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\ Seattle - 1930 /
Her eyebrows furrowed, nostrils flaring and hands balled into fists that sway at her sides, Cathy marches through the muddy grounds of the hooverville she takes refuge in with a single destination in mind. Enjoying their time as the night grows old together, groups of people huddle together just outside their makeshift, tent-like homes chatting amongst each other, not allowing the cruel circumstances of their shared living situation keep them from living a life worth speaking of. The ruffles on her dress shifting with each motion of her legs, Cathy carries onward without any mind paid to those that scatter amongst the various encampments she passes, a few porch-front businesses lining the path that she walks. With eyes kept on the ground ahead, the woman’s intent soon joins her in being guided to the raggedy shack a few blocks away from the same tavern she’d known her husband to frequent. “He should be in there” the woman behind the irate wife remarks, the message she’d been sent to deliver serving as the only reason for the wife’s steady progress onward. Having forgotten about the woman’s presence entirely by this point in her journey, Cathy passes a glance over her shoulder and nods her head, “thank you” she replies before continuing forward, refocusing her attention exclusively on the hut she soon steps through the entrance of. Passing by a few sickly or wounded gentlemen laid out on small, thin table tops throughout the shed’s interior, Cathy pursues the sight of the man she’d been called to the assistance of. Dimly lit, stingy and stuffy, the shack itself presents itself like an unorganised and cluttered maze, messy and thrown together almost as if the people responsible for its configuration gave little care toward how accessible it truly was. Her soft skin lit briefly by the spaced-apart candles that light the sickly hut, Cathy glances at the walls and their splatters of blood, eyeing the needles that are discarded into different corners without care, and listens to the sounds of pain that emanate from around every corner. As if she were walking through the halls of a horror show, the troubled and aggravated spouse soon nears the corner her entire trip had built up to, her husband’s bloody half-smile meeting her upon arrival. “Hey, dollface” Jimmy remarks, dropping the man he’s placed his health in the hands of- dressed in a regular suit with a pair of brown suspenders- a nickel for his troubles. The cut over his eye having been reopened and worsened, the wounded brawler spits another mixture of blood and saliva onto the ground as his wife slowly approaches, drawing closer with the least intimidating posture she can conjure. Before long, her innocent and unimposing demeanour is set aside as her open hand swipes across the air, striking the side of her husband’s face without an ounce of hesitation. “What did I tell you about fighting!?” Cathy exclaims in a stern tone as her husband presses his own hand against the cheek that had been stricken, “why must you keep trying to put yourself into care!?” “Relax honey, for god’s sake- it’s not like I’m six feet under, am I?” Jimmy retorts, gently rubbing the sore side of his face as it grows a brighter shade of red. “Even though that’s not the point, you’ll end up getting yourself there if you continue like this” Cathy retorts, a response that prompts her husband to hang his head, defeated and disheartened, aware of the truth behind her remark, though too fed up with the world he lives in to not desire the opposite of what is argued. “Perhaps we’d all be better off if so” Jimmy replies slightly beneath his breath, the remark just barely loud enough for his wife to call into question the words spoken. “What was that?” Cathy inquires aloud, watching her husband’s eyes look up at her with the same depreciating look he’d held since his pay out for the week were handed off. As if he’d been clamouring for the chance to utter those same words aloud, the battered fighter repeats himself with added context. “The only reason you're here is because of me. If I weren’t around, you could marry yourself into somewhere other than this shit hole” Jimmy replies, a vigour in his words not aimed at his wife, but at the world he calls home, “me being here is one thing, but me keeping you hog-tied like this is another one.” “If you really believed that, you’d have thrown yourself off that bridge instead of using it to walk to the teller each day” Cathy replies, immediately dismissing the claims her husband is all-too eager to double down on. “At least then you’d be able to say you held out until death did us part” Jimmy retorts, at the end of his rope without much clarity over how he can do more than he already has to provide what little he’s offered, “you deserve so much more than this.” “It doesn’t matter what I do- or do not- deserve. I married you and I am your loyal wife” Cathy rebukes, watching the man’s loosening face look back to her, “why can’t me choosing to be here with you be enough for you?” “Damnit, it is enough. It’s always been enough for me, Cathy- but it isn’t enough for you” Jimmy replies, his voice taking a self-loathing turn as he corrects his remark, “at least it shouldn’t be.” Letting a breath leave through her nose, the grizzled man’s faithful wife bows her head and couples her hands at her lap whilst the unqualified doctor carries on with his treatment, dabbing a cloth against the brawler’s open cuts and wiping the dirt that sits around it. “I don’t need money. I don’t need opulent wealth and a fancy, big home” Cathy retorts, taking her husband’s stance to heart before correcting his conclusion, “I want a husband who loves me and cares about me. You treat me well even without having all the means to do so the way others could. I love you and that is all that it takes for me to stay.” Though as moved by her confession of devotion as he was on their wedding day, Jimmy’s disheartened visage is unable to be cleansed the way his skin can be of the muck that covers it. “Now, I will not hear anymore of whomever this man in front of me is. This man is not my husband- he’s some drunk that takes out his pent-up aggression on other local crumbs” Cathy concludes, a metaphorical foot placed down where she stands, “if I have to see anymore of him- there will be problems.” Though it can only muster itself in the corner of his mouth, a grin appears upon Jimmy’s face before the rest of his head bows, taking toward the ground as his doctor pulls away. Discarding the wet rag he runs across his patient’s face, the untrained medical hand pats his client on the back and clears him to return home. “Keep that thing clean if you can. If it swells or gets discoloured, come to me and we’ll take it from there” the carer remarks, watching Jimmy hop off the table he sits at the edge of. “Thank you” the fighter appreciatively quips, wrapping his arm around his wife’s waist before walking off the way they’d both entered, their home all that either of the couple can think of in such a moment. Nodding to himself before scribbling down something on a piece of paper, the doctor steps out of the open area with a candle in his hand, stepping into the next room over before preparing for his next client. “What hurts?” the man inquires aloud, setting a stack of papers in the corner whilst placing the source of candlelight a few feet away from his assumed patient. “I’m not here for care” Wilbur replies, sitting close to his small room’s entry with eyes on the departing couple, a squint in his eyes presented from a place of deep-rooted determination. “Why are you here then?” the doctor questions back, not receiving his response until after Jimmy and Cathy round the closest corner in search of the exit, their bodies vanishing from the wealthy man’s line of sight. “I’m scouting, doc” Wilbur replies, still bleeding from an open wound along the top of his forehead in addition to his nose. Though his tooth is cracked, the man of luxury flashes a smile at the untrained caretaker before reaching for his hat, placing it atop his head and departing. = Seattle Noir is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Three weeks prior / “That’s foolish, Norman” Wilbur remarks whilst exhaling a cloud of smoke he’d taken in from a drag off his cigar, staring intently at the chips he holds. “You say that, and yet here the two of us are- in Seattle” Norman responds, holding a cigar of his own between the two primary digits on his right hand whilst glancing at the assortment of colour-coded numbers atop the table they stand beside. “You say that as if your career back in Hollywood were panning out as planned” Wilbur retorts, pressing his lips upon one of Cuba’s finest before holding it there, freeing his hands to disperse the chips amongst the plethora of tiles. “Trying to make it on the silver screen were less of a plausible route than venturing into the Pacific Northwest for untapped potential” Norman rebukes, preparing to take another pull off his cigar as he pauses to double down on his claim. “We could have been comfortable in California, but you decided our