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Season 1 Finale
\ Seattle - 1930 / Hitting the ground as loudly as the crowd is boisterous, Jimmy scrambles to his feet and shakes his head, trying to rid of the daze yet another well-placed strike has left him with. Wasting little time, Arthur steps forward with his hands readied, trying to capitalise on the stir of his opponent by taking another three swings forward, each shot nearing close to its target, but evaded nonetheless. Growing agitated with his missed strikes, a bloody lip-wearing Arthur throws himself forward and shoves his rival back, tossing him off the platform and into the lowest tier of rowdy fans in frustration. Seemingly rooting for the downfall of the brawler that had toppled into their laps, the three spectators shove Jimmy off of them and push him back onto the platform with force, hurling slurs and insults at him as they do so. “Hands to yourselves or you’re out of here!” the official exclaims, his finger aimed at the group of men too worked up to hold much care over the threat, their only intention being to walk out of the warehouse for the evening with winnings in tow. Given a reprieve to climb back to his feet, Jimmy juts his fists through the air and reclaims his composure whilst stepping forward, meeting his opposition in the platform’s centre. Dodging Arthur’s first strike before using his forearm to block the second that comes at him in the form of a body blow, Jimmy thrusts his fist into the wrist his foe uses to block the first strike before sweeping his foot across the ground, taking his opponent to the platform alongside him. “Yes, Jim!” Stanley exclaims from the barside whilst the man’s wife quietly applauds, Jesse’s hunched-forward demeanour remaining unchanged from the fight’s opening bell. Lunging toward the ground, Jimmy delivers a massive strike to his adversary’s jaw, rocking the man that quickly crawls his way free and returns to his feet, clearly groggy from the shot he’d just eaten. “To hell with you, killer!” a member of the audience, whose voice is loud enough to just barely shatter the unintelligible screaming of his peers, screams aloud, earning a passing glance by the taped-fist prodigal son of the event’s promoter. Stepping forward once more, Arthur keeps his non-dominant hand higher than he’d held it throughout the fight, shielding the side of his face he knows has taken more damage than the rest of himself. Noticing this, Jimmy goes on the offensive, drawing closer to the man before taking a quick leap back, dodging a right hook before throwing his leg forward, delivering a kick to his competitor’s calf that brings him to his knee for just a moment. “You fuckin’ crumb!” Arthur exclaims as he hits the mat, quickly bouncing back to both feet as he tries to shake off the pain in his limb. Keeping the momentum in his favour, Jimmy reads his opponent’s body language for a moment before stepping forward once more, seeing the hesitation in his adversary’s approach and opting to see how far he’s burrowed into the man’s psyche. “Ope!” Arthur blurts out as he throws his hand forward, attempting to block his foe’s next strike before taking notice of the second kick that sets forth on its path, feeling the weight of the blow on the inside of his thigh before hitting the ground once more. “Quit going for the f-!” the man exclaims as he hops back to his feet, clearly hobbled before yet another kick strikes him in the lower extremities, this time slamming into the back of his thigh and putting him onto the ground. Both rows of his teeth peering through his lips as he grimaces in pain, Arthur remains on his back for a moment before feeling the weight of his opponent kneel upon him, taking the opportunity to end the fight. “How’s this for a fucking crumb!?” Jimmy exclaims, punching at his rival’s jaw three times before the thrust of the official’s arms push him back, freeing the downed competitor for the chance to make it back to his feet. “Those punches might’ve done it” Norman remarks from above, his words passed off to the wealthy man standing beside him, who shakes his head in refusal. “No, the kicks are going to do it before the punches will” Andrew replies, squinting as he tries to get a better look at Arthur’s exposed visage, “why would one bother trying to knock their opponent out when they can just keep them from standing back up instead?” “One! Two! Three! Four!” the referee calls out, able to see the laid-out competitor’s responsive expression, though refusing to stop the count until he can stand back up. “Five! Six!” the next numbers are bellowed out, prompting Arthur to turn over onto his stomach and try to muster the strength to stand, feeling the vibrating soreness within the leg that sooner or later could prove to be his downfall. “Seven! Eight!” the official continues, throwing his hands out in refusal the moment he watches the now-standing fighter’s second foot centre itself upon the platform, allowing the fight to continue. Having prepared himself for the event that he’d yet to get the job done, Jimmy hurries back onto offence, side-stepping the referee as he hurries back toward his wounded foe, a punch pulled and ready to launch before the wind escapes his sails in an instant. “Oh damnit!” Stanley exclaims as his wife covers her mouth with both hands, watching Arthur strike their friend with a surprise hook that instantly drops him where he stands. Screaming in both horror and glee, the crowd react according to the names printed on their wager tickets as Jimmy hits the ground, eyes wide as his vision grows blurry, feeling the same platform he lays upon be met with a similar impact. The crowd suddenly turned into the sound of united defeat, all the laid-out Jimmy can do from his place on the ground is listen to the curious tone of the audience, which prompts him to use whatever whereabouts he has to direct his face toward the official. Confused as he passes glances between both fighters, the referee appears uncertain over what to do next, visibly lost as he shakily throws his hand up. “One!” the man exclaims, passing a look at Jimmy before redirecting his sights to the same thing that the downed fighter does, watching a pain-ridden Arthur writhe on the ground with his hands wrapped around his damaged leg. “Two!” the official proceeds, unsure of whether or not he legally can, but prepared to count both men out to a draw in the event he reaches ten without a single response. “Stupid fucking crumb!” Arthur exclaims as he presses his forehead against the platform, trying to massage the pain out of his thigh as he struggles to propel himself back to his feet. “Get up, Jim!” Josie shouts from within the crowd, which now becomes quiet as uncertainty continues to loom overhead, all sides now prepared for the possibility that they may collectively end the evening with a loss. “Three!” the referee proceeds again, his count clearly understood by the man levelled behind the weight of a surprising punch, though a reaction has yet to arrive. “Four!” the bowtie-sporting man exclaims, throwing his hands out with four digits held outward on one and a closed fist on the other. Shaking his head and wiping his face, Jimmy turns over onto his side and uses his adrenaline to push himself off the ground, sending his friends and the half of the audience rooting for him into a pleased uproar. “Five!” the official barks aloud, nodding his head in the first fighter’s direction to acknowledge his answer, sights now fully dedicated to the same man the rest of the crowd eagerly await a response from. “He’s fucked up my leg!” Arthur shouts back, turning onto his opposite side to stare directly into the referee’s face, only to be met with the dismissive count the official is mandated to reply with, “Six!” Slamming his fist against the mat, the one-legged brawler pushes himself onto one foot whilst the other remains lifted, incapable of touching the ground to support his weight. “I need to see both legs down, Small!” the referee barks, his declaration immediately met with vigour from both the injured brawler and the crowd in support of him. “I answer your damn count! Keep it going!” Arthur shouts, spit flying from his lip as he hops on one foot, centring his eyes on the uncertain fighter hand-picked by the promoter himself, “let’s do this, crumb!” Visibly disinterested in continuing the fight, Jimmy stands across the platform from the opponent he’s now more sorry for than angry at, both hands placed upon his hips. “Come on, fight me!” Arthur exclaims, unwilling to allow his night to end because of his inability to stand, instead choosing to go out swinging rather than to be remembered as a helpless duck waiting to be put down. “This one’s over” Wilbur remarks, standing beside Kenny a few feet away from the pit’s entrance, watching his prized-fight alongside the undisturbed, older fighter. Remaining silent, the grey-haired brawler crosses his arms and dismisses his employer’s words, keeping his eyes glued to the fight that’s quickly threatened to get ugly amidst its unfortunate circumstances. Hopping forward on one leg, Arthur draws closer toward his opponent and lunges forward, only for his hands to slip across Jimmy’s sweat-covered body as the relatively-healthy man simply steps to the side, evading his adversary’s attempted attack with ease. “Come on you fucking bastard!” the hobbled man shouts, angrily pushing himself off the ground whilst spitting vigour in any way he can, simply trying to either dig down deep to win or accept being put out of his misery. Pacing around the platform to a chorus of boos with his hands on his hips, Jimmy hangs his head and does the little that’s necessary to maintain the distance between himself and his helpless foe. “Fucking fight me, goddamnit!” Arthur exclaims, cutting across the centre of the mat to draw closer to his opponent, who sweeps the man’s healthy leg out from beneath him in a spiteful display of refusal whilst wearing the displeasure of hearing that familiar insult once more. “If you’d finish off your old man, why won’t you finish off me!?” Arthur barks aloud, again throwing himself back to his feet as the referee tries to step in front of him, finding the scene too sorry to greenlight any further. The anger written across his face as he stands at the opposite end of the platform from his rival, Jimmy keeps his hands on his hips and head toward the ground as the insults are levied toward him. Pushing the official off to the side, Arthur hops across the ring to close the distance between himself and his foe once more, only to eat a half-hearted jab from the man that simply takes pity at the man’s conquered stature. Falling back once more beneath a strike nowhere near powerful enough to finish him off, Arthur climbs back to his feet again before immediately collapsing once more, unable to regain his balance as he’s brought back down to one knee. “Small, that’s enough! Stand up or I’m ending this fight!” the referee exclaims, stepping in front of the man no longer mobile enough to move from the kneeling position he takes in the centre of the pit, trying to keep from the night ending any uglier. Hanging his head before pressing it into the platform once more, Arthur simmers with his anger whilst Jimmy watches on, focusing more on the boos that surround him than the cheers that support him. “What is he doing!? Why won’t he end it!?” Cathy inquires to her group of friends, none of whom truly know of a valid answer to provide her with, though she’s far from the only soul to ponder such a wonder. “He could get this over with right now. What’s taking him so long?” Kenny asks in an annoyed tone, arms still crossed whilst the first noise to catch his ear is the tip of his acquaintance’s cane colliding with the cement ground. “It seems the man is one of strong principles” Wilbur replies, a squint in his eyes and an intrigued smirk barely noticeable in the shape of his lips, “this isn’t a fight to him anymore- it’s wounded duck that’d be too easy and pathetic to waste a good bullet on.” Seething, Arthur’s teeth press together as his hands pull at the hair atop his head, face lifting from the ground to allow his eyes to stare daggers at the man across from him. “Is this the revenge you wanted, crumb!? To watch me limp around and just wait for the thing to be over, huh!?” the man barks, looking past the referee that suspends his order over the fight for the moment, allowing the man knelt before him to beg for a real end to the fight. “I wanted revenge, and now I’ve gotten it” Jimmy responds, wiping the sweat from his face as he turns fully toward his conquered foe, “just lie down and let this be over with.” Refusing to reply with words, Arthur pushes himself off the ground and places his feet against the platform, though the lean in his stance makes it obvious only one of them can support his frame. “I’ll stand here for the rest of the goddamn night until you make me stay down!” Arthur shouts back, collecting enough saliva in his mouth to spit at the man that refuses him a dignified defeat. “I’m not laying down for anybody, crumb!” the stiffened, immobile brawler proclaims, both hands hung by his sides as he waits for the man across from him to accept the terms laid out, “-I’m too proud.” “I need the two of you to move” the referee interrupts, aware of the strategy that Arthur’s employing and refusing him the ability to get away with it, knowing what the result of this fight will ultimately be. On command, Jimmy takes one step backward and another step forward, a shrug paid to the official as if to say he’d offered the man what was asked for, though his eyes immediately return to his adversary. “This is not why I brought them here” Kenny quips, a set of words that immediately spark more interest in his employer than the fight’s outcome does. “What exactly did you expect them to do then?” Wilbur inquires, turning to look at the older man from over his shoulders before meeting his eyes, their focus centred upon each other’s, “I know it wasn’t just to prove how valuable of a commodity you could be to me. There must’ve been something for you to gain out of all of this.” Watching Arthur step forward before crumbling back to his knees from their backstage position, the men remain quiet for a moment as their eyes return to the fight, inevitably ending back up on each other. Shifting his tongue around his mouth as he ponders quietly, Kenny ultimately ends up keeping his thoughts to himself, eyes wandering back to the fight for a moment before his body turns away, walking further into the backstage area as Wilbur watches on with a grin. Gasping for breath, Arthur’s chin presses against his collarbone as he mumbles just loudly enough for his opponent to overhear, though the words he utters are unclear. “Just stay down” Jimmy commands, crossing his arms again before turning his head to the side, waiting for the referee to call for the bell. “You’ll never be more than the bastard” the conquered foe blurts out, this time with an increased pitch in his voice, the words managing to strike his rival’s ears just right. As if frozen, Jimmy’s eyes remain glued upon an unimportant section of the crowd and widen, his fingers tensing as they slowly crawl their way together, forming a fist. Lowering his head just slightly and shifting it gradually toward his knelt opposition’s direction, the victory-ready fighter parts his lips to ask one simply question with a heavy and intense groan, “what did you say?” Spitting a mixture of saliva and blood onto the wooden platform he kneels upon, Arthur’s right eye squints as he stares upward, a smirk in the corner of his mouth. “You heard me” the injured brawler sighs back, taking a few deep breaths before lifting his voice into a shout, making certain every word catches his challenger’s ear, “you’ll never be more than the ba-!” Cut off before he can finish, Arthur loses consciousness and hits the floor as Jimmy follows through on the heavy strike laid into the fighter’s jaw, arms spread out at each side as he lays flat on his back. Hearing the crowd’s thunderous reaction varying in both directions, the man that ends the night standing tall peers at the referee and nods, shaking his fist to temporarily rid of the ache within it from the blow he’d delivered. “One! Two! Three!” the referee calls out, beginning the count that Arthur had begged for as the opponent- whose victory was already guaranteed at this point- steps over his opponent’s prone body and steps off the platform, walking for the back as the count continues. “Four! Five! Six!” the official continues, watching Jimmy round the corner of the pit’s entrance and disappear into the back, already aware that the downed brawler will not answer his count. “Seven! Eight! Nine!” the referee continues, his voice gradually being drowned out the further the victorious fighter ventures into the adjacent hallway, paying no mind to the promoter that smiles at him on his way through. Wiping his face of the sweat that falls down his face, Jimmy makes his way for the locker room as he listens to the deafening crowd drown out the final number, only able to certify his triumph in the form of the bell, whose sound violently echoes through the building. *ding* = 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 = Sitting in silence, Jimmy leans forward in his chair with a towel wrapped around his hips, the sweat that had damped his hair now replaced by the warm waters of the post-match shower he’d recently stepped out of. “You did great tonight” Cathy mutters aloud, sitting in the corner with her hands in her lap, only able to see her husband respond in the form of a nod. “Seriously, you-” Stanley doubles down from the other side of the room, nodding to himself amidst the pause before settling for the first compliment that lingers on his tongue, “-you were unstoppable.” Watching the droplets of water fall from the soaked strands of his hair, Jimmy turns to look over his shoulder at the compliment-offering gentleman and nods back, visibly appreciative. The third wheel and the most walled-off man within the cramped room, Jesse becomes the entire group’s focus, all eyes other than his own falling upon him. Taking notice of this, the man sits quietly with his thoughts for a few moments as he waits for someone to break the ice first, inevitably finding none willing to do so. “What do you want me to say?” the visibly-irritated pal inquires, leaning back in his seat with hands resting on each thigh, “great fight, I can’t wait to see the next one.” “You’ve got every reason to be mad” Jimmy quickly retorts, silencing Jesse before running his hand through his hair to best free his face for his company to see, “you all do.” Satisfied enough that his attitude is understood, Jesse remains content enough to stay quiet and hear his apparent friend out, keeping to himself to allow the victorious fighter his chance to speak. “What I said yesterday- about being Jimmy Elliott- it was all true. It’s how I feel word-for-word” Jimmy explains, passing his gaze between his friends as his wife climbs out of her seat, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Who I was before I left New Hampshire isn’t the person I was when the two of you met me. By then, I was somebody else entirely” the man continues, speaking to ears that are at least willing to hear him out, “the only person you’ve ever known me to be is Jimmy Elliott.” “Why couldn’t you tell us that you weren’t always Jimmy Elliott?” Stanley inquires, curious toward the reasons he can’t wrap his mind around, “for god’s sake, if you had no choice but to do- what you did- we would’ve understood.” “And I would’ve told the two of you if I thought it mattered by that point” Jimmy rebukes, taking his left hand and crossing it over his chest to place it over that of his wife’s, “but by then, we’d known each other for so long that it didn’t seem like you needed to. I mean for god’s sake, I still don’t know where either of you two moved here from! The only thing I knew about your pasts was that you weren’t born in Seattle. I know about Stan and Josie’s story, but that’s it.” “It’s not really that you didn’t tell us as much as it is the-” Jesse begins, starting a thought that he can’t bring himself to finish, the words evading him right as they try to voice themselves. “The what?” Jimmy inquires after a few seconds of silence, seeing his friend’s face pull off to the side and break the contact of their eyes, “it’s not really that I didn’t tell you as much as it is the what?” Letting free a sigh as he looks back at the fighter that shares a victory on the night, Jesse’s shoulders fall as he speaks amidst it, “as it is that it just feels like we never truly knew who you were.” The words his friend speaks bring a visible disappointment over him, Jimmy’s eyes fall for a moment before a knock emerges at the room’s door, provoking a group-wide stare to centre itself upon the entrance. “Pardon me for breaking up your little group therapy session, but I believe I have a bargain to fulfil my end of” Wilbur remarks, stepping into the room uninvited with a set of envelopes in hand. “I’ve decided that- after the impressive performance- it’d be best if I stayed on the good side of my two little prize fighters” the promoter remarks, handing the first check to Jimmy and the second to Jesse before spinning around to offer Stanley a third one, “I doubt there are better ways of accomplishing that than making sure their friend with the bum wheel- or axle rather- had a way to put food on the table in lieu of his injury.” Obviously eager to see the check contained within his letter cover, Jimmy takes a moment out of his time to look back at the man responsible for talking him into this moment with appreciation. “Thank you, Wilbur” the fighter responds, looking the man in the eyes and earning a respectful nod of approval in return, both men’s attention soon beckoned for by the astonished voice in the back of the room. “Twenty-five hundred dollars!?” Jesse exclaims, his eyes widened as he holds the check in front of his face, “that’s almost two and a half years of pay we would’ve made on the bridge!” “Yes, well the strife the two of you had with your less-triumphant adversaries tonight drew a massive crowd. The people in that crowd have a lot of money” Wilbur replies, watching Jimmy follow suit with opening his equally-large check with equally-wide eyes whilst his wife covers her mouth in awe. “Stanley’s pay is just one hundred dollars in comparison, but he’ll be getting a check from me every week until he’s healed” the entrepreneur remarks, “the two of you get paid per fight.” “We get paid twenty-five hundred dollars a week!?” Jesse shouts in astonishment, his roll cautiously guided to a stop by the open hands of Wilbur. “Well, here’s the thing- a lot of people have signed up to fight in the last few weeks” the affluent gentleman replies, “that’s a good thing for your health in the grand scheme of things. Instead of fighting every week, you’ll be fighting four or five times a year. But as long as you win and your fights make people want to come out and bet- yes.” His mouth incapable of closing, Jesse stares down at the check and remains silent as his friend turns back to continue the conversation. “How do we make people come out and watch?” Jimmy wonders aloud, finally challenging the man’s understanding of marketability, “we don’t have any issues with the other guys you’re bringing in like we did with Arthur and Willard.” Wincing with his pearly-white teeth shown to the group, Wilbur’s head soon bows as it’s made obvious there’s information he’s refraining from sharing. “Alright, before I say what I’m about to, I’d like to remind you that- in addition to making sure your friend is paid until he’s healthy- I just paid the two of you a lot of money” the cane-wielding, tophat-sporting businessman explains, “so when you hear what I’m about to say, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack me.” Pulling his head back slightly as the rest of his friends in the room turn their focus onto their guest, Jimmy presses his lips together and keeps the space free for his employer to speak. “On commencement night, where I invited everyone to the theatre to announce the fight club’s debut? Arthur and Willard weren’t supposed to be there” Wilbur confesses, both hands squeezing on his cane’s handle, “the only reason they showed up was because Kenny invited them.” “Kenny? Kenny the old guy?” Jesse questions aloud, the amusement from the sight of his check mostly subsiding at the mention of the man’s name, “how did he know them?” Shaking his head, Wilbur shrugs off the notion of prior-knowledge and admits to what he’d been told. “From what I understand, he didn’t. He invited them because he’d heard around town that they had a problem with James and Stanley” the animatedly-dressed gentleman admits, “he figured it’d be an easy fight to market.” “Kenny set us up to get jumped by those guys?” Stanley questions aloud, his voice breaking through the audible hush that comes over the room before quickly being talked down. “As far as I could tell, he didn’t seem like he’d anticipated a fight breaking out. He just wanted to make me aware that you all had issues with each other and I could use that to get people through the doors” Wilbur corrects, “I’ve got no reason to believe he wanted anyone hurt, but the truth is- that’s what happened.” “So Stan’s in a sling because Kenny wanted to start something between the four of us” Jimmy concludes, staring at the ground to collect his thoughts before voicing them aloud, “why would he do that? Why would he want to help you?” “Because he knew fighters were easily replaceable. If he proved he had an eye for what I could and couldn’t market, he figured- in his mind- that’d make him harder to replace than anyone else” Wilbur answers, shrugging as he leans his head to the side, “and if I’m being honest, he’s not wrong. None of the other fights- even the one Kenny won- got anywhere close to having the crowd as loud as they were for the final two fights. This night might not go as well if Kenny doesn’t get involved.” “But Kenny getting involved got Stan hurt!” Jimmy exclaims as he bursts out of his seat, sending the chair flying backward as he does so, only to receive a calm demeanour in return to the man he screams at. “He did indeed, and that’s why I’m going to give you a chance to get even with him” Wilbur replies, his voice calm and collected in ways that nothing about Jimmy- whether it be his voice or his posture- is. “I haven’t decided the date yet, but in a few months, your next fight is going to be against Kenny. I’m going to market it well, we’re going to hold multiple conferences, and you’re going to main event that show” Wilbur explains, trying his best to keep his prized fighter level headed for the remainder of the night, “so however many issues you have with him- table them. As much as I respect you, if I get any word about you and Kenny getting into a scuffle before then- you’re out of here.” Seething, Jimmy’s balled fists tighten and loosen repeatedly, trying to calm himself from the rage that he’s worked himself into, though his composure is something that evades him at all corners. Having offered his peace, Wilbur turns to leave and steps through the room’s exit, only to stand in the doorway with a thought dawning upon his mind, one that prompts him to turn back and deliver a few parting words. “As much as I’m trying to be on your good side, James- you should really take me up on the offer of getting on mine” Wilbur concludes, trying to ensure the man is aware of the surroundings he’s placed within, “if Kenny’s proving anything, it’s that someone else will if you don’t.” Collecting himself, the triumphant fighter watches Wilbur step off into the corridor and return to his evening, vanishing as quickly as the group’s collective opinion of Kenny had turned. “Honey, settle down” Cathy whispers, pressing her forehead against the side of her husband’s face as she tries to lull him away from the boiling rage that fuels him, her voice accomplishing its intended purpose, though Jimmy’s face remains fixated on the exit, a tense stare held in the vengeance-filled visage he wears whilst his mind counts down the seconds between now and the fixed date and time his revenge lies at the end of, only one option afforded of getting to it- that being to wait. == Seattle Noir ==
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\ Seattle - 1930 /
