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Season 2 Finale
= Disclaimer: Seattle Noir is a fictional series depicting historical events that entirely DID NOT HAPPEN. None of the events of this story should be considered factual or of ill-intent. Every aspect of Seattle Noir- including both fictional and non-fictional characters- is entirely fabricated and does not resemble any historically-accurate aspect of the real world. In the event that historical people are referenced in this story, the way they are depicted in this narrative should NOT be considered an accurate, historical depiction of who they are. Finally, the fictional events of this story are influenced exclusively through the creative direction of the series’ creator, Zachary Serra. Outside influence, such as the input of experts or other sources, is not present in this story. Reader’s discretion is advised. = \ Seattle - 1930 / \ Saturday, 29th November 1930 / “Why bother? He’ll be former-president-in-waiting two years from now” Wilbur responds, venturing through the spacious walls of the Mercer Arena, his cane carried in tow as they venture toward the front of the building. “And until then, we might be able to get stronger connections to DC through him” Norman butts back, speaking with his hands as their stroll takes them through the concourse, surrounded by modest architecture fit for a spectacle, “getting some congressmen and senators on our side this early can’t hurt anyone.” “You say that as if the public will send most of them back to their chairs” Wilbur retorts, passing a glance toward his friend as the man’s head bobs from one side to the other. “We’ve made a grand step forward in hosting the president- as poor as he’ll be remembered in history for- this early into our run” the showman doubles down, tipping his tophat to his partner in crime with a smile, “the start of a true forging of our Seattle empire is a cause worth celebrating, is it not?” Not needing to reply, Norman continues onward in silence as the raucous crowd outside grows louder the longer that they inch closer, parting the front doors to an ovation to find multiple parked vehicles outside the premises. Without a top, the car at the direct end of the silver carpet rolled out pops its doors open, freeing a gentleman in the backseat to descend toward ground level and approach the savvy businessmen that walk to greet him. “President Hoover, it’s an honour to have you here” Wilber introduces, extending a hand that the commander in chief takes before repeating the gesture with Norman, “I’m Wilbur Ritter, this is my much better half Norman Mountebank.” Rowdy like boys being cut off the restraints shackled onto them by parents unwilling to relent to the boundaries of fun, the wealthy crowd and public admissions proclaim their eagerness to get the show underway through chants and applause, held back by gates to ensure the president’s safe entry. “I’ve been hearing a lot of you two through the grapevines. The economy has been moving better in Seattle than it is anywhere else. It’s quite impressive” Hoover comments, flattering the pair that spark grins. “From what the governor’s told me, you’ve set forward plans to redevelop your home base. Mixed use development is what I’m told. It’s a great use of land” the presidential guest continues, shaking his head with a surprising disappointment, “it’s just a shame that I can’t appreciate it when it comes from the mind of two criminals.” Suddenly finding their jubilation and pleasure to fade rather quickly, the businessmen carry confused squints through their eyes at the man’s regards, their silence freeing him the opportunity to carry on speaking. “You’ve bought the docs, you’ve bought the local government, you’re selling liquor and employing the smugglers in the process” Hoover advances onward, exposing to the pair that he knows more than what they let on, “I appreciate the economic relief, but I don’t condone or stand for it being done through unlawful means.” “Well it’s unfortunate that you’re so shit at your job in that case” Wilbur retaliates without much of a second thought, provoking a defence that Norman immediately side-eyes him over, aware of how poor of a decision that would normally be. Smirking, Hoover lowers his face for a moment whilst his apparent political-adversary continues, taking the president’s silence as a welcoming for his own continued speech. “They name them after you, you know? Hoovervilles? You placed them there” Wilbur responds, doubling down on his offensive remarks toward the leader of the free world, who holds his cap in his hands at his waist whilst he’s scolded by the legally far-inferior gentleman. “People like us aren’t criminals. We’re people who know how to run things that aren’t allowed to be incompetent scrubs like yourself, Mr. President. You’re the kind of people that get in our way.” “And if you think I have any intention of changing that fact, you’d be very wrong” Hoover replies, making it clear which side of the conversation that he stands upon, “I merely come here with the intent of watching what you do before I go through the legal recourse of crushing it with a stern fist.” Wearing a grimace that the president has no trouble whatsoever in noticing, Wilbur lets his business partner take him by the hand and cautiously guide him toward stepping aside, allowing the president to continue forward, being the first patron of the evening to enter