time was better spent spending our money on dingey alleyways and nightwalkers” the wealthy gentleman remarks, putting out a few chips in different sections of the board. “Who needs comfort when you can have luxury?” Wilbur replies, his lips moving to form the words as best they can with the cigar still placed between them. “Luxury and comfort are words interchangeable with one another” Norman retorts, only placing a few chips on the board whilst his friend aims a little higher than necessary. “Not at the level we’re sitting on” Wilbur rebukes, finally pulling the cigar from his lips as the final chip is placed, time having already begun to run out before the wheel is spun to start the next round, “comfort belongs to the people with wealth, and luxury belongs to the people with money to waste.” “Is that why we’re at a casino?” Norman questions aloud, their shared conversation heard by those that line the table around them, all paying half-mind to their discourse. “We are men of luxury that will use our wealth to create an empire” Wilbur replies, watching the attendant’s hand reach for the nearest spoke to set the next round into motion. “And we couldn’t create that empire in California for what reason?” Norman questions aloud, reaching for a nearby glass of water as the wheel rips into motion. “You don’t want the actual answer to that question” Wilbur warns, smiling as he leans against the table, watching the circle in the centre of it spin and spin with desires of winning big. “Of course I do. Tell me why I shouldn’t yearn for the reason behind why I travelled north with you in search of greener pastures” Norman retorts, watching the wheel gradually begin to slow to a stop as a ball is tossed in, allowed to freely close in on whichever compartment of the revolving platform it chooses. Eyes soon veering to his friend, the still-upright man watches Wilbur look up at him with his smile intact, “I wanted a change of scenery” the man answers honestly. “Why shouldn’t I be surprised?” Norman wonders aloud, staring toward the heavens with his head shaking in disapproval, though his tone does not appear to present Wilbur with any sense of true disappointment. Tucking his free hand into his jacket pocket, the standing gambler looks back toward the wheel as it slows to a near-halt, the ball finally reaching the number that the majority of his chips were placed atop of. “Seventeen!” the casino attendant exclaims, looking up at Norman whilst his friend chuckles to himself, standing up from his lean before pressing his cigar between his lips once more. “Well, Hollywood” Wilbur remarks, patting his victorious friend on the shoulder as he prepares to venture off further into the hall of wagers, “it looks like your luck is already beginning to change for the better- or should I say, gambler?” Having wasted a few hours placing pointless bets, the night grows too late for them to ignore a hearty meal any longer, the California-raised gentleman having found their way to the finest dining establishment the city has left to offer. With silverware in hand and their steaming meals set atop the plates before them, Norman and Wilbur dine beneath candlelight and are surrounded by equally well-dressed gentlemen and ladies in all directions. “Like I said, it’s in the name ‘Panko-Crusted Pike’” Wilbur replies, sliding off a piece of his own meal and holding the tongs of his fork to his still-open mouth, “it’s common up here.” Jostling his head as he carves off another slice to follow that of his first, Norman- impressed in the flavour of his plate- nods to himself in pleasure. “I never said Seattle had nothing good to offer” the man corrects, sliding another piece of the fish between his teeth, easily pulling it from the utensil. “You’d be wrong if you did, so that’s good” Wilbur jokes back, arms pressing into the rounded corners of the dining table they occupy, listening to the colliding of silverware with the ceramic plates in each direction his eyes turn toward. After a few minutes of enjoying their individual platters in silence, a thought comes across the mind of the man sitting across from his equally-wealthy travel partner, still intrigued by what has yet to be said. “Alright, you’ve got me intrigued enough for me to ask” Norman remarks, swallowing his most-recent bite whilst his friend looks up, still chewing on his own, “this empire you’re speaking of- what exactly is it being rooted in?” Eyes veering off to the side, Wilbur stares at the distance as he finishes eating the forkful he’d just shovelled into his mouth, covering his mouth with the knuckle of his index finger, “money” he replies after swallowing. “Don’t give me that- I want none of that” Norman rebukes, watching his friend cut off another bite and shovel it into his mouth as the man across from him reiterates. “It clearly wasn’t just a change of scenery that brought us here, Willy. There’s something more to it” the man- simply along for the ride to see where it takes them- remarks, “are you here for the docks? We working against Volstead?” Shaking his head in refusal, Wilbur carries out his chewing without needing to pause, prompting his pally into further spoken-aloud consideration. “Well what is it? Drugs?” Norman questions aloud, seemingly on board with the various directions he proposes, though has as much certainty to each as any clueless wanderer would. “We’re not taking on the docks” the gentleman with the answers replies, having finished his newest bite in time to speak, “what we’re doing is dry.” “But it is illegal, no?” Norman questions aloud, offered an answer quickly before another bite can be taken. “Not entirely” Wilbur answers honestly, pulling off another piece of the soft fish upon his plate and relishing in the taste, yet to pay any mind to the look of loss on his friend’s face. “What does that mean?” Norman questions aloud, nodding his head appreciatively to the server that refills his glass. Covering his mouth, Wilbur glances toward the depths of the intimately-lit dining room with the intention of replying, only for his attention to be caught by the sultry voices that approach their table. “Are the two of you new here?” the first woman, dressed in a shiny red dress with loose strands at the end, wonders aloud to the young-ish pair. “That depends on who you’re asking on behalf of, kitten” Wilbur replies, putting a momentary end to the conversation he’d been amidst in favour of speaking to the ladies that approach. “We’re not prostitutes” the lady in red replies, joined by her blonde friend, who wears a dress similar to that of her own, though in an almost-reflective silver. Having also chosen to set his discourse aside, Norman stares at the women for a moment inquisitively, allowing his friend to keep the words moving. “What are the two of you doing out here then, huh?” Wilbur continues to question, pointing his fork in a random direction of the dining room, “the two of you a moll or something? Maybe a couple of grifters?” Shaking her head in silence, the brunette in the red dress flashes her smile at the sharp-dressed man and leans forward, her voice maintaining its soft tone as her hand wraps around the man’s red and white striped tie. “I’m whatever you want me to be, sugar” the woman replies in a seductive manner, flashing her teeth to the man that visibly appears to be as into her as she is to him, the silver, blonde-haired lady presenting the same demeanour to the man across from him. “Well, if you ain’t with anyone, I suppose-” Wilbur begins to reply, feigning his interest for a few more seconds as their faces near closer, only for his charming smile to fall aside, a stoic display of disinterest presented as he breaks from the pause in his words, “-you ought to find two other chumps to latch onto instead.” Pulling away and gesturing his hand for the woman to depart, Wilbur reclaims his fork and turns his full attention back to the dinner sat before him. “Wh-?” Norman wonders beneath his breath, looking across the table in surprise as the blonde woman joins her friend in walking away out of disgust, shocked at the dismissive presentation he’d put forward, “what the hell was that!?” Pulling another piece of fish off his fork, Wilbur waves his hand at the man he accompanies for dinner and covers his mouth mid-chew, “as evident by your dinner, there are better fish in the sea” the man replies, continuing his indulgence of the meal. “Who cares!? We’re not marrying the ladies!” Norman retorts, watching his friend’s fork dart toward the ladies as they make it to the other side of the dining room, venturing off at the man’s behest. “If you wanna go give yourself some shrivel-dick making whoopee with the tramps, be my guest” Wilbur replies, leaving his friend the choice to head off in search of what he’d so casually sent on their way. Looking over his shoulder at the exiting ladies, Norman clears his mind of the sensual thoughts that had supplanted themselves in his head and returns to his questioning of the man he travels with. “Alright, what is it with you already!?” Norman inquires, watching the man he joins for a meal cover his mouth and smile, holding back his laugh from