#deadendroads

The sound of chords permeated the penthouse as Boss sat there in his favorite chair, his guitar in his lap and looking out the window at the his city outside. A half empty bottle of whiskey sat nearby with a glass that itself was half full. Signing as he stopped playing long enough to pick up the glass and down its contents in one gulp. The amber liquid burned like fire down his throat and only a slight shudder gave away the impression of the discomfort. Looking the glass over as he held it in his hands, turning it over and over, the kaleidoscope of colors it seemed to make in the light  only seemed to make his brow furrow from it. Letting out a strangled growl before he threw it against the wall, it hit with a loud pop, spraying the wall and floor in a multitude of shards and jagged pieces of glass he’d have to pick up later. His attention turned back to the bottle before he picked that up and again gulped down a lot of the whiskey. Sighing and looking the bottle over. Trying to figure out what exactly had set him off in this mood. He should be happy, hell everything was working out pretty well, Syndicate head Loren was dead, dead by his own iron ball. The image got a chuckle out of him. Though He knew like any Hydra, cut off one head, two more would grow and take its place, Killbane and Miller had been those two heads. There was confusion in the ranks but still deadly even if they were fighting amongst themselves. Miller was just a punk kid that could be intimidated sooner or later. He lacked the balls to do anything without those computers, that was his Achilles heel and Boss planned to use that against him. Killbane required more finesse to get rid of, and he was going to do that. He need to relax, so much stress, so much loss. His hand on the bottle tightened, enough force that it soon shattered in his hands, liquor, blood, and glass falling to the floor now. He shook his hand and brought it up to look at it. before using his uninjured hand to pull the pieces of glass out. That hurt like a bitch, yet he didn’t care his hand falling back down against the chair as blood flowed freely to stain the leather of the chair, and the carpet below. Getting to his feet, deciding sitting here wasn’t going to help. Cleaning up his hand and changing clothes before heading out from the penthouse. Down to the garage and grabbing his bike. Taking off like a bat out of hell before heading out, again without even letting anyone know where he was going. That was usually a bad thing, but this was Boss and he could take care of himself. Needing to cheer up with some strippers maybe, or hitting one of the Deckers and Luchadores operations would help to. Though if anyone wanted to overtake him now would be an opportunity do do so.