Tapping his heel against the wooden floorboards repeatedly, Jimmy stares at the table that his hands are coupled together atop in an effort to keep his eyes from staring directly into the spotlight that sits upon him like an angel of unmerciful scorn. With his eyebrows furrowed and shoulders stiff, the youthful brawler hears his name called from one seat to the side, the whispered tone hitting his ear. “Hey, Jim’” Jesse remarks in a hush, watching his friend’s face turn slightly toward his direction, though his eyes remain glued to the table they sit at, “are you alright? You look mad about something.” Before being provided with the chance to respond, both men have their ears caught by the repetitive tapping that blares through the theatre’s speaker system, the obnoxious popping sound only temporary, finding itself replaced by the voice of their employer. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for joining me in my home for this very special event” Wilbur remarks aloud, standing to Jimmy’s right, though far enough to be incapable of hearing a whisper. “I’m fine” the man answers, turning his eyes toward Jesse amidst the brief pause in the promoter’s declarations, “I’m just ready to get even with these dicks.” “Joining me on the stage are four of the very best that we have to offer- or so I’ve been told” Wilbur proceeds, serving as the middle man between his sets of opponents for the following night, “they will be headlining tomorrow night’s debut show. The other fights we’re promoting have stakes, but this one- this one has motivation.” Lifting his chin just slightly, Jimmy suffers through the harsh white spotlight shining down upon him to look at the set of seats just before him, the audience consisting mostly of those he has no familiarity with, but the three chairs directly across from him couldn’t be more different. “The man on my far left- Jesse Hickman- will be taking on the man to my far right- Willard Morrison in the first of two main events.” Presenting the smallest smile in each corner of his mouth, Jimmy looks past Stanley and Josie to find his wife sitting delicately, looking back at him with her hands coupled atop her lap. “And the fight at the very end of the show will feature the men closest to each of my sides going at each other with revenge on the line” Wilbur continues, the words he utters incapable of breaking the fighter’s eyesight from remaining kept upon his wife, “-Arthur Small and Jimmy Elliott close tomorrow’s show.” Taking his hat off and politely placing it upon the table he now lowers himself into a seat at, Wilbur extends his arms to each side and stares off at the audience, “microphones are located at the bottom of both staircases. If you have questions- now’s the time to ask them.” Though visibly hesitant to do so at first, the occupants of the theatre’s seats begin to slowly rise from their chairs, making for the steps that offer them the chance to present inquiries as of yet unanswered. “Before this whole thing gets started, I know we haven’t talked since that dinner the other week” Jesse whispers once more, keeping his face away from the microphone that sits a few inches away from him, “I just wanted to apologise for crossing the line.” His eyes taken toward the man he shares his end of the table with, Jimmy nods to his friend with an acceptance and understanding, “thank you” he replies after a moment as the first voice from the crowd speaks aloud. “My question is for the guy at the very end of the table over there” a man in a suit jacket remarks, his finger aimed at the man sitting beside Jimmy, “the information card I was given at the door says you give up almost one hundred pounds and an entire foot of height to your opponent. Why should anyone here believe you stand a chance at winning tomorrow night?” With his lips barely parted, Jesse stares at the man whose question had caught his ear in complete silence for a few seconds, his eyes soon guiding themselves toward the man seated at the centre of the table. “You said you were given one of those information cards at the door, yes?” the man wonders out loud, staring at the figure whose question awaits an answer, watching his quiet nod of reassurance meet him, “spectacular. So you know that my name is ‘Jesse’, correct?” “Yes, sir” the guest at the microphone replies, incapable of seeing the point the fighter is trying to get at. “Alright, guy in the cheap coat. I have a name, so call me by it” Jesse retorts, a stubborn tone carried in his voice that prompts a smirk to come over Jimmy’s face, “I’m not ‘the guy at the very end of the table over there’, cinder dick. I’m not some meat puppet that’s going to trade blows for your amusement like a monkey in a circus- I’m here to win.” “It looks like you’re wasting your time then” Arthur quips from the other end of the table, chuckling to himself as he pulls away from the microphone, leaving the space open for his much larger friend to speak. “Let me answer that question for you- you shouldn’t” Willard doubles down, earning the sight of both men at the opposite end as themselves, “I’m not just going to beat the guy at the very end of the table over there, I’m going to destroy him. This will be his first and last fight.” “And speaking from experience, this will be first and last time you ever speak at one of these things again” Jimmy interjects, lowering his chin toward the microphone as he stares at the table’s end, “Jesse will be just fine by the end of tomorrow night, but you’ll never want to open your mouth again. There’s a sort of embarrassment that comes with having all of your teeth broken, and that embarrassment is what awaits you in twenty-four hours.” The spectacle promised by the event’s promoter already proving its presence, the two sides grow more aggravated with each other as the crowd watches on, responding with amusement or intrigue with each verbal barb the two camps trade. “Alright, hold your horses gentlemen. As James has so eloquently pointed out, the fights are still twenty-four hours away” Wilbur interjects, his voice able to bring an end to the countered banter the instant it presents itself. “Fine, let’s hear the next question” Jimmy rebukes, cutting his employer off before crossing his arms atop the table, staring at the other set of stairs just a short distance off to his left. Removing his glasses, the man granted permission to speak takes a glance at the paper foldout spoken of by the prior question-provider, wanting to ensure he doesn’t step on toes accidentally. “My question is for Arthur” the man begins, crossing his arms at his lap with the folded paper grasped tightly, “your friend is quite the specimen, and your opponents were previously hand-picked by Wilbur to fight. As the only person we know very little about, what makes you different from anyone else on stage?” The inquiry, one that few others would think to ask, provokes a sense of self-introspection within the man whose self-description is sought after. Bowing his head and puckering his lips as his head tilts to the right, Arthur stares at the tabletop for a moment as he considers the answers he can offer, unsure right away that he has a valid response to provide. “I’ve spent four years looking for steady work. My mother abandoned me when I was young and I’ve been on my own since roughly twelve years old if I had to venture a guess” Arthur replies, the answer prompting even the faces of his opponents to respectful turn toward his direction, “I’m twenty nine now and I’ve never known the comfort that I’ve been told this opportunity could provide. As far as what I’m willing to do to make this work, there’s no limit I’m willing to stop at.” “Thank you” the man who’d asked the question quickly replies, bowing his head and turning back for the stairs he’d descended upon without another word, satisfied with the answer he’d received. Watching from across the stage as his opponent for tomorrow evening bows his head just slightly- visibly uncomfortable from the apparent vulnerability he’d presented- Jimmy slowly returns his eyes toward his own end of the table as another voice speaks aloud. “My question is for Jimmy” the next man up remarks, prompting the named man’s eyes to take toward his direction, anticipating the inquiry, “as a matter of fact, I’d like to pose that same question to you. What makes you different from anyone else on stage?” From afar, Arthur turns his sights toward the opposite end of the table with his lips puckered in one corner of his mouth, interested to see whether or not his own reply will be matched as far as emotional weight is concerned. “I think it’d be best if we stayed away from trying to get an ‘inside look’ at our fighters’ personal li-” Wilbur attempts to interrupt, holding Jimmy’s potential response at bay with the hope of keeping it from being offered entirely. “No. Not happening” Arthur interjects, a finger raised toward the fight’s promoter as the man of opulence looks toward his direction, “if I had to answer the question, so does he.” Shaking his head in front of the microphone, Wilbur finds himself incapable of speaking refusal aloud, knowing deep within his mind that such a demand is only fair to make. “It’s fine, Wilbur. I’ll answer it” Jimmy speaks aloud, watching the wealthy gentleman’s face take toward him stoically for a moment, a few seconds passing before an approving nod is given from the well-dressed businessman. With an eyebrow lowered, Norman watches from off to the side of the stage, his hands coupled together at his lap as he stares with intrigue, knowing very little of the man that got his shared operation into motion. Scratching the side of his head as he releases a sigh from within his lungs, Jimmy stares out at the crowd as he searches within his mind to find the words to offer, each attempt he makes only drawing his eyes back to the woman he’d ventured out west alongside. Not thinking much of the question, Jesse remains content with his back pressing against his seat, eyes taking toward the floor without much concern over whatever reply is bound to be offered. From within the crowd, Kenny sits with his elbow pressed against the nearest armrest, his chin propped up by the set of knuckles that he holds upright beneath it. Eagerly anticipating whatever words are bound to leave his opponent’s lips, Arthur joins his friend in staring intently at the brawler he’s prepared to fight a war against, whilst Willard dismissively passes an expression that speaks volumes to how little he cares. Pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Jimmy leans into the mic and stares out at the crowd, a grunt to clear his throat preceding the words the silence those looking on. “I killed my father when I was eighteen” the man confesses, immediately earning a wave of subdued gasps and whispers throughout those in attendance. His face carrying the look of shock, Norman’s expression pales in comparison to the reaction of his colleague, Wilbur’s mouth forming a smirk that accompanies his subdued chuckle. From within the crowd, Kenny’s head pulls away from his hand as his eyes widen the briefest amount, partially uncertain if he’d heard his acquaintance correctly. Sharing the same visage as Stanley and Josie, Jesse turns to look at his friend with a look of awe, well aware of what his ears had just heard. Eyebrows rising from his previously careless expression, Willard takes a surprising intrigue in what’s said whilst his friend pulls back in his seat, a brief glance taken toward the crowd out of confusion before both eyes dart back toward his opponent. “I’m not too certain since I skipped town right after it happened, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t make it out of that scrap alive” Jimmy continues, shrugging his shoulders as he proceeds. “I don’t remember a day where he didn’t lay a hand on me. I was his bastard child. But of course, I paid for his discretions. He went sleeping around, took a chance, and it was me who was blamed for it. In fairness, I wouldn’t be alive right now if he were an honest and noble man” Jimmy explains, soon allowing the audience to reclaim his eyes, “but one night was just too much. I fought back and decided that I was going to punish him for what he did since no one else would.” Keeping his glee at bay as best he can, Wilbur revels in how well he can market the young man with the weight of this confession behind him, already able to dream of the lucrative deals that come with tagging him as a killer of the literal variety. “Don’t bother calling the pigs on me, ‘cause it won’t get you anywhere. I’ve erased my past and taken on a new life” Jimmy explains, a brief laugh hidden beneath his voice, “hell, even my name’s a fake one. I covered all my bases.” Staring out at his friend seated just beside the speaker’s wife, Jesse shares a lost stare with Stanley and Josie amidst his friend’s pause, only returning his attention to the fighter once his voice re-emerges. “But the funniest thing is that, even though I wasn’t born as Jimmy Elliott, I’ve spent the last countless years becoming him” Jimmy proceeds, smiling with his head lowered before allowing his eyes to gaze across the vast array of seats. “I’ve spent the last number of years struggling to provide for my wife. I’ve felt like I failed to do right by her. The same struggle you know most of our fighters to have come from- we’ve both seen it” Jimmy persists, confident in the words that he speaks aloud, “but that struggle is what has turned me into Jimmy Elliott. That man didn’t exist before me, but now that I am him, I have made a real person out of that name. So much so that I’ve started to forget who I was before this.” Captivated simply by the gall of the brawler that speaks to them as if they were all his closest confidants, the audience grasps onto his every word amidst a collective silence, wanting to let each word permeate throughout the room. “The man that Jimmy Elliott is? Well, he’s a man that does right by the people that he loves and cares for, and he does right by the people that do right by him” Jimmy continues, his speech continuing to intrigue those littered throughout the theatre. With a squint in his eyes, Kenny couples his hands together as he sits upright in his seat. Still holding onto their collective awe at the revelation they’re becoming privy to just as everyone else is, Jesse, Stanley, and Josie take as much appreciation out of what’s said as they can muster. Unable to fully let go of the murderous implication his brawler’s voice speaks aloud, Norman lifts his chin just slightly with a content look, able to respect what’s said. “The men at the other end of the table? They may have gotten into a fight just as most of us will tomorrow night, but they did more than that- they put my friend’s livelihood in danger” Jimmy declares, voicing his unity with the injured man sitting just a few feet ahead of him, “just as Jesse prepares to fight Willard in his friend’s honour, I’m prepared to fight Arthur for the same reason. And it’s not because I need the money or ‘cause I like a good fight, but it’s because that’s who I am.” Feeling the words of war catch his ear like a gentle breeze upon the battlefield, Arthur’s shoulders ease as he locks eyes with the man speaking his name, allowing him the chance to finish speaking as the gravity of their fight begins to weigh throughout the building. “Jimmy Elliott and myself are one in the same now- the same man” the fighter concludes, turning his eyes back toward the crowd that grows more-intrigued in betting on him, “that same man is going to stand tall tomorrow night.” His peace offered, Jimmy pulls away from the mic slightly whilst the crowd remains silent, watching on still uncertain over whether there’s more to be said. Able to read through his fighter’s remarks, Wilbur smiles at his main eventer for tomorrow evening before leaning into the mic, just as giddy and animated as he usually is, “ladies and gentlemen, are there any further questions?” he wonders aloud whilst his pleased brawler sinks back into his seat with confidence. = 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 = “Have you heard from any of them since last night?” Cathy inquires, standing by her husband’s side as he sits on a chair in the back of his small, private locker room. “No, and I’m not going out looking for them” Jimmy replies, wrapping his fists with tape whilst sitting in little more than a pair of running shoes and pocketless cargo shorts, “they just found out that I’ve spent the last seven years lying to them about who I was. I don’t blame them for wanting a little time to let that settle.” Though the room has been fashioned with a locker and a few shelves, the room itself still resembles a cramped office once used for the warehouse manager, the walls thin enough to hear the crowd’s audible gasps through. Bowing his head and remaining subdued, Jimmy refrains from speaking more than he has to as his wife watches on, trailing toward the other end of the space before taking a seat in the corner quietly. “You know you’ve always been Jimmy, right?” Cathy soon wonders aloud, her question prompting the man to casually turn his eyes toward her whilst his face remains held toward the ground, “regardless of what your parents named you- the man you described yesterday is who you always have been.” “I know that” Jimmy retorts quickly, lifting the roll of tape to his teeth and biting off the end that he’d wrapped around his knuckles, “my only hope is that the others come around to thinking that too.” “They will” Cathy reassures, watching the dismissive nod her husband answers with before leaning forward in her seat, “eventually, they’ll come looking for more answers than just what you gave on stage yesterday, and you’ll give them that. There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of.” “I’ll agree with that” Wilbur interjects, turning around the corner and stepping into the doorless locker room his fighter readies himself in, “apologies for barging in so unannounced, but I just figured I could have a little chat with the killer.” “You can have a chat with the killer’s wife present” Jimmy replies, his head bowing and chin slightly turned toward his employer’s general direction, the caveat he provides eventually settled for by the man prepared to sign his check this evening. “Very well” Wilbur responds, resting his cane against the nearest wall before standing at the room’s front, hands coupled behind his back as the married couple take their eyes toward him. “I just wanted to start off by saying that you’ll face no legal issues regarding your little revelation yesterday” Wilbur begins, shrugging his shoulders as his lips pucker, “even if you butchered the man for looking at you funny, there is just too much money I can make with you for me to give you up to the coppers.” “I wouldn’t have worried about that regardless, but thanks anyway” Jimmy replies, sitting back in his chair with his hands resting atop his thighs, “now why did you really come here?” The question bringing a smile over the corner of his mouth, Wilbur rolls his eyes and drags his head around before leaning against the wall, removing the hat from atop his head as his free hand falls into the pocket at his side. “I’m going to tell you the same thing that I told Arthur and Willard the other day. I’d like to think of myself as a man of honesty, even if I put my own little twisted spin on it” Wilbur explains, coming to a rest whilst nodding, “the day will come when I come across people like you- emotional people that have nothing and just need a lifeline thrown out to them- and when I find those people, I will screw them over and throw them away like they mean nothing to me.” Granting the wealthy man the same benefit of the doubt that their friends had given Jimmy, the married couple look on quietly, patiently awaiting the man’s continued explanation. “There’s little in this world more important to me than leaving behind a legacy. No matter how wealthy one may be, death comes for us all. I quite value being remembered after I’m gone” Wilbur proceeds, “and while that day is not yet here, I know as well as anyone does that the countdown to it has begun.” “Are you trying to forewarn us that, while you’re not going to send us faulty checks yet, you will someday?” Cathy interjects, the inquiry prompting Wilbur to shake his head and smile. “Quite the contrary” the wealthy promoter responds, still carrying his smile as his eyes fall fully upon the man scheduled to main event his debut show, “when that day comes, I want you to be on the same side that I am.” With a squint in his eyes and his arms crossing over his chest, Jimmy remains silent, continuing to extend his employer the benefit of patience. “The reason that I wanted you to spearhead all of this so badly is because I want to be surrounded by men with principles when the day comes that all of mine go out the window” Wilbur proceeds, lowering himself to a squat over the ground, “when the day comes that I have more on my plate than just a fight club, I need the right person to take it over.” “And that’s why you have Norman” Jimmy retorts, the finger that’s raised toward him quickly correcting his line of thought. “No. Whatever heights I reach will be equally shared with one man, and one man only. That’s why I have Norman” Wilbur explains, lowering his free hand back to one side, “I know what kind of man that I am, and Norman is the only person strong enough to be an equal counter-weight. And when I don’t know something, the first person I’m going to is him.” Wanting to recap the remarks being paid to him, Jimmy opts to remain silent and pay his employer the continued ability to explain himself. “If I learned anything from my own parents, it’s that being in charge doesn’t mean I have to know everything, I just need to know who does” Wilbur continues, his finger soon pointing toward the man in the chair once more, “and I can- and will- transfer that attitude toward the people that I put in place to replace me in the day-to-day side of things.” “And you’re saying that person- as far as this fight pit is concerned- is me?” Jimmy concludes, watching the tilted head of the night’s promoter answer his question in replacement of words. “You were right when you said that I could just find a group of stragglers back in that hooverville, but I chose not to. Everything I’ve done has been for a reason, and that doesn’t apply to you any less” Wilbur remarks, standing up from his kneel before walking over to reclaim his cane. “That must not speak well of me then” Jimmy retorts, prompting the wealthy businessman to turn back at the implication, “the only reason anyone came here to fight was because you showed up on the bridge that day. I didn’t do anything worth a damn.” Shaking his head, Wilbur stares off at the depths of the locker room with his bottom lip protruding outward, vehement refusal carried in his posture. “That first night I walked up to Old Eddy’s, I figured it wouldn’t be long before someone chose to throw hands with the rich man. But then things changed” the crafty entrepreneur concedes, “I overheard people theorise that I was a hired gun. Instead of being some rich man to swing at, now I was a mystery figure people inherently feared.” Thinking back to his initial days trying to tempt people in provoking him, Wilbur’s face wears the pleasure of recalling the silent power he’d held over the public at his plot’s start. “Once that came around, I realised that whomever was willing to swing at me would’ve had to be incredibly ballsy, incredibly dumb, or incredibly out of touch” the man continues, offering a shrug to his fighter, “I just hoped it would be the first option.” “What did that tell you about Jimmy?” Cathy wonders aloud, earning a bow from the head of the man impressed at the question. “It told me he had little to no fear. That kind of man has qualities that just fascinate me. So, I figured hunting him down and having a chat would clear up some things that the swing of a hand can’t completely get across” Wilbur answers, “after we talked that night, I realised that I’d found the foundation for what I wanted to build. And now- here we are.” “Yes, here we are-” Jimmy replies, pushing himself out of his chair and approaching the affluent tycoon-in-waiting, getting close to the man’s face and dropping his voice in pitch, “-ready to watch me win.” Turning away, the fighter makes his way through the door and steps into the hallway, watched on by Wilbur and his wife before the latter does much the same, following her husband’s lead and marching for the pit whilst the affluent man watches on with a smile. | “The big man might be about to put this one away” Norman quips, turning toward the affluent man watching over the fight from the catwalk above, “I suppose that Dallon family fortune you’ve built can cover this rather poor choice of wager?” With a smirk in the corner of his lip, Andrew Dallon shakes his head and leans forward, pressing his arms against the railing with a bird’s eye view, “you amuse me, Mr. Mountebank.” Rolling onto his side and pushing himself off the ground, Jesse ducks his opponent’s swing before laying in a heavy shot beneath the man’s chin, staggering the brute he’s taken quite a metaphorical bite out of. “Why won’t you go away, you incessant crumb!” Willard grunts, regaining his balance as his foe draws nearer, provoking a second attempt at a punch to leave his side, this one barely missing as he’s evaded yet again. With his feet wrapped in tape around the ankle, Jesse strikes his larger adversary with a kick to the thigh, bringing him to a knee momentarily that renders his height advantage obsolete. “Argh!” the brute grunts, thrusting his kneecap into the wooden platform they fight upon before shielding his face with his forearm. “Ah, you bastard!” Jesse sighs beneath his breath, having missed his chance to deliver a kick to Willard’s jaw, and is now forced to watch the towering giant return to his feet. “You just don’t quit, do you?” the brute groans, shaking the arm he can feel the effects of his foe’s kick lingering within, “you already know you’re done for.” “The little guy’s still got some fight in him” Norman remarks from above, joining his wealthy colleague in leaning over the railing, watching from the luxury of their overhead view. “Please, his name is Jesse” Andrew retorts, lifting his index finger over his lips as he continues to spectate, “I respect the people that refuse to let you forget their names.” “Just stay down!” Willard exclaims, wearing the same cargo shorts uniform the rest of the evening’s fighters sport, though reaching for his opponent’s collar as if there were a shirt to take a hold of. Refusing the giant any leverage, Jesse hops back before swiping his foot at the giant’s leg once more, bringing him into the ground just as he had seconds prior, though refusing to allow this opportunity to slip away. Within the same step, Jesse thrusts his knee through the air as his foe attempts to block it, though his effort proves too little and too late. “He’s down, step back!” a man in a white dress shirt and black bow tie exclaims, throwing his hands against the smaller fighter’s chest to push him backward whilst Willard collapses to the ground, suffering the aftermath of taking a kneecap to the middle of his face. Enraged and bitter, the crowd hurls various grumbles of uninterpretable displeasure at the giant they’d thrown copious amounts of money behind, embroiled in the fury of watching their behemoth favourite collapse to the ground for what would be a loss of epic proportions. “I’m back, I’m back!” Jesse exclaims, lifting his hands into the air as a show of surrender, allowing the referee the freedom to begin his count as the crowd pleads for mercy from the gods of their impassioned gambling. “One! two! three!” the referee begins, the count to ten reaching Willard’s ear the moment it begins, though his brain works through the fuzzy delay to jostle his body upward. “Four! Five!” the referee continues, cheered on by Jimmy and Cathy from off to the side, too eager to watch their friend hold up his end of the fight for them to just remain backstage blindly hoping for the best. “Six! Seven!” the referee exclaims, the second number propelling Willard into action, his hands running over the ground as he turns onto his stomach, trying to climb to his feet before his night can be ended by a ten count. “Oh, he’s getting up” Andrew grunts from above, slightly disappointed, but confident in his gutsy wager’s ability to put the fight away if given one more chance. “Eight! Nine!” the referee shouts, prepared to throw up both hands with every finger lifted before the giant’s set of feet touch upon the ground, his hunched over posture straightening as he barely beats the count. “Fight on!” the official exclaims, stepping out of the way to allow the fighting to resume, the crowd’s roar almost completely drowning his declaration out. “I’m not fini-!” Willard shouts as he stands upright, unable to finish his declaration of war before looking up at his opponent, watching him fly through the air with his fist swinging forward. Rendered silent, the mountain of a man eats Jesse’s blow and slams into the ground yet again, the smaller man’s feet falling through the air and colliding with earth at the same moment that his foe does, yet it’s just the fight’s underdog that ends the night standing. “I’m back!” Jesse exclaims instantly, listening to the crowd find itself deflated as their favoured pick goes down for a second time, this one appearing more finite than the time prior. “One! Two! Three!” the referee counts, his hands thrown up in the air with one digit raised for every number counted. Already considering himself victorious, the ultimate underdog casually steps up to the downed behemoth and stares at him, knowing by the lack of a response in his face- the fight belongs to him. “Four! Five! Six!” the official bellows, keeping an eye on the standing opponent to ensure no cheap attack commences under his watch. “Seven! Eight! Nine!” the referee continues, watching Jesse stand at the giant’s feet and stare off at the crowd, his hand lifting into the air to celebrate before the final call can even be offered, his defiance in the face of the elite that surround him made obvious for all to see. “Ten! This is over!” the referee exclaims, wrapping his hand around Jesse’s raised fist amidst a sea of jeers to declare the underdog victorious, the taunting of them prompting the majority of the crowd- all who’d lost money amidst the man’s victory- to view the unlikely winner as the villain of their evening. