| Sep 23 - 16:35:13 |
|
| Post Reply | Post new topic | Page: 1 |
| A Day In The Life: Jean_Valjean | Started by: Jean_Valjean on May 31, '08 05:24 |
|
The bottles of liquor stare out at him with accusing eyes as he stands in front of them with the small, empty box, dressed in a dark suit. The man is young, though there were cracks beginning to form on the smooth face that had first come to this world months before. The added texture, though a sign of sometimes hard living, improve his look rather than detract from it. Lines stretch out from near the corners of his bright green eyes, as if what beyond the emerald shields was stretching out, hungry, into the world. Staring about the bar and club that had so recently been full of people, a sardonic smirk fell across his face and he quickly tucked a wild strand of brown hair behind his ear with a sigh. Dropping his head, he ambles through the stock behind his bar, picking out the most valuable bottles and slowly lowering them into the box. Vodka. Gin. Wine. Rum. Sometimes he opens a bottle and takes a swig before violently turning and throwing it across the room, smashing on the wall as a pool of alcohol forms underneath. After filling the box, he hands it off to his bodyguard without looking at him. The bodyguard promptly exits, leaving Jean Valjean alone in his bar. Deftly, Valjean leaps up onto the bar and puts his hands in his pockets, pacing back and forth along it. The bar, the dance floor, the newly erected main stage... it would all be gone soon. Turning his eyes heavenward, Valjean mutters up to the rafters and pipes above- though whether it is a prayer or a curse cannot be distinguished. Interrupting, a tremendous BANG! is heard from near the entrance. Valjean reacts instinctively, jumping up and grabbing onto two of the lower-hanging pipes above. Steadying himself up near the ceiling, he waits. A few seconds after he stops moving, he sees three young men strut in, each of them carrying a pistol and a shitfaced grin. As the smell of their cologne wafts up towards Valjean, he stifles his nose and slowly begins to move his hand towards the gun inside his jacket. Drawing it out, he angles it down towards the intruders with his right arm and balances himself on the pipes with his left arm and legs. Listening, he hears them fumble around the bar and begin to converse with each other. "I told ya it'd be open. Seems like everybody's heading out of Vegas. It's like someone flushed a fucking toilet and the mob is gone. Grab some booze, boys. We're going to have this town to ourselves soon, I bet." Narrowing his eyes, Jean Valjean picks out the man who spoke. Seems like the leader. A bit fat. Ugly suit. Wearing lots of gold, and the smoke from his cheap cigar dances up towards Valjean, clouding his vision. The other two are whooping and yelling behind the bar, grabbing bottles and stacking them haphazardly. Luckily, they're so busy staring at the booze that they don't bother to look up. The leader, noticing a book on the bar in front of him, walks directly beneath Valjean and picks it up. "Selected Poems of Victor Hugo... what is this shit?" His fat face cackling at what he doesn't understand, he leans forward and touches the end of his cigar to the book, setting it ablaze. Incensed, Jean Valjean reacts swiftly. Sliding his legs forward, he lefts go of the pipe with his left hand and crashes down hard on the fleshy mass below him, dealing a blow with the butt of his pistol, which already has leapt forward towards the two men behind the bar. Calmly shooting each of them once in the chest while their hands begin to fumble for their own guns, he then shoots them again as they are thrown back against the wall, sinking down into a pool of their blood. Valjean begins to turn back towards the leader, but before he can turn his head he hears the click of a cocked gun, and feels cold metal press against the back of his neck. Stiffening, Valjean once again turns his eyes towards the heavens, and his lips move slowly, as the sound creeps out between them and raises unheard above the rafters. Hearing the nasally voice of the leader, probably not helped by the broken nose he was just dealt, Valjean feels the pistol once again press hard against his neck. At this moment, he jerks his head down to the right and hears the blast of the gun go off just outside his left ear. He is momentarily stunned by the overwhelming noise, but his right leg was beginning the kick at the moment he moved his head. Even with the ringing in his ears, Valjean can hear the satisfying crack of his foot making contact with the other man's ribcage. With his kick carrying him around to face his opponent, Valjean leaps forward with hands outstretched and slashes the gun from the man's hand. Unarmed, Jean Valjean already knows he's won. The past bobs and weaves before him as his fists come up to protect his face. The older boys at the orphanage where he spent the first 14 years of his life. His right fist flies out like a piston into the face of his opponent. The derelicts in the street who would attack him for food, when he left the orphanage behind. The left hand hooks toward the man and sends him staggering downward. The dozens of thugs in every alleyway he has had to compete with to claw himself up from the gutter. The right uppercut strikes the man in the chin, and he flails backward, unconscious by the time he hits the ground. Looking towards the smoldering book of poetry on the bar, Valjean, still angry, jumps the bar and dumps the shelf holding all the liquor onto the ground next to the corpses. Quickly climbing over the bar again, he picks up the burning book of poetry by the one remaining intact corner, and tosses it over his shoulder into the pool of alcohol and blood. Exploding into an inferno, the fire begins to creep throughout the building, climbing up the walls and spreading swiftly across the dance floor towards the stage. Stepping over the unconscious man, Valjean walks slowly out through the door and down the long path towards the street. Turning once to look behind him, he can't help but laugh at the plaque entitled "Fire and Ice". With only fire behind him, Valjean walks out into the streets of Vegas and quickly hails a cab. As he slides into the backseat, the cabbie looks back with surprise and ask him if he's bleeding. Noticing the blood on his shirt, Jean Valjean smiles, shakes his head, tosses the man a hundred, and points towards the airport. Vegas was good to him. A city where anything can happen and anything could be won by those willing to stare down long odds and put it all on the line. Fittingly, word was out that the city was open for any tough guy looking to start his own crew, and it seemed like things would be going to hell fast. Leaving his old home to follow his boss and his friends, Valjean leaned back in his seat and left the hell for others. At least he'd started the fire for them. |
|
| Report Post | Tip |
|
Nice read Mr. Valjean. Just in time too i might add. |
|
| Reply by: CommodumPerfectus at May 31, '08 05:56 | |
| Report Post | Tip |
|
Very Nice read Jean :) Alot of writing my friend. lol |
|
| Reply by: AlfonsiTimello at May 31, '08 06:03 | |
| Report Post | Tip |
|
That just sucks! I always had a good time there, Thanks for telling the story Mr.Valjean. I lost all my contacts in Vegas. |
|
| Reply by: Curly at May 31, '08 07:21 | |
| Report Post | Tip |
| Post Reply | View All Threads | Page: 1 |
How much do you want to tip for this post?
Minimum $20,000
Minimum $20,000
