MAKE A DEAL?

                                  @rationedwell​ is a dickbutt.

✆ for a MORNING text. 

[ txt: rum runner ] ;;  I said 4 am, where is your scrawny ass?

✉ for a text that WASN’T SENT. 

[ txt: rum runner ] ;;  Sometimes I just want to tell you to get out of this bullshit and lead a better life but it seems pointless. Just don’t like the thought of you actually dying, you feel like family these days.

☎ for a RUSHED text. 

[ txt: rum runner ] ;;  Bleeding. Room 207.

⁇ for a DRUNK text.

✿ for a SUGGESTIVE text. 

[ txt: rum runner ] ;;  If you’re that desperate, you know where I am.

ø for a LATE NIGHT text.

✘ for a HATEFUL text.

# for a RANDOM text.

[ txt: rum runner ] ;;  Don’t ask questions but I got a winnebago.

@ for a SCARED text.

& for a LOVING text.

[ txt: rum runner ] ;;  I care if you get shot at okay, dumbass.

% for a CURIOUS text.

[ txt: rum runner ] ;;  Do you know how to operate a fork lift?

ツ for an EXCITED text.

[ txt: rum runner ] ;;  WE GOT THE GOODS, BITCH. BRING YOUR PARTY HAT.

$ for an ACCIDENTAL text. 

♀ for a HEARTBREAKING text. 

full name:  mason ciarán parker. other names:  marcus devolt, emerson perez, gareth maddison, demarco, aza. title:  scarface. age:  43-45 main. gender:  male; genderfluid. sexuality:  pansexual. origin:  fayetteville, arkansas. current location:   varies. nationality:   american. ethnicity:  russian, scottish. spoken languages:  english, spanish, portuguese, light russian. religion:  non-religious. height: 6′2″. body type:  tall, fit, muscular. eyes:  green. tattoos:   1 | 2 . piercings:  none. educational background:  high school graduate. social media:  none. smoking:  like a freight train. drinking:  flask always on hand. drugs:  rarely these days, waste of product to use. athletics:  on the go fight or flight. hobbies:  wheeling and dealing, board game collecting, doing absolutely nothing on a sunday. virgin:  nope. favorite drink:  an entire bottle of bushmills, or, honey lemon tea. favorite food:  homemade anything, waffle fries. favorite music:  christmas music (he’s a sap for the holidays). clothing style: jeans, leather jacket, old boots, and whatever shirt he digs out of who knows where. will throw on suits if he has to but the money has to be good enough. underwear type:  boxers or nothing -- depends on the day.

          IF DUKE EXPECTED THIS TO BE EASY, HE MAY AS well have stayed home. That’s what the whole idea of leaving home was, right? Embarking on adventures, finding danger. Though he would be lying if he said the thought of stepping straight into the line of fire didn’t scare the hell out of him, this kid knows well that whatever rush he gets from the life now, come twenty years, will only be a bitter  i n c o n v e n i e n c e  — same as Mason treats it. He should be frozen where he stands; anyone else in his position would be. But where’s the fun in that?           ❝  That’s why you brought me, right?  ❞     If not for genuine help, then for bait. And somehow, Duke is fine with either.     ❝  It’ll be fine. Just let me,  ❞     there’s a shrug, thrown out with an ambiguous noise that may have been a swallowed, ‘I don’t know’,   ❝  Let me talk to them, alright. I got this  ❞

                             Deep exhale, other hand twitching just under leather at his hip -- possible need to draw soon enough. Not yet. Mason will let them make a move first if it comes to that. Crack of a smile on lips to tug at scars but he nods just the same. “ More or less. ” Shrugged off as he strands up straight and gets a good look at a deal going South. Best option to let Duke speak up? Probably not but what could really hurt the situation at hand now? Boy had to sink or swim just like everyone else in the business. The upside: whatever he’s gonna drip from his tongue works. The downside: they leave this shit hole out the side door from sprint to booking it with a couple rounds popped off. Which could end with i n e v i t a b l e death but there in lies the FUN.

                      Hand clasps on a shoulder tight, body leans just a touch inward. Looming -- it’s what Parker does best, especially when he feels uneasy about a situation. “ ‘member when I said this was gon’ go jus’ fine? “ Whispered into an ear with a sense of calmness as Mason works out the problems in his head just the same. “ Well... I LIED. “ What he gets for taking Crocker along for the ride, or taking him under his corruptive bleeding wings to begin with.

[ @smokinghellion liked for a starter!! ]

        “ DAMN, dude. What happened to you? ”

He’s talking about the matching scars that ran up the sides of each of the other’s cheeks. True enough, he’d seen some fucked up shit. This though, was something ELSE.

“ Did the black dahlia killer get your ass or something? ”

                      SENSITIVE to his scars? Hardly. Mason has lived a full life with the world pointing them out -- some dumbass punk running his mouth is typical. “ Totally. Barely made it out alive. ” Sarcasm dripping just as thick as his accent, roll of eyes added in shortly after.

[ cap >> @smokinghellion ♥’d for a henderson and gets cap- lets hope he uses actual words… ]

                         There was a lot he didn’t like about working for Spence Conlon’s security firm- the majority of which was the fact that it seemed like 90% of what they did was illegal. It rubbed him the wrong way- he had some kind of honor left, after his time in the military, something left in him that wanted to fight a good fight, and go home. But the money was too good, and Sammy had tuition and books to buy, and scholarships only went so far, and Gold couldn’t really be counted on to look out for anyone but herself- like their mother. So here he was, dealing with drug dealers, eyes locked on the doors and windows and corners and shadows, expecting trouble, as always.

          “ Got yer money. If y’got what I’m here for, we go our separate ways. ” He didn’t know the guy’s name- rarely got sent on this kind of gig, Spence seemed to know his distaste for the shit he was picking up, after all, it had killed his mother. But lord, the guy had a face he wouldn’t forget.

                         Business is business -- a phrase he’ll remind himself daily even with death threats and bullet wounds. Today is just another typical one for Mason Parker. Four drops, seven meetings, one drive around, and two hand offs -- one of which has him antsy. “ Y’er LATE. ” Griped out when the shades come off and eyes appraise the meat shield before him. Generic rings through a brain before shoulders square back, the redneck adjusting his stance. This is the type of guy to get lost in a coward easily enough, no one looks twice at him. Looks like he could have enough blue under the collar -- Mason lets it go.

                     If the words come out past teeth-worried lips with a hint of sighed relief -- Parker won’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t entirely have to anymore. Enough passing time between the pair though he is fairly certain Thomas still knows exactly how tangled Mason is in the dangerous web. He’s heard things here and there -- made several usual attempts at contact that left the dealer with nothing. Just stories played out on repeat as he dug a little deeper. Running in circles until a small bar in a nowhere town of Alabama lands Mason in the presence of one maddened Walker (practically liking his own wounds down a bottle, or two, of whiskey). Earned a fractured rib and a sputtered “he’s dead - go fin’a new bitch fo’ Ah end ya.”

Put the IDEA of a dead fox in the older man’s head and he grieved for weeks. Why would Zeddex bother lying to him? And by the sight -- the kid looked a mess over it. No reason not to believe those words coming from the top dog himself, let alone a spew of stories. Now Mason’s standing face to face with what could be considered just a ghost of his imagination but it’s never truly been that spot on.