the chambers that seemingly make the mastermind’s careers in the same breath that it ends them with. “That certainly could’ve gone better” Norman mutters to himself, letting a few seconds pass before addressing the elephant in the room. “You don’t say?” Wilbur queries, passing a judgemental scowl toward his fellow promoter, passing a second expression of disgust toward the departing president before returning his eyes toward the man beside him, “do you still think we should be shooting for those connections in DC or have we settled that issue?” = 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 = “Is this just a free-for-all?” Jesse questions aloud, standing beside his much taller friend as they stare across the wooden platform from the men who’d acted as the thorn in their side, each edge of the stage surrounded by as much rope as the promoters could wrangle together. “Leave the pit and you lose. One of you goes down for ten and you lose. Try to help your partner get up before ten and you lose” the referee replies, stepping between the pairs with his hands held out, “everything else is fair game.” Zoning in on the bout at hand, the four brawlers try their best to drown out the audience’s fever pitch, having waited far too long for the moment that’s finally within their reach. Readying their taped fists with eyes locked upon those they’d already picked out from the get-go, the teammates watch as the referee retreats from the centre of the platform with one arm thrown forward, yelling the magic word. “Fight!” he proclaims, watching Jesse leap across the stage and fly into Arthur before the man can get out of the starting gates, taking him into the ropes whilst raining punches down. Unable to intervene, Willard sets his attention on the newly-healed man, who runs into him with an arm over his face, shielding himself from any return blow that can be made as their scurry takes them into the corner. Trying his best to shove the shorter of his adversaries away, Arthur earns a moment of separation that he takes to increase the distance, standing the length of the makeshift ring apart with fists gently swaying behind and in front of the other. Eating a shot on the opposite side of the stage, Stan eats the blow well and steps back, allowing the similarly-imposing frame of his opposition to gain ground. Throwing a fist forward, Arthur misses and leaps back, expecting a retaliation blow to the body that he predicts well enough to avoid, opening an opportunity to catch Jesse slipping up. Unguarded, the bachelor of Jimmy’s group eats a strike to the side of his head and wobbles over a few steps, regaining his bearings with little issue before readying himself once more. Staring down Jesse with an ear presented to the impacts on the ring’s surface behind himself, Arthur instinctively throws himself backward a step and slams his back into Stanley’s own, sending the taller adversary flying into a closed fist and jarring him immediately. Looking to keep his friend from being the victim of another cheapshot, the eligible speakeasy frequenter runs into trouble, dodging and eating whatever strikes he can to keep the rival’s attention away from his friend. Going in on the somewhat rusty brawler, Willard lays in a few good shots to the man’s side and face before finding the mark on the man’s jaw, violently thrusting Stan’s head to the side as the man hits the ground. As if suddenly put into the mission of running a marathon, the reinforcement of Kenny’s group follows through on their original plan and switches focus onto Jesse, who Arthur pushes into the corner the second he’s given the signal. Dazed and with his mouth wide as he adjusts his jaw, Stan stammers on the ground as he shakes off the cobwebs, assuming he’d have a brief moment to compose himself. Hitting the ring’s post, Jesse attempts to step back into the brawl before immediately taking notice of his outnumbered predicament, seeing the pair of bodies close in on him without anywhere to go. Just as they’d done weeks prior, Kenny’s mercenaries use their advantage adequately, running in on Jesse and dealing whatever strikes they can get away with. Seeing this before long, Stan throws himself back to his feet and rushes into the backs of their adversaries, laying in repeated blows to the back of Willard’s head before taking a shot at the side of Arthur’s face, freeing his pained partner from any further battery. Re-earning Willard’s focus, Stan fights him off enough to spare Jesse from his wrath any further, having slipped up and watched it cost them. Fought into the opposite side of the ring, the taller men leave the opposite half to their smaller-statured acquaintances, who shake off the effects of their unexpected beatings and return to taking swings at each other. “This is going to be a beautiful disaster” Norman mutters aloud, sitting at the very top of the highest row of seats alongside his less-pleasant associate. Having cleared a handful of seats beside them and in front, the pair watch on from the heavens through the aid of binoculars, though the foul-faced showman doesn’t use his. With his arms crossed and the top of one foot sitting atop the back of a seat in front of himself, Wilbur nods to his friend’s claim whilst pressing the tip of his tongue against the bottom of his teeth. Surveying the scene, the man- who still wears his trenchcoat and presses the base of his cane against the ground- thinks quietly to himself