Summary:Gloomflower's opening for the day, until two unpleasant visitors arrive. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Thankfully, owning and running a tattoo shop means that not only can you set your own hours, but the prime hours for your business tend to be afternoon and evening. No early mornings here, whihch is good since neither of the Chastains are what you'd call morning people.
With another hour until they open Gloomflower, Red is taking his time getting the shop prepared. He pulls dustcovers from tables, taking a moment to give them a quick stroke with a dust-attracting cloth. They're shining onyx, trimmed in crimson, smooth and gleaming. He can smell food cooking upstairs, a sure sign that his sister is awake. With the blinds closed, he takes another puff on his morning cigarette - no violations of the law if no one's there to see it, after all.
He's wearing a black cotton wife-beater top, arms exposed to show the tattoos etched into his skin, a walking advertisement for his own art. His blue jeans are boot-cut Wranglers, tight enough to fit firm around his rear, his wallet linked to his belt with a chain. He has his hair undercut on the sides and slicked back a bit, some product giving volume and texture. Piercings in both of his ears and one in his tongue.
A too bold fly buzzes in the air around him and, with a flick of his finger, Red strikes it down, slicing the offending insect in twain. He's not prone to mercy, is this man.
Beauie isn't a morning person, but she is an early afternoon person. She likes waking up while the sun's yet to hit its top-most zenith overhead, before noon, but not by too much. This is a trait she shares with her twin, who is currently downstairs, prepping the shop for the beginning of its day while she makes breakfast. Dressed in the clothes she slept in — an oversized, super soft t-shirt with a 70s illustration of a fuzzy duckling in the middle, a pair of soft cotton capris in a pale yellow, and fuzzy house slippers in pink — she's watching bacon sizzle pleasantly in the skillet as she stirs pancake batter in a bowl tucked in the crook of her arm. She hums softly to herself as she does her domestic doings.
The bacon is plated, accompanied with hot, perfectly shaped and cooked blueberry pancake stacks, butter pats placed in the centers. The syrup is on the table, in a clear little pitcher, because that's the kinda thing Beauie does — goes the extra steps for the aesthetic of it. She's provided Red his favorite drinks for breakfast, a variety of them, in similar pitchers. Everything in order, she walks to the hallway that leads to the downstairs and leans her head through to be more easily heard. "Red," she calls out, "Breakfast is ready, bubs!" She waits to hear his acknowledgement that he heard her before she draws back from the doorway and heads to the kitchen table, yawning and twisting her long, long red hair into a swirled bun atop her head, held in place by a scrunchie she almost always has within arm's reach of wherever she is.
Red disposes of the fly carcass with a tissue just as she calls down to him, "Up and coming, bebe!" he calls back to her. He takes a moment to straighten one of the flyers posted on the wall, a recent new tattoo design. The double-sided tape peeled a little bit and he smooths it with a firm pressure. He's a precise sort of person.
He makes his way up into their shared apartment, the blinds open to allow criss-crosses of light to shine across the hardwood floor. "Blueberry, huh? You're spoiling me. Should I be worried?" he says with a raised eyebrow. Not that he hesitates for a second, taking a seat at the table and pulling the plate closet o him, preparing to properly drown the fluffy cakes in syrup.
Smiling warmly to her twin as he enters the kitchen, Beauie is sitting in her seat at the table in her customary fashion, with one bare foot drawn up and hugged against her body. It's something she does subconsciously, and almost certainly is related to the things their father had done to her in the past. If he points it out that she's doing it, she will change position and blush a bit, but for now, from an unconscious desire to protect herself, she's hugging her left knee as she nibbles a bit of bacon.
"Why, Red Chastain," she says with every ounce of her Georgia peach drawl, "What on earth gives you that impression?" She grins as she munches another small bite of bacon. "No, bubba, it's just been too long since I last gave you your favorite pancakes. And, this little ol' lady was sellin' fresh blueberries yesterday, so I took it as a sign," she watches as he prepares his pancakes, enjoying the visual of the slow drizzle of syrup.