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this fight! Jesse Hickman!” a well-dressed man in a suit and tie exclaims into a microphone, the variety of speakers set up throughout the building making such a declaration impossible to miss. “To hell with you!” one of the riled-up men ending his night financially in the red exclaims, another flipping the bird at Jesse to say all the same, though they’re met with the winner staring at them with his hand still defiantly raised in triumph. | “Arthur Small!” the pit-side announcer bellows aloud, introducing the main event’s first competitor as his opponent remains backstage, waiting for his cue to step into the elite’s eye. “Hey, youngblood” a voice calls out, prompting Jimmy to turn back and find Kenny standing in the same corridor he prepares to step through, water dripping down the body of the older man, “your boy won a few minutes ago.” “Yeah, I watched from the audience” Jimmy replies, nodding as he presses his knuckles against the palm of his hand, cracking them audibly as his acquaintance nods on, “how did your fight go?” With a smile, Kenny chuckles and lowers his eyes toward the hand that hangs by his side, lifting the fist into the air to present his co-worker with the bruised and bloody hand he wears like a trophy. “I put the guy to sleep within two minutes. I’m not taking this shot for granted” Kenny responds, jutting his chin toward the young man ready for his turn at combat, “good luck, kid.” Without anything more to offer, the older fighter continues about his journey, heading back for his equally-small locker room as a man steps out of the pit and toward the waiting area, “you’re up, Jim’” he remarks, gesturing for the fighter to take his opportunity at stepping into the arena. “And his opponent- carrying fifty-three percent of tonight’s wagers and the house’s favourite to win- Jimmy “the Killer” Elliott!” the speaker system roars, dividing the crowd into conflicting sides of cheers and boos. Following the guard’s lead to the pit, Jimmy takes his first look at the ascending rows of seats that serve as the audience for the fight he’d been waiting too long for before stepping beneath the large, yellow spotlight that shines upon the wooden platform he’s to battle upon. “Are you sure you want to watch this, Cathy?” Jesse wonders from nearest the makeshift bar counter, arms pressing against his thighs as he leans forward, speaking to the woman with neither malice nor warmth. “Not really, but you’ve spoken highly of his fighting ability. I’m at least confident he’ll be coming back home in one piece” Cathy responds, clearly trying her best to subdue the concern of what’s to come from those that surround her. “Don’t worry, he’s as good as advertised” Stanley replies, his voice carrying slightly more comfort than that of their friend’s, his eyes taking toward the slightly-worried wife, “if there’s anything we know about Jimmy, it’s that he’s not the one in the pit that should be worried about making it out.” Mustering a half-hearted smile, Cathy looks to the injured man appreciatively until Jesse’s voice interjects itself upon her, rendering the smile null and void. “I wouldn’t be so confident in that” the victorious underdog responds, keeping his eyes glued to the men ready to end the night with violence and brutality, “we may not know Jimmy as well as we thought we did.” Paying the man a side-eye that he cannot see, Cathy looks at Jesse with disappointment and slight aggravation before taking her attention back to the ring, hoping for the best outcome that can arise from the fight. Stepping on the one long piece of wood that acts as a step off the pit’s cement surface and onto the square-shaped assortment of wooden boards, Jimmy composes his breathing as he looks across the pit from himself. Sitting on a shin-high stool on the opposite side of the platform, Arthur bows his head and keeps his line of sight clear from that of his opponent, not wanting to catch even the faintest glimpse of him until the opening bell has rung. “For the rest of the evening, the wager counters are now closed! All bets have been placed, and this is the final fight of fight night!” the announcer cries out, evening the split crowd into one boisterous ovation of passionate cheers from the sea of those wanting to end the night on a high note, “At the referee’s discretion, these men will fight with no time limit. The first man to render his opponent incapable of standing by the count of ten will be declared the winner at the referee’s call!” “Who do you have money on this time?” Norman wonders aloud, remaining learnt over the railed with his wealthy friend standing beside him. “I’ve got money on Wilbur’s boy” Andrew replies, clearly pleased with the evening’s outcome, though his expression and the tone in his responses make it seem as though he hadn’t expected to be, “you’ve made him out to be a world beater. I’d like to see if the two of you know what you’re talking about.” “Small, are you ready?” the referee wonders aloud, standing at the ring’s centre with his arms extended toward each fighter’s direction, only receiving a thumb’s up from the man whose head remains bowed. Nodding in acknowledgement, the official soon turns his sight toward the other corner, extending his arm slightly further out to represent the camp he speaks to, “Elliott, are you ready?” Lifting his chin, Jimmy parts his lips to respond before he takes another glance at the crowd, their applause and raucous ovation something different from anything he’d ever seen before. Lips pushing back together again, the fighter lets his eyes wander from one side of the audience to the other, inevitably locating his wife and those he holds closest to him, able to eye the varying different expressions he receives from them, from his wife’s worry, to Stanley’s reassurance, to Jesse’s coldness. “Elliott!” the referee exclaims again, regaining the focus of his second fighter as Arthur’s head finally pulls up, glancing out at the crowd that’ve paid to attend before his eyes finally fall on the other side of the platform, “are you ready?” For the second time, the question is asked and set aside for a moment, the crowd having taken his attention the first time around, though the second time affords Jimmy the chance to look solely upon his foe, whose intense stare perfectly matches his own. “You can’t turn back now!” Jimmy exclaims, his warning shout directed toward the man across from him, though the words he utters do little to shake his opponent in the slightest. “It’s not me that should be turning back, killer” Arthur retorts, shooting out of his seat and marching toward the platform’s centre, his chest pressing into the referee’s arm, “this isn’t going to end pretty for you!” Following his opponent’s lead, Jimmy marches to meet the man at the ring’s halfway point, his own chest pressing against the official’s arm as the man steps between them, intent on keeping them separate until the bell rings. “Killer or not, you’re not leaving this pit before I do” Wilbur’s hand-picked favourite retorts, the confrontation at the platform’s centre sending the crowd into an uproar, their anticipation for the fight at an unwavering high. “Back to your corners, both of you!” the official exclaims, throwing his arms into both men’s chest, forcing them to step back into their respective ends, doubling down on his call as he repeats the process. “Small, are you ready!?” the referee belts out, watching the passionate, vigorous visage of the named fighter strike him like fire. “Ring that damn bell!” Arthur barks, making his readiness effortlessly visible. “Elliott, for the final time- are you ready!?” the referee shouts back, the hand he waves in the fighter’s direction provoking an animalistic instinct over the one-time labourer that finally offers an answer. “I’ve never been more ready in my life!” Jimmy shouts back, his reply’s conclusion immediately prompting the referee to throw his hand through the air, the timekeeper urged to finally send the crowd into a tizzy. As eager as the audience is, the hammer-wielding man swings his hand back in the air and thrusts the metal head into the bell as the opponents stare each other down, their feet steady against the ground as their hands ball into a fist, waiting for the signal to end what only now begins. *ding!* == Seattle Noir == \ New Hampshire - March 1923 /
Shielding his head as he collides with the ground, a clean-shaven Jimmy grimaces in pain as a boot swings into his sternum, a literal kick to the man whilst down amidst a barrage of insults. “You’re a pathetic waste of life!” an enraged, guttural shout extends from the much older man standing over the fallen young man, each word paused briefly for another kick to be interjected within his words. “James, please! Stop!” a woman wails from the corner of the room, cowering in fear at the man’s outburst, shielding herself in the event his vigour is redirected toward her. “Shut your mouth!” the irate figure violently spats back, swinging his hand through the air to smack the fear-gripped woman on the side of the head. Pressing his teeth together, Jimmy rolls onto his front and tries to push himself off the ground, attempting to lift himself back upon two feet before his efforts prove futile. Struck with yet another kick to his abdomen, Jimmy pants for air as he falls to the ground once more, hands grasping at his ribs as if he were trying to keep them contained within his skin. “You sicken me!” the older man grunts, spit flying from his lip as his face takes closer toward the young man laid out before him, foot flying into his side yet again. “James, please!” the distressed woman pleads yet again, still cowering in the corner out of sheer terror, “he’s your son!” With a twitch in his left eye, the slightly off-balanced father turns toward his wife whilst ripping his belt free from the loops in his pants, swiping the leather bind through the air and toward his wife. Hearing his mothers’ screams, Jimmy tries once more to push himself off the ground, unable to keep his lips from blowing outward with each gasp for air. Crawling along the floor, Jimmy presses his body against the nearest wall, his hip resting into the floor whilst his shoulder presses against the plaster barrier between himself and the crisp chill of the New England winter. With his mouth agape, the wounded young man tries desperately to guide himself to a stand, though his efforts yet again find themselves cut short beneath the weight of his fathers’ boot. “Stay down you wretched bastard!” James belts out, lashing his son over the side of the face with the leather belt, forcing the young man back to the ground with a guttural howl. Having forced both sides of his family into different sides of horror, the father stands at the room’s centre with a mean mug, not necessarily revelling in his work as much as he is surveying the scene he’d caused. “The two of you are-” the violent father grunts, pausing for a moment to shake the cobwebs that come over his head, his proper balance evading him in the wake of the assortment of drinks he’d piled into his system. “-ungrateful little shits” James concludes, finishing his thought before a smirk forms in the corner of his mouth, reacting to the scene his eyes fall upon- his beaten son yet again trying to stammer his way to both feet. Licking the insides of his cotton mouth before spitting whatever saliva he could muster into some corner of the room, James marches toward the young man continuing to disobey him- refusing to remain a carcass of a man rendered useless beneath his fathers’ hand. “What did I tell you to do!?” the man exclaims, wrapping his hands around Jimmy’s chin and neck and forcing the young man to look him in the eyes. With blood running down the side of his face, deep red marks dotting his face like accessories, and hiss-like breaths carried through every moment his lips remain parted, Jimmy stares his father in the eyes whilst his tormentor does much the same. Looking on in silence for a moment, James’ smirk soon vanishes, replaced with the sombre shake of his head. “Look at you-” James murmurs loud enough for his son to hear, continuing to hold the same callus stare he’d first met him with, only for a resigned defeat to hide within disheartened eyes, “-still just the bastard.” Without another word to offer his battered offspring, the dejected father wraps his hand around Jimmy’s face and shoves his head back into the wall, allowing the young man to sink to the floor without so much as an ounce of remorse. Stepping over broken glass as he leaves the room, James leaves a wake of devastation in his path that is only filled with panting and lamentful tears. His back pressing into the wall as he sits on the hardwood floor, Jimmy hangs his head toward the ground and allows the ache of his beating to overcome him, each sore and sharp pain that riddles his body taking its course whilst his mother tries to conceal her open weeps on the other side of the warzone. = 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 = \ One hour later / Stepping through the archway that separates the living room from the kitchen, Cathy falls upon the sight of her mother hard at work, apron adorned and stained with various splatters of flour. “Would you like any help, mother?” the younger woman wonders aloud, watching her mother’s surprised reaction meet her, a dismissive smile paid to her offspring. “As much as I appreciate the kind gesture, I’m not going to be the mother that has her daughter prepare her own birthday dinner” the woman replies, watching her husband step into the kitchen the moment she finishes her reply. “Father. You’re home!” Cathy says with surprise, watching the man lift his leather briefcase onto the kitchen table with a sigh, presenting himself as if the bag weighed in excess of twenty pounds. “Yes, of course I am” the man responds with a half-smile, his hand gently resting upon his daughter’s shoulder, “what father misses his little girl’s eighteenth birthday dinner?” With an appreciative smile, Cathy looks up at her father as his eyes wander toward the woman behind the food amidst its preparation, “we do have everything we need for tonight, right Anne?” “Yes, Walter. We have everything we need” Anne replies, putting her strength into the metal spinner she uses to mix the various ingredients within her metal bowl together. “I just wanted to be sure everything was in order for tonight” Walter retorts, both hands lifting into the air briefly as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling free a cardboard box of snipes and a matchbox at once, “I want to make sure our little girl spends her eighteenth with those that love her most.” Already doubtful she’ll receive an answer that pleases her, Cathy’s youthful eyes take upward toward her father, watching the smoke lift from the stricken match just as it moves toward the unfiltered end of his cigarette. “Does that mean it would be alright if we invited Jimmy?” the young woman asks, unable to see her mother’s displeased expression lift from the contents of the bowl and fall upon the back of her daughter’s head. Pulling from the dart as he swipes the match through the air to put it out, Walter answers amidst a deep exhale, his hefty frame sinking inward as his lungs expend the smoke that fill them. “Absolutely not” the man replies, offering the answer the other two inhabitants of the room had already quietly anticipated, “I acknowledge that you’ll find ways to sneak around my commands to see that thug, but he will enter this home as an equal over my dead body.” Disheartened, Cathy’s eyes trail off toward the ground as she prepares to let the conversation die there, having received the answer she’d anticipated and satisfied enough to let the discourse end with her boyfriend’s refusal. “That boy is nothing but bad news, dear. I don’t know how many times your father and I need to tell you that before you see it for yourself” Anne remarks, speaking through the grunts that are provoked through her churning of the cake mix. “Why is he bad news exactly?” Cathy wonders aloud, watching the cold eyes of her mother’s stare take toward her, ensuring she stays within the boundary lines of respect already long-since established. “I don’t ask this out of defiance, but I do wish to know just what metric the two of you are going about making this judgement” the girl clarifies, “I spend more time with him than you do. If anything, why shouldn’t it be that I’d know more about him than the two of you?” “Because you’re still too young to see what we can. You’ve got blinders on out of the feeling that you think is love” Anne responds, keeping the opposition side of the conversation rolling as her husband takes a seat at the kitchen table. “That boy comes around here speaking like he hasn’t been to school in years wearing bruises of so many colours you’d think segregation laws didn’t apply around here” the woman proceeds, “he’s a textbook rascal. A no-good heathen that you’re better than.” “I’m not saying he’s a perfect man, but I’ll certainly vouch that he’s a better man than you credit him as being” Cathy retorts, more than willing to compromise her position in order to reflect her lover in a better light, “can’t you two be willing to concede that he might be even a tad-bit better than what look at him as?” “Was he not booked a few months ago for selling counterfeit cigarettes?” Walter inquires, an eyebrow raised as his own dart sits between the two fingers he suspends within midair. “And as I told you before, he was selling them to make enough to help his family pay rent” Cathy explains, the eyeroll she receives from her mother making it clear that the motivation doesn’t justify the action within her eyes. “If his parents are in the position where they need their son running up charges to make ends meet, what does that say about him?” Walter inquires, his wife’s attention returning to the cake mix she’d finally settled into a respectable texture. “You’ve seen the broken homes so many of these criminals come from. I don’t see these hooligans being secret stand-up citizens” the man proceeds, watching his wife slip on mittens and set foot for the oven, “why is Jimmy supposed to be any different?” “He’s not- that’s the answer” Anne remarks from the opposite side of the room, taking the tray of cake mix and slipping it into the heated chamber, “and no matter how much you may protest, we’re never going to look at him any other way, honey.” Glueing her eyes to the woman that raised her, Cathy stares in silence for a few seconds with little more than a disappointed look on her face, the words she wants to respond with being shelved by her father’s interjection. “Honey, you’ll feel stronger ways about much better men than this kid. When that day comes, you’ll be able to see what we mean” Walter remarks, pausing to take another drag off his cigarette, “until then, we’ll be here as these feelings pass. We’re just trying to keep you grounded in reality.” “What did grandpa think of you then, father?” Cathy inquires, turning her face toward the man in full, not an ounce of hesitation to be offered behind any of her words, “did he think of you as an upstanding citizen? Did he think you were worthy of mother’s love?” Letting his hand fall just a few inches from his face to speak, Walter finds his retort carried within the words of his wife, who takes over on his behalf. “Your father was a respectable man who didn’t approach my father wearing bruises and cuts. Your father was never arrested or presented him with improprieties” Anne argues, a stern tone carried within her voice in the wake of her husband’s questioning. “Your grandfather met me on the front porch, told me that it was my responsibility to provide for your mother, and had me live up to that expectation” Walter doubles down, taking over to speak upon his own behalf, “I showed I was capable of it.” “So, in other words- grandpa gave you the chance and you didn’t let him regret it” Cathy replies, looking her father in the eyes before redirecting her attention to the woman behind the counter, “how is Jimmy supposed to do that if you won’t even provide him with the chance.” “He won’t because he’s not getting it” Anne quickly rebukes, undoing the strings on her apron to shed it from her body, “that is the end of this conversation. If you speak another word of it, you will be ordered to your room. Do you understand?” With a frown spread across her visage, Cathy stares at her mother with a partially open mouth, the visible disappointment unnecessary to speak of, instead made obvious through the birthday girl’s silent departure. | \ Fifteen minutes later / Groggily leant against the paint-chipped drywall, Jimmy hangs his head to the side as the air grows quiet, not a whimper to be heard and not a grunt to leave his body. The blood on the side of his face having dried, the battered young man sits with his hands on his lap and chin pressed against his chest, dry sweat covering his forehead and eyes barely able to keep themselves parted. “This is all your fault” the beaten woman whimpers from the opposite side of the room, her scathing words doing little to phase the man that gingerly looks up toward her direction. “You ruined our lives” the scared and fragile woman moans, a remark that provokes a smile to come across the face of the battered young man. “All these years have gone by, and I still can’t understand why I’m to blame” Jimmy murmurs aloud, immediately earning the scorn of his mother-figure. “You’re the bastard!” the woman hisses back, still cowering in the corner out of fear that her lover will return for a second round of lashings. In spite of his wounds and the soreness that riddles his body, the trounced young man looks back at the ground and smiles, holding back brief chuckles as his blood-stained teeth present themselves. “You find this amusing? You ruined our lives!” the woman hisses even louder, trying to keep her enraged tone as quiet as she can so as not to draw the abusive father’s attention back upon them. “Haven’t you ever asked yourself why all of your other kids cut off contact with you?” Jimmy inquires, picking his head up to lean it against the drywall, eyes staring at the heavens whilst the bitter conversation persists, “haven’t you ever asked yourself why only the bastard stayed?” “Because you’re useless!” the mother hisses back, refusing to acknowledge her husband’s behaviour as the reason behind her strife, but instead taking the easy route of buying into her associated-son’s fault. “Or maybe they just see you for the filthy bitch that you are” Jimmy rebukes, his words immediately prompting the woman across the room from him to fall silent, almost incapable of wrapping her mind around the insult that’d been levied at her. “Wh- what did you just-?” the woman whispers, her voice barely loud enough to catch the ears of the young man one room’s length away. “Blame me for your problems all that you’d please, but I’m here because dad stuck his penis in some deadbeat broad a little over eighteen years ago” Jimmy continues, speaking with the nonchalant cadence of a man who couldn’t care less how his proclamations are perceived, “I’m the bastard because dad wanted a new doll to toy around with.” “Get out of this house” the woman across the room quickly whispers back, watching the young man’s frown meet her as he remains seated, her anger spiking the moment she realises he has no intention of moving. “Get out of this house!” the mother exclaims once more, too enraged to concern herself with her husband’s rage in that one moment, completely forgetting the wrath of his fury in a second of outright hostility. Rolling his eyes, Jimmy shakes his head and begins to push himself off the ground, hearing the distant footsteps that make their way from the living room just a corridor’s length-away. Paying no mind to the impending attack that he knows will soon be launched, the young man continues to guide himself upward with the help of the chipped drywall as the door to the room swings open once more, granting James an undisturbed path to the son he’d never desired having. Feeling the weight of his father’s hand press against his shoulder, Jimmy scowls at the spin his body takes before bracing himself, ready for the punch that soon sends him back into the floor. “Shut your goddamn mouths!” James exclaims, turning his focus back toward the cowering woman in the corner as his son lays upon the ground, staring at the sky as his adoptive mother’s shrieks fill the air, provoking not a single ounce of change in his expression. With his fingers slightly curled and both elbows pressing against the ground, Jimmy drowns out the sounds of the woman’s beating as he gives into the ache of his pains once more, feeling them throughout his body as if they were a disease ravaging him from within. Each ache dulling the last one out, the young man feels the weight behind every strike he’d eaten that night overcome itself, rendering him into one desensitised husk of a man. “You ungrateful piece of shit!” James shouts aloud, taking his son by the collar of his partially-torn shirt and forcing him upward, thrusting him against the drywall and holding his face exactly as he had before. “You’re the biggest mistake of my life!” the man’s father shouts, his fingers squeezing down on his son’s face with force, the man’s lips, cheeks, and chin all shifting with the weight of his grasp like dough. “I wish you were never born! You ruined everything!” James exclaims once more, pulling his son forward before slamming him against the drywall again, the impact of the collision falling upon deaf senses. Already rendered one numb carcass contained within the living confines of a body, Jimmy stares at his father and listens to every last word, hanging onto every syllable uttered and taking the abuse for every last ounce. “You should have never been born!” James exclaims, yet again pulling his son away from the wall before thrusting him back into it, holding Jimmy’s face in such a way that prevents him from seeing the amused smile hidden behind his shifted skin. “I should’ve killed you the second you were brought into this putrid world!” the father shouts once more, following suit by shoving his son into the wall once more, his voice lowering to a more personal tone after a brief pause. “Look at me, look at me-” James whispers, watching his son’s eyes dart toward his pupils, looking him square in the face just as desired before once more doubling down on his vitriol, “-you’ll always just be the bastard!” Kept against the wall for a further few seconds, Jimmy lets his father’s declaration sink in amidst the pause in his father’s attack, feeling a sense of rage he’d never carried within his veins before this moment. Allowing the claim to resonate within his offspring, James pulls his son back just one more time before thrusting him back into the drywall, fingers still pressing into the young man’s flesh with an insatiable might. Feeling his head bounce against the wall, Jimmy’s eyes shoot open as he feels his father’s grasp tighten, the six words he’d been forced to simmer down with proving too much for him to overcome. In a moment of pure adrenaline, the son pushes past the aches of his wounds and swipes his arms through the air, tearing his parent’s snake-like grasp on his face away before shoving him back, creating separation that brings an audible silence over the room. Regaining his balance, James stares with eyes as wide as they can part at the young man across from him, letting the disrespect sink in for a moment before screaming in anger. “You little bastard!” the father exclaims, sprinting forward with his hand cocked back and ready to swing, only for the grasp of his son’s hand around the collar of his shirt to precede any attack. With his free hand balled into a fist, Jimmy throws a strike at the centre of his father’s face, immediately rocking the man that had brought him into the world as his mother watches on, astonished at the sight and incapable of speech. With James dazed in his grasp, the battered son stares at his father with an impassioned vigour that had yet been satisfied, the gall to lay a hand on the man that had raised him- all be it in hellacious conditions- only carrying him further. With a newfound fury, Jimmy rains shots down on his father’s face and follows the man to the ground, each strike only furthering the assault that bloodies the man’s face beyond anything he’d ever suffered. As if on a mission, the offspring continues to deal blow after blow upon James, watching his face swell beneath every strike before deciding he hadn’t yet made his bones with the man. “Am I the bastard, dad!? Which one of us is the bastard, you obnoxious piece of shit!?” Jimmy exclaims, wrapping his hands around the man’s shirt collar and pulling his face close, wanting to make sure every word was uttered as personally as his father’s had been delivered. With a strength neither parent knew their child to be capable of, the young man lifts James to his feet and throws him against the wall, both hands wrapping around his face just as had been done to him. “You made this bed to lie in you ungrateful little shit!” Jimmy shouts, pulling his father’s bloated skull away from the wall before slamming it back once more, hearing a sickening crack that he brushes off without a second thought. “You dug this fucking grave, you goddamn monster!” the young man doubles down, pulling his father’s head forward and slamming it back once more, listening to the muffled groans of his drunken parent as consciousness becomes evasive. “Look at me! Look at me!” Jimmy soon whispers, pulling his father’s head forward and holding him in the air, the tight grasp he wraps around the man’s skull being the only thing keeping him from toppling to the ground. Making sure to see James’ pupils looking into his own before continuing, the wounded son keeps his voice low and personable, not wanting to let a second of his assault pass by without being revelled in. “You’re the bastard” the young man whispers, nodding to his father with a look of satisfaction on his face before thrusting the man’s head back once more, a second crack filling the air before the hands relinquish his elder’s skull. Left unsupported, James bounces off the drywall and collapses to his son’s feet, the room left eerily silent as his adoptive mother looks at the same sight that her adopted son takes toward. Directly where his father’s head had been thrusted against, a blood splatter sits on the wall that the man now lays at the base of, slumped over and unresponsive. Huffing for air as he regains his composure, Jimmy takes a few steps back and looks at his father’s body laying on the ground, not holding enough remorse to feel sorry for his actions, not enough care to check for a pulse. Showing his bloody teeth toward the sky, Jimmy’s eyes soon wander to the deathly-silent woman just a few feet away, her eyes staring in shock at her husband’s body before soon sharing the sight with that of her adopted offspring. “You’re both bastards” the young man mutters aloud, staring his mother-figure in the eyes for another few seconds before turning away, eyes locking upon the corridor his father had traversed to spark the altercation that he’d now finished. In the distance of the home, the woman begins to return to her wailing as she crawls to the battered man she’d married many years ago, refusing to break her faithfulness to him in spite of his transgressions. Not bothering himself with his mother’s lamenting, Jimmy follows through on her earlier desire, taking the keys to the family car on his way through the door before hopping behind the wheel, pulling out of his driveway for the final time before hitting the open road empty handed. | \ Three hours later / Letting her head sink into the comfort of her pillow’s cushion, Cathy begins to drift into a sleep she’d been kept from for the last thirty minutes, her mind still racing over the conversation from earlier- one that had tainted her birthday dinner to such a degree that she couldn’t even spare room for dessert. Her lids growing heavy and her breaths growing still and calm, the newly-minted adult begins falling to the sanctuary of slumber just as a sudden tap collects her attention. Parting as if they hadn’t just been fighting the urge to remain pressed together for a full night’s rest, the girl's eyes open to stare at the moonlight that falls over her face in lieu of her open curtains. Uncertain of whether or not the sound had emanated from a place deep within her subconscious, Cathy waits for a few more moments before closing her eyes once more, having offered fate the chance to prove her prior assumption wrong and been left without a response. Steadying her breaths yet again, Cathy isn’t even provided the chance to lull herself into another position of comfort before another tap at her window captivates every ounce of her focus, this time drawing her to sit up in her bed and stare at the view-provider. With her blanket shuffled down to her hip, the young woman sits up and waits for a third tapping to steal her attention just as the first set had, proving beyond a doubt that the call is not just one she had conjured up in a near-sleep. *tap* Out of the corner of her eye, Cathy watches a small pebble fall back to earth after colliding with the transparent divide separating her from the outside, the third instance enough to draw her out of bed and across the room. Light on her feet, the woman makes her way to the window and unhooks the latches, a smile carried over her face as she looks at the man below, able to have caught a glimpse of him seconds before. “Happy birthday” Jimmy mutters beneath his breath, unable to finish