whilst squinting. “It’s too bad I can’t enjoy it with our presidential company present” he responds, shaking his head with displeasure as Norman shrugs, unable to do anything other than try and enjoy himself through the evening. Unable to find such an optimistic line of thought, Wilbur hears the variety of howling from his gambling audience and uses it as background noise, aiding himself in pondering what he’s left to consider. “I’m going to make a call to our drivers. Let them know that they might want to shut down service” Wilbur comments, climbing out of his seat whilst his friend pulls away from his viewfinders. “The president might be about to shut us down, and you don’t even want to try to enjoy our finest achievement?” Norman queries, watching his pal turn back once he reaches the end of the row, swiping at the sides of his jacket as if to iron out the creases. “I’ll be back for the main event” Wilbur replies with a sigh, offering nothing further before climbing down the stairs to his intended destination, earning a disheartened frown from his fellow mastermind. Not wanting to remain as sour as his Californian accomplice, Norman takes his eyes back toward the binoculars to spectate the chaos unfolding below, watching multiple minutes pass with Kenny’s side repeatedly following through on the same outnumbering tactic. Spent and wearing incredibly visible wounds in the form of bruises and welts on his face and torso, Jesse shields whatever parts of himself that the duo target, Stan having been downed so many times throughout the fight that he’s now lost count. Fighting off of his impulse at this rate, the bloodied and battered soldier of a loyal companion throws a shot at Willard before the opening affords Arthur a free shot at his jaw, rocking the bachelor and sending him to the mat for more than just a brief spell. In various moods, the audience roars as a still relatively-fresh pair of mercenaries set their sights on the stumbling Stanley, who kicks Arthur at the knee to stunt him for a moment before running into the torso of the man’s much bigger teammate. “This isn’t lega-!” Willard shouts, catching a brief glimpse of the referee as he’s taken to the mat before being silenced by a shot to the jaw from his outnumbered foe. Dazed for a moment, Willard’s hands fall away from his own face and afford his rival further shots at himself for free, strikes that his nemesis is willing to take, but is left without the choice of. “Fucking crumb!” Arthur shouts, swinging an uppercut at Stan’s face just as he hurls his expletive toward him, nearly knocking him unconscious entirely. Taking offence to the shot the man had taken at his knee, Arthur forgoes finishing the deal on Stan in favour of taking his woozy, much-larger frame by the neck and shoulder, and throwing him through the ropes. In a frenzy of applause, the audience loses their minds at the sight of Jesse’s partner flying out of the ring and falling limp to the ground outside, believing themselves to have just witnessed their gamble against Jimmy’s crew pay out dramatically. Punching the air in celebration, Arthur howls a victorious scream before kneeling beside Willard, who still struggles to gather his bearings. “What the hell are you doing!?” the referee shouts, shoving the hot head back before throwing his hands outward at either side. “He’s out! We won!” Kenny’s right hand man proclaims, throwing his taped face toward Stan’s slumped-over body beyond the pit, “he left the pit!” “He didn’t leave the pit! You threw him out of the pit!” the official shouts back, waving his hands outward in refusal of the result, clarifying the rules before stepping back having served his purpose, “the fight continues!” Turning onto his side, Willard continues to make an attempt at regaining his bearings whilst Arthur steps over him, refusing to allow the official an unsatisfactory conclusion without hassle. “Call for the bell, you fucking crumb!” the hot head shouts, throwing his hands into the referee’s chest and shoving him back, earning a wide-eyed, shocked expression from the official. Immediately seeing this display and putting on his deepest scowl, Norman pulls his eyes from the binoculars and sprints out of his seat, racing down the staircase as the referee’s hand throws itself forward to the main at ringside. “There you go! Good man!” Arthur shouts, applauding himself as the referee waves off the match, leaning through the ropes whilst shouting toward the well-dressed gentleman with the microphone at the pit’s side. Stirring on the outside with the faintest pain in his rehabilitated collarbone, Stan turns onto his back before sitting upright, barely able to see Jesse over the top of the slightly-elevated platform he’d been discarded from. Unable to lift his head from the pain that now settles into his neck, the groaning bachelor still in the pit falls to a seat in the corner of the ring, aware of the sudden calmness that comes over the match to be an indicator of its conclusion. “Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has declared that this match is over” the announcer remarks whilst the official retreats to the centre of the pit, standing by the decision that a joyful Arthur and Willard prepare to celebrate. “The victors of this contest via way of disqualification...” the well-dressed gentleman at ringside proclaims, the utterance of his final word bringing a momentary confusion over Arthur that deepens