Pouring herself some cold milk, she takes a bite of her pancakes and begins eating. Then, a sigh. "Isabeau is bitchin' at me that I'm takin' too long t'eat," she clanks her fork down. "It's not like she needs all that time to get dressed. Shouldn't take *half an hour* to put all that makeup on," she says, though Red can tell that last bit was aimed at the person inside her head.
"Findin' fresh blueberries in the middle of New York City's almost a superpower in itself," he says. "Amazes me how they manage to get so many things right in the middle of all this nothin'," he says. While he doesn't regret moving to New York, Red sometimes bristles at the urban environment. He liked getting out in nature a bit and he doesn't seem to think Central Park counts. For now, he's assuaged it by taking the two of them on occasional fishing trips out of town on a weekend once a month.
He hits his pancakes hard, fork cutting through, all three layers in each bite as he shovels the food away. It's not that he's not enjoying it, he's just a creature of appetite. He doesn't really like restraining himself much.
He notes her posture but doesn't comment, swallowing the flash of remembered anger at a father now long distant. "Ain't no rush to get anywhere," he says, to both Beauie and the other within. He's become accustomed to her other selves, if not always comfortable. He could insist on her getting treatment, but she's only barely held together from the state she was in before. He doesn't trust anyone poking and prodding at his twin's mind, especially not some New York shrew with a stick up her ass. "I can handle things down there just fine. Won't be much of anybody this early anywho."
Beauie smiles brightly as he makes a joke, her dimples popping into view. "You're right, bubba. There's not a lotta nature out this way, but that doesn't mean it's lifeless," she says, crunching one of her strips of bacon. The twins share a lot in common, but Beauie tends to like her bacon a touch crunchier than Red. So, she cooks a few strips her way, and the rest his. If he doesn't eat them all, which is a rarity, she can easily pack them away for use on a sandwich for him for lunch or something.
"Yeah. Beau says it's 'cause Isabeau's worried about getting a fat ass, 'cause everyone else lives to eat, while she eats to live," she replies, wrinkling her nose. It's true that Isabeau can be easily determined to be in the light if there's food around. She eats like a bird, if she eats at all. Beauie shakes her head, but doesn't say anything else while she finishes off her pancakes — which are smaller in size and number than Red's stack — and drains her milk. "You worried 'bout the shop not takin' off?" she asks in a small voice. Beauie's not great with moving around. She likes to nest. If the shop doesn't work out, chances are, they'll have to move on.
Red Chastain takes a bite of his own bacon and sits back in his chair a bit, "Isabeau's gotta remember she shares the ass and doesn't get final say about it, huh?" he says. He tends to stay out of Beauie's intercranial business, but he doesn't like it when they take digs at one another, especially if they take digs at Beauie herself.
To the last quetsion, he shakes his head, "I think we'll be okay. We got enough money in case it doesn't, but that just means we can make sure we do good shit and not have to take any half-ass drunk off the street as a customer. If we build up a rep for quality, we'll get a following quick enough. Especially with that website you set up," he says.
He lights another cigarette to follow up his meal, American Spirits he keeps in a slim cigarette case. "Isabeau goin' out today, then?" he asks.
Beauie's face goes slack as her eyes glaze over for a brief time. Maybe ten seconds, give or take. This usually happens when she's in control, but one or more of her alters are 'covering her ears,' having an internal argument they don't want Beauie to hear. But, she's back with an intake of breath through her nose as she smiles and begins busying herself with cleaning up the table and shuffling over to the sink to start washing up.
"Well, thank goodness for that. I don't like mopping up the messes those kinds of clients bring with 'em," she says with her back to her twin, little wisps of her brilliantly red hair curling gently at the nape of her neck. "I think we can do good business here. Maybe even become one of those really fancy shops that celebrities visit and people have to book waaaay in advance," she smiles, sneaking a glance at Red from over her shoulder. Then, she exhales, "She wants to do the business stuff, as usual. Go over the books, make sure everything's in order. Make some vendor calls." She lifts her shoulder. Seems she's feeling kinda bummed about having less time in the light since more and more business stuff is cropping up. Excuses for Isabeau to take over. And, do things she shouldn't.
