Thread: The Grass Is Always Greener (Crow11 x ThomasRHellsing)

Thomas Alexander Bartholomew Cornelius Richard Hellsing the 16th, was not what most expected. Most expected a customer in this sort of place to be wearing jeans or something with the sleeves, certainly not a custom made suit. The truth was, Thomas was no where's typical patron. He looked like a male model but his body language sometimes spoke of a predator, while his voice was deep and sophisticated. His teeth were perfect, his skin was pale, his hair was perfect. The twenty thousand dollar custom made three piece suit sure didn't hurt his appearance, a dark almost black red jacket and pants, while the vest and gloves fingerless after the second knuckle on each hand were blood red. His eyes were sapphire blue bright and always covered with designer sunglasses, with red lenses and black frames. His hair was straw blond with silvery tips two bangs hanging over his perfect face. The back was in an elaborate Native American style french braid. Thomas looked like a high class stock broker. The fedorah on his head that's main color matched his suit jacket and pants while the band matched his gloves and vest pulled the outfit together. An ace of hearts rested in the band, and a bullet hole was in the center of the heart. A black cigarillo as long as a cigarette and thick as a cigar between his lips. Today however was different, an astute person would notice it at the smell, unlike the normal smell of Irish Spring with an undercurrent of strong tobacco and expensive whiskey was cordite and iron. Blood and gunfire. Instead of a smile. Thomas was leaned down head resting on his arms Slowly he looked up as he said Hey beautiful. Thomas's skin was even more pale, the front off his normally immaculate suit rumpled and drenched in blood He leaned back and groaned in pain. Gesturing towards the seat across fro him he said, I assume your wondering about these. Well that's a bit of a tale if you've got the time. He knew she would. He'd been coming to Sal's dinner for decades, back when Sal Maruccio had actually owned the place. The old Italian was long dead now, but that was part of the story. Plus he new the waitress, she always had the spark in her eyes still young and full of knowledge and curiosity. Thomas may only be 26, but he felt so much older. When she was comfortable he began the tale. Putting his cigarillo into the ash tray he tried to decide where to begin it. Finally he decided the beginning. Breathing deep he said, My mother was a crack whore, not a functioned whore who used crack, not a T.V crack whore a mug a Nun for her frock, then sell it to get herself a rock crack whore. I have no idea who my father is, a Pimp, a john, a dealer, hell possibly even my Mom's old man or brother. I thought about asking her ounce upon a time but then I found her dead of an OD. of cough syrup and loratab mixed that the dumb sank had injected into her right eye trying to get high. Shaking his head, he got back to the story, So my mother was a crack whore, and I never knew my father. One of my Mom's frequent customers or boyfriends was named Big John. Big John had trouble with gambeling, he loved to bet money he didn't have on cage fights. Cock, Dogs, bears, didn't matter as long as he could watch them fight to the death, he'd bet on it. One day when I was about five years old Big John was Watching me when his bookies caught up to him. He owed them five grand and didn't have 20, so he proposed a wager. Oddly enough that wager changed my life. I'd probably thank him for it, he he wasn't 3 feet under. Big John never learned not to bet money you don't have and Cartell bookies aren't s nice as the local scum bags. Snorting he continued with his tale, Big John did some fast taking, and next thing I know I'm standing in a 4 by 4 cement floor standing across from a boy with short black hair. See, their are these things called snuff films, one person killing another. Certain interested parties pay money, host the event online and charge a subscription you get money to pay junkies and bastards to throw their kids in a ring. I remember the hum, see human beings aren't' like dogs, they don't' just go at each other's throats. The rings were 8 feet tall and had car batteries attached to barbed wire. If the kids didn't' get to the blood shed fast enough then a cattle prod to the back or leg was one hell of a motivator. Of course the people who hosted the fights also opened up the arena for gambling, bet on which kid end up alive ad which kid eaves the ring cripples or in a body bag. John bet on me, I walked out he'd live for another day, I didn't and he'd be joining me soon. Thomas snorted as he felt pain. Reaching for the drink he took a few firm swallows. After catching his breath he continued, I remember the first one the black hair kid. he had to have had 50 pounds on me. His punch to the face sent me down. He was kicking me in the side. I was rolling to avoid his blows when I felt it. The fence was meant to keep us out not stop the glass from the occasionally thrown beer bottle The piece of glass was jagged and sharp I took it into my had I still remember it severing the skin of my hand because I held it so tightly. The black haired kid either didn't see it, or didn't realize what it was Through sheer dumb luck I lashed out you ever see the squirt of a carotid artery severed by the smooth edge of glass. The cuts too smooth to seal shut the squirt is like a sprinkler. I was young the first time five years old, it was instinct something primal and old that had me ramming the glass into his gut over and over and over The blood still squirting out, running down my face and torso. I didn't' stop until the glass broke off into the kid he'd probably been dead 2 or 3 minutes by then. Thomas coughed up some blood, into his napkin. Downing some more Mountain Dew he began cutting his steak, saying simply, That was my first kill, and I liked it.