as his declaration is concluded, “...Stan O’Malley and Jesse Hickman!” Going wide, Arthur’s mouth and eyes stare at the man with the microphone for a brief moment before inevitably falling upon the official, his hands slowly releasing Willard from their possession as they’d attempted to help him up. With hands hanging by each side, the referee stares down the hot head angrily whilst shaking his head, “hands on the official is a no-go. Stan and Jesse win” he proclaims, watching the irate brawler step past his hefty pal as the man falls back to the canvas. As if only able to see the colour of red, Arthur clenches his fists and takes in heavy breaths, slowly approaching the referee that now prepares himself for the brawl he expects to be forced into. Fueled by his anger, the hot head steps forward and easily sends a punch into the official’s face, bypassing the attempted block he’d set out to make before watching the bout’s judge tumble to the mat. Having barely missed his opportunity to intervene, Norman dashes through the audience and climbs into the ring, his sudden arrival being noticed in the platform’s vibration, offering Arthur a chance to turn around and watch the business barrel into him. Barely crawling out of the way in the nick of time, Jesse avoids being caught in trouble and slides beneath the ropes, watching Wilbur’s partner in crime throw the hot head into the corner and begin raining one strike after another. Trying to dodge the attack, Arthur is forced to a seat against the post as Norman’s hands keep finding their target, rocking him in the jaw and catching him over the eye multiple times. Feeling the quake of his hated employee’s partner jostling the platform, the savvy businessman turns away from the hot head and watches Willard approach, pulling his hand back to swing without any chance of following through. With fast hands, Norman’s fist gives off a loud crunch as it catches Willard in the chin, immediately prompting the tower of a man’s eyes to roll into the back of his head as his consciousness is snuffed out. Letting off a resounding thud, the giant’s frame hits the mat and takes the businessman’s attention for just long enough so Arthur can escape danger, hurrying up the way he’d entered the building to avoid any further shots that leave him dazed and with a headache. Unified in their chaotic rebuttal though not sharing the same reason for it, the audience watches this sudden change in events take shape from their highly-priced seats, cheering on the hellacious scene as Norman stares down the retreating foe, bad-mouthing him along the journey. | “What is this that I’m hearing about you making a mess?” Wilbur wonders aloud, approaching the curtain that separates the backstage from the centre stage, where he finds his fellow businessman watching the events from far. “Arthur got himself disqualified and then attacked our referee. I ran down, ran him off and laid Willard out” Norman answers with a calm, unbothered tone, shrugging at the idea that anything went wrong. “I hear we’re paying out the people who put money on Stan and Jesse even though they were getting their asses kicked?” Wilbur proceeds to inquire, prompting his partner to step away from the veil separating them from the audience’s focus. “Arthur dropped the ref... That means Arthur dropped the ball. He lost it for his team. Anyone who lost the bet can blame him” Norman assures, nodding with confidence as his wealthy friend approaches the drape-like accessory responsible for closing off the backstage. “What mess did you go off and make while you were gone?” the right-handed businessman inquires, having gone most of the last half hour without seeing his grandeur-planning fellow. “No messes being made...” Wilbur replies in a near-whisper, clearly focusing on the scene unfolding in the centre of Mercer more intently than he does on answering the question, “...just messes being cleaned up.” Just as the rest of the crowd does, the wealthy entrepreneurs listen to their headlining fight begin, the audience’s collective bloodthirst producing volumes so loud that they’re capable of causing concern over the roof’s structural integrity. Wasting no time, Jimmy and Kenny cut into the middle of the platform and proceed to swing, connecting with each other multiple times with little effect, both men running on instincts strong enough to eat multiple shots in a row with little effect. Taking one headshot for every one that he deals, Jimmy is forced to take a brief retreat, pulling back two steps to cause separation as he spits on the ground, passing off the damage dealt as child’s play unfit for the adult’s table. “You’ll have to swing harder than...” Kenny attempts to chatter, ducking another swing before throwing one forward himself, failing to connect any better in his counter, “...than that, kid.” Stepping forward whilst seemingly looking for a punch, Jimmy pulls back at the last minute, adjusting his stance to swipe his leg forward, looking to catch his elder by surprise. Seeing this coming, Kenny leaps off the ground and throws the sole of his foot into his younger adversary’s shin, taking him off balance before connecting with a punch directly to the nose. Flailing as he looks to fight against gravity, Jimmy’s arms eventually slam against the mat with the rest of his body, taken down momentarily before bouncing up nearly as fast. With a wide smirk, Kenny shakes his head disapprovingly at the