"I know," he nods. They'd had a few of those clients, in the process of learning the trade on their way up to New York. Truckstop dives and low-rent Memphis parlors populated by junkies and hookers, dealers lookin' to pick up some business, creeps peeling themselves out of stage seats at nearby strip clubs and getting a dancer's name on their arm, hoping to win favor that could only be bought.
"Everything should be pretty clean. Probably won't take her too long," he says. Much as Isabeau wanted to ride him about such matters, he kept good track of the income and, when he did dip into it, he made a note of when and why. "I'm thinking Allison Kraus for the shop music today. Low-key stuff. Clients seem to dig the country vibe. Makes 'em feel like they're doing something authentic," he says.
He pushes up from the table and makes a point of doing the dishes himself. "Go ahead, finish your mornin' routine. I got this. I'll be down in the shop when you're done," he says. He leans over and kisses the top of her head, very filial.
Beauie doesn't like to think back on those times. There was one time a man tried to grab at her — well, Isabeau was in the light, at that time — and, well… It didn't end well for the man, and Isabeau's outfit had to be burned. A move happened shortly after that, and it was very tumultuous. She never could understand why Isabeau was so smug about it, recounting her 'favorite parts' to Beau. Sometimes, stuff would go fuzzy in the retelling, because Beau would clamp their hands over her ears… But, it's not like she wanted to hear, anyway! So gruesome.
She gives a visible, full-body shudder at the memory as she shakes it off, and tunes back in to hear Red's voice filtering through the white noise of remembrance. "I love Alison Krauss, so you'll hear no complaints from me," she smiles as he presses a kiss to the crown of her head, his nose poking into the bun of her hair. "Thank you for finishin' up, bubs," she says softly, slipping an arm around his waist to give him a snug as she heads toward the large, luxuriant bathroom.
It'd been a big surprise for her, Red having the place remodeled to be perfect for her. The bathroom has always been one of her favorite places, because she tends to feel very safe in them. The bathroom of their childhood had an indoor locking system that could only be disengaged from the inside, and that kept her safe from her father when she could get away from him. Red has always been hyper-athletic and could climb the trees to get to the roof and scale his way to the bathroom's window, which she'd open only for him.
So, this bathroom…he made it into a paradise for her: a large claw-foot tub with an attached shower head for use whenever she wanted; a large, fancy high-tech walk-in shower with a sound system, various spray settings, and a place to sit comfortably; a toilet and bidet pair; beautiful decor; a wide, floor-length window of privacy glass to allow sunshine in and make pretty, bokeh lights at night; lots of mood lighting, with a night-time setting for motion-activated underlighting; and lush carpet in strategic places — made complete with the interior locking latch system.
Beauie's in there for quite a while…and, when she exits, it's not Beauie, anymore. From the slink in her walk and the way she's peeking around, Isabeau's in the light and is clutching a towel around her body as she scans the upstairs apartment for Red.
Red Chastain had moved to the apartment down below, looking up as he hears her moving around again upstairs. The heels, once put in place, put the stamp on it. Beauie wears them sometimes, yeah, but she walked softer in them. Isabeau had a certain determination in her step. The kind that might step on your hand if you got in its way.
Still not quite opening time, but close enough that he goes ahead and flips the sign. They had a receptionist, but she wouldn't come in until the evening shift when things tended to get a bit more busy. He had a scheduled back piece at 2 and coloring someone's sleeve scheduled for five and everything else was free and easy.
He remembered what happened at that shop. That guy had it coming. Red had sliced and diced the piece of shit for laying his hands on Beauie. So easy with his power. Ears, nose, throat. Just like a doctor. He'd liked Memphis, but it meant they had to move on, no hanging around after that. Even without legal problems, Grado, the guy who ran the shop they'd been apprenticing in, was pretty much scared shitless after that.