being seen by the man across from him. “You would’ve jumped at those cats back in California, but all of a sudden- you’re too good for it” the man reiterates, watching Wilbur look up at him with the same full-mouthed smile, “you’re not telling me something, and I wanna know what that is.” With his grin ever-widening, Wilbur finishes his bite and wipes his mouth with the cloth his silverware had come wrapped within. “You really wanna know?” the man questions aloud, looking Norman in the eyes and seeing the determined nod he receives, given all the assurance he needs to continue forward, stepping out of his seat and pushing his chair out, “come with me.” Allowing the night to roll into the next morning seamlessly, the wealthy businessmen in sight of new ventures stand at the edge of Smith Cove, staring out at the moonlight just over the waterfront. “I thought you said what we were getting into was dry” Norman remarks, a curious gleam in his eye as he waits for the man beside him to further elaborate on the environment they stand within, “why are we at the docks?” Letting a deep breath of salty air leave his lungs, Wilbur smiles at the rippling waters that reside just beyond the metal links serving as a minimalist barrier between the seaside and the cove. “It just so happened to be where the property was” the man answers honestly, staring out at the enchanting sights as his business partner’s mind takes closer to the remark he’d just made. “What property?” Norman questions aloud, turning to look at the man that has already spun around and begun walking toward an unmarked building closeby. “It was a factory for a while before it caught fire. The city put in the funds to renovate it, but the company had already found somewhere better suited and moved out permanently” Wilbur remarks, brushing aside any further question until he can finish his brief look into the lot’s past, “the city’s been looking for a buyer ever since.” “I don’t understand” Norman murmurs, joining his friend in walking along the factory’s grounds, having entered through the rear door and now being surrounded by nothing more than open space. “You bought a factory for- what, exactly?” the curious traveller wonders aloud, following Wilbur deeper into the building, nothing more than concrete flooring to be seen. “For fighting obviously” Wilbur replies, finally revealing his true motivations for the journey northbound in spite of the dismissive chuckle his friend responds to him with. “I figured I’d get a crew in to dig out a good chunk of the floor, set up some seats around the pit and rent out the catwalks overhead to high-rollers and those with the deepest pockets” the man with lofty expectations begins to remark, each word he utters gradually making his friend realise the truth behind his revelation. “The fighting won’t get us in trouble, but the gambling will. I figured the pigs out here would be tickled pink well enough to get a decent cut out of the earnings we make each night” Wilbur continues, allowed to finish as his shocked friend watches on from behind, unsure of how to respond, “from there, we’ll set a fight card three weeks in advance and send it out to our most-frequent visitors. The fighters will get a hefty cut, we’ll take the rest and keep moving from there.” Pleased with his description that illustrates the walls of peeling paint and dirt-covered floors as a worthy hole to sink their cash into, Wilbur throws his arms outward and turns back for his friend, “what do you think?” Having already stopped walking alongside the man long ago, Norman looks at his fellow California-native with widened eyes and a brief shake of the head. “I think you’ve fallen off the wagon, pal” the hesitant man replies, beginning to resume his walk as the distance between himself and his friend closes in, “do you suppose we defy prohibition whilst we’re at it? Maybe give the Italians out east a run for their money?” Looking out at the wide walls and shattered windows that line them with a semi-confident nod, Wilbur shrugs his shoulders and extends his lower lip, “that isn’t a bad idea now that you mention it” he replies. Rolling his eyes as he nearly does a full three hundred and sixty degree spin, Norman shakes his head and breaks into a laugh, unable to free himself from the surprise he takes in the man’s certainty. “Why the hell do you think any of this would work?” the man calls into question, incapable of preventing himself from listing the things that work against him, “we have no credibility here, we’d have to pay off countless people to get this off without a hitch, and we don’t even have fighters!” Chuckling to himself briefly, Wilbur’s amusement finds itself tacked onto what’s littered with inquiries. “You find that funny?” Norman wonders aloud, knowing the last quips to be what sprouts amusement in his colleague, “we could’ve done all of this in California if we really wanted to! There was no reason to head all the way north for something like this!” “Sure there is” Wilbur replies, tucking his hands into his pockets as his dominant one pulls out a packet of smokes, placing one between his lips as his friend obliges with the other end of the discourse. “What’s the reason?” Norman wonders back, shrugging his shoulder as he too tucks his hands into his pocket, graciously accepting a dart handed to him by the man’s extended hand, “-and don’t simply blame it on wanting a change of scenery either.” Striking a match and lighting his friend’s cigarette before taking the flame to his own, Wilbur pulls a drag off the dart and holds it in his lungs for a moment, only blowing it out upon the vocalisation of his reply, “the hooverville.” With a shrug of his own, Norman lets his drag steady and holds it down whilst his follow-up question is voiced, “what about it?” he asks before freeing the smoke from his lungs. “Those fuckers will do anything to climb their way out of the rubble the banks stuck us in” Wilbur answers honestly, staring out at the moonlight from beyond the farthest window the building has to offer, its glass panes the most shattered of all. “I say we charge admission on top of the wagers, give ten percent of our weekly earnings to the pigs outright, pay out sixty to the high-rollers, and split the remaining forty evenly with the fighters” the plot’s mastermind proposes. “That still counts on us being able to attract the right clientele” Norman rebukes, crossing his arms and pressing his back against the concrete column he leans against, “even though I’m sure the pigs will bite, I’m not familiar enough to know they bring the hammer down.” Cutting his hand through the air, Wilbur squints toward the distance as he takes another drag, shaking his head as he lets the next breath of smoke leave his lungs. “I’ll have that taken care of- don’t you worry” the brainchild replies, his left eye opening wider whilst the lids of the right press closer together. “As for the fighters, I’ll have that covered as well” the plot’s creator concludes, his squint lessening as his eyes turn toward Norman, his lips forming a devious grin in the corner of his mouth as the next comes to an end, restless planning for their Pacific Northwest plot enveloping their next three weeks before Wilbur sets the wheel in motion. Crafting an image of himself in the eyes of the less fortunate, Wilbur plays the disdain-inducing role he was born to present, dressed in the garb of endless wealth amidst those forced to brave the elements just to have sanctuary awaiting them. The night he’d been waiting for the arrival of having finally dawned, the man crafts his most toxic expression and dares anyone to deliver him the physical harm he’d been begging to receive for weeks- the anyone he’d set out for finally showing himself. “Wilbur, he’s not having a-” Old Eddy begins to remark, reaching out for the man that slowly ascends from the stool in confrontational fashion, kept from speaking further by the remarks paid back to him. “I don’t care what his excuse is. People don’t talk to me like that” Wilbur replies, taking his hat off and placing it upon his seat as Jimmy stands out of his own, pulling his arms away from the hesitant reach of Stanley and Jesse, both realising their friend is in over his head. Having gone silent once more, the display of the wealthy gentleman and his clearly much-poorer adversary standing with the same thought in mind baffles and enthrals the crowd of patrons, all wanting to have a good night and believing what’s about to unfold will only ensure one. “I gave the man a tip for his troubles, I don’t see what your trouble is” Wilbur responds, aware that this interaction only appears to be headed in one direction as he takes off his coat. “You impolitely demanded my friend serve you. I find it odd that you can throw around cabbage, but can’t afford to throw around a ‘thank you’” Jimmy retorts, rolling his sleeves up in lieu of any worthwhile clothing he’d fear having to dirty. “By the looks of you, I don’t assume you can’t afford much of anything” Wilbur retorts, not one to hold back on the manner of insults as their confrontation only runs deeper, “I suppose you wouldn’t be able to afford getting