Post by Arnold Wesker on May 7, 2021 22:22:04 GMT -5
Drip drip drip drip drip
As usual, the night sky of Gotham graced it's citizens with a midnight shower, as if the sky was shedding tears to match the blood lining the streets. The two clearly didn't mix though, the oily red and cascading clarity pelting and swirling around eachother before vanishing into the gutters in a melancholic spiral. one could say this was a fitting visualization showcasing the psyche of one Arnold Wesker.
Brown loafers splattered against the crimson coated puddles in an attempt to avoid the downpour, the occupant sheltering himself beneath a nearby storefront.
"Jeez! The nerve of them idiots, bleedin' all over my new suit!" Boomed an irritated Scarface, glaring wrathfully at the speckles of blood seeped into the ankles of his blue pinstriped suit. "Even in death they gotta irritate me, the disrespect! Ya believe this dummy?" He continued to rant, shifting gaze to the mild mannered Arnold Wesker, currently occupied with wiping his glasses clean of the water droplets obscuring his vision.
"T-to be fair Mr Scarface, I think that's more of a plight on them..."
SMACK!
Wesker's face felt the full impactful force of Scarface's fist, knocking his glasses off, cracked and chipped, be it from the impact on the ground, or Scarface's golden ring slamming against the rims. It was hard for Wesker to tell, as his head was spinning...Quite literally as the case turned out to be.
The Dummy had become far more than his namesake, resting his wooden frame in the left palm normally taken up by his boss. Scarface glowering down at him in all his glory, Arnold's rotund body decked out in a fancy suit, fedora, and the ever classic gold chain and rings. Only it wasn't Wesker's visage peering out from underneath the hat, but the ugly wooden mug of Scarface, enlarged into a hideous helmet that buried any trace of Wesker far within it's hollow confines, a lit cigar stewing between clenched wooden teeth.
"Shuddup. You don't know anything anyhow. Just do yer job and behave before I dunk your worthless ass into a tank of termites, capiche?"
"Yes sir, Mr Scarface sir..." Wesker whimpered out, his head drooping solemnly as Scarface marched into the nearest casino, wringing the rainwater from his hat all over the carpeting without a second thought, making his way over to the closest poker table. He'd never felt so alive....
As usual, the night sky of Gotham graced it's citizens with a midnight shower, as if the sky was shedding tears to match the blood lining the streets. The two clearly didn't mix though, the oily red and cascading clarity pelting and swirling around eachother before vanishing into the gutters in a melancholic spiral. one could say this was a fitting visualization showcasing the psyche of one Arnold Wesker.
Brown loafers splattered against the crimson coated puddles in an attempt to avoid the downpour, the occupant sheltering himself beneath a nearby storefront.
"Jeez! The nerve of them idiots, bleedin' all over my new suit!" Boomed an irritated Scarface, glaring wrathfully at the speckles of blood seeped into the ankles of his blue pinstriped suit. "Even in death they gotta irritate me, the disrespect! Ya believe this dummy?" He continued to rant, shifting gaze to the mild mannered Arnold Wesker, currently occupied with wiping his glasses clean of the water droplets obscuring his vision.
"T-to be fair Mr Scarface, I think that's more of a plight on them..."
SMACK!
Wesker's face felt the full impactful force of Scarface's fist, knocking his glasses off, cracked and chipped, be it from the impact on the ground, or Scarface's golden ring slamming against the rims. It was hard for Wesker to tell, as his head was spinning...Quite literally as the case turned out to be.
The Dummy had become far more than his namesake, resting his wooden frame in the left palm normally taken up by his boss. Scarface glowering down at him in all his glory, Arnold's rotund body decked out in a fancy suit, fedora, and the ever classic gold chain and rings. Only it wasn't Wesker's visage peering out from underneath the hat, but the ugly wooden mug of Scarface, enlarged into a hideous helmet that buried any trace of Wesker far within it's hollow confines, a lit cigar stewing between clenched wooden teeth.
"Shuddup. You don't know anything anyhow. Just do yer job and behave before I dunk your worthless ass into a tank of termites, capiche?"
"Yes sir, Mr Scarface sir..." Wesker whimpered out, his head drooping solemnly as Scarface marched into the nearest casino, wringing the rainwater from his hat all over the carpeting without a second thought, making his way over to the closest poker table. He'd never felt so alive....
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