man he’s already ahead of in spirit, bouncing off the canvas from one side to the other as he watches his former coworker reposition himself for the bout’s continuation. “I told you I wanted a clean fight, kid. You told me you wanted to destroy me” Kenny remarks, seeing the noticeable shift in his opponent’s strategy take shape, a more conservative approach presented. “I wanted to remind you of that before we got out here, but I couldn’t find you” the Silver Wolf continues, stepping forward as if he were going to swipe at the young man’s leg, only to present it as a bluff, trying to figure out how deep in Jimmy’s head that he is, “whatever happens to you tonight... You brought it upon yourself, kid.” Immediately lunging forward with a strike thrown out, Jimmy watches his hated foe pull to the side and avoid it, allowing him to accidentally bounce off the ropes. On the rebound, Kenny catches the younger man on the chin before shoving him backward, allowing him to ricochet off the thick binds before catching him with another crack to the jaw. Sent for a whirl this second time around, Jimmy plummets to the ground with wide eyes, his head still held off the mat as he tries to collect himself. Laughing with pleasure, Kenny shakes his head and turns away, retreating a few paces to give the younger man a chance to compose himself, not feeling satisfied with the bout just yet. With a growl, the foundation which this pit had been built off the back of springs back to his feet as if nothing had happened, closing in on Kenny as the older man now drops back- allowing him to close in. Still wearing his grin, the Silver Wolf dives to the ground and bounces off his knee, wrapping both arms around the younger fighter’s hips before lifting him into the air. With a grunt, the brawling veteran thrusts his hands into his adversary’s hips and pushes him away, allowing him to fall with the will of gravity into the canvas with a vicious crash. Bouncing at the sensation of the mat’s hefty reverberation, Kenny chuckles to himself and retreats once more, affording his foe the chance to get up once more. “Come on, dear” Cathy whispers to herself, having joined Wilbur and Norman at the curtain alongside Josie, their friends already having done the same after tending to their wounds. Instinctively reaching to the back of his head, Jimmy remains laid upon the ground as he stares into the distance, looking into the crowd with a haze in his eyes. Stepping into the corner directly opposite the platform from himself, Kenny waits for his rival to make it back to his feet, playing with the fight as if his foe were prey and not an equal. Forcing himself to wince through the pain, Jimmy climbs back to his feet and pats himself off, bowing his head and he steadies his hands, a doughy glare held in his way that the adversary recognises all too well. Stepping forward, the younger fighter approaches his elder, not phasing the man in the slightest as he advances, throwing a punch that he immediately dodges, only to lift his head directly into a second shot from the grey haired stalker. Still on his feet, Jimmy stumbles back before eating a second shot to the head and three consecutive blows to the abdomen, prompting him to hunch forward and play right into Kenny’s hand. Pulling his hand back for a quick moment, the Silver Wolf thinks better of it immediately and simply pushes his younger foe back, letting him fall limp to the ground to tune of a mostly-dissatisfied crowd’s melody. Swiping his fists in the air, Kenny retreats once more and offers his opponent the freedom to get back up, smiling as he shakes his head and allows the suffering to continue. “What the hell is Jimmy doing?” Jesse asks aloud, wincing in pain at the aches that roll over his body, the question one that the showman takes great dissatisfaction in answering. “Losing” Wilbur replies, looking on in disappointment as his prize fighter struggles to make sense of his surroundings, “Kenny’s just toying with him.” Refusing to stay down so long as he can feel his arms, Jimmy rolls onto his knees and presses his knuckles against the hardwood platform, keeping the bets placed upon him alive to a little over half of the crowd’s joy. “Just stay down, kid” Kenny remarks, his strands of hair wet from just the water that he’d doused them in, the bout’s duration having failed to earn the break of his sweat, “I’m being charitable at this rate. I shouldn’t be as kind to you as I am, so take me up on my offer and stay the hell down.” “Fuck you, old man” Jimmy grunts as he climbs up, spinning toward the older bruiserweight and readying his fists, watching the displeasure roll over his former coworker’s face. Following suit, Kenny remains in his pocket of the mat, watching as his opponent steps forward, ready to swing for the fences without necessarily being sure where they’re located, throwing one punch before avoiding another and losing his balance and stumbling back, advanced upon by his elder and rocked in the jaw once more. Hitting the mat to a louder chorus of booing than the last time, Jimmy feels his body take on the soreness of the unrelenting platform, his upper body slamming into it with the force of a car accident each time he refuses to say die. “Go back home to your wife in one piece. Continuing to fight with me is only going to make this worse, kid!” Kenny proclaims, knowing what kind of number he’s doing on the younger man whilst also being