Two minutes per side
Summary: Dex talks to an old friend while trying to untangle feline nutrition. When something comes out bloody he takes it. Always will.
Rating: T β violence/ death mention
Just a quick little Dex character study β¨π³
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Benjamin Poindexter living in proximity to goodness. Isnβt that the damnedest thing?
After all heβs done?
Dex stared out the window of his living room. Scratched glass that pointed straight to the peaks of Clinton Church.
Named for the neighborhood it served. Something that belonged to the people who lived here, a reflection of community and values.
Now he paid rent here, too.
Very generous of them.
Killed a guy there before. A father. At least one kind, donβt know about the other. Though youβre usually not allowed to be both at once.
Rules everywhere, huh?
Didnβt know his name when he did it. Just something in the way. A body to be optimized through, not around. Thatβs what no one understood about him back then.
People move through this world in curves, butβ
Curves stall.
Lines cut.
He was a line.
βFuuuuucking hell, Eileen.β The headphones over his ears sat the way they always did. Not because they were the same pair, though. He lost those in 2016.
Lost a lot of things in 2016.
These were the closest an EBay auction and hundred dollar budget could get him to that ghost.
The old tapes didnβt hold anyway. Therapy given to a small-town tween working overtime to serve a big-city adult.
His tongue raked the fake tooth in his mouth once. Canine. Defanged by a devil and refanged by a back alley dentist.
Funny that either of those things exist.
βHow do you optimize cat nutrition?β The recorder stayed in his left hand, thumb holding down the button that made his voice architecture.
The right scrolled through a blog titled Feline-to-Five.
βHigh-protein, moderate-fat, low-carb.β His thumb moved, hovering briefly over an image of a tabby happily tearing into a fried egg.
He has those. Cheap, protein-packed, and absolutely repeatable on a level that would slot efficiently into his morning.
βSo. Tony. I thought about the name.β
Phone went on the counter, Eileen stayed with him as he moved.
Pan.
Spatula.
Carton.
Oil.
Blog didnβt say anything about seasonings. Dex hated them, thought the cat might too. Itβs just shit you put on entrees to improve their optics.
Cook it right and you donβt need support.
βItβs useful. Same genre as the rest of them. People in this building rarely have names over six letters long, and if they do they wonβt get used.β
Vegetable oil in the pan. One circle nesting in another and another.
When the knob turned fire came up, ready to burn unless you could control it.
Sixty seconds at medium-low for the variables to align. Time enough to rake his plan cleanly through black ribbon.
βI just need one good deed, Eileen.β His eyes flicked to the window again. Stained glass nested in brick older than him.
Pretentious.
βNot the kind you buy with wine and wafers.β
He laughed a little at that, the absurdity of it. New York standing in a line to absolve themselves. Acting like Sunday mass and pre-packaged communion could wash it all away.
βThe kind Iβm uniquely qualified to pull off.β
Fifty-nine seconds. Time for the eggs.
His free hand pushed the paper tabs in until white ovals revealed themselves. Two rows, perfectly aligned. All slots counted for. No imperfections. No discoloration.
Crack.
Crack.
Goo and yolk went into the heat. One textbook.
One red.
βHuh.β
Dex turned the shell over. Pristine on the outside, edges sloped and smooth like the others.
βGuess I know which oneβs mine.β
His thumbnail pushed into the spatula handle for a second, then released.
Protein is protein, a little blood notwithstanding. Would be wrong to waste it.
βAnyway,β back on track again while he watched clear edges turn to fog over fire. βThe Fisks.β
Opulence in the shoulder strap of a goddamn narcissistβ
No, worse.
A liar.
Plenty of people in this city would love that lifestyle. Galas. Crystal. Penthouses. All things men like him used to refract.
An image of the Mayor and his wife here.
A video of him denouncing crime there.
The idea of thisβthis lavish domesticity braided so neatly into violence that New York thanks him when he pulls the trigger.
And why wouldnβt they? Dex did once. Twice, actually.
The spatula wedged perfectly beneath the first task, its edges lined up with yellow and white.
Flip
βHe said he understood me, Eileen. Said that with him I wouldβ¦be useful. That he cared thatββ
Fake fang bit into his bottom lip, rounded porcelain not giving him the sharpness he was looking for.
βHe understood.β
Bloody egg needed an extra couple seconds.
βWe all know how THAT turned out.β
The image of Juli in that freezer was his brainβs natural pull. Eyes wide and licked with frost. Dex had spent so much time thinking about those eyes.
Now they judge in a different way.
βWhatβs that old saying? βFool me once, shame on you?β β
Prison wasnβt as bad as he thought it would be. Not the structure of it, at least. Couldβve been better if they let him use his hands.
Well, to be fair, they did during a single visit.
Signed his life away to Vanessa Fisk with a felt-tip marker.
βFool me twice? Wellββ
Eggβs ready.
Flip
βFuck me.β
The math ran automatically, just like it had the time before that.
βHow many peopleββ
Did he kill for them?
Would it take to get to them?
Would they kill if he did nothing?
βOne good deed to prove Iβm still me.β
Shot that guy for herβthe one who ran for DA years ago.
Would Matt even work with him after that?
β¦Can I call him Matt?
Dex shook his head. Irrelevant. Mattβlawyerβdevil. Hands do the same thing, and thatβs what he needs.
His hands.
The fire beneath dissipated with the turn of a knob. First was plated for him, red streak still jiggling beneath thin membrane.
The other went into a small dish he lifted from the hallway.
Meow!
βSorry, I know our session is a little short this time.β He huffed, looking at the door. Already recognizing what waits for him on the other side. βSomeoneβs expecting me for breakfast.β
Cracked his neck.
βSee you next week.β