his statement before feeling the woman’s arms wrap around him, pulling him closer to the ladder he’d ascended to reach the home’s second level. “What happened to your face?” Cathy inquires the instant she pulls away, taking note of the swells along the sides of her boyfriend’s visage, the blood stain that he wears down his chin and the bruises that adorn his expression. “My father- again” Jimmy whispers back, handing the woman a small box before sneaking the rest of the way into her room, gently pressing his feet into the creaking hardwood floor. “He was hitting you again?” the woman wonders aloud, holding the present by her side as the man’s well-being takes priority over her concern, her answer provided in the form of a defeated and breathy nod. “Yeah, but it’ll be the last time” Jimmy responds, able to feel the aches and pains more than he had whilst at the home, but still hosting enough adrenaline to push him through the interaction. “What do you mean?” Cathy questions aloud, watching her boyfriend gently step closer toward her bed, his voice matching her whisper-like tone as they keep their meeting discreet. “I fought back. I hit him back- a lot” Jimmy replies, looking toward the ground as he presses both hands against his sides, an uncertain glare held toward the floorboards, “I might’ve hurt him too bad.” With care, Cathy places the carefully wrapped box upon her bed and takes the man’s hands into his own, her non-dominant hand soon moving up to gently rest against his bruised skin. “Is he okay? Are you in trouble?” she soon wonders aloud, not immediately stricken with confidence as he looks at her with the same tentativeness as before. “I’m not sure- for both of those questions” Jimmy responds calmly, an apologetic expression soon replacing the one of uncertainty from before, “but I’m not going to be around long enough to find out.” “What? What does that mean?” Cathy replies, both worried and invested in the remarks laid out by the man she takes comfort in the presence of. “It means I have to leave” Jimmy responds, freeing his hands to collect those his girlfriend rests against him, holding hers within his own, “I have to get out of town and I don’t think I can come back.” “What? Where? Where will you go?” Cathy wonders back, clearly distraught at the idea that she could be left without her lover, though too concerned with his well-being to even consider such an idea. “I don’t know. Somewhere far away, I suppose” Jimmy replies, shaking his head as he stares off to the side, “I read somewhere that there were a lot of jobs going ‘round out west. Maybe I’ll take a stab at life out there and see what I can make of it.” “Out west? How far out west?” Cathy continues to ask, each question just asked with the hope of providing clarity to the rather tense situation unfolding at hand. “California, maybe? Or the other ones- Oregon and Washington” Jimmy responds, clearly unsure of what the steps beyond evading justice are to be, “I can find some consistent work and settle down there. Either way, it won’t be close to home.” “Alright, then let’s go” Cathy quickly retorts, gingerly stepping across the easily-creaking wooden floorboards on her way to the dresser, where she lifts a handful of clothes amidst a line of questioning. “What? No, Cathy- you can’t come with me!” Jimmy rebukes, his voice at a whisper-like hiss as the woman dismisses his refusal, “I came here ‘cause I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” “You’re not saying goodbye at all. If you’re skipping town- so am I” Cathy doubles down, opening the clasp to a small suitcase situated atop a chair in the room’s corner. “Cathy, you can’t do that. You’ve got family here, and you’ve got a life here!” Jimmy retorts, watching the woman stack a small handful of clothes in the luggage before returning to her dresser to follow the same process. “My family doesn’t trust my choices. My family doesn’t believe that I know what’s best for me. As far as I’m concerned, they don’t trust me” Cathy replies, reaching into the drawers once more for another handful of her belongings, “if they can’t trust me, then I can’t be here. And if I can’t be here, I’d prefer to be out there, with you, rather than anywhere else.” “Cathy, this is crazy talk” Jimmy argues back, watching the woman carefully rest his present in the middle of two piles of clothes, the flap of her luggage buttoning shut as she readies herself to go. “I’ve got a reason to be running off like this, you’ve got too much going for you” the man continues to plead, trying to urge the woman to reconsider her choice, though her posture appears adamant in the call being made, “Cathy, I need you to not follow me.” “Why not? If it was so important for me to stay here, you’d just keep me from going with you” Cathy whispers back, confronting the man on the pleas he makes to her, “why is it so important that I don’t follow you?” “Because if you didn’t choose to stay behind, I wouldn’t be strong enough to make you” Jimmy quickly retorts, his words providing a pause over the discourse as the air grows as quiet as both individuals do. His lip trembling as he looks off at the door to the girl’s bedroom, the runaway young man tries to clear his head and compose his thoughts, trying his best to make whatever plea he can to keep the woman from following through with her desire. “Cathy, you’ve got something really good here. You’ll have more here than I’d be able to provide you like this. I’ll be on the run, I’ll be on the edge and paranoid everywhere we go” Jimmy explains, shaking his head as he holds the woman’s coupled hands within his own, “you’d be giving up a life I’d never be able to give you if you followed me out that window. No matter where we are, I’ll be left reminding myself that I’d taken you from that every day from now until the end of time.” Bowing his head and pressing his forehead against her knuckles, Jimmy gathers his breath before looking up once more, finishing his thought with the conclusion of the only request he has the strength to make. “Please, don’t follow me out that window” the man asks one final time, looking the woman in the eyes amidst the pause that prevails before waiting for her response, completely unsure of what answer awaits him. “The only life I want is with you” Cathy concludes, leaning in and pressing her lips against Jimmy’s own before stepping past the man, preparing to join him in venturing for greener pastures out west. Closing her door gently before climbing into the other side of the carriage, Jimmy wraps his fingers around the steering wheel and looks through the windshield, his girlfriend staring on with her hands delicately folded atop her lap. Unable to convince the woman any further than he already has tried, the driver sets the gears into motion and begins the drive onward, the car’s wheels turning down the gravel pathway that leads away from the home his lover now leaves behind for what’s yet unknown. == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
“What do you mean I’m not fighting!?” Kenny exclaims, watching the nonchalant pour of a glass of vodka from the hand of his new, wealthy employer, “you have me booked for a fight, I want to fight!” With a smirk in the corner of his lip, Wilbur takes the rim of his bottle and fills a second glass for his guest, carefully approaching with both hands extended- a drink in each. “And I like putting on a show. The pageantry, the spectacle, the drama, it’s all-” the affluent businessman replies, interrupted by the swatting of his further-stretched hand, batted away by the vehement paw of his older employee. Lulled into silence, Wilbur smiles as he listens to the glass shatter against the concrete floor of his warehouse, watching the pool of clear liquor settle at his feet whilst fighting the temptation to slap the once labourer’s taste clear from his lip. Seething to himself, Wilbur takes the second glass and slowly lifts it to his mouth, taking a sip from his beverage before slowly nodding to himself, continuing to stare at the now wasted glass of vodka. “I would advise that you never do such a thing like that again” the man whispers, looking up at the man with shaggy, grey hair and a thick beard, the most menacing smile one can envision plastered upon the face of the opulently-wealthy figure’s face. In silence, Wilbur lets his declaration settle for a moment before turning away, his back shown toward the fighter as he begins retreating to the corner of the warehouse that will soon present itself to the public as an arena of allure. “You told Arthur and Willard about the fight club” the wealthy man remarks, watched on as he steps away whilst Kenny remains heavy-footed in the centre of the room, allowing his employer to speak without interruption. “You told them about the fight camp’s introduction, and you practically lead them straight to your friends on a silver platter” Wilbur continues, soon finding the comfort of a wooden chair off to the side, taking it in his hand and dragging it until he’s only a few feet away from the brawler. “I don’t quite know what to make of that, but I do know that you had expected them to get into a fight. With those breadcrumbs you laid out, I must ask-” the now-seated man wonders aloud, “why?” Turning his chin away, Kenny’s eyes glue themselves to the pit at the warehouse’s direct centre, rows of platforms all stretching further toward ground level with seats screwed into the concrete foundation. “I knew you were going to need more fighters” the man soon replies, his grizzled appearance doing little to support the claim he makes, its composition not yet bought into by the charming individual of grandeur seated closeby. “You were there when nearly your entire camp of workers signed on to fight, were you not?” Wilbur inquires, his smirk still intact as he leans slightly forward, watching the older gentleman struggle to come up with an answer worth his teeth sinking into. “You can always use more” Kenny chirps back, earning an amused chuckle from the promoter, who lowers his head toward his lap and tries to quell his humour. “Of course I can, but it just tickles me pink to wonder why you chose those two specific guys” Wilbur responds, his voice reaching a low, gravelly tone almost designed to be presented as part of a grander character. “You had to figure out James and the others had a problem with them, track them down and then convince them to take the leap of faith and jump into my fighting frenzy” the hat-wearing, cane-wielding promoter remarks, stepping out of his chair, “that’s a lot of work.” “What do you want my answer to be?” Kenny soon questions aloud, finding the man pondering these inquiries aloud to have fallen silent, waiting to receive the answer he anticipates, “do you want me to feed you some sob story of how long I’ve known them?” With the subtle shake of his head, Wilbur steps forward another few feet, closing the space between himself and the man he interrogates whilst staring off at the distant level below, the level prepared to host a flurry of carnage in days time. “No, I’d prefer the real answer” Wilbur responds, keeping his beady eyes drifting along each row of seats that surround his emporium of entertainment, “the one that you’re trying to keep me from finding. I want the answer that you aren’t leaving this building without giving me.” Meeting his employer with silence, Kenny stares at the side of the man’s face, his clean-shaven skin leading toward a pointed jaw, which soon turns toward himself as their eyes meet each other’s. “We both know this was more than just a chance encounter- you had a motivation behind doing this” Wilbur further prods, looking for the best reasoning that his brawler can offer, “it makes little sense for you to set your friends up like that, and as a man that appreciates a good story, I want to know just how deep the roots in this one goes.” “What does it matter if I’m not on the opening card?” Kenny quickly wonders back, the inquiry one that prompts the promoter to pull his head back, staring at the brawler across from him with a fascinated squint. “You want to be on the opening card that badly?” Wilbur wonders aloud, the silent defiance shown in the visage of his fighter presenting that same conclusion visually, “will you tell me why you sought after those guys if I let you in on the debut card?” With a grimace that soon follows his face in falling off to the side, Kenny stares at the ground with his lips puckered, contemplating his reply before inevitably returning his focus toward the promoter. “I figured that it’d go a long way if you could market a fight with actual hatred behind it” the shaggy-haired brawler replies, a shrug in his shoulder carried as he speaks, “I figured it’d make me look more dependable if I could deliver you a fight with stakes behind it other than pay.” The answer surprising him, Wilbur’s head bows to one side just slightly as he lets the reply sit with him, weighing on his mind and drifting between each side of his head. “You figured it’d make you look more dependable?” the wealthy entrepreneur responds, clearly intrigued by the response that’d been given, “why would that be important to you?” “Because I’ve got too much writing on this thing. I’ve got nothing left to lose, but I have everything to gain” Kenny quickly argues back, unwavering in his remark, “I figured that if I could prove how useful I was, it’d be harder to replace me than it would be anyone else.” Letting his cane wave through the air before reconnecting with the ground just off to the side, Wilbur keeps his attention fixated on the fighter as he stands across from him for a moment, unsure of how to reply. “It’s one thing to fight, it’s one thing to win, and it’s one thing to make money for all sides” Kenny continues, trying his best to present his point, “but if I can prove that I’m worth more than some sweaty brute paid to throw fists and win people money, it’ll be that much more difficult to cut me out.” The squint in his eyes only intensifying, Wilbur thinks quietly to himself for a moment as his eyes trail off toward the ground, following the pathway that leads to the set of stairs connected to the catwalk. “You’re back on the debut card” the figure of wealth soon concludes, speaking just loudly enough for his visitor to overhear whilst walking for the steps that had caught his eye, “until then, don’t tell anyone what you did or why.” The demands made of him resoundingly clear and impossible to misconstrue, Kenny nods quietly before taking a few glances at the warehouse’s entrance, using it for his departure upon conclusion that his business within the building had now been taken care of. On his own, Wilbur traverses the metal staircase and makes it atop the catwalk, looking over the railing at the fight pit in the centre of the building before taking a seat upon a nearby chair, pondering silently to himself. = 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 = “Thank you for inviting us” Stanley remarks, gingerly swaying the wounded half of his body forward and back as he buries the end of a butter knife through a cooked potato. “We’re not doing anything you haven’t done for us plenty of times before, Stan’” Cathy replies, wiping the corners of her mouth with the rag that had sat across her lap. With a passive smile, the woman lets her guests' voiced appreciation settle before the next few seconds pass, triggering the ringing of a timer left in the kitchen to catch the woman’s ear. “Dessert’s ready” Cathy murmurs, stepping out of her chair and beginning her passage toward the kitchen as another one of her guests calls out. “I’ll help” Josie remarks, following the woman’s lead in climbing out of her chair and following the sound of buzzing into the kitchen. Quickly slipping on a pair of oven mitts handed to her by the woman following closeby, Cathy reaches into the machine and retrieves a metal pan, gently setting it atop the burners whilst her guest watches on. “Geez, where did you learn how to cook?” Josie wonders aloud, looking at the various discarded bits of vegetables sitting atop the garbage bin, her nose catching the aroma of various scents and seasonings that turn the kitchen into a haven of heavenly fragrances. “I can’t tell whether or not you ask that because the food’s bad or because it’s good” Cathy responds with a light chuckle, slipping off her mittens and hanging them just beside the sink. “No, no- the food is excellent” Josie corrects, hands lifted in the woman’s direction in a show of good faith, “it’s just that Stanley and I never knew you and Jimmy before they started working together. The two of you were already living in the hooverville by that time.” Her lips gently parting, Cathy shrugs to herself as she approaches the refrigerator, a light pull on the handle freeing herself to stare into the various shelves of cooled foods and beverages. “My mother taught me when I was a little girl” the hostess retorts, reaching into the frosty interior to free a chilled bottle of wine from within, her hand guiding the door back into its closed position with as much ease as she’d used to open it, “oh, I must’ve been seven when I first remember cooking.” “Really?” Josie wonders aloud, one hand pressing against the wooden countertop right beside where the stove had been fixed into, “that young?” With a polite giggle, Cathy sets the bottle of red wine down before briskly strutting to the other side of the room, “seven is far from young when learning how to sustain yourself is concerned, no?” she questions back, an honest and well-meaning question paid to the woman a few paces away. “When were you taught?” Cathy redirects, paying the question toward a different road to venture toward whilst reaching for a handful of glasses, all different in shape from the ones lining the nearby dining room table. “Well, I suppose I never was” Josie responds, watching her friend pause for a moment in surprise before continuing her duties, laying all five glasses out along a table, much smaller in size from the one she and her husband host at. “Never?” Cathy wonders back, curious as to the answer which she hadn’t been expecting to hear, “how could you have never been taught?” Shaking her head, Josie looks toward the ground as her voice gets rather quiet, a reserved tone in her voice taken toward the woman she’s exposed just as much of her youth to as had been exposed to herself. “I suppose I never had much of a chance, if you’d look at it that way” Josie responds, eyes still kept on the wooden tiles at her feet whilst her head sways slowly from one side to the other, “father died in the war and mother remarried. I called the orphanage my home for much of my life.” “Oh, I’m so sorry” Cathy replies, ceasing her delicate venture from one end of the kitchen to the other in light of her friend’s clear uncertainty over what to say. “Don’t be, it turned out alright. I met Stanley whilst I was there and we married the second we aged out of the home” Josie replies, a smile carried on her face as it finally pulls up from the floor it had taken toward, “it was rough for a long while there. But he found steady work and we weathered the collapse.” “Still, that’s no life for a girl to live” Cathy responds, not freeing the woman from hearing her apology for the rough circumstances surrounding her youth. “No, I suppose not. But we all ended up meeting each other through some measure of god, now haven’t we?” Josie replies, a much more chipper visage carried than the one that her hostess attempts to put aside, “through some divine way, Stanley and Jimmy met at the same place. And with that, we met each other.” “Well, I wouldn’t call it divine of any sort, but it’s nice that you have that to hold onto” Cathy laughs lightly, dismissively turning back to the baked good she’d pulled from the oven. “Well, I don’t expect everyone to be religious. Wouldn’t you say it’s at least more than a stroke of luck that we all managed to find each other in this rather undignified world?” Josie queries aloud, watching the woman look up at her for a moment, prompted by the question to halt all other duties. “I think we’re all rather fortunate for it. The boys in the other room are all decent men, the two of us live decent lives in part thanks to them” Cathy responds, reaching for the different straws that comprise whatever answer she looks to forge, “I think that if none of us had met, we would’ve found different, rather less-pleasant souls to be around.” “So you think all of this is just sheer luck?” Josie inquires, watching her friend attempt to return sights toward the dessert before becoming hooked on the question that her acquaintance soon forgets herself. “What is that?” the flat’s guest inquires, looking into the pan that she soon draws the baker’s eyes back toward. “Thi- Oh, it’s um-” Cathy begins to remark, stumbling over her words before pressing the ball of her knuckle against her bottom lip, “it’s a New England Cranberry Pie.” With both eyebrows lifted, Josie nods to herself whilst her friend reclaims the mittens, shielding her hands as she carries the desert toward the nearest window, leaving it upon the sill to cool. “Did your mother teach you how to make that?” the visitor inquires, unable to see the subtle look of disappointment that comes over her host’s face. “Yeah, she- she taught me the recipe” Cathy responds, eyebrows furrowed as she pulls her face away from the rising steam, the simple breeze coming in through the window guiding the heat toward her face. “Are you okay?” Josie interrupts, the question being one that surprises the flat’s primary tenant, who’d unknowingly matched her disheartened visage with a tone of voice to match it. Removing the mittens once more, Cathy places both hands over her eyes and presses her palms against her face, trying to keep herself composed in the wake of a question offering her more to speak upon than what it’d seem. “I’m sorry, it’s just really difficult to talk about my family” Cathy replies, trying her best to present a smile, though it in no way appears compelling. Pressing her back against the wall, the baker stares at the ceiling for another few moments to regain her wits, not wanting to speak toward anything regarding her youth without being of sound mind. “My mother and father never approved of Jimmy. They thought he was a thug at best, and a criminal at worst. They wanted nothing to do with him, but more importantly- they wanted me to have nothing to do with him” Cathy admits, returning her face to that of her friend’s own, wanting to look her in the eyes as she comes clean, “they tried to talk me out of seeing him, they tried to keep me from- well, they tried to keep me from making what they thought was a mistake.” Remaining quiet and only offering brief nods amidst pauses, Josie allows her friend to continue uninterrupted, the tale being spun clearly weighing heavily on the woman’s chest. “Jimmy was born out of wedlock. In his parents’ eyes, he was the bastard son. So, he wanted to be out of that just as much as I wanted to be away from people that looked down on me for my choice in seeing him” Cathy continues, a shrug carried in her shoulder before she continues. “So when I turned eighteen, Jimmy took his father’s car and drove up to my parents’ home. I snuck out after they’d gone to bed, and we just- drove away” the baker continues, clearly displeased at the way in which they’d gone about leaving together, though not regretful of where it’d taken them. “I haven’t seen them since. Even if I wanted to, they’re a country’s length away” Cathy concludes, looking up at her guest with a half-smile on her face, “but they’re the farthest thing from my mind now.” | “It’s gonna be a tough fight” Stanley remarks, his sling-ridden arm resting at his chest whilst his opposite arm’s wrist rests against the edge of the dining room table. “It won’t be any tougher than that mountain Jesse seems so eager to climb” Jimmy replies with a smirk, lifting a dart to his lips as the man in question doubles down on his choice. “When someone puts it on your friend, you’ve gotta put it back on them” Jesse retorts, pulling a drag from his own dart as he shakes his head, “I don’t care how much weight that guy’s got on me. He put my friend on the shelf, and now he’s gonna get what’s coming to him.” With his own dart pressed between fingers on his healthy hand, Stanley smiles at the ground and shakes his head with humour. “Still, as much as I appreciate it- that’s not the dude you get into a fight with blindly” Stanley rebukes, his head turned aside to face his brawl-ready acquaintance, “I don’t even know what kind of rules this Wilbur-guy has in mind. It could be a fight to the death for all I know. Is that really the kind of guy you just march into war against without knowing what you’re up against?” “What would you rather I did? Let the guy get away with snapping your neck bone- or whatever the hell is wrong with you- and be done with it?” Jesse questions back, his tone calm though his words are defensive. “I just don’t want to see you get roughed up like I did” Stanley quickly responds, sitting in silence for a second as the retort lingers, settling with all before his face turns toward the flat’s owner, “I don’t want to see either of you get roughed up like that.” “Jimmy’s gonna handle that Arthur guy just fine” Jesse quips back, refusing to allow either friend belief in anything less than what he declares, “and I don’t care what kind of tree I’m getting mine with- he’s getting chopped down in a couple of days.” “The important part is that we all just make it out of that in one piece” Jimmy interjects, holding his dart in the middle of the air as he prepares to pull from it, “you already see it with guys like those, after a while of doing this- people are gonna start grouping up.” With his eyebrows furrowed, Jesse leans in slightly whilst Stanley simply looks on, his friend asking the same question aloud that he’d kept contained within his head. “What do you mean by that?” Jesse wonders aloud, watching the orange glow from the end of his pal’s snipe begin to fade, lips pulled away from the unfiltered other end. “When everyone’s throwing hands with each other, it’ll only be a matter of time until people start grouping together. It’ll make the most sense to make sure you’ve got a few allies to side with in the event that things go south” Jimmy clarifies, letting a long line of smoke leave through his barely-parted lips. “Arthur and that big guy- what’s his name, Willard? They’re one example” Jimmy continues, lowering his dart into the transparent ashtray sat upon the table just to his right, positioned right in front of Stanley and just a few inches away from Jesse on the other end. “The three of us are another. In due time, you’ll have people grouping up to make sure they’ve at least got somewhere to turn when things get ugly” the flat’s renter proceeds, “we’re ahead of the curve, but not for long.” “So what are you insisting?” Jesse questions back, curious as to the proposition made by the man at the forefront of the conversation, “do we find others? Surely our group would be amongst the smallest when everyone started clumping together.” Shaking his head, Jimmy lets the snipe rest against the pile of ash within its tray as he leans back in his seat, reaching for the glass of water just beside his plate, which is stained with the sauce from his earlier dinner- not a bite left. “No, those groups will have cancer somewhere in there. The bigger you get, the more likely your ranks are getting stuffed with people that are- let’s just say- less than trustworthy” Jimmy argues, immediately questioned further. “Than what are you suggesting?” Jesse doubles down, shaking his head as his eyes veer off to the side of the room, unsure of where his friend could be directing his attention toward, “if we won’t be ahead of the curve for long, how do we stay ahead?” “By staying healthy” Jimmy replies with as much speed as his friend had launched his inquiry with, “the three of us can trust each other, but I can’t say the same for almost anyone else there. As long as the three of us can keep ourselves healthy enough- after Stan gets better, of course- we’ll always have someone there to back us up.” “What about that older man from the bar you were talking about?” Josie wonders aloud, carrying five empty wine glasses and a cold bottle of red to aid her friend, “the one with the long, grey hair?” With a squint, Stanley lifts the dart through the air, “do you mean Kenny?” he asks as he pulls a drag from the snipe. “No, Kenny abandoned us once those cinder dicks showed up” Jesse replies, shaking his head dismissively as Cathy walks out with the cooled-down pan of pie, “if he’s not willing to fight with us, he can’t be trusted.” With a frown in the corner of his face, Jimmy opts to remain mute on the subject as he stands from his seat, clearing the centre of the table for his wife to better lay out their prepared dessert until his visage is called into question. “What’s that look for?” Jesse wonders aloud, earning the undivided eyes of the apartment’s owner, “you’ve got any different thoughts about Kenny?” Shaking his head with a brief chuckle as he continues clearing off the table’s middle, Jimmy rests his hand on his wife’s back before smiling at his friend, “I wasn’t even there to see whether or not Kenny left before things got bad, I’ve got nothing to say on the matter.” “He was gone by the time things went bad, but he was there when the pair came up” Stanley replies, opting not to take the dismissive side of Jimmy’s argument, or the side of vehement disinterest in Jesse’s, “he would’ve been there by the time things looked like they were headed south.” Pausing for a moment whilst his wife reclaims her seat, Jimmy stares at the table before looking up at his friend’s and nodding, “alright” he responds, offering nothing more than that as he, too, retakes his seat. Left with nothing to feed off of, Jesse and Stanley take their eyes toward each other’s as they search for clarity. “What do you mean ‘alright’?” Jesse wonders aloud, passing an appreciative smile to Josie as she begins pouring the wine with his glass, “care to add something we’re missing?” Rolling his eyes whilst shaking his head, “I wouldn’t necessarily blame Kenny for not wanting to get into a fight on that night- of all nights” Jimmy replies, taking his cloth bib and placing it over his lap once more before reclaiming his dart, “if this were under different circumstances, I might see it differently.” “Woah, woah, woah- other circumstances?” Jesse questions aloud, solidifying his stance in the camp opposed to looking fondly upon Kenny whilst his peers distance themselves toward respective corners. “We were out in public when these two cinder dicks show up, and-” the man clarifies, only to be interrupted by the man’s wife. “No swearing at the table, please” Cathy interjects, earning herself an apologetic wave. “My apologies” Jesse remarks, turning his focus back toward the man whose last name is on the apartment’s bills, “the bottom line is that Kenny wasn’t there when we needed him. We couldn’t depend on him- in that moment- any more than anyone else could’ve.” Preferring to keep quiet on the subject, Stanley bows his chin and pulls from his dart once more, handing the snipe off for his wife to finish off upon the last glass being filled. “In his defence, he wasn’t there to start the nonsense with Arthur and the big guy to begin with” Jimmy retorts, finding his voice interrupted almost immediately. “”Neither was I. That didn’t stop me from being there to back up Stan’ when he needed it!” Jesse argues back, prompting the disappointed look on the host’s face to meet him, “there were three people willing to roll up our sleeves and take those cinder- you know the word- on, and Kenny wasn’t one of them.” “Alright, maybe you caught him on a bad night” Jimmy retorts, finding every argument he makes in the man’s favour to only further invigorate the argument his friend has to offer. “Why are you defending this guy!?” Jesse calls out, their voices raising one pitch higher than each other’s with each rebuke they offer, “is it ‘cause we worked with him on the bridge? ‘Cause if that’s case, I’d hate to see you when you figure out that the majority of the gents we’ll be fighting did too.” “Kenny’s just always struck me as an upstanding guy, alright?” Jimmy quips back, his lowered tone bringing the conversation shared amongst the group to a similarly civilised level. “He strikes me as a decent dude. I don’t know a whole ton about the man personally, but he seems like he’s got a good heart” the once-labourer retorts, maintaining his defence of their older colleague, “I’m not willing to base my judgement of the guy off of one fight he chose not to get involved in.” With those words, the room goes silent. Keeping to themselves, Stanley and Josie remain subdued as their eyes briefly peer from one side of the table to the other, waiting for the next voice to speak up. Having offered his peace, Jimmy remains quiet as he stares across the table from himself, looking at Jesse whilst his wife’s hand rests against his own, Cathy’s allegiance laying with the same man her support resides with. The only man present on his lonesome, Jesse lets the tension settle before reclaiming the rag he’d placed upon the table, wiping the corners of his mouth before stepping out of his seat. “Alright, then” the man murmurs aloud, pulling a final drag off his snipe before grinding it into the base of the ashtray and nodding toward his hosts, “thank you for the meal” he remarks, leaving the discarded cigarette as he walks through the living room. “Jesse, let’s not leave this off like-” Jimmy begins to beckon, his words falling on deaf ears as they’re met without a response, only the sound of Jesse reclaiming his jacket and stepping through the front door preceding the noise that emanates upon the exit’s closure. Falling silent, Jimmy presses his fist into the dining room table and hangs his head with a puckered frown for a moment, disheartened with the way in which their conversation had been capped off. Letting the air simmer for a moment before speaking, the man undoes his balled fist and presses his palm into the table, eyes locking onto those of his wife’s as he puts on a more affable smile, “a piece of pie please, honey” he says calmly, trying to put himself past the discourse’s end. == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
