“I kno’ I’m no’ perfect, but whut th’ fuck happened t’ you?
How heartless are yeh? Am I no’ allowed t’ ‘ave feelings?”
Frank really didn’t care about Rabbit’s plans, or Cabal’s plans, or really much at all unless there was something particularly spicy on the telly. He was dead. He hadn’t been much of a man while he’d been alive, and though he had his regrets, he didn’t want to continue making the same mistakes that had damned him in the first place.
He stared at Rabbit, uncomprehending of her cruelty.
“I don’t give a toss about your skinny goth hate-fuck, or your grand fuckin’ plans.
Yah, I’m lazy and a piece o’ shit, but I kno’ evil when I see it an lettin’ that girl die–
Lips twitch, hardly held back from the mania that burns in her swamp green eyes as she drags deep of the smoke, cigarette she’d hand rolled nearly smoked down to its filter, ash drifting down to the otherwise nearly pristine linoleum floor.
Rabbit reaches for his face, long black nails set to poke and dimple his ‘skin’.
“I do not have it in me to give a fuck about her, or your pathetic little feelings.
She is already dying, darlin’, and ain’t nothin’ Cabal or some Norse fuck can do, much less you, incorporeal and incompetent as you are, to stop it.”
With her hand still on him, she lifts her other to her lips and sucks down the last of her cigarette, smoke exhaled from her nostrils before she drops it to the floor and crushes it beneath her Prada pump.
“So you go. And you witness.
And when I’m curious to see where the bastard’s at, I’ll call for you.
And you will come, because you’ve no choice but to come when I call.”
With a finality, she pats his cheek, like someone might with a child, before she releases him entirely.
“Don’t go crying too much when she dies, sweetheart.
Nothin’ annoys me more than the sound of cryin’.”
A wave of dismissal before she turns, already occupying herself with other details of another plan, maps and countless numbers spread out across her desk.