aware enough to see the sense in the kid’s eyes, confident that his words are being received by the subject of his beating. Through either great will or foolish stubbornness, Jimmy finds a way to keep climbing back to his feet, doing so just a second or two faster than each time prior much to the crowd’s shock. Throwing himself into the fight each time, the younger man continues to hit the platform’s base time after time again, rocked with a jab to the jaw but never one strong enough to make sure he cannot get back up. Talking a big game but wishing to do anything other than back it up, Kenny proceeds to continue with his charity, allowing Jimmy to be the one to decide when this bout ends with decreasing patience, feeling less like he’s offering charity and more so being taken advantage of. “Kid, I can lay you out with one uppercut. To my count, I’ve had the opportunity to put you down three times” the Silver Wolf comments, watching his foe climb back toward both feet, “just let this be over with.” His nose bloody, lip busted and demeanour appearing groggy, Jimmy continues to open himself up for the assault whilst his friends watch on from afar, growing increasingly more disturbed with how little of a chance he seems to have in finishing the job. As if he were drunk, the betting favourite steps toward his assailant and readies himself as per usual, stepping forward with a strike thrown and failing to connect, preparing for a right hand that he fails to see up until he’s hit with the left. Popping back, Jimmy’s head takes the rest of his body down to the mat as the crowd grows increasingly quiet, feeling like each new hit is just the cherry on top of an entirely depressing sundae. Coughing as he pulls his body upward once more, the prize fighter begins trying to get back to his feet once more before feeling the base of Kenny’s boot press against his chest, lightly remaining there in an effort to hold his foe at bay for just a moment. “This is your last chance, kid” Kenny remarks, pointing at the man as the referee tries to convince him to let the fighter up, receiving little mind as his warning is paid, “stay down now or I’m putting you out with what’s coming next.” Saying his peace, the elder brawler steps away, freeing the young man to make his call with hopes that this night can be done away with. “I’m surprised you’re not more bothered by seeing this” Norman calmly remarks, watching the fight from afar as he addresses his business partner, passing a glance toward the man before realising that his eyes aren’t even residing on the fight. “I’ve got more important matters to focus on right about now, Normie” Wilbur responds, looking into the crowd as opposed to his big night, the event seemingly being the farthest thing from his priority at the moment. Calming his breath as he stares into the rafters at the bright lights raining down on him, Jimmy sits up and rests on his left elbow, pressing it into the mat as his ears take toward the official, who kneels beside him and presents six fingers to his face. Watching as a seventh digit is raised, the scrappy fighter turns onto a knee and presses the sole of his opposite boot onto the platform’s surface, staring down Kenny whilst he knows the referee’s count continues. Shaking his head in disapproval, Kenny sits against the corner and rests his forearms on the tops of the rope at each of his sides, watching as the young man contemplates what’s been offered. “Eight...” the judge’s call furthers along, catching Jimmy’s ear and prompting him to make his decision. Throwing his weight into the dominant leg, Jimmy climbs back up just as the count of nine is to be sounded off, earning the dreadful look of woe that consumes the elder’s visage. Letting a slow sigh escape, Kenny deepens his dissatisfied glare and calmly steps away from the corner, returning his fists to a ready position as he’s called to follow through on his promise. Staring just past the subject of his interest, Wilbur watches a man emerge from the building’s entrance, wearing a proper suit and shedding his hat as he makes his way to the base of the second level’s seating. “What are you looking for, Willy?” Norman wonders aloud, watching the man in question spark a grin that widens as deeply upon his face as a gash in one’s stomach would have to stretch in order to be deemed fatal. Taking his moment to advance instead, Kenny closes in on Jimmy before pulling away from a punch, attempting to throw a second one before feeling his adversary’s hand push into his fist, redirecting it and opening his defence for a counterstrike. Dealing a blow into the elder’s face, the scrappy young man decks the Silver Wolf to the man’s surprise, the crowd’s energy immediately firing back up as the audience’s tension begins to lift. Feeling insulted by the younger gentleman’s defiance, Kenny shakes off the hit and steps forward once more, forced to step back suddenly at the swipe of his enemy’s leg, ensuring that his head remains closer to the fighter for a more efficient attack. With two right hands, a duck and a left-handed shot to the jaw, Jimmy fights his nemesis back and forces him to stumble, dazed by the whiplash-inducing shot. Stepping forward once more under the assumption that he still has the momentum, Kenny ducks a right-handed strike before eating a subdued, left-handed jab, popping back to a full stand-up before his face flies to the right with a sick shot. Feeling the