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\ 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 ==
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\ 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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