#v||wrong number

“I'll show you good things.”

@decadcnce

Send me 🔀 and I’ll shuffle my music and create a starter out of the first line in the song 

NaNaNa - MCR (listen)

Light trickled softly through the cracks of the blinds, illuminating the small fluttering dust particles. The distinct scent of instant coffee wafted through the warm apartment. It was a slow, relaxing morning when the question arose. He seemed initially reluctant to address it, but tackling it now was better than never. The question of, what now? 

More than he would admit at the time, Jackson had grown attached to caring for Deanna in the few weeks she was there. He found himself taking care of his house, even himself so he could provide for her routinely. Her presence and wellbeing admittedly was a motivator for him, and he didn’t want to let her go.

Jacket had hit up any place imaginable during his time employed by 50 Blessings. No matter where the calls took him, as long as they delivered a good beating he never questioned them. It wasn’t worth the effort knowing behind why they were targets. Hotels, abandoned factories, speakeasies... Hell, if he were called to a Chuck E. Cheese’s who knows what he’d wrought in that disturbing carousel of animatronics. Tonight was no different, or ideally should be.

The building, which was filled to the brim with prostitutes and hookers alike, was now completely desolate, spare the corpses. Jacket didn’t hesitate to take the last mobster out head on, smashing his head repetitively with the blunt end of his gun until he was oozing red from every facial orifice. Some of it got into Jacket’s mask. The blood stack his mask to his cheek like a thin syrup.

He admired the silence he made for himself before turning to leave, only to be interrupted by a deep thud. The mask turned over to face the source of the noise, a closed closet.

Though he’d admit to coming home at the most ungodly hours, he never had been out too long. He always made sure start his drives immediately after completion, which usually gave him a good two or three hours of sleep before the sunrise tickled the sky. Hopefully Deanna would be asleep by then and wouldn’t have to witness Mr. Cock wipe the blood off of his face. 

But, last night was... difficult. Difficult enough to the point where Jackson passed out on the floor within seconds of arrival. Jack’s sore body felt like rocks against the wooden floor, which wouldn’t have been so comfortable if not for Jackson’s slipping consciousness.

Once all his targets had fallen and warehouse plunged into an eerie silence, Jacket felt a sort of tired nausea creep up from his stomach, followed by a violent static irk in his ear. He desperately wanted rest, but his job wasn’t over quite yet. He ignored the urge to vomit no matter how tempting. Jacket needed to eat. 

The phone’s words rang faintly. His lips relayed the words, repeating the message as it played to keep his mind off his burning stomach. He mouthed: “Hey! This is ‘Skarlet’ from the Ice Palace Ice Rink. You wouldn’t believe what happened. ‘Neville’ slipped up and hurt himself on the ice. Can you come and fill up for him? If you forgot, it’s at West 12th Street...”

Marching on the corpse ridden floor, he moved through into the room at the end of the corridor. Nobody should be left in the building, but he still clutched the magnum just in case. He knew the chances. This “Neville” character is more than likely dead, but he still wanted to check, he still wanted to know for sure he didn’t leave someone to bleed out alone.

A kick swung the door open and he leaped in. Not a Russian but instead a masked corpse stretched on the ground like an animal rug, bullet wounds etching the head. With lips purse with disappointment, he scrapped up the squirrel mask. The physiological relief knowing that his job was technically finished pushed him off edge, causing the violent eruption of fluids from his mouth. Jacket barely had enough time to rip off his own mask and  fell to his knees, staring at the yellow-green puddle. His deep heaves muted out the sound of unregistered footsteps.