into a scrap with me, either.” Without a hint of reluctance, Jimmy swipes his hand through the air and slaps the wealthy man across the face to the collective sound of gasps and sighs from those watching on. With widened eyes and his hand pressing against the side of his face, Wilbur looks toward the ground as his rage simmers to a boiling point, his still rolled-down sleeves left unattended in the wake of the disrespectful show. Wasting little time in considering the condition of his wardrobe, Wilbur’s eyes dart back to his assailant seconds prior to his fist following the same trajectory, cracking his opposition across the face with ease. Thrown back onto one knee, Jimmy leans over the ground and momentarily tends to the side of his face, listening to the footsteps that approach before anything else. Though his broken nose and busted lip had already begun to heal, the smile of getting back in the saddle pre-empts his follow-up attack. Throwing his hand forward, the labourer catches Wilbur on the jaw and knocks him off balance for a moment, waiting for a few seconds for the field to even just in the name of avoiding excuses. Feeling the weight of the strike within his molar teeth, Wilbur stands in the quickly-widening circle that the speakeasy hosts, staring at Jimmy as the crowd he’d walked through minutes prior pulls as far back as they can, applauding the action unfolding before them with glee. His own smile matched by the well-dressed adversary, Jimmy balls his fists and corrects his posture, prepared for the battle that wages on between himself and the affluent gentleman. Their strides matched, Jimmy and Wilbur cut the distance between each other shorter with each passing step, prepared to deliver strikes back upon the other as if their lives depended on it. Forced to sit back with the rest of the speakeasy’s crowd, Stanley and Jesse take their drinks and indulge in them whilst they can as their friend battles with a man born from the unknown, both men- from completely separate sides of the tracks- now running toward each other with heinous intent in mind. == Seattle Noir ==
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Series Premiere
\ Seattle - 1930 / His clean-shaven face bloodied and visibly bruised- colliding with the muddy ground, a young man- no older than his late twenties- gasps for air and winces in pain amidst a sea of roaring shouts. “Come on, you filthy crumb!” a towering brute of a man exclaims, reaching down to pick the wounded young man out of the soft ground with ill-intent on his mind, a right hand swinging down whilst the left takes the battered fighter by the collar. Barely able to feel the sting of each strike, the fresh-faced fighter lays on the ground and takes the assault without any defence to put forward. “Ain’t got no more fight left in you, ah?” the large brawler exclaims, continuing to swing his hand down as a pair of arms wrap around his neck, carrying him to the ground with the rest of his weight. “I’ve got plenty!” the third man shouts, rushing into the back of the beast of a human being and dragging him to the ground. Offered reprieve as he lays in the soaked earth, the bloody-faced fighter feels the kiss of each raindrop fall upon his face as the weight of his wounds fall silent, docile like a dog ordered to subdue his yelping. Shining a smile toward the sky before letting out a faint laugh, the pummelled fighter turns his body and pushes himself off the ground, hands balled into a fist and ready to continue the fight that he’d waited all week to wage. The man having spared him from any further beatdown than what he’d already endured now exchanging strikes with the leviathan, the war-ready bruiser prepares for a second helping. “Look out behind you, Jimmy!” an old man exclaims from the crowd, having joined those gathered round for a show with a dog in the fight, urging the beaten-up man in his late-twenties to turn around and take notice of the second man rushing in his direction. His balled fists letting up for just a moment, Jimmy turns back at the command of the audience to gain an upper hand on the approaching vagrant, arms locking the stampeding attacker into place and pushing him against the ground. His lips parting to present a smile once more, the wounded brawler swings his fist through the air a few times, each punch doing a little more damage than the last. Able to gain ground, the second man- whose face wears a scruffy beard and a gash over the right eye- stands back to his feet, prepared to take the man he’d attempted to launch a sneak attack against head-on. “You come around here often?” Jimmy questions aloud with his grin intact, bobbing forward and back with an eagerness to exchange strikes once more, “if so- let’s make this a common occurrence!” Nearly finishing his remark with a laugh, Jimmy dodges the first strike thrown by his well-built, scruffy-faced adversary and connects with a jab off his non-dominant hand, staggering the persistent foe. Shaking the cobwebs off, the sour-faced opposition stares daggers back at the man with the lucky left hand, prepared to take the same approach as his last with a different result in mind. “Woo! Come on and show me something, big boy!” the skipper lad taking his fight to the brute exclaims, forced against the wall beneath the towering-gentleman’s weight. Paying no mind to their friends off to the side, Jimmy and the bearded brawler prepare for the next go-around, a few missed strikes failing to hit the mark as they switch places and stances. “You fuckers are crazy” the grizzly-voiced fighter remarks, his voice and tone both low in nature as he steps forward, eyes not once leaving Jimmy, “you’re fun.” With a shrug, the clean-shaven figure of persistence dodges the scruffy-faced brawler’s first strike before stumbling back as the second connects, the straight shot connecting square on his jaw. Digging his heel into the dirt, Jimmy prevents himself from tumbling back any further, his other foot pressing against the edge of a puddle to propel himself forward. Thrusting his fist through the air at the same time his opponent makes the same move, the bloody-lipped man earns himself a similarly-bloody nose for his troubles, eating the same strike he lands on his adversary before crumbling to the ground with a laugh. “Alright, that’s enough!” an older man exclaims, running through the gathered crowd of people in a hurry, suspenders pulled off his shoulders as he storms into the centre of the pit. “All four of you- back to where you came from!” the aggravated elder exclaims, his voice proving to be all that’s necessary for the brute and expletive-wielding fighters a few yards away to cease their assault on each other, “I’m not having the pigs shut me down over your garbage!” Letting out a long sigh amidst his gasps for air, Jimmy digs himself up enough to climb to his knees, hands hanging by his sides as he feels the old man’s hand slap him across the face. “Why the hell is it always you, Jimmy?” the elder barks, unafraid of the consequences that come with handing out strikes like they were home-cooked meals at a soup kitchen, “you got somewhere else to get your booze, son?” “We’re just letting off some steam, Eddy!” the apparent friend of the kneeling brawler remarks, hands thrown out as Jimmy climbs to his feet, wiping off his pants before walking off without departing remarks. “Keep the fighting on the opposite side of the camp, Stanley!” the liquor-supplier exclaims, throwing his arms out to shove backward the man he scolds, the conversation one the exiting fighter laughs at and shakes his head over. One shanty after another passing him by on his way through the condensed community, Jimmy hangs his head and walks with filthy clothes through the dirt pathways stretching between homes. Wiping the blood from his nose with his arm whilst rubbing the crimson off his lip with the knuckle of his thumb, the battered brawler steps through the front door of his small, dimly-lit wooden cabin and pulls off his suspenders. “Oh, Jimmy” a young woman remarks from the opposite side of the shack, hearing the man enter and immediately stepping out of the chair she occupies. “Y’know, the more you say that, the more it makes you sound like my mother” Jimmy quips back, unbuttoning his muddy shirt and tossing it into a wooden crate off to the side of the home. “If you keep going off to get in fights like these, you don’t leave me much other choice” the woman responds, trying not to interfere with the man’s disrobing as she gently grazes his cheek with her hand. “I’ve always come back from them, haven’t I?” Jimmy retorts, stepping out of his pants that he discards into the same basket, looking his wife in the eyes whilst keeping his hands to himself, not wanting his own dirty palms to stain her purely clean face. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t cause me worry” she responds, disheartened eyes paid to the man whose lip her thumb glides across. With a frown, Jimmy peers off to the side and begins stepping away, dismissive of the woman’s concerns. “You’ll always worry about me, Cathy” the man remarks, walking in the nude to a corner of the room where a bucket and sponge lay, taking a seat upon the wooden stool sitting just beside the collection of bathing items. “I’m your wife, that’s how this is supposed to work” Catherine replies, following the man to the corner of the shack with her hands lowered to each side, chin slightly descended as a knock interrupts her. “Can you believe that twit and his no-good brute thought they could get an easy one over us?” the sailor-tongued fighter from moments earlier exclaims, climbing into the wooden shed before pausing, seeing his friend in the nude and worried he’d stammered in at unfavourable times. “I’m not interrupting the two of you pitching woo, am I?” the intrusive gentleman wonders aloud, the concept quickly dismissed by the offended woman. “Of course not, Stanley” Cathy replies, watching her husband’s acquaintance lift a dart from the cardboard package it’s stored within, another two retrieved and offered to the married couple. “Thank you for knocking however” the woman remarks, graciously accepting the cigarette the visitor offers, his head bowing as he wears a smile. “I’m the pinnacle of a gentleman- it doesn’t get better than me!” Stanley retorts, his remark taken with the humour it was meant to be responded to with. Striking a match to the end of his dart before lifting the flame to his wife’s, Jimmy lets a puff of smoke leave his lungs before dipping the sponge into the soapy water sitting beside him, continuing about his evening as intended. “Did you give him a hard time about fighting again?” Stanley soon inquires, a hand on his side as he takes the match from his friend’s hand, lighting his own cigarette before shaking the flame out. “Of course I did, what wife would I be if I didn’t?” Cathy questions back, a gentle sway in her head displaying the amusement she takes from being expected to react in any other way. “A good one?” Stanley replies, feigning pain with the playful punch his friend’s wife throws at his arm, though his incapability of understanding her persistent dismissal of the practise is genuine. “Josephine’s a good dame. Never questions it, never looks at me two ways over for it” the man continues, a flood of smoke bursting through his lips as he leans against the nailed-up walls of the shanty, “I can never figure out why broads like you can’t understand why he’d wanna roll his sleeves up.” “It has nothing to do with what I do- or don’t- understand” Cathy rebukes, pulling in another drag and speaking in between breaths, “it’s what I don’t like seeing him come home as every other night.” Shaking his head with a still-genuine loss for the weight behind her opinion, Stanley turns his head toward the naked man wiping himself down in between puffs, lathering his filth-covered figure in a thick layer of soap. “I’ll say it again- I always come back” Jimmy remarks, carrying the dart between his lips as he runs the sponge down the length of his arms, the water dripping off his skin and onto the boarded floors. “You always come back looking like you’ve gotten kicked in the face by a horse” Cathy corrects, her brows raised as she takes another pull off the cigarette, “I worry you’ll fall off that bridge every day you leave for work, so of course I won’t be thrilled about you running into fights like these.” “To be fair, we run into the square for drinks- the fights happen when there’s liquor involved” Stanley replies, locking eyes with the woman whose retort he cannot argue against, “it’s the square- there’s always liquor involved.” “Don’t start telling me you don’t like me drinking too now” Jimmy sighs, shaking his head as he expends another smoke-filled breath through his nose. “It may be illegal, but I’d certainly prefer the drinking over the fighting” Cathy responds, a finger raised in the air from their guest as he takes his chance to correct her. “It’s not illegal for us to drink, it’s illegal for us to get the drink” Stanley replies, a wave of his hand slicing through the air, “it’s Old Eddy doing the crime here!” “That’s like him coming home with only a black eye and arguing that- ‘at least I don’t have a broken nose too, love!’” Cathy rebukes, watching Stanley take amusement out of her reply, “I know you think it makes me feel better, but it doesn’t.” Running the sponge down his legs, Jimmy picks his foot out of the soapy pool of water it sits within and scrubs deeply whilst the room goes silent, simply existing in each other’s company and that of the kerosene lantern atop the distant table. Finishing his dart first, Stanley steps up to the front door and discards the butt on the muddy grounds of their shack-infested settlement, showing blatant disregard for the passageways the same occupants of the town do. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow” the man remarks, already halfway through the door as he waves toward his friend and the man’s wife, concluding his quick visit and moving on with his day. “Did the two of you get that aggression out of your systems?” Cathy inquires, pulling the last drag off her cigarette before tossing it out the still-open door whilst her husband journeys across the room. “We’ll have to see how the week goes” Jimmy replies with a smoke between his lips, preparing to take the basket of clothes from the opposite corner of the room before watching his wife’s foot rest atop its rim, keeping him from doing the job she refuses to let him take from her. Half-heartedly accepting the woman’s stubbornness, the man pulls the dart from his lips and takes one final drag before following the lead of his predecessors in tossing it through the open door. “Boss is a twit and there ain’t enough bathtub hooch in the city to drown that headache out” Jimmy confesses, gently resting his cleansed palms to each of the woman’s arms, his wife’s smile trying to keep itself hidden in spite of her smitten ways, “it wouldn’t come as a shock if the week went stale.” Lowering her chin, Cathy’s face is guided back toward that of her lover’s as his knuckle gently picks it up towards him, his voice softening in the way that never fails to make her blush. “Whether my knuckles are bruised or not, that ain’t ever gonna change how much I love you, doll” Jimmy remarks, a gesture that earns a slight grin from the woman who desperately tries to hide any semblance of one. “I just wish you didn’t have to get your knuckles bruised at all” Cathy replies, lifting her face to match her husband’s before pressing her lips against his own, their brief kiss cut as she backs away to reclaim the clothes-filled basket from the ground. “Sometimes I feel like I’d be doing people a disservice, though-” Jimmy responds, watching the woman pause before stepping through the door, willing to hear him out, “-I’m really rather good at it.” With a shrug and a glance at her husband’s pelvis, Cathy offers yet another half-grin before ducking through the door, prepared to take her place upon the stool just beside their shanty. “If you’re so good at it, start trying to figure out how to make money from it” the woman retorts, already through the door as she finishes her remark, “maybe we’ll have a chance at getting out of this Hooverville after all.” Looking at the ground he walks upon with his tongue pressing against his bottom lip, Jimmy’s head soon bows as his eyes veer off to the distance of the shack, a million thoughts running through his mind without a desire to stop. The warm, near-summer air pleasantly colliding with his skin as if he were a wall in its path from flowing undisturbed, the bridge-labourer and shanty-builder stands in the open without much more to offer the present than the realisation that everything’s sore. = Seattle Noir is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = Sweat glistening off his forehead in the hot sun, Jimmy presses his lips to the rim of a plastic cup and takes a sip of water, his back pressing against the large, metal column of the bridge he works atop. Watching a man cautiously climb down from the level of the planned roadway above, the labourer with a bruised nose and busted lip waits for the second presence to join him whilst staring out at the waters below. “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” the second worker inquires, finally meeting the level of his co-worker before looking out at the waves he speaks of, “I can think of lesser places to work than Lake Union, can’t you?” With an eyebrow raised, “it’s work, Kenny. We’re lucky to have it” Jimmy responds, taking another sip of water from his cup as the other man’s relieved sigh makes itself heard through the quiet space between them. “That’s the answer I like to hear, kid” the man- not much more than ten years his co-worker’s elder- responds, “as long as it feeds the kids, that’s what counts.” Taking his free hand and lifting a lit dart to his lips, Jimmy puffs off the cigarette and continues to stare out at the moving waters, a small box of tools left in the corner of a set of crossbeams a few rungs away. “No kids to feed, no kids to want” the young man- bruises worn like armour- remarks, “just gotta make the lady happy.” “You’re still young. Watch your footing and the time will come” Kenny replies, striking