motor oil.
The creature whimpered, but he nodded. "Okay, good."
Dane responded. He hated dealing with translators.
"What do you want with me?" The bastard asked.
Dane was taken aback. "Oh! Have I not said?"
It was possible. He likely had gotten carried away. "Please forgive this oversight, sir."
His smile was charm itself, as though he were speaking to his Sunday School teacher. "Tell me where to find Donny Ramirez."
The man's cracked lips smushed together into a snarl.
"Never." He spat, barely missing Dane's face.
Dane straightened, examining the garage around them. His eyes fell into something on a shelf, which a curl of one power floated to him. "Are you thirsty?"
He asked, twisting the cap off a bottle of motor oil.
A tangle of power yanked the man up, where Dane put the bottle to his lips. Gloved hands wrenched his jaw open. "Since you don't want to talk about Donny. You can tell me how this tastes. Pretend its wine. A thick merlot."
And he poured. And laughed at the pitiful flailing.