Isabeau's shoulders droop as she realizes that Red isn't upstairs and lets her towel fall to the floor with a pouting of her lips. She leaves the towel where it lay, because Beauie can clean up after her, simpering housewife that she is. Rolling her eyes at the thought of Beauie cleaning up messes, she storms into the bedroom Red designed for Beauie. Because eeeeeeeverything's alllllll about BEAUIE. The soft pink painted walls with white trim, the white bed with a white-iridescent silk quilt (because precious Beauie gets too hot, wahhhh~), and its tons of little pillows, some of which were cute little clouds and bunnies, the white-and-glass vanity with its little white stool and pink cushioned top, the soft, thick white carpet, the white frilly curtains…and the list just goes on. Ugh! It's all so…GIRLY. Not /womanly/, like Isabeau! Beau detests the room, too, but Issie loves it. Two out of four is a stalemate, with Red casting the deciding vote. (And, he ALWAYS took Beauie's side. Drat it!)
Out of spite, Isabeau dumps all of Beauie's clothes on the floor. "The better to reach *my* clothes," she reasons with Beau who bristles a bit. "What? You wanna make it an issue, do the work for the day?" she asks, looking at her reflection in the vanity's mirror. She's wearing a sarcastic smirk, which is met with a flash of impotent frustration from Beau. "That's what I /thought/," she says and slams the closet shut as she picks out her outfit. Tight black pencil skirt with some stretch, crisp white blouse with a jewel-toned ascot at her throat, tucked into the opened neck of her shirt, her hair slicked back and rolled into a tight, perfect French twist, makeup expertly applied though perhaps a bit dramatic for the afternoon, with rich red lips and a smoky eye and hints of a wicked arch to her penciled in brows. She slips her stockinged feet into some black, patent leather stilettos, and with a spritzing of her favorite perfume, makes her way downstairs.
"You didn't wait for me," she says in a pouty, put-on cutesy way, pausing at the foot of the stairs, knowing she looks good. "You tryin' to hurt my feelin's, Red?" she asks, sauntering his way. Also, the counter with the books are in the same direction, so she can use that as an excuse.
Red looks up. He didn't dislike Isabeau, per se, and sometimes he liked her more than he liked to admit. But she made him uneasy, in some way. She may have worn his sister's body, but she wasn't his sister and it made the whole thing complicated.
"Pretty sure your feelings are sterling silver. Ain't nothin' I can do to put a scratch on 'em," he says. "I already e-mailed you the numbers for this week," he says.
"Nice dress. Might be a bit fancy for the shop, but nothing wrong with classing up the joint a little, I guess," he says. She smells good, too, but he's already given one compliment out. He shakes his head as if clearing cobwebs and sets up his inks, making sure things are ready before he lights one last smoke while getting out his vape pen. Have to make do with that while the place is open to the public.
Isabeau keeps moving closer, wearing her pouty look. "Reeeeed," she says, somehow making the single syllable into two. "You know you hurt my feelin's every chance you get, you cruel man," she says only inches away as he's trying to change the topic. She does smell good. It's even more complex because this is Beauie's perfume. All of the scents she and her alters wear are scents associated with her, though this one is definitely spicier and keyed toward Isabeau. Beauie wears it when she's feelin' herself, more confident, and looking for a bit of trouble, like a night at the club or something. Isabeau feels that way…all the time.
"You made sure to calculate for taxes," she says in a leading voice, slightly detached as her perfectly manicured red nails lift to trace along the shell of his ear, down his neck and across the top of his shoulder. "You look real good t'day, Red," she says in a hushed sort of way. "I dressed up for you. Always do. Unlike some people, who greet you in the same sleep-mussed clothes they wore all night," she smiles thinly as she mentions Beauie.
"You wanna get on my good side, yet you always talk bad about my sister when you do it. You're pretty smart not to learn better than that," he says. He reaches up and takes her hand for a moment, drawing it from his face but holding perhaps for a second longer than he must before he release it. He feels a flush of heat to his face. She's taunting him and, worse, if he lets her know it, it'll only encourage her.
"Glad you approve," he says. He looks up as there's a tinkle at the door, two men coming in. Neither familiar and both looking a bit formal. People in suits don't tend to come in looking for tattoos at one in the afternoon.
"Help you gentlemen?" Red says. He shifts subtly, moving Isabeau behind him and intervening between her and the men.
