Their lips are moving. Wide-eyed. Pointing. Can't hear a thing. Ears ringing. Smell...not cordite...one of the modern propellants. Guns and enclosed spaces. Fuck me I'm deaf. 

Twist steaming by was that canary from the Royal 313. Torcher. Real talent. No idea what the words were but the gesture was tacitly understood. I'd heard her curse with great power and authority before. Kinda deaf now.

Dropper on the floor didn't look a daisy. At all. Hired muscle. Well fed. Head starting to balloon right up. Stellate, hard contact wound. Smallish entry - .380 more than likely. Safe to assume death came quickly. Luckier than most where Ms. Faegan is concerned. Legend has it that she keeps some sort of misericorde in her hair. Likes to incrementally push it in one ear of some poor sap, slowly, teasingly, dipping and twirling for hours. Until it comes out the other...fuck. Thinking of ears again. Sound in my head is like having two trains converge upon me coming from opposite directions.

Smart thing to do would be to roll buddy there up in the hallway runner and drag him out. Less friction. Don't really want that coming out of my pocket though. Could try to pick him up by his belt and collar and pack mule him out like some bindle stiff getting kicked off the train. Naw, guys got to have seventy pounds on me. Need to pull him. Or something with wheels on it. And quickly. Locals stay paid and stay away...for the most part. Every once in awhile some hero gets it in their head to flash tin and swing their meat. Need to move this stiff before anything else complicates matters.

Swell. And now he voids. Runner is ruined anyway might as well use it. Hand on my shoulder. Turn to see lips moving. No sound save the roar of twin engines crashing in my brain. Nod my head like I understand and give the old thumbs up. Alone now. Well, me and the recently deceased pain-in-the-ass leaking everywhere. Need to haul him out of here without getting any of his filthy stupid on me. Just in case that condition is contagious. Seems to me that small calibre firearms are the cure-all for stupid. I'd like to avoid that altogether.

If you weren't the one getting finger fucked by the fickle finger of fate you might find the situation humorous. Yours truly, not so much.

Me trying to mummy up this mook: picture it. Rugs maybe two feet wide by eight foot long. Guy is an easy six foot himself. Roll him with the rug on a bias and go for maximum coverage right?

Problems arise.

Every time I try to roll him he leaks out the hole in his dome. Not a little either.

Plus, he's one of those who do that whole stages of death schtick. He still exhales and does that creaky moany thing...and it spooks me right out.

I go to jam my thumb in the wound. Anything to stop the mess. Son of a diddly. Too big. Use my index finger - goes in easy and works a treat. Look around for some makeshift hole-plugging saviour. Nothing. Take his pocket square and poke it in. Soaks through.

Obvious answer is to say screw it and do the deed quickly. Not so obviously, I end up just making a bigger mess more efficiently.

Imagine going out to bowl a few frames with your friends. Only you roll a paint can with a hole in it down the lane. And it's glorious! Paint shooting and spinning out in great plumes arcing gracefully in all directions. Centrifugal force creating an Malevichian homage. Kind of like that.

By this time shmoo is everywhere and I'm so fucked I ain't never getting unfucked.

Look like some half-assed gangster chysalis. Skip the wooden kimono and blaze your own trail. Turn him so he will go down the hallway and pull. Nothing much. Roll up my sleeves, grab a boot in each hand, put my back into it. Pull mightily. Boot slides off in my left hand. Guess that makes it his right boot.

I'm no cobbler. Not sure.

Luckily the elephant foot umbrella stand is there to break my fall. That hurt. Bumbershoots skittering down the way. Heh. Hearings coming back.

Boot is a fourteen. I'm an eight. No match there. Upright Babar's foot, toss in the boot. Kick a path down the hall, try again. Not so mighty this time. Slide him down to the door slow and steady. Open it a crack and take a look.

Car. Leaving. Zolomon's. Close the door and count to ten. Open it and peek. Gone. Good. 

Met him a coupla times now. Always seems bored when he talks to you...no...not right. More like he already knows what you're going to say before you say it. Like he's so far ahead of you that your participation isn't necessary. Ask you a question and finsh the answer for you. Can't really explain it but it makes me uneasy. Look at him out of the corner of your eye and he seems to...I  don't know...vibrate? Almost imperceptible. I tend to make myself scarce around him. Don't want to play gazelle to that cheetah.

Coast is clear. Weather has gotten worse. Bad time to go fishing but no choice. Going to take my new friend out for a drive then show him the river. Call me a traditionalist.

Hunter almost ruined the seriousness of the moment when Billie had stated she was going to rip out their captives eye and eat it - he managed to conceal the snicker with a well timed cough instead. As she proceeded to dig her nails into the man's eye sockets, Hunter merely raised both eyebrows. Billie was someone he would definitely like by his side in future endeavors, she could clearly handle herself. When they'd finally gotten the information they needed, Hunter wasn't very surprised as Billie shot the man in the head.

Hunter's lip twitched as they climbed into the car - it would be much faster to just run to Penguin's Pub, but he had to keep up his appearances. Despite that he was falling for this lifestyle, he thoroughly missed the thrill of zipping through cities at speeds faster than that of light.

The thunder crackled loudly, lighting up the backdrop of Detroit. Hunter allowed himself a rare smirk. The city certainly was one of beauty, not just in landscape and architecture, but in spirit. Since the unfortunate incident that had trapped him in this time, he'd learned more than he ever thought imaginable about the underbelly of the city.

Hunter was most impressed when he'd heard of the struggles that Ms. Logan endured so shortly after starting her crew. She was most resourceful and had treated him well since his arrival - something that weighed heavily on his mind as the car (from his point of view) slowly made its way towards the club.

He was slightly thrown off as Billie explained her plan - he'd already devised a plan he was quite confident of, but he shrugged it off. Provided Ms. Logan and her offices were safe at the end of it all, Hunter didn't really care how it happened. The car crawled to a stop a few blocks away, to go over the plan one more time.

"Your plan sounds solid, Billie, but I'd like to make one slight change if you don't mind."

Hunter didn't waste any time waiting for her to agree, not the most polite thing to do, but it wasn't something he was willing to budge on regardless.

"Noto, I'd like you to accompany Ms. Faegan into the club posing as her BodyGuard. They'll pat you down, likely, but the whole point is to get them out back. I don't like the thought of how Kate would react if I were to let anything happen to you, Billie."

Billie_Faegan and Noto nodded before stepping out of the car. Hunter hung behind for a brief second, listening to the wind whipping wildly and the thunder clapping, but neither of these things truly mattered. The way Hunter looked at it, that was excellent sound coverage. Stepping out of the vehicle, Hunter hung back half a block from Billie and Noto and watched as they approached Penguin's Pub.

They knocked on the door and a generic looking goon answered, which was no surprise. These particular criminals were clearly not even close to same league as the one he'd been accustomed to working in. Hunter couldn't hear Billie over the weather, but seeing as the man who had opened the door let them through, he knew the password that Billie's most recent victim told them had been accurate. Hunter smirked, they didn't even pat Noto down by the looks of it. Amateurs.