“Forget them!” Jimmy shouts aloud, trying to lure Jesse away from the heated urge of picking another fight with their common foes before returning his attention to the wounded friend beside him, “are you alright?” Wincing in pain with every attempt he makes at moving his arm, Stanley tries to defy the nature of his injury to no avail, soon finding himself forced to shake his head in refusal. “I can’t move it without something up there stingin’ me” the man confesses, his head slightly hung in disappointment whilst his wife kneels beside him, trying her best to be a source of comfort. “That’s because you’ve fractured your clavicle” Wilbur remarks, following the white-coated doctor as he steps through the door, “in stupid terms, you’ve messed up the bone between your neck and your shoulder.” His hand balled into a fist as the revelation prompts him to turn away and restrain himself from dashing through the office’s door, Jesse scrunches his face with anger whilst his friend takes the lead on questions, asking only the ones that make the most sense. “How long will it be until he’s healed?” Jimmy inquires, standing a few feet away from his wife, who sits quietly in a chair near the corner of the room. “Not for a long while. A couple of months at minimum, maybe?” the doctor replies, watching his patient wince at the slightest touch the professional takes toward his arm, “there’s not a whole ton we can do with these kinds of injuries. The best solution I can offer after you leave here would be to rest as still as you can.” “Can he fight with it?” Jesse wonders back, pressing his arm against the doorway he leans against. “He could in theory, but I’d highly advise against it” the doctor responds, his head shaking as he steps away from the patient, “we’ll put him in a hanger, try to let the broken bone heal, and see where he’s at. These injuries can get serious, however. If he fought through it, he’ll only make the injury worse, and with it- his pain.” “Let me fight him then” Jesse instantly quips, pulling away from the side of the room as his friends watch on, the plea offered to the mastermind behind the fights, “if Stan can’t fight that fat dick, I want to.” Reacting with a smirk in the farther corner of his face, Wilbur turns to look away from the third of his combatants before immediately having his attention called back for, the confrontational front of the once-labourer impossible to ignore. “Look at me, you dolled-up fruit!” Jesse exclaims, reaching out and ripping the affluent gentleman’s face toward his direction, immediately earning an enraged visage for his troubles. “If you’re putting Jimmy up against that cinder dick, you’re putting me up against that cinder block- I’m not allowing anything less!” the determined fighter exclaims, forced to pull away from the cane-wielding, tophat-adorning fight promoter by the extended hand of his friend. “He might not be putting it into words for your higher-education self to understand, but he’s not wrong” Jimmy interrupts, stepping in front of Jesse and forcing the man to step back. “The easy thing to do would be to have Stanley fight the guy I can’t, but that’s not an option right now” the brawler remarks, passing the same glance toward the man now standing behind him that the dressed-up promoter does, “you want to put on the best show, right? Jesse’s fighting that brute the same night too.” His lips puckered as he repeats the command quietly to himself, Wilbur stares into the eyes of the man standing across from him before passing another look toward the friend just a few feet away. “Are you telling me you’re not fighting in the main event unless your friend gets his death wish granted?” the wealthy man wonders aloud, looking down at the man he stands just two feet taller than. “That’s exactly what I’m saying” Jimmy answers, presenting his employer with the unwavering demand he wields. His face easing up as he stares back at the rage-enraptured man standing just a few feet behind the figure ahead of him, Wilbur stands up straight and places both hands atop the support of his cane, pressing its tip to the floor as he provides his answer. “Jimmy and Arthur are main eventing, Jesse and Willard will be the penultimate fight” Wilbur declares, chin lowering just slightly, “Willard will open at the house’s favourite, and you and Arthur will open at a toss-up.” Squinting, Jesse immediately blurts out the question that lingers on his mind, “what on earth does that mean?” With the gentle shake of his head, the rich promoter steps past Jimmy and advances past his friend, “terms neither of you need to be familiar with.” Departing just as he had entered, Wilbur enters the corridor that carries him to the next source of business he’s to attend to, soon followed by the doctor, now finished setting Stanley’s arm into a sling. “I can’t be out of work like this, man” the wounded fighter remarks, his breathing short and frenzied as the worry of what his future appears as consumes him. “As long as Jesse and I win, you’ll be fine” Jimmy replies, his voice calm and undisturbed by the events having recently transpired, “we’ll look out for you until you get better. If the money Wilbur’s promising us is real, we’ll be able to do so without issue.” Nodding to the man with the same look of concern in his face, “yeah, if you win” Stanley replies, a reply that speaks to the concerns he buries deep down. Pressing the corners of his lips together, Jimmy steps closer to his friend than he had since escorting him to the theatre’s backstage area, a hand placed on the injured fighter’s intact shoulder. “We’re going to win” the man replies, the tone shifting from one of calm presentation to that of an invigorated demeanour, “count every last dollar that you’ve got and bet it on us. Come fight night, there is nothing holding us back from beating those two goons into paste, do you understand?” Hesitant, Stanley looks his friend in the eyes and pauses for a moment, keeping his mouth shut before answering with a single nod of his head. “Good” Jimmy replies, pulling his sights away from the broken brawler’s self and setting them upon his wife, their eyes meeting just as they had in the theatre minutes prior, “that cinder dick ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em.” = 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 = Looking past the smoke that emanates from the tip of the butt pressed between his lips, Kenny reads off the inked scrawlings atop a small stack of letters that beckons for his attention. Flipping one after another in passing, the man’s eyes briefly look over the words scrawled along the front of the paper envelope before moving onto the next, taking note of one name after another without much consideration. Its orange glow brightening, the snipe fills the man’s lungs with a rush of tobacco smoke at the gentlest pull, remaining tilted slightly downward as its holder stares at the stack of mail. Yet another envelope passed over in favour of another, only one remains yet unchecked, its discoloured grey appearance catching the apartment owner’s eyes immediately. Furrowing his brows just slightly, Kenny reads the text on the front of the concealed document before sitting with the name on its front in the back of his mind, unable to convince himself to move for a brief moment. Sitting on the couch with an infant girl in her arms, a lady in a blue dress sits in the centre of the living room as the mechanisms of the door begin to shift at the turn of a key on the other end. Turning her back toward the entrance just slightly to conceal the exposed breast her daughter feeds off of, the woman maintains her dignity as Kenny walks in, quick to keep his eyes averted from the woman’s position. “You’re home?” the lady wonders aloud, curious to the man’s entrance so early in the afternoon, her presence barely noticed by the man in anything other than his response. “Yeah, I just ran out to get a few groceries” Kenny replies with a dismissive tone, placing a few small bags of good atop the nearest counter, his focus set primarily on the one envelope atop all the others, hands freeing themselves of the store-bought goods in order to open the concealed document. “I thought you went to work?” the woman responds, looking over her shoulder whilst the baby continues nursing, watching her roommate tear into the fold of an envelope, hurriedly racing to retrieve whatever is left for him to find within. “I told you last week that I left the project, Pearl” Kenny replies, ripping a gash in the top of the letter before reaching inside, fumbling around for the small object concealed. “The fight club is a real thing?” the woman questions back, a confused look coming upon her face before taking notice of her fellow resident’s defeated reaction to the item he recovers, “what’s wrong?” Pressing his elbows into the countertop’s surface, Kenny hangs his head in his hands as the envelope slides out of his hand, falling to the floor with little to be said for. “Kenny?” Pearl wonders aloud for a second time, seeing little change in her roommate’s glum demeanour, his defeated visage more than speaking toward his current mood. Letting a short few moments pass with silence, Kenny unburies his head from within his hands, running his fingers through his lengthy head of hair whilst staring at the small object in the palm of his hand. “Is this about Vivian?” the woman inquires as the man pulls away from the counter, leaving the rest of his mail behind before tossing a ring over toward his roommate’s place on the couch. Watching the small object fly through the air before colliding with the ground just a few short feet away from her, Pearl remains quiet as her friend approaches the nearest window, peering through the blinds of their flat at the city below. “She’s not coming back” Kenny remarks with a rather fair amount of bitterness, his face stricken with the lines of sunlight that break through the window’s obstruction. Pulling another drag from his dart before allowing his dominant hand to reclaim it, the man frees a bundle of smoke into the air whilst trying to unchain his mind from the resentment he’s all too tempted to carry with him. Aware that her input will solve none of the issues that plague her acquaintance, Pearl opts to remain silent, eyes drifting between the child in her arms, the ring on the ground, and the conquered man standing near the end of their shared residence. “I know it was bad, but I never thought it was that bad” Kenny murmurs beneath his breath, shaking his head whilst he stares out at the streets below, their cramped roadways mostly filled with people, though a car rolls through every few minutes. Without much in the way of saying, the abandoned husband takes another pull off his cigarette and backs away from the window, tilting his head back to better stare at the heavens that have forsaken him with such poor results. “I’m sorry, Ken’” Pearl speaks softly, watching the subject of her apology run his hands down the sides of his own face, eyes guiding him to the set of bedrooms near the back of the apartment, the desire to be left alone all that fuels him. | “No, no, no! What are you doing!?” Wilbur exclaims, his palms pressing into the railing on the side of the catwalk that overlooks the fight pit, “that’s standing room only! I don’t want a single chair in that box!” Watched on by Norman, who leans against the same bannister just a few feet off to the side, the affluent operator continues to watch over the crew he’s tasked with laying out the seats, sipping on a glass of gin whilst his associate juts his chin toward the entrance. “You’ve got company, Willy” Norman murmurs aloud, directing his friend’s attention toward the warehouse’s entrance, a pair of men- one towering over the other in height- stepping through the doors. “Are you lost, gentlemen? Perhaps you’re in need of a map? Or a more accurate way to keep track of the date?” Wilbur wonders aloud, peering over the edge to find his unrequested visitors looking back up at him, “the show isn’t for another eleven days.” “We’re not here to fight” Arthur responds, his hands tucked into the pockets of his denim overalls, no further response added to make sense of his presence. “Then why are you here?” Wilbur responds, taking a pause to inspect both men from high above the floor, able to read out the paint stains on their shirts and the overall disorganised nature of their clothing, “and why do the two of you look like you just went one-on-one with a paint mixer and lost?” “When people don’t have money, they work for a living. You do know what a job is, correct?” Willard retorts, watching the smirk spread from one side of the promoter’s face to the other. “Yes, I’m well aware of what I pay people to do. I’m more curious as to why the two of you have one” Wilbur replies, pulling away from the railing before slowly setting one foot in front of the other, guiding himself toward the stairs that will eventually lead him back to ground level. “I only agreed to fight for you because I want to get my hands on that crumb from the other night” Arthur responds, watching as the wealthy businessman traverses the overhead walkway, “I don’t know how legit you are. I may fight one night and not see a cent for it.” Sliding his hand along the smooth bannister he walks alongside, the promoter nods to himself and chuckles low enough to keep it from his visitor’s ears. “Yes, because I’d go through all the trouble of building out this warehouse to be an arena for combat just to alienate my fighters and be left with no one to put a card together with” Wilbur rebukes, “please, gentlemen- if you’re going to accuse me of being untrustworthy, at least make the implication make sense.” “From what we’ve heard, you dragged the other fighters out of that hooverville downtown” Willard replies, shrugging his shoulders as he watches the promoter begin descending the nearest flight of stairs, “why couldn’t you just toss them a couple bucks to replace the people you screw over?” “Because I’m not far enough along in my ventures up in the pacific northwest to get away with grifting people en masse yet” Wilbur replies, his words only quickly provoking a response from the men just a short distance away. “But you would be willing to chisel?” Arthur rebukes, earning a chipper assertion from the man drawing closer toward them. “Oh, absolutely! You don’t forge an empire without cutting a few corners every now and again” Wilbur assures, a smile still worn proudly upon his face as he reaches the bottom-most step, retrieving the cane that rests along the railing’s side. “But as I just made clear, I, nor my business partner standing up there like some physical manifestation of god, have the reputation to sustain any long-term grift just yet” the affluent gentleman remarks, “consider yourselves lucky you found me early.” With a squint in his eye, Willard inspects the confident posture of the man they’ve sworn to business with- if even just for one solitary night as of now- whilst remaining silent. “Then what’s the plan with the fighters that lose?” Arthur wonders aloud, his inquisition brought to a pause as the promoter turns his sights away from the pair, tending to more urgent matters momentarily. “No! What did I tell you just minutes ago!?” Wilbur shouts at the men a few levels deep into the pit, “standing room only! If I see one chair in that box, I’ll have your manhood sliced off and fed to the dogs!” Hastily running toward any other environment than the specifically-designated nook of the warehouse, the paid labourers tasked with setting up seats hurry for an area that won’t bring about such threats they’re aware aren’t made with an idle mind. “To answer your question, I can make money off of anyone. If you keep losing, the payout is even greater the moment you win when no one expects you to” Wilbur replies, spinning his focus back around to the individuals at hand, “if you can keep winning and winning and winning, I can do more to market you than any talent agency could possibly even conjure up in a wet dream.” “And why this? If you’re looking to make your name around these parts, why start by opening up a fight club?” Arthur doubles down, still not entirely convinced by the presentation of the man across from him. “Putting the police on my payroll keeps them under my palm, letting the wealthy gamble nets me connections with the elite, and letting people throw hands inside this emporium of brutality keeps them from doing so outside of it” Wilbur answers, “in every walk of life, the hands of the people in Seattle are- and will be for as long as I live- directly guided by me.” Lifting their chins just slightly, Arthur and Willard soon take their eyes toward each other, hearing the gravelly tone behind the presenter’s voice and the confidence behind each syllable he utters. Soon finding a slight sense of assurance behind their shared visage’s, the fighters have their attention stolen once more by the man’s continued voice. “Now I want the two of you to answer my question” Wilbur remarks, pressing both hands against the cane’s handle and thrusting it into the concrete foundation for which the trio stand upon, “how did you get into my theatre home, who invited you, and what were the two of you doing there?” “We had an open invite” Arthur quickly retorts, shrugging his shoulders as he reaches into his overalls, retrieving a near-empty pack of snipes from within the closest inner pocket. “We’ve been repainting this one apartment for the last couple of days and one guy who lives in it mentioned the event he was invited to” Willard doubles down whilst his friend presses his lips to the cigarette’s body, striking a match to light a flame, “he had two plus-ones and offered us the tickets.” “Who?” Wilbur soon questions, watching the squint of confusion come upon Willard’s face as the dart’s smoke reaches his nostrils, “who took you along as his plus-ones?” Shrugging his shoulders as he pulls the snipe from his lip, Arthur blows free a puff of smoke into the air whilst responding. “Some older dude with longer grey hair. We found him at Old Eddy’s the night before” the man replies, his revelation provoking intrigue from the promoter, “he said he was fighting for you.” Pausing for a moment as his eyes veer off to the side, Wilbur sits with his thoughts in silence before his hand moves the cane toward his side, its end no longer pressed against the hard floor. “Thank you gentlemen, you may go now” the promoter replies, motioning his chin toward the way the pair had entered, watching the extended hand of his smaller brawler offer him the dart. With a nod of appreciation, Wilbur takes the snipe and watches the pair traipse off into the burning daylight, returning him to the company of his acquaintance and those paid to prepare the warehouse for their grand debut. “Correct me if I’m misremembering here, but do we not have only one long, grey-haired gentleman fighting for us on opening night?” Norman inquires from above, hands folded as he leans over the railing, forearms pressing into the bannister’s top. Pulling in the most satisfying drag from a cigarette he’s ever taken, Wilbur crosses his arms with the lit end facing upward, a smile on his face as he exhales, blowing smoke through his nose. “Norman, won’t you remind me who Kenneth’s opponent is for that evening?” he wonders aloud, continuing to stare at the still-open warehouse entrance whilst his business partner shrugs, lips puckered as he scans his brain for the answer he’s already well aware of. “I believe he’s our second fight in the evening, and it’s against Samuel Rowe” Norman replies, immediately prompting his acquaintance to look over his shoulder with a squint. “Who?” Wilbur replies, continuing to let the smoke slowly lift from the burning end of his dart. “One of the randoms we brought in from the labourers with James and the others” the catwalk-occupying affiliate responds, earning yet another shrug from the man below. Lifting the snipe back to his lips, Wilbur takes another drag and calls out his partner’s name before letting the smoke leave his lungs. “Do me a favour and send someone off to let Kenneth know that we’re giving him the debut night off. We’ll pay him the same we would’ve if he’d have won his fight just to keep him happy” the affluent businessman remarks, lifting the cane to rest just over his shoulder, “I’ve got a plan for him. It’s best if he takes that night off to keep in tip-top shape.” | “And it’s within walking distance of Smith Cove?” Jimmy inquires, holding his wife’s hand within his own as they follow a third man, who dresses in a suit and a white bowler’s cap. “Within walking distance? Buddy, have you taken a look to your left yet?” the third man wonders back, pointing his finger toward the body of water just a few hundred yards to their collective left, “it’s close enough that you can swim to it. Oh hell, it’s better than that- you can practically touch it!” With the briefest smile on his face, Jimmy nods to himself as their journey continues onward, carrying them down a long stretch of sidewalk before inevitably ending in their preferred destination. Through the halls of a well-lit corridor they do walk, the couple with a last name to share follow their realtor toward the flat near the back of the complex they venture through, listening to his keys jangle as he fits them into the lock of the home they hope to soon call their own. “Here we are” the broker remarks, the first to step into the rather quaint, yet spacious home he soon moves to the side of, letting his clients experience the scale of the place with their own two eyes. “Woah” Cathy mutters aloud, her voice breathy and faint, the look of wonder that spreads across her face presenting the awe that is the thought that they’ve potentially found a place worth more than just laying awake at night with the hopes of one day being able to afford. “I don’t want to get my hopes up too soon” Jimmy mutters aloud, quickly setting aside the same astonishment that his wife shares by turning back toward their realtor, “what’s the price on this place?” Gently closing the door shut behind himself, the realtor removes his hat whilst responding, placing it atop the coat rack stationed in the nearest corner of the room. “Twenty-two dollars a month for rent, another two and a half for the hot water and heat” the realtor replies, passing a look and a nod toward the metal box in his clients arms, “I’d need the first two months worth of rent and amenities to start with. After a year, if you keep the place looking spick and span, I’ll drop the rent down by two dollars.” “The price goes down if we don’t damage things?” Cathy questions back, spinning around having now made it to the centre of the room. “It seems bleak, but the market’s on a downslope. I don’t know how, but I trust in god that everything will make itself right again” the realtor assures, crossing his arms and kicking one foot in front of the other as he leans into the nearest wall, “when that happens, I want my clients happy. Others will come with big promises, I’ll be coming with a reputation.” “A ‘look after my back and I’ll look after yours’ policy” Jimmy mutters aloud, nodding to himself as the realtor jostles his head toward the side, a simple bow of his chin assuring him of just that promise, “that’s a good plan.” Tucking his hands into his pockets, the realtor’s eyes take toward various corners of the room whilst the couple inspects the property, looking around different half-walls and peering through the various windows that comprise the building’s exterior from ground level. “This place is so much nicer than the last one” Cathy whispers to her husband, who follows her lead closeby whilst their realtor hangs back, remaining patient whilst the pair inspect the premises. “Anything would be nicer than that shed back at camp” Jimmy whispers back, following the woman to the room near the farthest point in the apartment, a pair of windows set up facing the body of water that separates him from the warehouse arena, “I will miss Old Eddy, though.” “You act as if living twenty minutes away by foot will keep you from going out after the fights are over” Cathy jokes, a smile paid to the man that she passes a glance toward from over her shoulder, “I know you well enough to see-” Falling silent as she steps through the doorway of the master bedroom at the back of the flat, the woman’s voice disappears as her feet quickly carry her to the window she’d underestimated the view from. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Cathy murmurs through wonder, placing her hand against the wooden border that wraps around the window, looking out at the sun’s rare reflection off of Smith Cove, the nearly-still waters shining a ray of light across the surface from the unobstructed light in the sky. With a smile, Jimmy hangs back, watching his wife stand in front of the same view she expects him to join her in looking out at, his hands tucking themselves into his khaki pockets. “Ain’t that a pretty thing?” the man wonders aloud, his voice sounding too far from her for it to be considered close, prompting the woman to spin back and look at him. “You’re not even looking at it!” she giggles, her teeth an unmistakable shade of bright white. Shaking his head, Jimmy presents a smile of his own before concealing it behind his lips, which he takes a moment before parting to respond, “I wasn’t talking about the view.” Consumed by the pleasure she takes in seeing her husband more sufficed than he’d been in years, Cathy walks away from the window and throws her lips into those of the man’s own, her hands wrapping around his neck whilst his wrap around her waist. “Have you made your decision or should we keep loo-?” the realtor wonders aloud, stepping into the room only seconds later before falling silent, apologetically lifting his hand for the unintended interruption. “My apologies” the man murmurs, bowing his head and keeping his eyes glued to the floor, the sight he had accidentally walked into now the one that he turns away from. “It’s fine, we’ll take it” Jimmy beckons, finishing the kiss before beckoning for the realtor to remain where he stands, keeping his wife held within his arms With cash in hand and the clientele happy with the space they’ve been left with, the realtor tips his cap, hands the keys off to the apartment’s new residents and carries on with his day. Through a smile, Jimmy closes the door upon the departure and locks the deadbolt, his eyelids pressing close together as he listens to the sounds of the mechanisms shifting within, the mechanisms that now belong to himself and his wife. “Here’s to a fresh start” Cathy speaks aloud after just a few seconds, watching her husband turn around to see a pair of snipes extended toward him, offering him one in a show of celebration. Teeth presenting themselves in lieu of a laugh, Jimmy reaches into his back pocket and frees a small pack of matches from them, graciously accepting one of the darts before placing it between his lips, striking a match and lighting his wife’s cigarette before his own. With a satisfying puff, the couple breathe the tobacco smoke that soon fills the air, leaving through the lips that part to voice the beginning of a new dawn. “Here’s to a fresh start” Jimmy repeats, pulling his wife in close for another kiss in the flat they now call their own, a home- a true one- worth living out their days together in. == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