The smaller one, reedy and narrow in build, smiles a smile as thin as a scalpel, "We're representatives of the neighborhood's business association. The local entrepeneurs like to band together to provide continued security and maintence. Keeps the peace on the street. For a small fee, of course. Everyone contributes. You've settled in now, and it's probably time you started paying your dues to the community, right?" he says. The big man behind him, a solid six and a half foot and broad as his friend was slim, chuckles.
Isabeau's brow arches as he holds her hand, and a smile is creeping into those red, red lips of hers as Red holds on a little longer than is necessary. But, he lets go and turns his head away from her. "Well, hell, Red. If she wasn't such a wet blanket, I wouldn't have anythin' bad t'say 'bout her," she says in a defensive sulk, stamping one of her heels and walking over to the counter, where she sits huffily on the stool and slaps the books on the desk behind the counter. "What would it hurt, anyway? You know I could make you—-" she cuts off at the tinkling of the door opening. She purses her lips and lowers her gaze to the books, checking the figures and making sure things are lined up. She keeps her ears open, though, as Red greets the men.
Isabeau snorts loudly. "Are you kiddin' me?" she says, standing up and planting both hands on the desk, leaning forward with a bemused expression. "You're tryin' t' run that ol' racket in this day an' age?" she scoffs. "I'da thought you'd find somethin' more lucrative than chasin' Death down any ol' alleyway you c'n find," she tuts.
Red listens blank-faced for a moment and shakes his head, "Yeah, you're not going to have any luck here. Sorry, fella, we'll take care of our own security. If you've got a problem with it, feel free to express yourself, but it ain't gonna end well for you," he says in a straightforward way.
The two thugs should probably take the hint, but instead, the little one turns and latches the lock on the door, flipping it to closed. "Probably shouldn't talk so smart when you got a pretty little lady to protect. Sister or girlfriend? Maybe both, judgin' by that accent," he chuckles.
The big guy starts to move towards Isabeau and Red shifts again, putting himself between them.
"Last time I'm gonna warn you fuckers. Scat."
Isabeau's brows lift and her eyes narrow at the comment about her. "Oh, ho. Look who has /jokes/!" she says in a faux-droll tone, straightening and smoothing her hands atop her thighs. She steps to the side of the counter as Red moves to block her from their view. As he does that, she disappears. Who knows what's going through their heads, these thugs, when she basically ceases to exist, and in tandem with Red's movement. Where did she go?
Red can feel Isabeau's fingertips trail from his back to his side, to let him know where she's walking. She positions herself where she wants to be and remains ghostly, there, invisible and intangible. She waits for the right moment. After all, Red needs freedom to do his thing, and she doesn't want to get in his way.
Red feels that brief touch on his arm, raising hairs on the back of his neck. Even knowing she was doing her thing, he couldn't help but get a little goosebumpy from it sometime. Maybe he watched too many ghost hunting shows.
He gestures once, a simple flick of his hand and, as he does so, the cheek of the big man rips in twain, spilling hot blood down his face and causing him to stagger backwards, "What the fuck?!?"
"Warned you," Red says, eyes narrowing.
"Great. Fucking freaks," the thin man says, reaching into his jacket for a gun.
Though she can't be seen or felt, Isabeau's dark laugh fills the air briefly, fleetingly, as the big man claps a clumsy meat paw to his split-open cheek, trying to stem the flow of blood. The next time her voice is heard, it's a creepy, seductive whisper in the small man's ear — the one reaching for his gun.
"D'you have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Someone that'll care when you can't get it up, anymore? If so…" And, here, suddenly, the shorter thug can feel immense pain as she directs her intangible hand into a fist in the middle of his family jewels…and solidifies it. Ghosting completely and drawing back, she leaves behind anything that might have gotten on her hand with a vigorous shaking, and finishes her statement over the sound of his screaming, "Give 'em my heartfelt apology."
The armed man yowls violently, shaking in shock as his genitals are more or less shredded in Isabeau's long-fingered grasp, the front of his slacks rapidly soaked with blood as he stumbles to his knees, the gun falling from limp fingers as he wraps around himself.
The big guy makes another charge only to add his own howl of pain to things, another flick of Red's fingers cutting him open along the line of his belly button, then a following chop in the air thunking a hatchet-like blow to the side of his scalp and driving him to fall sideways on the ground with a thumb, blood pooling around him rapidly.