a match and lighting a dart of his own, “get yourself out of that Hooverville and the world will look a lot different, lad.” Shrugging before he spits the taste of tobacco from his tongue and into Lake Union below, Jimmy wraps his fingers around the nearest metal column, preparing to return from his break with a foot pressed against one of the rungs. “The camp is a different world of its own” Jimmy replies, fastening the leather strap attached to the toolbox’s handle over his shoulder as he begins the ascent back to ground-level. “Good. It should be a different world- and not a good one” Kenny retorts, his words gradually drawing the labourer’s climb to a slow down, “how else would anyone be pushed to get out of it?” Already halfway to the level above, Jimmy’s progress stalls as the man looks back, glancing down at his colleague a few paces behind. “No one needs to live at the lowest to fight for something more” the younger man responds, watching his colleague’s eyes trail up toward him, “just havin’ a good bird at home is enough to wanna give her something more. Until then, pick a snipe, strike a couple of nails and collect your dough- come back tomorrow to do it all again.” “You ever see outside of that filth pit, kid?” Kenny questions back, not allowing the younger worker another step higher before raising the inquiry. His advancement yet to resume, Jimmy wraps his fingers around the higher peg as the rest of his body hangs back, relying on his grip to keep him from tumbling into the water below. “I haven’t had a home cooked meal since I was thirteen” Jimmy replies, the corner of his lips pressed together, “that’s what happens when your old man dies.” “What, did your momma not want you?” Kenny rebukes, earning a more sour expression from the younger many his question is intended for. “I suppose that’s what I’m meant to take out of it when she leaves me at the doorstep of the orphanage, yeah” Jimmy responds, a brief squint in his right eye incapable of being seen by the man standing below his level, “what’s it to you?” Freeing his lungs from the puff of smoke he’d held within them for a few seconds, Kenny looks out at the water as he leans against the iron beam, “it just makes sense is all” he responds. Nostrils flaring slightly, Jimmy looks to the worker standing below him, reading into the dismissive face worn below, only hidden by a thick, bushy moustache and dirty skin. “What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?” Jimmy calls back, graciously descending the row of pegs on his way back to the man so enthralled within the contents of his life. “It ain’t mean nothing” Kenny replies, shaking his head as he takes another drag, aware of the return his colleague takes but paying it little to no mind, “just something I thought was worth asking.” “You seem to be doing a lot more insinuating than asking, Ken” Jimmy retorts, gradually navigating the maze of iron beams standing between himself and his co-worker. “You’ve never seen the outside of that pit, kid. You’ve never lived better, you’ve never eaten better, you’ve never-” Kenny begins to reply, listing the same displays of the young man’s hardships that all lead to the same conclusion, kept from continuing by the haste in the labourer’s tone. “I’ve never actually seen the world, is that what you’re trying to say? I was born into shit and keep festering in it?” Jimmy quips back, the calm demeanour presented by the foil to his posture entirely different from the confrontational hostility that the younger man appears to sport, “what are you trying to get at?” “The kind of work you do to climb out of that cesspool is a lot different than the work you do to stay out of it” Kenny responds, his head turning to look the boy in the eyes as he speaks, “take your parent’s failure to give you a good life as inspiration- once you climb out of that hooverville- to do different for your kids.” “We don’t want kids” Jimmy replies, hiding the feeling that he has of the man interacting with him holding more motivation behind these remarks than what he lets on. “And like I’ve said- watch your footing and the day will come where that changes” Kenny retorts, bobbing his head as he takes another drag from the dart, “when that happens, never let your kid down.” “Is this supposed to be some teaching moment? You trying to talk me into not falling down the same rabbit hole that you did?” Jimmy questions back, his inquiry confrontational in nature, “not everyone gambles themselves into the slums, Kenny. Your failures aren’t mine.” Lowering his head as smoke flies from his nostrils whilst he smiles, Kenny chuckles to himself and swipes at his chin with the knuckle of his own thumb. “I like you kid, but not enough to keep myself from pushing you off this beam” the older worker warns, flicking his discarded cigarette into the water below, “watch the way you speak to me or else you’ll leave trouble back home for your doll to handle.” Keeping his stoic posture intact, Jimmy reserves his misplaced aggressions and retains his composure, still holding onto the nearest beam whilst his contemporary does the same, their faces holding upon each other’s. “Start learning how to listen to your elders, James” Kenny remarks, preparing himself to climb back the way he’d come, having only descended to the young man’s level for a brief dart break, “learn from their mistakes so you can avoid ones of your own.” Watching the man climb a few pegs, Jimmy refuses to let the conversation die upon his co-worker’s intended final words, “it wasn’t a stiff one, Ken. I meant it when I said your failures aren’t mine” he quips back. “Not now, but they certainly can be when the time comes” Kenny retorts with a grin, holding the same posture his younger colleague held when leaning back from the makeshift ladder. “No one ever knows what they’ll do when they come into money. They don’t know how quickly it can go until they find themselves running dry” the older man responds, jostling his head to the side as he looks out at the water below once more, “don’t be the guy that thinks wealth never runs dry.” Without a need to continue any further than he already has, Kenny resumes his ascent to ground level as his younger co-worker watches on, staring out at the water for a brief moment. Letting the seconds pass, Jimmy shakes his head and lets a huff of air leave his lungs before following the suit of his colleague, attempting to climb to ground level once more with his mind cleansed by force, directed to the task at hand of earning the pay he yearns for. | “I ain’t saying anything that hasn’t been said before” Stanley remarks, the prominent fingers on his dominant hand gently holding the filterless cigarette he drags on in between remarks. “How unoriginal of you” Jimmy quips back, a gentle poking of fun at his friend’s expense with both hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Hey, you two coming out later tonight?” a third voice wonders aloud, coming from the man standing just ahead of the pair in line, awaiting their pay just like everyone else. “Yeah, Jesse- we’ll be there” Jimmy replies, his response drawing out a question from the man standing in line behind him, “why wouldn’t we?” “I was just wondering” Jesse responds, his white t-shirt stained with dirt everywhere except the collar, which is stiffened in dry sweat, “this twit from the mill’s supposedly gonna be there- he’s always looking for a fight.” With a squint, Jimmy’s eyes drift off to the woman sitting behind the fenced-over window they collectively wait to be within the presence of, the man behind him chatting with the man just ahead whilst he simply hopes for the time to continue passing. “We talking about the same speakeasy in the middle of the ville?” Stanley inquires, his head glancing just over his friend’s shoulder, “Old Eddy’s place, right?” Glancing back with a nod, Jesse’s shoulder presses against the wall as the line begins to find itself stalling, a dispute just ahead prompting those still waiting to collect their pay to stop with it. “That’s the one” Jesse answers, sifting through a near-empty pack of darts before pressing one between his lips, striking a match to light the head of it as the conversation persists. “What’s his deal?” Stanley wonders aloud, watching the man ahead light his cigarette whilst he provides context behind his inquiry, “he must win a lot if he keeps coming back for more. Nobody able to shut that mouth of his yet?” Shaking his head in silence as he lets the smoke simmer within his lungs, Jesse shows his teeth and turns back around, “not too many people willing to take the chance” he replies in a hurry, quickly dispersing the cloud of smoke into the air. “What do you mean?” Jimmy questions back, curious to the retort as he too leans against the nearest wall, letting the commotion ahead persist whilst other, less patient labourers call for the dispute to be rectified right then and there. “He’s not like us. He’s always showing up togged to the bricks. Some young pip walking around town throwing cabbage around” Jesse clarifies, “some think he’s the bruno of some big guy in the apple and others think he’s a crooked stool