Resting his arm on the crafted curve of the passenger seat’s door as his eyes stare past the rain-battered window, Jimmy keeps to himself as the drive carries him away from the life he’d been tempted to leave behind in favour of one that promises to reward him with infinitely more. With the waterfront quickly approaching, the labourer pays little mind to the scenes that surround him with patience, opting to wait for the climax of their journey to present him with answers he’s yet to have. Within minutes, the hefty body of metal on wheels begins slowing itself to a stop on the side of a small, secluded road just off of Smith Cove, gears shifting into place for one, final time before the parking brake is pulled. “Are we here?” Jimmy asks aloud, turning to look at the man responsible for whisking him away from the bridge he’d slaved over for days in total, offered no more than a smile before the driver steps back into the downpour. With his recruitment following in his forward-directing footsteps, Wilbur slams his fist into the heavy, metal door barricading the sanctum of his fight pit from the dreary, drizzling world he intends to shelter himself from. Patient enough to wait a few seconds for a reply, the wealthy gentleman watches the barrier pull inward to reveal his business partner’s inquisitive face, the building’s interior lighting coming as a sight for sore eyes from their guest. “This is the guy?” Norman wonders aloud, peering past his pally’s shoulder and onto the scarred and cut face of the filthy-handed labourer. “I did a number on him, ain’t I?” Wilbur retorts, lifting his lip just slightly to present his business colleague with a sight indicating much the same is true for his new friend. “It seems you both did” Norman replies, finally stepping aside to allow the men entry to their renovated warehouse, the mountains of dirt stacked up just a few feet from the building having once belonged to the ground that’s now been dug up. Where a flat surface once sat now resides a gradually-descending row of levels falling deeper into the earth with each row of seats, the only unoccupied space being the respectably-sized square at the descent’s very centre. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Wilbur wonders aloud, shedding his coat and stationing his hat upon one of many coat racks, eyes gazing upon the spacious halls he expects to fill with enthused spectators. “I don’t know what it is” Jimmy responds, still wearing his damp overalls and dirt-covered overalls, his boots tracking mud and water across each spot of the ground he walks upon. “It’s the place where your life is going to change forever” Wilbur replies, his arms stretching outward as if he were attempting to touch each end of the monstrous building they share the embrace of. “Forgive my friend, he likes to speak in aggrandisation” Norman interrupts, eyes passing toward their visitor, the man wearing a posture that makes clear the idea that he is a fish out of water, “this is the place he wants you and the others to fight.” “Others?” Jimmy quickly wonders aloud, eyes squinting amidst the pause that breaks his question in two, “who are the others?” “No one- yet” Wilbur replies with equal speed, voicing the same answer that his business partner had parted his lips in an attempt to offer, “that’s where you come in.” Filled with questions and curiosities, Jimmy remains quiet for a moment as the man who’d brought him here turns around, looking at him whilst his own eyes take toward their third contemporary. “Why me?” the labourer soon replies, his right eyebrow arched higher than the left whilst the man he presents the question to begins pacing around the top-most level of the decline, the platform intended to join the others that gradually descend in forming a row of seats. “Because Norman will be taking care of the logistics whilst I look at filling these seats with some rather worthy clientele” Wilbur answers, “we’ve only been in the city for a cup of coffee. We don’t know who we’d look for.” “And you think that I do?” Jimmy replies, shrugging his shoulders as he looks to the man with curiosity, “what makes you think I’d know who to look for?” Turning his lips into a smirk, Wilbur gradually taps his feet against the ground as he walks off to the side, approaching a small row of shelves stationed against the wall closeby. “Let me ask you this, kid” the man begins, squinting his eyes as he inspects the various objects positioned for viewing, “what kind of people stole your cash box?” Not having anticipated a question requiring as much insight into his strife as the one voiced, Jimmy pulls his head back and searches for the way of phrasing the inquiry that lingers at his tongue’s tip. “How did you know about our box being-?” he wonders aloud, watching his chauffeur spin around quickly and toss a small, easily-buryable metal box across the room and into the hands of its rightful owner. “Every dollar your pitiful day job has ever earned you is all there, don’t worry” Wilbur remarks, watching the man look on with surprise at the physical storage he’d been stripped of the day prior before their eyes meet again, “how else did you think I’d found out about where you worked?” “You-” Jimmy grunts, taking three steps forward in anger before finding the calm voice of the well-off gentleman ahead of him to be too influential for him to follow through on his instinctual reaction. “You’d never have thought someone with my wealth would have gone over to ransack your little cabin in the middle of puckered-ass alleyway because why would you?” Wilbur wonders aloud, his voice lulling the enraged labourer into a momentary silence and stop. Unphased by the visibly angered demeanour in which his subject has presented him with, the fight pit’s mastermind enthusiastically steps over to a makeshift bar near the corner of the room, an arch in his eyebrow as he continues speaking whilst in search of a preferential bottle of liquor. “You do know- however- exactly what kind of people would have taken it” Wilbur speaks, finally opting for a bottle of strong gin, “you know because you live with them.” “Are you talking about Cathy?” Jimmy wonders aloud, given his correction by the man opting to remain mostly silent a few paces behind him. “He’s talking about the others in that camp. He’s saying you know who’s desperate enough to ransack you” Norman reiterates, his claim doubled down on by the man mid-pour. “You know who the people most-willing to do anything to get out of that place are” Wilbur replies, taking his eyes toward the man in question, “you know who will fight for every last bit.” “What makes me so different from the rest of them?” Jimmy replies, his hesitancy to buy into what’s being offered to him not relenting without a fight being put up for its reluctance. “I walked into that speakeasy off and on for three weeks. I dressed as a superior and walked much the same” Wilbur remarks, calling back to the revelation he’d become privy to minutes earlier, “you said it yourself, you’d figured I had the ability to get you whacked. And yet, you broke my tooth.” “I won’t apologise for it if that’s what you’re interested in” Jimmy replies, doubling down on his stance with a demeanour built to imply he’d happily do so again. “I wanted someone that was willing to take a swing. I knew what I looked like and what I was doing, and I knew what I was looking for” Wilbur corrects, a finger raised into the air as he holds his half-glass of liquor against his moving chin, “you had nothing to lose, and now you have this to lose.” “And what is this?” Jimmy finally questions aloud, peering over his shoulder at the mostly-subdued gentleman awaiting the conversation’s climax, “you promise me this thing will pull me out of that hole and all these other things, but you ain’t telling me why I should believe you.” “Willy’s many different things, but I can vouch for his honesty with something like this” Norman interjects, watching the visitor’s sights turn back to fall upon him. “I was fine with staying in California, but Willy convinced me to come up north with him. I didn’t know why until a couple hours after we got off the train in town” the man continues, “but I didn’t need it to justify packing my bags. If there’s one thing Willy won’t do, it’s make a gamble he won’t fight like hell to make pay off.” The curious gleam still held within the white of his eye, Jimmy takes his attention toward the ground his boots had stained as the voice ahead of him calls out once more. “If that shack and baking in the sun over that bridge all day is all you want in life, be my guest. I’ll drop you back off at the hooverville and leave you to it” Wilbur explains, laying out the options afforded to the man he presents a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to, “but if you want more than that, this is your ticket.” Bowing his head, Jimmy stares at the ground before glancing at the pit near the warehouse’s centre, rows of lightbulbs illuminating a ground that will soon become a coliseum that he weighs whether or not to become a modern gladiator of. His right eyelid squinting, the man lets a breath leave through his nose before returning his attention to the offer’s dealer, his lips parting to present the response his momentary silence had been building to. After a brief ride, the metal box Wilbur sits behind the wheel of slows to a stop just outside the boundary lines of the hooverville’s reach, his passenger waiting for a moment before stepping out. “I’ll be back tomorrow to get your answer” the driver remarks, shifting the car into a full stop before extending his clean hand to the filth-covered one his potential brawler holds, paying no mind to the dirt that stains his palm as their handshake follows through. “Thank you” Jimmy responds honestly, reclaiming the metal box from his lap before opening the door, stepping out into the subsiding rainstorm whilst the vehicle’s operator watches on. With his door slammed shut, Wilbur presses his foot to the pedal and drives off for a return to his residence, leaving the labourer behind. With a huff, the worker presses the box against his side and carries it with himself forward, walking the grounds of the camp for what may or may not be one of the last times. = 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 = Slowly lowering herself into the chair stationed at her makeshift desk, Cathy stares at the ground whilst her husband stands over her, scratching the back of his neck as the air grows quiet. “I see” the woman murmurs, lowering her eyes as her hands couple together at her lap, sitting with the revelation presented to her by the man to whom she’d sworn devotion to. Digging his heel into the ground, Jimmy suffers through the silence for a few moments whilst only able to seek reprieve in the creaking of the floorboards to which his shack had been built from. Hearing the raindrops beyond the shed’s walls appear to grow louder and more raucous with each passing minute, the labourer finally decides that something more than uncomfortable inquisition is warranted. “I don’t plan on doing it for longer than I need to, Cath’” Jimmy remarks, continuing to stare at the back of the woman’s head, her face tilted toward the unsteady ground that once more sits in the dirt used to rebury the metal cash box at the home’s centre. “If what this twit is saying is true, we’ll have more than enough to sustain ourselves after a year- maybe two” the man persists, continuing to present his best effort to reassure the woman already blanketed in countless other thoughts. With little expectation of swaying his wife’s opinion, the labourer- beaten by a week of being short-changed, screwed over and beaten- drops to his knees and takes the woman’s hands into his own. “I don’t expect you to be pleased with this. I’m not asking you to be, I’m asking you to understand” Jimmy proceeds, locking eyes with the woman seated before him, “my job- first and foremost- is to provide for you. This- this wooden box is squat.” “Do you think I’m mad about this, James?” Cathy wonders aloud, as uncertain over what assumptions her partner has as he is of hers. Taken aback and unsure of how to respond, the worker leans back just slightly at a loss, “I- well, I’d have thought you’d be upset” he replies honestly. Squinting her eyes before they trail off toward the same side of the home she gets out of her seat to walk toward, the man’s missus responds as honestly as her husband had. “Do you know why I don’t like when you get into fights?” Cathy inquires mid-walk, hands swaying gently by each of her sides. Adjusting the denim suspender over his left shoulder, Jimmy slowly follows the woman’s path as he searches within his head for an answer, “because you don’t like thinking that I’ll get hurt?” the man responds, watching his wife turn back with the same look of concern written upon her visage from earlier. Shaking her head in refusal, the woman remains standing across the room in silence as her husband watches her, still struggling to find the conclusion she’d hoped he’d find on his own. “I do worry that you’ll get yourself so badly hurt that you’d never be the same again, but that’s not why I hate the fightin’” Cathy corrects, filling the quietude that suspends itself within the air between them on her husband’s behalf. “I hate the fightin’ because I hate that you’re so mad at everything that you feel getting your hands dirty is the only thing that can keep you intact” the woman continues, her husband’s expression falling to a more sombre level than it had once occupied with each word. “I don’t like the idea of you going out and gettin’ yourself beaten, but it beats working on that bridge in the burning sun every day!” Cathy utters, disheartened at having to explain herself like such. “It’s one thing if you’re fightin’ for money, it’s another if you’re fighting just ‘cause you’re so full of hate that you can’t help not to” she concludes, a disclosure that earns the man’s full sight. “It’s not that I can’t help it, doll- it’s-” Jimmy attempts to respond, his voice falling silent to offer his wife’s the room it had occupied. “It’s exactly what I said it is, James” Cathy interjects, her right foot presented slightly further than her left as its sole presses into the ground, “it’s a way to stop bein’ so mad.” With his chin veering slightly aside, the bruised labourer looks away for a moment to collect his thoughts, being left with his wife’s remark whilst having very little defence against it. Parting his lips, Jimmy prepares to speak, though comes up empty, the silence he offers only certifying his wife’s assertions. “I don’t know what you’d rather I do, Cath’” the man finally concludes, shaking his head in disappointment as he lowers himself to the ground, taking a seat directly beside the hole he’d carved into the middle of the floor. “If I were with the other half of the dicks I work with, I’d be taking out my anger on you” Jimmy explains, staring at the ground as he speaks whilst his missus watches from across the room, “I choose to stand on the side that take it out on twits at the bar.” “I want you to be in a place where you don’t need to take it out at all” Cathy interrupts, watching her husband’s eyes take up toward her whilst her voice is forced to raise, having to fight for supremacy with the increasingly-hard rainfall that collides with their shack home. “I don’t want you to be in a place where you have to hold that kind of anger at all” she continues, journeying across the dirty floor to join the man, “I’ve always thought I was enough to make that possible.” “You are” Jimmy retorts, before immediately finding resilience in the woman’s response. “No, I’m not. And honestly, I shouldn’t be” Cathy interrupts, lowering herself to the ground to join beside the man, her open palm resting against his chest whilst her head rests against his shoulder, her body leaning into his with her husband’s arm wrapped around her waist, “a lady’s only supposed to be part of the reason why a man’s happy. If whatever else you do doesn’t give you that, I want what will.” Resting the side of his head against the woman’s dry hair, Jimmy thinks aloud for the lady in his arm to answer, “even if that’s fighting for a living?” With a gentle lift of her chin, Cathy presses her lips to her husband’s cheek, “you know our agreement-” she replies, following through on the peck before pulling back just slightly, looking the man in the eyes and holding the other side of his head within the reach of her fingertips, “-just don’t come home in a body bag.” | Striking the same spike he’d taken a hammer to for the last two minutes for the final time, Jimmy lets his mallet fall to the ground as he tucks his hands upon his waist. Kneeling atop the hot asphalt, the worked bruiser stares out at the fresh water below and props a smile onto his face, paying little mind to the footsteps that draw toward his direction. “Don’t get too caught up in the sight seeing, kid” Kenny remarks, his voice presenting little in the way of good will. Having glanced toward his side just in time to watch the older labourer pass him by, Jimmy reaches his hand out and calls forward, “wait!” he shouts, preventing the worker from walking any further. “I just want to say sorry again for the other day. I don’t know where my noggin head was at” the younger man explains, trying to keep their brief interactions from growing bitter under the guise of misunderstanding. “Just watch your swing next time and you’ll be fine” Kenny replies, shrugging off the man’s remarks before turning around to continue about his journey, a metal box of tools carried in hand. Offering little more than a simple nod, Jimmy finds himself tempted to call out for the man’s return once more, only for the tables to be turned on him by the men that approach. “Jim!” Stanley exclaims, a smile worn on his face as he leads a more nonchalant Jesse to the third member of the tight-knit group. “What can I do you for?” Jimmy replies, pushing himself off the ground and dusting his knees off with a few swipes of his hand. “You need to hide- now” the same man responsible for calling out the man’s name commands, waving toward the distance of the bridge with a level of worry in his voice. “Why? What’s wrong?” Jimmy questions aloud, a squint in his eye as Stanley takes him by the shoulder, trying to hurry him toward a stack of metal near the roadway’s end. “The guy from the bar a couple nights ago is here!” Jesse calls out, matching their friend’s run with a quick walk of his own. “Who? Wilbur?” the labourer replies, brushing off his friend’s hand and attempted dismissal before backing a few feet away. Hearing this supposed altercation occur closeby as he stands at the bridge’s end, both hands hanging by his sides, Kenny turns back to look at the squamish between the three labourers with a bushy eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what his name is!” Stanley replies, quickly trying to hurry his friend toward the safety of cover, only for the hesitance of the man he aims to help and the reluctant pull on his elbow from the third man to thwart his efforts. “Wait, how do you know what his name is!?” Jesse calls out, watching his friends pause halfway toward Kenny before their conversation is interrupted by an exclamation from the other end of the elevated roadway. “James!” Wilbur shouts aloud, his arms thrown out at each side as he approaches, hat sitting atop his head and trench coat thrown over both shoulders, “I’ll be right there, just give me a second!” Looking at their friend as if he had three heads, Stanley and Jesse await further explanation they have their hearts set on receiving, unsure of why the same man they’d taken for a potential assassin just nights prior had spoken toward their fellow workman as if he were an old friend. “Do you moonlight as a trigger man or something, Jim?” the latter man inquires, taking the dismissive eye roll he’s returned with as an answer. Standing by to watch the encounter for himself, Kenny slightly turns his back to the road’s lip and keeps his thoughts to himself, not wanting to interject himself into the unknown. “What’re you doing here!?” Wilbur wonders aloud with a smile on his face, tooth still chipped from the other night, “come by to take one last look at the workplace before you hit the big time?” Carrying their own squints, the man’s pair of friends look at him in curiosity whilst Kenny stares blankly, tempted to begin stepping away from the roadway’s drop into the warm, yet deadly waters below. “No, I- I came here to work” Jimmy answers honestly, stuttering over his words before the reply he gives prompts his wealthy colleague to hunch forward and chuckle. “Work? Why would you even bother showing up?” Wilbur wonders aloud, shrugging his shoulders whilst retaining the smirk he holds in the corner of his mouth, “you are taking the deal, aren’t you?” Left with too many holes to be left unfilled, Stanley presents his voice to the pair in the way Jesse refuses to do, “what deal are you talking about?” he wonders aloud, the inquiry prompting both men in question to turn toward him. Feigning surprise, Wilbur turns to look the inquisitive man in the eyes before spinning back toward his potential acquaintance, his finger drifting between the bruised labourer and his taller friend. “You didn’t tell them about the fight pit?” the opulent gentleman inquires, watching Jimmy attempt to answer before his friend interrupts him once more. “Fight pit?” Stanley questions, watching both men stare at him once more, “what fight pit?” “I was waiting until after the shift to tell them” Jimmy assures, a fleet of different looks paid in the direction of anyone within the immediate vicinity. “Oh don’t worry about that, I just paid off your supers” Wilbur replies, waving off the man’s explanation with more dismissal than a teacher would provide to a misbehaving student, lifting his voice for anyone to hear, “go home, everyone! Work is done for the day and I’ve paid you all handsomely!” Standing around in confusion, the other unnamed workers simply stare in the direction of the dapper-dressed figure of wealth without certainty over what to take from his appearance or declarations. Too tempted to pull himself away from the bridge’s ledge, Kenny sneaks his way toward the same stack of metal Stanley had attempted to usher his friend toward the safety of, reclaiming a folded piece of paper from it with black writing scrawled on it reading, ‘to the kids’. “I don’t think you can do that” Jimmy reassures, watching the well-dressed gentleman dismiss his assumption with a wave. “That pales in comparison to what I’m about to do” Wilbur replies, waiting a moment for the man to digest the vow, uncertain of what it means. Peering around the metal stack, Kenny watches the affluent visitor cup his hands together and shout for all ears to hear it. “If you would like to make thousands of dollars a year, step on up!” Wilbur exclaims, jockeying the labourers together as if they were cattle, mere spectators to the carnival-like display he puts on. “What are you doing!?” Jimmy asks aloud, watching the slue of workers he’d spent every day working alongside begin to chatter amongst themselves, uncertain of whether or not the invitation is one worth even investigating for themselves, let alone blindly accepting. “Jim, what’s going on?” Jesse calls into question, pulling a toothpick out of the corner of his mouth in order to speak freely, one hand tucking his thumb within a loop sewn into his overall uniform. “Go ahead, James- tell them what’s going on” Wilbur doubles down, tucking one hand into the pocket of his beige trench coat whilst the other hangs freely by his side, waiting for the man he’d been presented to by way of dumb luck to follow through on the request made. Keeping to himself, Kenny presses his hand against the pile of building material and listens closely to the words spoken, not wanting to miss anything said in the very near distance. Beginning to converge upon the same area, the various labourers join each other in gradually making their way toward the small group of men near the construction’s end, trying their best to hear what’s revealed by their fellow colleague. With his mouth slightly agape and tongue pressed into the corner of his lip, Jimmy stares at the man provoking him into taking the centre stage before sharing that same sight with his friends, raising his voice just loud enough for any other passerby to hear. “This is Wilbur” the man introduces, watching his prosperous and pleased friend turn back toward the oncoming group of workers and wave with a smile, “he’s a- a- a something. He’s rich and he’s from California.” “I’m an entrepreneur from California that’s come to the Pacific Northwest in search of somewhere to forge an empire” Wilbur corrects, regaining control of the situation he knew was too bold for Jimmy to handle, though was dire to see him try and wrangle in, “all you need to know about me is the following- I have a lot of money, I have a rolodex of wealthy clientele, I can supply you with liquor, and I can make you stupidly rich.” Though hidden from view of the others, Kenny hears the affluent entrepreneur out before turning his attention to the note in his hand, looking at it whilst the public discourse continues just ahead. “I’ve renovated a warehouse in the city for use as a spectacle. I will host various members of the upper class and allow them to take wagers on a variety of hand-to-hand combat endeavours” Wilbur continues, looking around at the company he hosts before coming to a realisation. “The thought is just now occurring to me that you may not understand half of the words that I’m saying, so let me simplify it for you-” he proceeds, lowering the grandeur of his vernacular, “I own a place that I want you to fight each other in. Rich people will be there and gamble on which of you will win. I’ll pay you more than you make working on this death trap, and if you win- you’ll make more money than those that lose.” Unsure of how to react, Stanley and Jesse stare at the pecunious figure before glancing back to their friend, his agreeable shrug prompting them to then turn toward each other. “Any issues with the police- or rather pigs to you classless folk- will be taken care of by me” Wilbur explains, turning his back to Jimmy with the assumption that he’d already won his vote the night prior, arms extended toward the crowd of builders that he stands before, “one time offer, who wants in?” Whilst some dismissively laugh at the proposal whilst others take it anywhere from seriously to inconceivable, the vast majority of the crowd appears torn on whether or not to take the leap they’ve been provided with the avenue toward. Met with a pause he hadn’t fully intended to receive, Wilbur waits for those accepting few to make themselves heard before discovering the first reply to come from those whom his back is shown to. “I am” Kenny calls out, watching the well-dressed man spin around to look at him as he steps out from behind cover, the first to take the leap that others had been waiting for the chance to take. Looking down to his hand once again, the older labourer throws his arm back and releases the folded note over the same ledge he’d stood along the edge of, allowing it to tumble into the waters below. “Me too!” another worker shouts from within the crowd, his hand hoisted high for the affluent figurehead to see upon turning back around, a good number of others following suit in accepting the terms laid out for them. Each new recruit bringing an even wider smile upon the entrepreneur’s face, Wilbur soon finds himself satisfied with the lot he’d obtained before turning back once more, eyes glued toward the three he’d yet to be given a reply from. “We’re in” Jesse remarks, playfully swatting Stanley on the arm whilst jutting his chin toward their friend just a few feet away, “all three of us.” Meeting that gesture with a lifted eyebrow, Wilbur soon takes his eyes toward the same man this encounter had begun with and smiles. “I wanna hear him say that” the dressed-down Californian responds, his back fully displayed to the crowd as his front is provided to one man, and one man only. Other than the slightest furrow of his brows, Jimmy’s face presents not even an ounce of emotion, no hesitance nor overwhelming glee to be provided to the man across from him. Barely leant to the side, the man’s head joins his eyes in lining itself up with that of Wilbur’s own, no stumble in the words he responds with, nor reluctance in the posture he presents, lips moving to allow his voice to offer just two, short words. “I’m in.” == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