"Looks like I'm cancelling the two o'clock," Red sighs in frustration, moving to pull the blinds on the shop again. "Shut him up," he commands Isabeu, nodding to the man at her feet as he flicks his fingers one last time at the big man's head, giving him the equivalent of a point blank headshot and putting him out of his misery.
Just as Red finishes off the big man, Isabeau rematerializes, her hands on her hips as she looks down at the quivering mess in front of her. At the command, she lifts her steamy gaze to Red arms she smiles archly, "Yes, daddy, you don't even gotta say please." Then, her focus is back on the blubbering little man with ruined testes, trying to stave off shock. "P-p-p-please, don't k-kill me. I-I'm married. G-got kids t-to feed," he stammers.
Isabeau shakes her head. "Maybe you shoulda considered that stuff 'fore you came knockin' at our door, tryin' t' shake us down. The best you can hope for, at this point, is that I don't make it look like a suicide, so the insurance will pay out, know what I mean?" she holds out splayed hands, as though she has no options open to her. "'Sides, you heard daddy," she hooks a thumb in Red's direction. "Who knows what he'd do to you if I don't. Just close your eyes and make peace with whatever God you claim. Be over before you know it," Isabeau smiles and, as quick as you like, she plunges her hand into his brain, solidifies, ghosts, and withdraws, wiping his own brain matter and blood on his suit. "You think so? I bet we can toss 'em in the basement and clean up in time for your 2 o'clock," she says, straightening and looking at the mess to judge its cleanup.
Red isn't sure how he feels about her calling him that. He's told her not to, in the past, but she doesn't listen. She never does, just always does what she pleases and dares him to do something about it. And she knows he won't because she's a part of his sister, that he can't really touch her. Not that giving her a backhand hasn't crossed his mind now and again.
He glances at Isabeau sharply, "Maybe," he says. He goes in the back for a moment and pulls out some plastic sheeting, things they use to drape over tables and chairs, "Big guy ain't gonna be easy to move. He's mostly muscle,' he says. He's all business for the moment, focusing on what needs to be done. Only way to keep them alive and out of jail. Anything else he'll deal with once the details are finished.
Isabeau doesn't wait for an affirmative. Where else is Red gonna put these bodies until they can get the shit to clean 'em up with, anyway? So, she takes off her heels and sends them sailing behind the desk with a soft underhanded toss. Actually, wait; there's something about the posture she's taking, the things she's doing, that might make Red wonder — seems really unladylike, somehow. Then, she grabs the stretchy hem of her pencil skirt and hikes it up onto her hips so it gives her the ability to squat. Just a difference in body carriage announces the appearance of Beau.
They take a moment to unsnap the stockings' bands from the garter belts Isabeau put on, and Red can hear Beau cussing, "Fuckin' shit. Goddammit, with these fuckin' garter belt things, like she even needs hose in this fuckin' heat, son of a bitch." Beau's voice is deeper, gruffer, and they're infinitely more likely to curse like a pissed off sailor. Beau just rips the stockings off without regard to Isabeau screaming in their head about how expensive those things were.
Beau grunts as they squat and hook their arms under the recently-dead smaller guy, and lifts with their back, groaning. "Shut up. Serves you right. Fuckin' always gotta be me, huh, cleanin' up your fuckin' messes, Isabeau, you snotty little… Yeah, you talk back to me an' see what happens, you mouthy…" Beau argues with themself, hardly even acknowledging Red, until it's necessary. "Mind openin' th' door, fucksake? C'mon, I ain't got all day," he demands of Red as he begins dragging the dead weight across the shop's floor, moving at a decent pace toward the basement door.
Red didn't particularly enjoy Beau's company. He always popped up at times like these, when things got out of control and the claret started to flow. He knew why but he didn't find it pleasant. Or necessary. He could handle cleaning up and protecting them just fine.
He props open the door, kicking a heavy stone for that purpose into place and drags things down. THe basement wasn't exactly a basement, more just a storage room, limited in scope but at least totally private. Red shoves the big man up against the water heater, "Stack his friend on top," he says. "She wears 'em cause they look good. No reason to think we'd end up with a couple of mobsters on the doorstep today. Let's hope they're the last. Probably not, though," he sighs.