control slipping from his hand, the Silver Wolf steadies his feet and rights himself at once, swinging away from a shot before missing with one of his own, looking to land a kick that fails to connect before doing much the same. Finally connecting with a jab, Kenny’s jaw gets rocked with an unexpected left hand, his upright posture freeing the opponent to continue the offensive. Landing a right-handed jab, Jimmy eats a backhanded slap from the foe that proceeds to duck another shot, looking to connect with one of his own before the space between them grows wider. Briefly getting back to a neutral field, the pair listen to the screams of the audience root them on from either side as the distance between them proceeds to die, just as it seems the fight will at any moment. In the twilight moments of the bout, Jimmy misses a shot before dodging one thrown at him, repeating the process before finally landing a left hand, staggering Kenny before connecting with yet another one. Steadying himself on his back foot, Kenny jabs at the man’s torso and prompts him to duck, looking for a hook that Jimmy pulls away from and counters with a kick to the abdomen. “Ah, you-!” the Silver Wolf proclaims, hunched forward with his hand wrapping around his stomach, giving his opponent all the leverage that’s needed to convince the prize fighter that a victory is in sight. Missing a shot before eating one to the side, Jimmy hunches forward once more before instinctively throwing his torso back, whipping his spin as far as it can bend backward as time begins to slow, affording him the chance to watch Kenny’s attempted uppercut fire through the air and barely fail to connect with its target, thrusting with every last ounce of power the man had left in the reserves. With three heavy blows to the side of Kenny’s face, the defiant vengeance-seeker watches his opponent stumble backward before misplacing his planting foot, accidentally sending himself tripping forward without any line of defence for what’s coming. Smelling blood in the water, Jimmy’s eyes widen as if he were eyeing his dinner just between razor sharp teeth, his arm pulling back as his foe topples forward, chin within the line of his fist’s sight to put an end to the night. *POP, POP, POP* Slamming his head into his opponent’s torso, Kenny falls to a knee as Jimmy’s hand remains locked and loaded, missing its opportunity to deal the death blow as his eyes look into the audience to the sound of horrified screams. “Oh, Jesus!” Jesse shouts from being the curtain, looking into the crowd as it hurries away from the scene of chaos before leaping into action, sprinting down the modest walkway and hitting the ring. Astonished, Norman lunges back as the bachelor fires past him, soon followed by Stan as they dash into action, his eyes wide and horror immediately noticed before it turns toward the man beside himself. “Jimmy! Get down! Get down!” Jesse proclaims, throwing himself through the ropes before tackling his friend to the ground, violently ripping him through the ropes as Stan follows a similar lead with Kenny, holding enough humanity within his heart to not leave the man for dead. Groggy and brought down from the adrenaline rush, Jimmy catches his breath whilst his friend shoves his head as close to the cement ground as he can, their bodies shielded by only the pit’s platform as the pair of men and the interrupted fighters shield themselves from the gunshots. Dispersing as the gunman travels within them, the crowd hurries for the exit as the scene goes into a meltdown, panic and frenzy unfolding before every set of eyes aside from Norman’s own. Looking instead to the oddly reserved and unmoved showman, the wealthy businessman speaks in a near-whisper, trying to catch his breath as he’s stricken with disbelief. “Willy...” Norman murmurs, watching his friend’s face remain glued to the scene unfolding beyond the curtain, aware that the grandeur-voicing spectacle maker can hear him, “...what did you do?” Hearing Josie and Cathy race off just as Stan had pushed them to do before racing out to his friend’s aid, Wilbur squints into the distance and shrugs, unbothered by the scene that the venue hosts this evening. “What does it look like I did, Normie?...” he asks whilst watching the well-dressed politician fall into the cradling arms of servicemen that attempt to provide him aid, blood staining the dress shirt he wears as the showman turns to his pal with a smile, completely blunt in his delivery, “...I just killed the president.” == Seattle Noir ==
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\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Wednesday, 29th October 1930 / Peering out from around the stage’s curtain, Kenny looks into the civilised audience with contempt, knowing what they’d shown up for and what they want out of him. With a glass of ice water in his hand, the man takes a brief swig as he takes down the beverage, feeling his throat cool just as the air seems to. In the same breath, the hairs on the man’s spine begin to rise, reacting to the chill that runs down his spine as he backs away from the divider between himself and the stage ahead, turning toward the corner he’d been told to wait patiently in. His breaths shaky and uncomfortable, the man violently swipes his head through the air as he shakes it in refusal, forcing himself to take another swig as his hand begins to tremble, a few drops running down the