pigeon. No one’s throwing sawbucks around like he does without something lying under wraps.” “So he’s not winning, there’s just no one willing to fight him?” Stanley inquires, unable to see the distant glare his friend just ahead continues to take toward the teller. “Someone did a few weeks ago, but he ain’t been seen since” Jesse replies, shaking his head as he takes another drag, moving with the line as it resumes forward progress, “you’ve got people asking questions now, but the dude keeps showing up. It’s a gamble each week whether or not someone’s gonna sock him one.” “It sounds like you’d have to be at the end of your rope to try” Jimmy responds, gradually continuing onward as the discourse moves on around him. “Or you’ve got nuts the size of grapefruits” Stanley retorts, casually jutting his fist into his friend’s shoulder blade, earning an elbow to the abdomen in return. “Woah woah, hold off a little bit longer!” Jesse proclaims, quickly putting a pause on the back and forth presented by the men behind him, “save it for tonight!” Though they know the shots were taken with good-hearted fun, neither man is opposed to bringing a fight to the other, their fists already balled in the event they want to start laying in strikes before the sun sets. Moving with the rest of the line, the trio make their way toward the counter and are handed a small slip of paper and a handful of cash. Pleased with their pay out, Stanley and Jesse prepare to move along with their business whilst a closer look at the third man’s pay presents issue. “Wait, no- this isn’t right” Jimmy remarks, extending his hand to return the payslip and cash to the nonchalant teller, “I worked fifty hours, my pay should be twenty one and a half.” Shaking her head and reaching for the next set of papers below the desk she sits at, the woman he speaks to waves off the issue and prepares for the men next in line. “Your sheet only shows you being on for thirteen hours” the woman replies, correcting her glasses as she takes a second look at the paper. “I’ve been here every day from eight-to-eight! Ask the big guy, I haven’t missed a day!” Jimmy exclaims, hands thrown out at each side whilst Jesse and Stanley watch on, not wanting to interrupt their pal. “Mr. Elliott, the slip says what the slip says” the woman rebukes, unable to do anything more than pay out what the time slip demands she pay out, “five fifty-nine is all I can give you. If you have an issue with that, take it up with the big guy when you come in tomorrow.” “When I- why is the slip even wrong in the first place!?” Jimmy shouts, more aggravated the longer the conversation persists, kept from getting any further out of line by the pull of his friends’ arms. “Hey, hey, hey! She ain’t got no control over it!” Jesse exclaims, stepping between the man and the window-working teller whilst Stanley pulls his friend back, “you heard what she said! Tell the big guy when you get in tomorrow and settle it then! Ain’t no reason to make this a big fuss!” Pulling his arms free from Stanley’s hold, Jimmy calms his demeanour down and takes another glance at the woman behind the gated window, a glance at the handful of cash in his palm preceding his angered march for the building’s front door, the forward thrust of his hand sending the entrance flying outward. | Whilst other residents pass through the muddy roads just beyond her hooverville homefront, Cathy collects her hung linens from the clothesline they’d been left to dry upon. One after another, the once-filled wooden bucket is filled with the few clothes she and her husband have to her name whilst her eyes take toward the near distance, the familiar figure that approaches her wearing an angry scowl. “What’s the issue?” Cathy inquires, watching her husband’s dismissive headshake present itself to her as he walks past, the few dollars he’d received as payment for his hard week’s worth being squeezed within his fist. “James, what’s the issue?” the woman wonders aloud once more, quickly abandoning the few clothes she had yet to pick off the hanging line and retreating after the man. “The fucking twits chumped me short” Jimmy replies, angrily throwing himself to a knee in the centre of the floor, pulling up a wooden board as his wife shuts the door on her way inside. “Fifty hours! I worked fifty hours on that bridge, and the best they can do me for is five fifty-nine!?” the man exclaims once more, uncovering a metal tin tucked beneath the dirt he’d covered it with whilst his other half sets the clothing off to the side of the room. “Five fifty nine still isn’t bad!” Cathy remarks, still earning the brunt of her husband’s angered demeanour, his raised voice meeting her out of untargeted rage. “It still isn’t twenty one fifty!” Jimmy barks back, frustratedly shoving the crumpled bills into a small box of evened-out, smooth and carefully laid out bills, each gently placed atop each other like cards in a deck, “fifty hours of work for thirteen hours of pay!? The fuckin’ dingy twits!” Slamming the box’s cover shut and tossing it recklessly back into the hole it’d been hidden into, Jimmy kicks the dirt back into the hole and tosses the board atop it, failing to lay it upon the place it was picked up from. Turning away from the hole in the ground with his chin raised, the beleaguered labourer places his hands upon his hips and closes his eyes, trying to calm himself as the room goes quiet, his wife not wanting to interject into his opportunity to settle himself. With his teeth pressed together, Jimmy’s head soon falls toward the floor, eyes spotting a barely-noticeable trail of dry dirt littering the floor in a line from the tenacity in which he’d ripped the floorboard up. In silence, Cathy approaches the open spot on the floor and begins lowering herself to retrieve the discarded piece of wood, only for the outstretched hand of her husband to prevent her from doing so. Not wanting to leave his wife to clean up his mess, Jimmy drops to a knee and picks up the board with much more care than the last time he had, his wife left to watch on as he fits the box in the hole properly, re-burying it and tucking the plank into place once more. “Everything’s gonna work itself out, Jim” Cathy remarks, a truth the man understands, though is barely in the mood to acknowledge. “I know, honey” Jimmy replies through a defeated breath, hand gliding through his hair as he remains perched upon a knee, his wife’s hand gently caressing his shoulder. “I know you’re trying” Cathy soon adds, a gesture the man takes appreciation in, “I don’t want you to think that I don’t.” Placing his hand atop the one his lady had placed beside his head, the more-relaxed gentleman stares off at the distant side of their shared shanty, a brief nod paid back. “I know that you know” Jimmy confesses, something the woman never doubted for even a moment, “but that doesn’t get us out of this shit-pit, does it?” Frowning, Cathy shakes her head quietly and rubs her thumb along the man’s neck, reassuringly offering him a shoulder of support. Climbing down to her knee in spite of the man’s refusal to allow her moments earlier, the woman’s chin presses where her hand falls from, fingers now wrapping around those of her husband’s own. | “There he is!” Jesse exclaims, lifting a half-glass of poor-quality gin into the air amidst his friend’s arrival, the pop-up speakeasy clearly bustling with patrons. “The first one’s on me, pally” Stanley remarks, taking a pre-ordered drink from the bartop he and their shared colleague occupy and handing it to the approaching man. “Thanks” Jimmy replies, accepting the beverage and joining his co-workers in taking a seat upon the nearest, purposefully-vacant stool. “You gonna behave yourself tonight, Jimmy?” Eddy asks aloud, the question prompting the younger man’s face to pull toward the speakeasy operator’s own. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Jimmy responds, the unamused frown on the older liquor-serviceman’s face presenting all the care he has for such a reply. “We’ll have to see indeed” Jesse rebukes, gently nudging his colleague in the side with his elbow, “who do you think’s gonna take that shot at the cinder dick?” “Why do you assume the twit’s gonna show up in the first place?” Jimmy wonders back, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd of patrons- all with drinks of their own in tow- in search of the so widely-discussed gentleman in the clothes worth speaking of. “Like I said, he’s supposed to. That’s the word I’m getting, and I’m willing to put my money on it” Jesse replies honestly, nodding to himself as his elbows press into the countertop, “good people give you good intel.” His right eye squinting for a moment, Jimmy holds his thoughts of disagreement at bay in favour of silently lifting his glass, leaving the gesture to be followed by the men sitting by each of his sides. “Let’s have ourselves a night!” Stanley exclaims, the first to follow his friend’s lead by clattering his metal cup against that of his friend’s own, Jesse soon to follow suit. With their own second drinks put down nearly half an hour after their toast, the trio continue to speak as the barfront grows more crowded, packed with people simply trying to fight through depressing times beneath the guise of liquid courage the law refuses them. “You’re being too hard on yourself!” Jesse proclaims, slamming the base of his cup upon the tabletop he and the boys sit at, “you’re doing more than most drunk twits would. Have some fucking sense.” “I have plenty of sense. How else would I have thought to horde?” Jimmy responds, shaking his head and shrugging, “we’re in hooverville for a reason, why else would I be grateful for the employment?” With an eyebrow raised, Jesse’s eyes remain attached to the bartop whilst Stanley sits against it, facing the opposite direction of his pals and staring out at the crowd. “You work hard and provide for the broad. Don’t think I don’t get why you’d be mad, but it’s not like you don’t have a failsafe” Jesse retorts, politely gliding his beverage container a few inches away in a gesture to the speakeasy attendant for a refill. “It’s probably a better wager than the banks are, ain’t it?” Stanley doubles down, elbows pressed against the wooden countertop as his eyes read down the demeanour of one soul after another, “at least the floor won’t steal your green, will it?” Frowning with his head hanging low, Jimmy passes a grin with the least amount of effort he’d perhaps shown to that point to the man responsible for filling his cup. “This one’s paid for” Old Eddy remarks, watching the down-on-his-luck labourer look at him at a loss, uncertain he’d heard him correctly. “What was that?” the short-changed worker inquires, incapable of receiving an answer before his friend’s voice fills the air that suddenly grows quieter. “I think we found our cinder dick” Stanley quips, staring straight ahead at the crowd as it begins to part, the sight he sees soon joined upon by the men that accompany him. Dressed in a full grey suit and a top hat, a man with a clean-shaven face steps through the quieting and increasingly-subdued gathering with eyes on the open space between the onlooking trio and the wall they sit nearest. “Out of my seat” the yet unnamed and visibly-wealthy individual orders, snapping his fingers at a man sitting in the stool just beside Stanley, his way had the moment the noise leaves the tips of his digits. “Gin, sir?” Old Eddy inquires, watching the sour expression on the man’s face turn toward him, almost offended at having to be asked. Without uttering a word, the man of discussed luxury prompts the speakeasy operator to fetch whatever bottles he has prepared whilst the room goes quiet. “That’s the cinder dick” Jesse whispers to his nearest friend’s ear, joining Stanley in veering away from the wealthy figure whilst their friend in the middle continues to stare on. After a few moments, Eddy returns from the depths of his shopfront with a half-empty bottle of transparent liquor, setting it before the suited man as the speakeasy’s crowd slowly begins to chat amongst themselves once more, though much more subdued than they had been prior to their mysterious visitor’s appearance. Pressing his lips and teeth together, Jimmy watches on as the newest patron looks at the bottle for a moment, squinting his eyes before turning toward their side of the counter. “Hey, pally” the affluent visitor chirps, nudging Stanley in the side with his elbow before setting his eyes upon the bottle before him, “open it.” Clearly irritated at being jostled by the gesture, Stanley looks at the man for a moment before following his eyes toward the tall, glass bottle. Keeping to himself, Jimmy’s eyes remain stoic upon the individual he can present a dislike for easily, remaining quiet throughout the duration of his friend’s obligation. “What are you looking at?” the prosperous gentleman inquires, finally taking notice of the downtrodden patron’s visage focused upon him. Keeping his mouth shut, Jimmy watches Stanley open the cap to the bottle of gin and pour a half-full glass for the visiting man, trying not to get on the wrong side of the wrong kind of person. More than happy to reserve his fighting spirit for foes he’s much less intimidated behind the influence of, the taller man serving the affluent punk his drink opts to live to fight another day in the most literal sense of the term. With a nod, the rich gentleman assumes the subject of his inquiry is hard of hearing and can’t understand the question, letting it settle there before sliding an Abe Lincoln to Stanley’s side of the table. “That’s what I thought” the wealthy man remarks just above his breath, settling back into his seat and reaching toward the glass, lifting it to his lips before his ear is caught much as his attention is, directed toward the same man he’d begged a question of moments earlier. “Thank him” Jimmy orders, watching the well-dressed man pause his attempted swig from the glass and look off to the side, unsure he’d heard the visibly-filthy labourer correctly. “I beg your pardon?” the man wonders back, halfway-convinced he had indeed heard the hooverville resident properly the first time around, whilst maintaining half of a mind to allow the poor worker to walk his command back and assure his well-being beyond just this evening. “He served you a drink, you should thank him” Jimmy reiterates, not as keen on keeping his truest thoughts to himself as much as his closest friend does, “does having money come at the expense of having manners?” Gripping his glass tightly, the still-unnamed gentleman gradually lowers the beverage back to the counter without wetting his lips of the alcoholic substance, a gesture of irritation clearly shown. “Wilbur, he’s not having a-” Old Eddy begins to remark, reaching out for the man that slowly ascends from the stool in confrontational fashion, kept from speaking further by the remarks paid back to him. “I don’t care what his excuse is. People don’t talk to me like that” Wilbur replies, taking his hat off and placing it upon his seat as Jimmy stands out of his own, pulling his arms away from the hesitant reach of Stanley and Jesse, both realising their friend is in over his head. Having gone silent once more, the display of the wealthy gentleman and his clearly much-poorer adversary standing with the same thought in mind baffles and enthrals the crowd of patrons, all wanting to have a good night and believing what’s about to unfold will only ensure one. “I gave the man a tip for his troubles, I don’t see what your trouble is” Wilbur responds, aware that this interaction only appears to be headed in one direction as he takes off his coat. “You impolitely demanded my friend serve you. I find it odd that you can throw around cabbage, but can’t afford to throw around a ‘thank you’” Jimmy retorts, rolling his sleeves up in lieu of any worthwhile clothing he’d fear having to dirty. “By the looks of you, I assume you can’t afford much of anything” Wilbur retorts, not one to hold back on the manner of insults as their confrontation only runs deeper, “I suppose you wouldn’t be able to afford getting into a scrap with me, either.” Without a hint of reluctance, Jimmy swipes his hand through the air and slaps the wealthy man across the face to the collective sound of gasps and sighs from those watching on. With widened eyes and his hand pressing against the side of his face, Wilbur looks toward the ground as his rage simmers to a boiling point, his still rolled-down sleeves left unattended in the wake of the disrespectful show. Wasting little time in considering the condition of his wardrobe, Wilbur’s eyes dart back to his assailant seconds prior to his fist following the same trajectory, cracking his opposition across the face with ease. Thrown back onto one knee, Jimmy leans over the ground and momentarily tends to the side of his face, listening to the footsteps that approach before anything else. Though his broken nose and busted lip had already begun to heal, the smile of getting back in the saddle preempts his follow-up attack. Throwing his hand forward, the labourer catches Wilbur on the jaw and knocks him off balance for a moment, waiting for a few seconds for the field to even just in the name of avoiding excuses. Feeling the weight of the strike within his molar teeth, Wilbur stands in the quickly-widening circle that the speakeasy hosts, staring at Jimmy as the crowd he’d walked through minutes prior pulls as far back as they can, applauding the action unfolding before them with glee. His own smile matched by the well-dressed adversary, Jimmy balls his fists and corrects his posture, prepared for the battle that wages on between himself and the affluent gentleman. Their strides matched, Jimmy and Wilbur cut the distance between each other shorter with each passing step, prepared to deliver strikes back upon the other as if their lives depended on it. Forced to sit back with the rest of the speakeasy’s crowd, Stanley and Jesse take their drinks and indulge in them whilst they can as their friend battles with a man born from the unknown, both men- from completely separate sides of the tracks- now running toward each other with heinous intent in mind. == Seattle Noir == |
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