Beau doesn't particularly enjoy Red's company, either. They've made it clear enough to Red that they wouldn't have come into being if they weren't needed. If Red hadn't been so busy partyin' it up, livin' the life of a carefree teen without considering what his twin sister was goin' through, maybe he would need to deal with Beau being around. They've had quite a few arguments about it before, and will again. But, maybe it won't happen today.
At the top of the basement stairs, Beau climbs around and uses their foot to shove the dead body down the stairs, to save themselves a bit of effort. Lightly hopping down the steps, Beau nods silently to Red's instructions, hefting and flopping the dead guy into place, squishing them tightly together.
"You think the heat from the water heater's gonna make 'em smell? We oughtta get a freezer down here. One'a them big ones, snap their knees and cram 'em in," they say, brushing a strand of red hair from their face, planting their hands on their hips. Then, they glance back up toward the open doorway into the shop. "You know they're gonna send someone out here, eventually. Two'a their men go missin', they ain't gonna let that slide. Maybe they don't know where they was goin', and it might take 'em a while t'find us, but they'll come knockin', sure as shit," Beau replies.
They exhale a frustrated sigh, moving to a storage shelf with the cleaning supplies. A large kit that Beauie keeps specially stocked on Beau's orders. She isn't sure what, exactly, they use it for, since she's sheltered from the truth of things more often than not… But, it does mean that a wet kit is always handy, professional grade cleanup. Beau grabs the kit and starts climbing the stairs, muttering to themselves.
"Yeah, I know. And they'll figure out who did get visits and trace along the route until they figure out where the visits stopped. I get it,' he mutters. "I'm not happy about it either. But we're just settled here. And I'm not about to pull up anchor and move on again. I know the plan is eventually to hit Vancouver and I'm not against that in the long term. But if we wanna build a serious rep, this is the place to build it."
"And yeah, a freezer would be nice. You wanna order it and carry it down here, cause I sure as fuck don't and we're not exaclty in a position to have delivery guys right now."
"Do what you gotta do, clean up upstairs. I'll chop 'em up and get 'em in bags for disposal."
"Fucksake, use the fuckin' tarp. Double-line it. S'what it's there for, goddammit," Beau cusses up a blue streak as they pause on the stairs. A pause. "You might wanna get naked, too, so your clothes ain't ruined. You know Beauie'll be scared if she sees it when she's doin' laundry." Another pause. "She deserves a chance to make a home for a lil while, Quad. She's startin' to feel relaxed, now that you got her this nice place an' all. Let's don't fuck it up, whaddayasay," and, without waiting for a response, Beau is heading back upstairs, closing the door behind them.
Quad. It's what Beau calls Red to needle him, since it kinda echoes the nickname of their father, Trip — as in triple, as in Redford Aloysius the Third. To make matters worse, Beau is older than Red. Or, so they say. So, when Beau gets really steamed, they start calling Red 'boy,' which isn't taken lightly. Then again, they're always butting heads… When they're not drinking a beer and watching the game, that is.
By the time Red is done with his work, Beau's got the whole front looking spic-'n-fuckin'-span. Better than new. And, the wet kit's been cleansed, too. Liberal use of bleach can be smelled in the room, but hey. A tattoo parlor needs to be clean. Seems that Beau's still in the light, 'cause they're sitting in a chair, man-spreading without thinking about it, and looking at a magazine.
Red emerges at last at the end. He took the proferred advice, momentarily nude and splattered with blood, "I'm going to take a shower," he says. He's curt and, while not exactly hostile, he isn't in a good mood. He didn't like dealing with Beau much on pleasant days. And while he didn't mind killing when it came down to it, it complicated things, always. He liked things clean and this was a mess, pure and simple.
He heads upstairs, taking a moment to throw his clothes in the laundry and soaking them to start preventing any stains, then goes to the bathroom to try and grab a shower before his appointment, hands flexing for a moment as he regarded his scarred body in the long mirror. He hoped he was doing the right thing.