Resting his arm on the crafted curve of the passenger seat’s door as his eyes stare past the rain-battered window, Jimmy keeps to himself as the drive carries him away from the life he’d been tempted to leave behind in favour of one that promises to reward him with infinitely more. With the waterfront quickly approaching, the labourer pays little mind to the scenes that surround him with patience, opting to wait for the climax of their journey to present him with answers he’s yet to have. Within minutes, the hefty body of metal on wheels begins slowing itself to a stop on the side of a small, secluded road just off of Smith Cove, gears shifting into place for one, final time before the parking brake is pulled. “Are we here?” Jimmy asks aloud, turning to look at the man responsible for whisking him away from the bridge he’d slaved over for days in total, offered no more than a smile before the driver steps back into the downpour. With his recruitment following in his forward-directing footsteps, Wilbur slams his fist into the heavy, metal door barricading the sanctum of his fight pit from the dreary, drizzling world he intends to shelter himself from. Patient enough to wait a few seconds for a reply, the wealthy gentleman watches the barrier pull inward to reveal his business partner’s inquisitive face, the building’s interior lighting coming as a sight for sore eyes from their guest. “This is the guy?” Norman wonders aloud, peering past his pally’s shoulder and onto the scarred and cut face of the filthy-handed labourer. “I did a number on him, ain’t I?” Wilbur retorts, lifting his lip just slightly to present his business colleague with a sight indicating much the same is true for his new friend. “It seems you both did” Norman replies, finally stepping aside to allow the men entry to their renovated warehouse, the mountains of dirt stacked up just a few feet from the building having once belonged to the ground that’s now been dug up. Where a flat surface once sat now resides a gradually-descending row of levels falling deeper into the earth with each row of seats, the only unoccupied space being the respectably-sized square at the descent’s very centre. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Wilbur wonders aloud, shedding his coat and stationing his hat upon one of many coat racks, eyes gazing upon the spacious halls he expects to fill with enthused spectators. “I don’t know what it is” Jimmy responds, still wearing his damp overalls and dirt-covered overalls, his boots tracking mud and water across each spot of the ground he walks upon. “It’s the place where your life is going to change forever” Wilbur replies, his arms stretching outward as if he were attempting to touch each end of the monstrous building they share the embrace of. “Forgive my friend, he likes to speak in aggrandisation” Norman interrupts, eyes passing toward their visitor, the man wearing a posture that makes clear the idea that he is a fish out of water, “this is the place he wants you and the others to fight.” “Others?” Jimmy quickly wonders aloud, eyes squinting amidst the pause that breaks his question in two, “who are the others?” “No one- yet” Wilbur replies with equal speed, voicing the same answer that his business partner had parted his lips in an attempt to offer, “that’s where you come in.” Filled with questions and curiosities, Jimmy remains quiet for a moment as the man who’d brought him here turns around, looking at him whilst his own eyes take toward their third contemporary. “Why me?” the labourer soon replies, his right eyebrow arched higher than the left whilst the man he presents the question to begins pacing around the top-most level of the decline, the platform intended to join the others that gradually descend in forming a row of seats. “Because Norman will be taking care of the logistics whilst I look at filling these seats with some rather worthy clientele” Wilbur answers, “we’ve only been in the city for a cup of coffee. We don’t know who we’d look for.” “And you think that I do?” Jimmy replies, shrugging his shoulders as he looks to the man with curiosity, “what makes you think I’d know who to look for?” Turning his lips into a smirk, Wilbur gradually taps his feet against the ground as he walks off to the side, approaching a small row of shelves stationed against the wall closeby. “Let me ask you this, kid” the man begins, squinting his eyes as he inspects the various objects positioned for viewing, “what kind of people stole your cash box?” Not having anticipated a question requiring as much insight into his strife as the one voiced, Jimmy pulls his head back and searches for the way of phrasing the inquiry that lingers at his tongue’s tip. “How did you know about our box being-?” he wonders aloud, watching his chauffeur spin around quickly and toss a small, easily-buryable metal box across the room and into the hands of its rightful owner. “Every dollar your pitiful day job has ever earned you is all there, don’t worry” Wilbur remarks, watching the man look on with surprise at the physical storage he’d been stripped of the day prior before their eyes meet again, “how else did you think I’d found out about where you worked?” “You-” Jimmy grunts, taking three steps forward in anger before finding the calm voice of the well-off gentleman ahead of him to be too influential for him to follow through on his instinctual reaction. “You’d never have thought someone with my wealth would have gone over to ransack your little cabin in the middle of puckered-ass alleyway because why would you?” Wilbur wonders aloud, his voice lulling the enraged labourer into a momentary silence and stop. Unphased by the visibly angered demeanour in which his subject has presented him with, the fight pit’s mastermind enthusiastically steps over to a makeshift bar near the corner of the room, an arch in his eyebrow as he continues speaking whilst in search of a preferential bottle of liquor. “You do know- however- exactly what kind of people would have taken it” Wilbur speaks, finally opting for a bottle of strong gin, “you know because you live with them.” “Are you talking about Cathy?” Jimmy wonders aloud, given his correction by the man opting to remain mostly silent a few paces behind him. “He’s talking about the others in that camp. He’s saying you know who’s desperate enough to ransack you” Norman reiterates, his claim doubled down on by the man mid-pour. “You know who the people most-willing to do anything to get out of that place are” Wilbur replies, taking his eyes toward the man in question, “you know who will fight for every last bit.” “What makes me so different from the rest of them?” Jimmy replies, his hesitancy to buy into what’s being offered to him not relenting without a fight being put up for its reluctance. “I walked into that speakeasy off and on for three weeks. I dressed as a superior and walked much the same” Wilbur remarks, calling back to the revelation he’d become privy to minutes earlier, “you said it yourself, you’d figured I had the ability to get you whacked. And yet, you broke my tooth.” “I won’t apologise for it if that’s what you’re interested in” Jimmy replies, doubling down on his stance with a demeanour built to imply he’d happily do so again. “I wanted someone that was willing to take a swing. I knew what I looked like and what I was doing, and I knew what I was looking for” Wilbur corrects, a finger raised into the air as he holds his half-glass of liquor against his moving chin, “you had nothing to lose, and now you have this to lose.” “And what is this?” Jimmy finally questions aloud, peering over his shoulder at the mostly-subdued gentleman awaiting the conversation’s climax, “you promise me this thing will pull me out of that hole and all these other things, but you ain’t telling me why I should believe you.” “Willy’s many different things, but I can vouch for his honesty with something like this” Norman interjects, watching the visitor’s sights turn back to fall upon him. “I was fine with staying in California, but Willy convinced me to come up north with him. I didn’t know why until a couple hours after we got off the train in town” the man continues, “but I didn’t need it to justify packing my bags. If there’s one thing Willy won’t do, it’s make a gamble he won’t fight like hell to make pay off.” The curious gleam still held within the white of his eye, Jimmy takes his attention toward the ground his boots had stained as the voice ahead of him calls out once more. “If that shack and baking in the sun over that bridge all day is all you want in life, be my guest. I’ll drop you back off at the hooverville and leave you to it” Wilbur explains, laying out the options afforded to the man he presents a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to, “but if you want more than that, this is your ticket.” Bowing his head, Jimmy stares at the ground before glancing at the pit near the warehouse’s centre, rows of lightbulbs illuminating a ground that will soon become a coliseum that he weighs whether or not to become a modern gladiator of. His right eyelid squinting, the man lets a breath leave through his nose before returning his attention to the offer’s dealer, his lips parting to present the response his momentary silence had been building to. After a brief ride, the metal box Wilbur sits behind the wheel of slows to a stop just outside the boundary lines of the hooverville’s reach, his passenger waiting for a moment before stepping out. “I’ll be back tomorrow to get your answer” the driver remarks, shifting the car into a full stop before extending his clean hand to the filth-covered one his potential brawler holds, paying no mind to the dirt that stains his palm as their handshake follows through. “Thank you” Jimmy responds honestly, reclaiming the metal box from his lap before opening the door, stepping out into the subsiding rainstorm whilst the vehicle’s operator watches on. With his door slammed shut, Wilbur presses his foot to the pedal and drives off for a return to his residence, leaving the labourer behind. With a huff, the worker presses the box against his side and carries it with himself forward, walking the grounds of the camp for what may or may not be one of the last times. = 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 = Slowly lowering herself into the chair stationed at her makeshift desk, Cathy stares at the ground whilst her husband stands over her, scratching the back of his neck as the air grows quiet. “I see” the woman murmurs, lowering her eyes as her hands couple together at her lap, sitting with the revelation presented to her by the man to whom she’d sworn devotion to. Digging his heel into the ground, Jimmy suffers through the silence for a few moments whilst only able to seek reprieve in the creaking of the floorboards to which his shack had been built from. Hearing the raindrops beyond the shed’s walls appear to grow louder and more raucous with each passing minute, the labourer finally decides that something more than uncomfortable inquisition is warranted. “I don’t plan on doing it for longer than I need to, Cath’” Jimmy remarks, continuing to stare at the back of the woman’s head, her face tilted toward the unsteady ground that once more sits in the dirt used to rebury the metal cash box at the home’s centre. “If what this twit is saying is true, we’ll have more than enough to sustain ourselves after a year- maybe two” the man persists, continuing to present his best effort to reassure the woman already blanketed in countless other thoughts. With little expectation of swaying his wife’s opinion, the labourer- beaten by a week of being short-changed, screwed over and beaten- drops to his knees and takes the woman’s hands into his own. “I don’t expect you to be pleased with this. I’m not asking you to be, I’m asking you to understand” Jimmy proceeds, locking eyes with the woman seated before him, “my job- first and foremost- is to provide for you. This- this wooden box is squat.” “Do you think I’m mad about this, James?” Cathy wonders aloud, as uncertain over what assumptions her partner has as he is of hers. Taken aback and unsure of how to respond, the worker leans back just slightly at a loss, “I- well, I’d have thought you’d be upset” he replies honestly. Squinting her eyes before they trail off toward the same side of the home she gets out of her seat to walk toward, the man’s missus responds as honestly as her husband had. “Do you know why I don’t like when you get into fights?” Cathy inquires mid-walk, hands swaying gently by each of her sides. Adjusting the denim suspender over his left shoulder, Jimmy slowly follows the woman’s path as he searches within his head for an answer, “because you don’t like thinking that I’ll get hurt?” the man responds, watching his wife turn back with the same look of concern written upon her visage from earlier. Shaking her head in refusal, the woman remains standing across the room in silence as her husband watches her, still struggling to find the conclusion she’d hoped he’d find on his own. “I do worry that you’ll get yourself so badly hurt that you’d never be the same again, but that’s not why I hate the fightin’” Cathy corrects, filling the quietude that suspends itself within the air between them on her husband’s behalf. “I hate the fightin’ because I hate that you’re so mad at everything that you feel getting your hands dirty is the only thing that can keep you intact” the woman continues, her husband’s expression falling to a more sombre level than it had once occupied with each word. “I don’t like the idea of you going out and gettin’ yourself beaten, but it beats working on that bridge in the burning sun every day!” Cathy utters, disheartened at having to explain herself like such. “It’s one thing if you’re fightin’ for money, it’s another if you’re fighting just ‘cause you’re so full of hate that you can’t help not to” she concludes, a disclosure that earns the man’s full sight. “It’s not that I can’t help it, doll- it’s-” Jimmy attempts to respond, his voice falling silent to offer his wife’s the room it had occupied. “It’s exactly what I said it is, James” Cathy interjects, her right foot presented slightly further than her left as its sole presses into the ground, “it’s a way to stop bein’ so mad.” With his chin veering slightly aside, the bruised labourer looks away for a moment to collect his thoughts, being left with his wife’s remark whilst having very little defence against it. Parting his lips, Jimmy prepares to speak, though comes up empty, the silence he offers only certifying his wife’s assertions. “I don’t know what you’d rather I do, Cath’” the man finally concludes, shaking his head in disappointment as he lowers himself to the ground, taking a seat directly beside the hole he’d carved into the middle of the floor. “If I were with the other half of the dicks I work with, I’d be taking out my anger on you” Jimmy explains, staring at the ground as he speaks whilst his missus watches from across the room, “I choose to stand on the side that take it out on twits at the bar.” “I want you to be in a place where you don’t need to take it out at all” Cathy interrupts, watching her husband’s eyes take up toward her whilst her voice is forced to raise, having to fight for supremacy with the increasingly-hard rainfall that collides with their shack home. “I don’t want you to be in a place where you have to hold that kind of anger at all” she continues, journeying across the dirty floor to join the man, “I’ve always thought I was enough to make that possible.” “You are” Jimmy retorts, before immediately finding resilience in the woman’s response. “No, I’m not. And honestly, I shouldn’t be” Cathy interrupts, lowering herself to the ground to join beside the man, her open palm resting against his chest whilst her head rests against his shoulder, her body leaning into his with her husband’s arm wrapped around her waist, “a lady’s only supposed to be part of the reason why a man’s happy. If whatever else you do doesn’t give you that, I want what will.” Resting the side of his head against the woman’s dry hair, Jimmy thinks aloud for the lady in his arm to answer, “even if that’s fighting for a living?” With a gentle lift of her chin, Cathy presses her lips to her husband’s cheek, “you know our agreement-” she replies, following through on the peck before pulling back just slightly, looking the man in the eyes and holding the other side of his head within the reach of her fingertips, “-just don’t come home in a body bag.” | Striking the same spike he’d taken a hammer to for the last two minutes for the final time, Jimmy lets his mallet fall to the ground as he tucks his hands upon his waist. Kneeling atop the hot asphalt, the worked bruiser stares out at the fresh water below and props a smile onto his face, paying little mind to the footsteps that draw toward his direction. “Don’t get too caught up in the sight seeing, kid” Kenny remarks, his voice presenting little in the way of good will. Having glanced toward his side just in time to watch the older labourer pass him by, Jimmy reaches his hand out and calls forward, “wait!” he shouts, preventing the worker from walking any further. “I just want to say sorry again for the other day. I don’t know where my noggin head was at” the younger man explains, trying to keep their brief interactions from growing bitter under the guise of misunderstanding. “Just watch your swing next time and you’ll be fine” Kenny replies, shrugging off the man’s remarks before turning around to continue about his journey, a metal box of tools carried in hand. Offering little more than a simple nod, Jimmy finds himself tempted to call out for the man’s return once more, only for the tables to be turned on him by the men that approach. “Jim!” Stanley exclaims, a smile worn on his face as he leads a more nonchalant Jesse to the third member of the tight-knit group. “What can I do you for?” Jimmy replies, pushing himself off the ground and dusting his knees off with a few swipes of his hand. “You need to hide- now” the same man responsible for calling out the man’s name commands, waving toward the distance of the bridge with a level of worry in his voice. “Why? What’s wrong?” Jimmy questions aloud, a squint in his eye as Stanley takes him by the shoulder, trying to hurry him toward a stack of metal near the roadway’s end. “The guy from the bar a couple nights ago is here!” Jesse calls out, matching their friend’s run with a quick walk of his own. “Who? Wilbur?” the labourer replies, brushing off his friend’s hand and attempted dismissal before backing a few feet away. Hearing this supposed altercation occur closeby as he stands at the bridge’s end, both hands hanging by his sides, Kenny turns back to look at the squamish between the three labourers with a bushy eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what his name is!” Stanley replies, quickly trying to hurry his friend toward the safety of cover, only for the hesitance of the man he aims to help and the reluctant pull on his elbow from the third man to thwart his efforts. “Wait, how do you know what his name is!?” Jesse calls out, watching his friends pause halfway toward Kenny before their conversation is interrupted by an exclamation from the other end of the elevated roadway. “James!” Wilbur shouts aloud, his arms thrown out at each side as he approaches, hat sitting atop his head and trench coat thrown over both shoulders, “I’ll be right there, just give me a second!” Looking at their friend as if he had three heads, Stanley and Jesse await further explanation they have their hearts set on receiving, unsure of why the same man they’d taken for a potential assassin just nights prior had spoken toward their fellow workman as if he were an old friend. “Do you moonlight as a trigger man or something, Jim?” the latter man inquires, taking the dismissive eye roll he’s returned with as an answer. Standing by to watch the encounter for himself, Kenny slightly turns his back to the road’s lip and keeps his thoughts to himself, not wanting to interject himself into the unknown. “What’re you doing here!?” Wilbur wonders aloud with a smile on his face, tooth still chipped from the other night, “come by to take one last look at the workplace before you hit the big time?” Carrying their own squints, the man’s pair of friends look at him in curiosity whilst Kenny stares blankly, tempted to begin stepping away from the roadway’s drop into the warm, yet deadly waters below. “No, I- I came here to work” Jimmy answers honestly, stuttering over his words before the reply he gives prompts his wealthy colleague to hunch forward and chuckle. “Work? Why would you even bother showing up?” Wilbur wonders aloud, shrugging his shoulders whilst retaining the smirk he holds in the corner of his mouth, “you are taking the deal, aren’t you?” Left with too many holes to be left unfilled, Stanley presents his voice to the pair in the way Jesse refuses to do, “what deal are you talking about?” he wonders aloud, the inquiry prompting both men in question to turn toward him. Feigning surprise, Wilbur turns to look the inquisitive man in the eyes before spinning back toward his potential acquaintance, his finger drifting between the bruised labourer and his taller friend. “You didn’t tell them about the fight pit?” the opulent gentleman inquires, watching Jimmy attempt to answer before his friend interrupts him once more. “Fight pit?” Stanley questions, watching both men stare at him once more, “what fight pit?” “I was waiting until after the shift to tell them” Jimmy assures, a fleet of different looks paid in the direction of anyone within the immediate vicinity. “Oh don’t worry about that, I just paid off your supers” Wilbur replies, waving off the man’s explanation with more dismissal than a teacher would provide to a misbehaving student, lifting his voice for anyone to hear, “go home, everyone! Work is done for the day and I’ve paid you all handsomely!” Standing around in confusion, the other unnamed workers simply stare in the direction of the dapper-dressed figure of wealth without certainty over what to take from his appearance or declarations. Too tempted to pull himself away from the bridge’s ledge, Kenny sneaks his way toward the same stack of metal Stanley had attempted to usher his friend toward the safety of, reclaiming a folded piece of paper from it with black writing scrawled on it reading, ‘to the kids’. “I don’t think you can do that” Jimmy reassures, watching the well-dressed gentleman dismiss his assumption with a wave. “That pales in comparison to what I’m about to do” Wilbur replies, waiting a moment for the man to digest the vow, uncertain of what it means. Peering around the metal stack, Kenny watches the affluent visitor cup his hands together and shout for all ears to hear it. “If you would like to make thousands of dollars a year, step on up!” Wilbur exclaims, jockeying the labourers together as if they were cattle, mere spectators to the carnival-like display he puts on. “What are you doing!?” Jimmy asks aloud, watching the slue of workers he’d spent every day working alongside begin to chatter amongst themselves, uncertain of whether or not the invitation is one worth even investigating for themselves, let alone blindly accepting. “Jim, what’s going on?” Jesse calls into question, pulling a toothpick out of the corner of his mouth in order to speak freely, one hand tucking his thumb within a loop sewn into his overall uniform. “Go ahead, James- tell them what’s going on” Wilbur doubles down, tucking one hand into the pocket of his beige trench coat whilst the other hangs freely by his side, waiting for the man he’d been presented to by way of dumb luck to follow through on the request made. Keeping to himself, Kenny presses his hand against the pile of building material and listens closely to the words spoken, not wanting to miss anything said in the very near distance. Beginning to converge upon the same area, the various labourers join each other in gradually making their way toward the small group of men near the construction’s end, trying their best to hear what’s revealed by their fellow colleague. With his mouth slightly agape and tongue pressed into the corner of his lip, Jimmy stares at the man provoking him into taking the centre stage before sharing that same sight with his friends, raising his voice just loud enough for any other passerby to hear. “This is Wilbur” the man introduces, watching his prosperous and pleased friend turn back toward the oncoming group of workers and wave with a smile, “he’s a- a- a something. He’s rich and he’s from California.” “I’m an entrepreneur from California that’s come to the Pacific Northwest in search of somewhere to forge an empire” Wilbur corrects, regaining control of the situation he knew was too bold for Jimmy to handle, though was dire to see him try and wrangle in, “all you need to know about me is the following- I have a lot of money, I have a rolodex of wealthy clientele, I can supply you with liquor, and I can make you stupidly rich.” Though hidden from view of the others, Kenny hears the affluent entrepreneur out before turning his attention to the note in his hand, looking at it whilst the public discourse continues just ahead. “I’ve renovated a warehouse in the city for use as a spectacle. I will host various members of the upper class and allow them to take wagers on a variety of hand-to-hand combat endeavours” Wilbur continues, looking around at the company he hosts before coming to a realisation. “The thought is just now occurring to me that you may not understand half of the words that I’m saying, so let me simplify it for you-” he proceeds, lowering the grandeur of his vernacular, “I own a place that I want you to fight each other in. Rich people will be there and gamble on which of you will win. I’ll pay you more than you make working on this death trap, and if you win- you’ll make more money than those that lose.” Unsure of how to react, Stanley and Jesse stare at the pecunious figure before glancing back to their friend, his agreeable shrug prompting them to then turn toward each other. “Any issues with the police- or rather pigs to you classless folk- will be taken care of by me” Wilbur explains, turning his back to Jimmy with the assumption that he’d already won his vote the night prior, arms extended toward the crowd of builders that he stands before, “one time offer, who wants in?” Whilst some dismissively laugh at the proposal whilst others take it anywhere from seriously to inconceivable, the vast majority of the crowd appears torn on whether or not to take the leap they’ve been provided with the avenue toward. Met with a pause he hadn’t fully intended to receive, Wilbur waits for those accepting few to make themselves heard before discovering the first reply to come from those whom his back is shown to. “I am” Kenny calls out, watching the well-dressed man spin around to look at him as he steps out from behind cover, the first to take the leap that others had been waiting for the chance to take. Looking down to his hand once again, the older labourer throws his arm back and releases the folded note over the same ledge he’d stood along the edge of, allowing it to tumble into the waters below. “Me too!” another worker shouts from within the crowd, his hand hoisted high for the affluent figurehead to see upon turning back around, a good number of others following suit in accepting the terms laid out for them. Each new recruit bringing an even wider smile upon the entrepreneur’s face, Wilbur soon finds himself satisfied with the lot he’d obtained before turning back once more, eyes glued toward the three he’d yet to be given a reply from. “We’re in” Jesse remarks, playfully swatting Stanley on the arm whilst jutting his chin toward their friend just a few feet away, “all three of us.” Meeting that gesture with a lifted eyebrow, Wilbur soon takes his eyes toward the same man this encounter had begun with and smiles. “I wanna hear him say that” the dressed-down Californian responds, his back fully displayed to the crowd as his front is provided to one man, and one man only. Other than the slightest furrow of his brows, Jimmy’s face presents not even an ounce of emotion, no hesitance nor overwhelming glee to be provided to the man across from him. Barely leant to the side, the man’s head joins his eyes in lining itself up with that of Wilbur’s own, no stumble in the words he responds with, nor reluctance in the posture he presents, lips moving to allow his voice to offer just two, short words. “I’m in.” == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
His arm pressing against the now-shut door, Jimmy’s head begins to fall as the sound of his wife’s footsteps trek across the dirty floorboards, gradually closing in on the small desk near the back of the shack. Retreating to the comfort of her leather-bound book, Cathy lifts her dress just slightly so she can be better seated atop the chair, not paying any mind to the conversation she’d just taken part in the way her husband does. Letting a long, quiet breath free itself from the confines of her lungs, the woman’s eyes glance over the first few lines of text on the page she opens to, one leg crossing over the other as she rests gently in the seat. Her face illuminated by only the flame a short distance away, Cathy keeps to herself as the heavy steps of her partner slowly make their way closer toward her. Without a word, Jimmy nears close with his head slightly hung before he lowers himself to a knee, taking the hand his wife rests atop her own thigh whilst she finishes the paragraph that had taken her attention. In silence, Cathy finishes the final few words before letting her eyes fall upon the man beside her- his visage, its expression difficult to discern, held steadily upon her. “I don’t think I’ll ever know how until it happens, but I’m going to give you the world some day” Jimmy remarks, the genuinity in his proclamation impossible to refuse, though the promise one not anything but to refute. Feeling her husband’s hand sweep the loose hairs behind her ear where they belong, Cathy gently sways her head from one side to the other in refusal, unable to put her thoughts into words for the few seconds it takes her to process them. “I don’t need the world. I need you, and that isn’t about to-” the soft-spoken lady replies, interrupted by the sound of an unusual pattern of knocks at the front door. The knuckles that clatter against the poor-quality wooden planks presenting the shack with a dull and damp sound of repetitive thumping, those they belong to spark great intrigue from the shack’s occupants inside. “Is that Stanley?” Cathy wonders aloud, standing from her seat and placing the book back upon the desk as her husband makes way for the home’s entrance, answering the request for his reply that is presented. With one foot in front of the other, the battered and cut brawler takes his bruised knuckles toward the handle, fingers wrapping around the handle he soon pulls open as beckoned for. His calm and composed demeanour falling by the wayside almost instantly, the hairs on both of Jimmy’s arms raise just as his guard does, a stoic posture taken toward their visitor. “Who is-?” Cathy begins to inquire, drawing nearer the door before her husband’s extended arm holds her back, keeping her from travelling any closer to the guest that only he is familiar with. “Stay back, don’t move any closer!” Jimmy growls, never once taking his eye away from the well-dressed apparent gentleman standing before their raggedy shack. Her lips forming a circle as if she were intending to ask for context, Cathy finds herself unable to speak as she simply looks to the man at their front door from over her husband’s arm. “What am I, a dog? Should you chain me to the fence out of fear that I’ll bite the postman?” Wilbur inquires, swiftly taking the hat off his head and holding it at his chest before looking around his immediate surroundings, his face souring ever so slightly, “I suppose you don’t get many of those around here, do you?” “Walk away before things get ugly for you” Jimmy warns, his voice dropping to a low, stern tone that doesn’t take much to understand, prepared to defend his wife and all they have to their name. “Well, I’d tell you to take a deep breath and relax before things get ugly for you, but with the state of this place, it’s hard to say they haven’t already” Wilbur retorts, a disgusted scowl worn across his face as he looks at the muddy terrain that surrounds the quaint shack. Without another word, Jimmy steps down from the elevated level his floor resides upon- propped up by an assortment of cinder blocks and packed dirt- and descends to the wealthy individual’s level. “Calm down, killer. I’m not here to fight you” Wilbur calmly quips, both hands slightly extended toward the nearing labourer with a smile on his face, “you and the missus are in no trouble. Well, no physical trouble anyway. I didn’t come here for round two.” “Then why are you here?” Jimmy asks with his voice unchanged from the confrontational reflexion within it, not willing to let his guard down for even a second. Staying quiet for a moment as the air begins to settle, Wilbur stares at the ground as his left hand falls to his side, right hand pressing the cap against his chest once more. His head relinquishing its bow as his smile meets the eyes of the man across from him, the figure of opulence responds to the query amidst calmer heads. “You seem like a hard worker. You keep your nose clean and only get your hands dirty when it means blowing off some steam” Wilbur replies, his free hand tucking into his pocket for sanctuary from the dreary weather, “the kind of person I take you to be shouldn’t be rotting away in this festering camp of bleak sorrow and drivel.” “Unfortunately, some people can’t just parade around their wealth all day. I’m sorry if my clothes aren’t made from Indian silk enough to impress you” Jimmy rebukes, his confrontational nature still intact in spite of the pause his adversary had presented him with, “you haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?” His upper lip curling just slightly, Wilbur looks the shack’s owner and constructor in the eyes before taking a momentary glance toward the man’s wife, her kept-together posture- hands coupled at her lap and eyes holding worry and curiosity over the conversation happening before her. “If you were given the opportunity to get yourself out of this canker sore of a camp, would you take it?” the wealthy man inquires, looking the subject of his question in the eyes as he asks. Looking at the man sideways, Jimmy watches the figure standing in front of him return the hat to the top of his head, a squint coming over his own eye as his wonder peaks. “What kind of question is that?” the brawler wonders aloud, not needing to wait long for his answer to be offered from the visibly confident gentleman asking it. “It’s just that- a question” Wilbur replies honestly, subtly adjusting his cap so it fits more snug, “would you take it?” “I live in a shack built on top of a pile of mud. You could push my door in with the weight of your forearm. Look at where we are” Jimmy answers in kind, his voice- in spite of the discourse’s more friendly turn- still holding its strong tone. “And what if I were able to offer you a way out of here? What if I made you that offer right here, right now?” Wilbur quickly asks in a tone just low enough to be kept away from the ears of the man’s wife, “something beyond what your dreams can create?” Surprised, Jimmy keeps his narrowed eyes for a moment before his head pulls back, pupils more present as the tension begins to lift, joining the man in curiosity. “What is this?” the labourer queries, his confrontational nature finally subsiding as the man he stands before begins to smile, “what’s happening right now?” “I can fill a warehouse full of some of Seattle’s most-wealthy, and I mean pack the house. I can get them to wager big money on fights every single week” Wilbur replies, his voice lowering even further than it had before, now at a level almost just above his breath. “Hundreds, maybe even thousands if we can get the seating layout just right. And if I play my cards right, this thing can bring in millions-” the man of wealth continues, his face inching closer to Jimmy’s, “-I just need fighters.” His chin jostling to the side whilst his eyes remain supplanted upon the man that had served as his foe not more than an hour ago, the battered hooverville resident looks on in both suspicion and intrigue at the figure across from him. “I don’t understand” Jimmy replies simply, unable to voice his doubts in the legitimacy of this proposition any better than with those three words in unison. “That’s fine- I don’t require you to be well-educated in order to deliver a well-placed shot to the mouth” Wilbur replies, a glance and half-assed point toward the woman standing in his adversary’s doorway preceding his follow-up remark, “why waste time as a drunkard and getting into fights ‘cause the world’s got you down when you can get your hands dirty and own the world in the process?” Parting his lips to reply with the subtle shake of his head, Jimmy remains silent as the man that occupies the spot in front of him continues to speak, desperately trying to lure the labourer to see the offer through his own lens. “One day of work a week will net you more in a month than you’d make in four laying down those railroad tracks- or whatever the hell it is that you do for a living” Wilbur continues, his smile incapable of being kept behind his lips, “tell me that’s not paradise.” “No” Jimmy replies, only able to muster those words with intentions the wealthy figure across from him doesn’t pick up on at first. “Of course you won’t, because you’d be lying if you did!” Wilbur exclaims, impassioned with each word he speaks as the hand he holds his hat in now sways at his side, “everything else is all taken care of. You’re just-” “No, I mean no” Jimmy reiterates, stopping the man responsible for approaching him in his tracks before continuing, “my answer’s no.” His face having frozen mid-speech, Wilbur’s eyebrows soon furrow slightly as his mouth remains agape, forming an ‘O’ before soon closing, his brain processing the reply he’s given before the rest of his body can react accordingly. “What?” Wilbur replies, genuinely shocked to hear the answer that’s come from the lips of the shack-bound man with a wife he can’t provide for, “what do you mean no?” Shaking his head, “I’m done fighting” Jimmy retorts quickly, having broken from his awe of the proposition in order to present the confidence in his reply most-necessary to display, “my wife doesn’t like it, I don’t blame her, and I’m not gonna stand around here and keep throwing hands around like some dick.” “You’re going out to the tavern and getting wasted, throwing punches around and getting sent into the mud for nothing” Wilbur replies, a slight forward lean in his posture as he speaks, “there’s a difference between that and fighting four times a month for more money than you’d ever seen.” Shaking his head, Jimmy makes his disagreement visible before putting such a thing into words, speaking whilst the figure coming from wealth takes a glance at Cathy. “There’s not. It doesn’t matter if it’s for nothing or for everything. I’m done letting her down” the man doubles down, shaking his head as Wilbur looks on- unable to make much sense of the decision. “So what? You’re just gonna keep holding her down here? Forcing her to sit on top of a pile of filth for a home and sleep on the dirty floor?” the wealthy brawler questions aloud, “you can barely provide for yourself, and you expect me to believe you can provide for the both of you?” “My answer is no” Jimmy repeats, watching the lost expression on the man’s face subdue itself into one of disapproving acceptance. His tongue pressing into the corner of his half-open mouth whilst his eyes dart toward one end of the filth-covered campground and the dirt-pampered inhabitants that call it home, Wilbur nods to himself, not offering anything more than a dismissive glance at the refusing labourer before turning away and leaving. Remaining stood where the conversation had occurred, Jimmy watches the wealthy entrepreneur walk off for greener pastures with a well-subdued doubt looming over him, all the strength he contains having been used to swallow his pride and refuse the offer he’d secretly desired to accept- but was unable to bring himself to do. “What was that about?” Cathy wonders aloud as her husband turns back, stepping back into their shack home and walking right past her. “Nothing worth talking about” Jimmy replies with a disgruntled tone, unable to muster anything of pleasantry as he ventures back into the semi-stable cabin, his wife watching on without much certainty to speak on behalf of. = 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 = “I’m sorry, Jim. You’re supposed to have your hours clocked before you leave each day, you know this!” a man in a dress shirt replies, watching his aggravated employee pace from one side of his office to the other. “Ask anyone. You’ve got fifty eight workers on this bridge, and every single one will tell you where I was, for how long, and when I left” Jimmy retorts, his voice clearly holding back the aggression he’d give anything in the moment to lash out with. “We have supervisors for a reason. I understand that you’re upset, but you’ve got no one to blame for this but yourself” the man responds, watching his labourer swipe at the air from behind his mahogany desk. “I have ten minutes to make the train from the second my shift ends. I don’t have all day to wait around for the three supervisors to account for thirty workers every day, sir” Jimmy rebukes, unable to do much more than take further anger in his employer’s shrugged shoulders. “The rules are what they are, Jimmy. I’m sorry if you can’t accept them or if they don’t work for you” the construction’s overseer responds, his facial expression presenting the obvious lack of trouble he takes from his employee’s strife. “Come in when you’re supposed to, leave when you’re supposed to and deliver your slip to the supervisors before you go” the unbothered employer remarks, again shrugging his shoulders in lieu of an alternative, “there’s nothing I’m gonna do about this payslip.” Swallowing his frustration, Jimmy hangs his head as his hands tuck themselves atop his hips, his head hanging toward the ground as he tries to regain his composure. “Yes sir” the labourer sighs, giving into the position he’s been left within- powerless to change the outcome of the circumstances that befall him. Dismissed with nothing further to discuss, the worker steps out of his employer’s office and returns to work, the only choice he has at the moment being to carry on with his duties. Putting in four hours of work to this point as the sun hits him with great force, Jimmy takes his hammer to a set of spikes repeatedly, swinging his arm down before readying his limb to repeat the process once more. “Even though it’d be a death sentence, that lake looks real tempting to just leap into on days like these” Kenny mutters aloud through a groan as his hands press against his thighs, knees laying upon the asphalt he and his younger colleague operate upon. Swiping the line of sweat that slides into the divot of his eye socket, Jimmy passes a look toward the shining waters below, able to peer over the edge of the bridge still amidst its construction and see the details in each small ripple. “Yeah, I’d guess so” he murmurs back, taking in another deep breath before holding it down, mustering another few swings of the hammer before having to expend it from his chest. “You think the fall is far enough to kill?” Kenny wonders aloud after another few seconds, turning onto his side to take a seat, his elbow pressing against the ground that will soon grant various cars the chance to pass over what had never been passed over before. “What?” Jimmy questions back whilst huffing and puffing, his eyes squinting as if unable to see why the query is important. “If one of us fell into the thing, do you think we’d be buying the farm?” Kenny reiterates, prompting his younger co-worker to glance down at the water once more, pausing his work in order to do so. “I don’t know! Probably!” Jimmy soon replies, the tone of his voice presenting a clear disinterest in having the conversation at hand. Shaking his head with dissatisfaction, the labourer pulls in another deep breath before swinging down on the spike once more. Confused at his colleague’s unpleasant attitude, Kenny takes a few moments to collect himself whilst listening to the resonant thud of metal colliding with more of the same. Staring into the man’s expression, the wiser labourer remains resting on the ground as his contemporary remains fixated on the work at hand, bludgeoning the head of the spike repeatedly without caring for the sweat that drips from his chin. Working himself into exhaustion and pushing himself past even that point, Jimmy keeps himself motivated to finish only what lies in front of him. Refusing to care for anything other than the task at hand, the man fights through every cramp that befalls him and pulls in every breath he can muster through the small gap between his two foremost teeth. One strike after another presenting a resilience that soon prompts a vein in his forehead to grow defined, the labourer pushes himself relentlessly. “Jim, take it easy there” Kenny mutters aloud, pushing himself back onto his knees with another spike in hand, speaking to the man that refuses to take his voice into consideration. “Jim?” the older worker inquires once more, speaking to the man that has drowned out everything other than the sound of clattering metal, his voice incapable of breaching the natural barrier erected between the labourer’s ears and the world that surrounds himself. “Jim, give it a rest there” Kenny remarks again, finding himself unable to break through to the bruised, battered, and- for this week at least- underpaid worker. The repetitive process he presents only speeding up gradually over time, Jimmy continues to swing at the spike sitting before him without holding back even an ounce of effort, the beats almost forming a rhythm of sorts that only prompts more workers to turn their focus toward the spaced-out labourer. “Jim” Kenny calls for a fourth time, leaning toward the worker slightly whilst maintaining a distance, not wanting to fall victim to the next swing the man takes. “Jim?” the older man calls for a fifth time to the same response he’d kept getting, only reassuring him that there’s no way to speak the young builder back into his senses. Gathering a steady breath and holding it deep within his lungs, Kenny sets down his hammer and spike and stands from his place on the ground, stepping over to the quick-swinging worker whilst others follow suit, nearing closer with each step. “Jim, let up a litt-” the older labourer remarks, wrapping his arms around the man and lifting him up before being forced to throw himself back, colliding with the ground as Jimmy swings the hammer toward him on instinct. “Hey! Whoa!” Kenny exclaims, falling back with his hands extended whilst the other workers rush the younger man, slowing down as they watch him regain his witts. “Wh-” Jimmy mutters in a daze, following through on the swipe of his hammer before quickly releasing it from his possession, letting it fall to the ground as he steps back, trying desperately to regain his composure quickly. “I’m sorry! I’m so-!” Jimmy shouts, his own hand extended toward the man he’d forced to the ground out of fear, walking backward with an apologetic look in his eye, only to be stopped short by the weight of gravity. “Jimmy!” Stanley exclaims, darting toward his friend and grabbing the man’s still outward-held hand. Having stepped too far back, the heel of Jimmy’s left foot feels the nothingness of the bridge’s edge grace him, balance taken from beneath the young man as he begins falling toward the steady waters below. In the nick of time, his friend’s hand grabs that of his own and pulls him back toward safety, both men tripping forward and colliding with the asphalt as Jesse hurries up, not having been close enough at the time to join Stanley in aiding their friend back to safety. On one knee and elbow, Jimmy waves off any other potential help as he tries to collect his bearings, thrown for a loop as his fixation on work creates a rather messy complication. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” the man exclaims, all other workers aside from Jesse ceasing their hurry toward the scene of chaos at his behest. “Jim, what’s the matter with you!?” Kenny exclaims, pushing himself up into a seated position as the exhausted worker throws himself onto the ground, seated with his head hung. “I’ll tell you what, if you were trying to kill him- you’ve gotta do better than that!” Jesse exclaims, gesturing his hand toward the also-seated Kenny, “that swing was so half-baked, you would’ve been sent flying!” Shaking his head as Stanley staggers to his feet, Jimmy presses his hands against each side of his head before letting it hang upward, face being held toward the deep blue sky and hot sun. “I just got a bit carried away, that’s all” the young man replies, not wanting to burden the men with anything more than whatever will keep their suspicions to a minimum. Gathered near the same area, Kenny, Stanley, and Jesse all look on in silent wonder, questioning amongst themselves whether or not the reply they’re being fed is genuine. “I’m fine, all honesty” Jimmy reassures, looking in their direction as he gasps for breath, nodding toward their direction with down-set eyes. As the day has come and gone, the exhausted labourer treks through the beaten, muddy path through the hooverville and toward home, the raggedy shack calling his name just as any true house would. With his suspenders already undone and swinging by his sides, Jimmy climbs the brief incline between the ground and his home’s level and opens the door, his mouth agape as he lets out a deep sigh before his eyes can even wander toward the shed’s interior. Abruptly stopping in the now-open doorway, the shack’s builder wears widened eyes as he sees his wife cowering in a corner just beside her makeshift desk. “Honey, what-?” the man first begins to ask, taking one step into the home with sights on his wife before the concerned eyes he sports begin directing themselves toward the open hole in the centre of the room. With more questions than answers, Jimmy defaults to acting on his instincts, bypassing the apparent theft as he hurries across the shed, dropping to his knees and taking his wife into his arms. “They took everything” Cathy murmurs, the look of horror worn across her visage as her head presses against her husband’s chest, his hands holding her close as he cradles her, eyes peering toward the gaping wound in his shack’s floor momentarily. | Visibly troubled and irritated, Jimmy presses his elbow against the nearest wall as his foot bounces against the floor, eyes steadily held upon the pair of gentlemen that speak only a few feet away. As seconds turn into minutes, the labourer’s patience begins to wane and his eyes begin to drift toward the nearest window, staring out at Lake Union as the sun begins to fade for the evening, momentarily peeling away to watch workers pass by every few moments. “We’ll talk tomorrow, alright?” the subject of Jimmy’s patience remarks, pulling away from the worker he speaks to before immediately being met with a time card. “James Elliott, full shift in” the worker remarks, watching his supervisor mark up the time card he provides with the graphite of his pencil’s tip. “Thank you” the superior quips, appreciatively moving on with his day upon handing the employee his signed off sheet of paper back. With a hurried pace, Jimmy storms toward the bus stop as rain begins to crash like hale against the ground. Halfway across the empty road by the time he looks toward the direction he intends to venture, the man’s eyes take hold upon the red tail lights that leave him behind, the bus they belong to being the final one to service the route for the evening. Without a ride home and stranded in the torrential downpour, the conquered and down-trodden labourer comes to a complete stop halfway across the road, one foot on either side of the double yellow line at the street’s centre. With his hands hung by his sides, Jimmy stares off into the distance and watches the long vehicle until its red bulbs fade into the distance, joining the rest of the environment in being left beneath the darkness of a late-spring Seattle summer night. Stretching his fingers out as he swipes at his wet strands of hair, Jimmy lowers himself to the ground and takes a seat directly upon the yellow line, not a travelling vehicle in sight to deter him. Lips pressed together as his head leans toward one shoulder, the man’s mind travels to different places at the road ahead remains untravelled, not an inch passed over in an effort of returning to the sanctuary of his shed-sized home. Having decided to delay his journey back to the hooverville, Jimmy finds himself walking the same bridge he’d spent the last number of months taking a hand in putting together, aware of where it will lead to in spite of what lies at the end of it now. The unpainted centre of the roadway touched with footsteps as soaking wet as it is, only one destination can stop the distraught labourer’s venture at this point, the force of gravity the only thing keeping him from the water below. Unaware of the presence following a few dozen yards behind him, the man proves to have been pushed closer to the point of no return than he’d ever been before, the end of his rope proving to be a metaphor that the end of the bridge serves as the literal illustration of. No specific intentions within his actions as of now, Jimmy’s journey simply takes him further out from solid ground with each inch forward, a simple travel beneath the unlit passageway keeping his time occupied. Drawing closer to the point in which his travel can continue no further, Jimmy refuses to slow his progression onward, intending to carry himself to the very point in which he can no longer do so without consequence. Rubber boots squealing with each step he takes along the wet ground whilst the raindrops collide with the unfinished roadway to a sound similar to coins falling onto linoleum flooring, the man’s hands couple together to slide over his head as the path comes to an end. The tips of his boots finally meeting the evened-out asphalt lip, Jimmy comes to a stop at the bridge’s end, able to see where the roadway is meant to finish on the day in which the project is completed. Closer than what it appears to be, the other side of Lake Union appears as if it were worlds away in spite of the rather minimal effort it would take to reach it- minimal in the sense of comparing it to what has already been constructed. Though unable to see it very well, Jimmy can hear the crashing waters quite a long way below, their endless shifting impossible to quiet even as high in the air as he is in the moment. His fingers holding back less tension than they have for a number of days whilst his legs feel as if they’d been freed from an excess of thirty pounds, the strife-ridden worker lets the rain continue to fall upon him, surrounding him with noise that suddenly doesn’t feel as intrusive as it otherwise should be. In brief gusts, flurries of wind whip through the air and crash into the man’s figure, his overalls and under shirt flapping with the same breeze that fails to keep the encroaching figure behind him from progressing onward. As his face sours, Jimmy’s eyes take themselves down to the depths below that his vision cannot catch, what lays just mere inches ahead being a drop into something interchangeable with nothingness- dark, uncertain and impossible to interact with from where he stands. Letting time pass as the simple construct that it is, the man at the end of the line listens to a pair of boots join him a few feet to his left, yet to take his attention at the moment. Though unusual in nature, the second figure’s presence isn’t taken for the confusing existence that it is, allowed to be left unquestioned by the man brought to his work’s completion. “What are you doing here?” Jimmy wonders aloud, his sights turning toward his contemporary as if his presence were normal. “That’s the first thing you ask me?” Wilbur wonders aloud, turning to look at the man he’d tried to court days prior, only for said gentleman’s eyes to take back toward the other end of his bridge. “What other question is there?” Jimmy replies, his voice holding the reflexion of a man completely unphased by the odd appearance of the same man he’d laid a pummelling into just days prior. “How did I know you’d be here would be a mighty fine one” Wilbur retorts, joining the man in staring out at the still-unfinished road, hands tucking into the pockets of his increasingly-soaked trenchcoat. “I don’t see how that would matter” Jimmy replies, a rather defeated sigh held within the breaths that escape him in each uttered word, “I wouldn’t put it past you to have some hatchetmen following me or somethin’.” “Hatchetmen? Who do you think I am?” Wilbur replies, an odd glance taken toward the man he stands just off to the side of as his head pulls back, “you carrying the big man’s secrets or something? What reason do I got to be worth having you whacked?” Shrugging his shoulders as he stares outward, Jimmy fails to come up with an answer worth being put into words, the change of the conversation an inevitability that simply waits for its moment to take shape. Having left his car running at the head of the bridge, Wilbur stands to the right of the man he visits from afar, though he’s off to Jimmy’s left side. Made out before the headlights of the vehicle behind them, the two men appear simply as dark outlines of people from the other side of the bridge, the faintest light presenting them as souls in the view afar. “If I just take one step forward, Cathy will never have to be stuck in that hell pit again” Jimmy voices aloud, simply magnifying the thoughts in his head from the man beside him to hear. Failing to see the flaw in the man’s logic, Wilbur nods to himself and presses his lips tight, “that’s true” he replies, shrugging his shoulders as a sigh leaves beneath his breath, head turning to look at the man a few feet off to his side, “but let’s not pretend that’s the only way to get her out of it.” “It’s the only way to do it without having to let her down” Jimmy corrects, a response that his visitor doubts for a moment before making an effort to follow along with. “Do you think she’d be any less let down by hearing about people finding your body washed up on the rocks somewhere out here?” Wilbur wonders back, letting the thought drift over the mind of the same man that had proposed such a thing as a solution. “It’d have been an accident” Jimmy corrects, eyebrows raised as he looks outward, hands soon tucking themselves into the pockets of his denim overalls, “I fell off whilst working on the trusses. It’s just the way life goes sometimes, accidents happen.” Holding back a grin, Wilbur takes his turn to look out at the other end of the unfinished bridge, a squint in his left eye as he turns to look back at the labourer, “what do you think she’d feel after I drop by to tell her what actually happened?” His face souring slightly, Jimmy turns to look at the face of the man standing a short distance away from him, able to notice the grin the much wealthier man tries his best to hide. Confident enough that he’d already quashed the man’s plot, Wilbur turns his focus toward a more productive avenue of speech, eyes taking to the open space just ahead of him as the rain begins to lighten up. “If she’s important enough for you to quit life over, she’s important enough to make other sacrifices for” Wilbur remarks, explaining aloud the conclusion his mind had come to, “I think she’d be less let down over you putting fists to a crumb for vast sums of wealth than she would be to find out you’d gone overboard in a literal sense. Don’t you?” Again turning to look at the labourer, Wilbur watches the subject’s face follow through with turning away, incapable of keeping from the inevitability that lies ahead- pictured in the form of a road that one day will be, but is not as of yet. “What’s your name?” Jimmy wonders aloud, feeling the light rainfall collide with his skin whilst remaining standing near the road’s end, unable to bring himself back just yet. “Wilbur Ritter” the wealthy man replies, adjusting the right-most flap of his trenchcoat as it momentarily flies outward, exposing his expensive suit jacket to the elements he attempts to conceal it from. “Where’d you come from?” Jimmy follows up, eyes kept on the unfinished road ahead, the question one that prompts the figure of opulent wealth to pause for a moment, lips folding together once more. “California” the man responds with honesty once more, waiting for a few seconds for the next question he expects, though goes longer without receiving than he’d anticipated, “are there any more questions you have for me?” With a squint, Jimmy keeps his eyes ahead and nods, “just one more” he replies, taking a pause in between remarks to pull his eyes back toward the man that joins him, waiting for their eyes to meet before voicing his last inquiry, “what are you doing here?” Making no effort to hide the smirk such a question prompts him to react with, Wilbur looks the man in the eyes with what can only be described as a nefarious visage. “In a word?” the man, having gone such a long time without being dressed in the most expensive of attires that he’d lost track of it long ago, replies with pleasure, tipping his cap toward the labourer that gradually becomes more infatuated with the promise of a better tomorrow he’d been offered, “infamy.” Feeling that his job has been done, Wilbur turns back the way he’d come and makes for the car he’d left so properly parked, “come with me” he beckons to the man he leaves behind. Still draped in the bright bulbs of the distant headlights, Jimmy watches the man- whom he can’t make out as either the angel or the devil on his shoulder- walk off with full expectation that he’s sure to follow. Drifting back to the spot in which his prosperous contemporary- or perhaps newly-minted friend- had occupied just seconds prior, Jimmy’s eyes inevitably take back to the cruel sea of darkness laying just beyond the tips of his work boots. Offered the choice to make for himself, the worker considers the choice that lays below him as well as the one that walks away, weighing the odds quietly amongst himself before making his decision. From the other end of the bridge, the sight such bright headlights make out is one of fascination, the departing figure leaving behind a man torn between two fates. Allowed to spectate from afar, the other end of the bridge offers a view only able to be made out in the sight of figures. Turning to face his side, the man at the centre of the road turns to look at the figure that walks away from him, inevitably spinning around fully and freeing his hands from his pockets. The call made, both figures now carry themselves back the way they’d come, making for the same car that they inevitably take up a seat in, joining together under one roof before turning back for the main road. Fading just as the vehicle turns around, all the other end of the bridge would soon be able to see are the red tail lights of the vehicle that now drives off, occupied by two souls from different sides of the track- one from wealth and the other from dirt- that now converge into one. == Seattle Noir == \ 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 == 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 == |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
March 2025
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