beard of his chin as his face pulls away from the drink too quickly. “You’re the reason they’re here, Kenny... You are” the man sighs, spinning around to again approach the curtain, setting his sights on the crowd of people who he couldn’t find more deplorable and irritating if he tried. “You’ve got them to eat out of the palm of your hands... You control them” he whispers, equally angry and disgraced, bitter and motivated to prove a point to himself, “and he’s just going to fire you!?” Disdainful, the man’s visage wears the judgemental scowl that he offers to the audience as his eyes take toward the men on the stage, his eyes specifically focusing on the one with the long, trench coat sat upon his shoulders. “They put a hole in the ground and you made it a cathedral... You made it a destination...” Kenny carrying his bitter expression back toward the corner of the room, “they can’t replace you.” Quickly taking another hasty sip, Kenny sets his glass down and wipes the moist palm of his shaky hand against his slacks, approaching the seat he’d been given and collecting the envelope from it. Quickly opening the tab, the grizzled fighter slides a piece of paper with typewriting on it, names, locations, and times all scattered in various places that catch his eye, each labelling carrying the same last name that he owns. Pulling in a deep breath to steady the rest, Kenny lets free a long sigh as he presses his eyelids shut, lifting his face toward the ceiling as he gently returns the document to the sealment that it came within. Placing his lone belonging back upon the unoccupied chair, the fighter reclaims his glass and approaches the curtain for a third time, bouncing back and forth between his ill feeling for those beyond him and the answers to the mystery of what lays just fingertips away. Taking down the last of his water, Kenny lets the glass hang by his side as he stares out at the crowd that continues to patiently what for the address’ commencement, the central figures of the stage watching as paying customers pile into the theatre and take their seats. “Neither of them can find any better” the older fighter whispers to himself, shaking his head in refusal before turning it into a nod, assuring himself that his stance is impossible to argue against, “make them see that.” = 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 = Holding his stare upon the coupled hands he sits atop the table, Kenny disregards the comments made by the men to his right, their answers to a question being offered as requested. Sitting over his shoulders, the man’s longer, grey locks hang just as his head does, face halfway presented to the audience whilst the rest of his visage holds upon the conference table. “That is why we’ve decided to put Jesse and Arthur in the position of the co-main event” Norman answers, nodding his head whilst Wilbur stares at the member of the audience who’d raised the inquiry, a discomforting grin carried through his expression. Trying not to move in lieu of his injuries, Jimmy sits upright whilst looking forward, most of his present bruises and cuts having been covered up or bandaged. Trying to speak as little as he can muster, the unhealthy brawler keeps from swaying in his seat, the stiffened seat he takes being settled into enough that the intense waves of pain find themselves falling mute, satisfied with keeping still for the most part. “This is less about it being Jimmy versus Kenny, and it’s more about two sides at war with each other” Wilbur doubles down, leaning into the microphone with his top hat inching toward his left shoulder, “this reaches far past the issues of two men with each other.” Paying no mind to the inquiry, Kenny continues to hold his visage toward the table’s surface, his still hands resting against the hardwood finish as his eyelids refuse to draw nearer to each other without first going nearly dry. In a world of his own, the terminated group leader sits within his own thoughts as the people around him do the speaking, his rival not being able to move smoothly enough for him to take concern over any ill-will. “Greetings, Mr. Ritter. Greetings, Mr. Mountebank” a wealthy businessman in a suit remarks, stepping out from his seat to approach the microphone in the centre of the Commencement Theatre’s staircase, earning a pleasant reaction from the masterminds. “We’re glad to see you joining us for tonight and for the Mercer show, Mr. Dallon” Wilbur replies with a near-chuckle, nodding to the man whilst pulling back in his chair, “how can we be of assistance?” “I was hearing rumblings that your show is gaining very elusive attendance that I was hoping you could confirm” the incredibly wealthy gentleman inquiries, prompting a smirk to deepen upon the showman’s face, “elusive attendance that could be described as rather... presidential.” Inching further out from his face, Wilbur’s chin pulls away from his upper jaw as he descends upon the microphone once more. “There may or may not be distinguished guests at the federal level gracing us with their presence on the evening of November 29th” the showman answers with a non-answer, earning both applause and whispered banter from the crowd he addresses. Paying no mind to the shadow confirmation, Jimmy’s concerns fail to take toward those in attendance in favour of focusing on the man he sets out to dismantle one month from this evening. Not even hearing the question, nor the response paid to it, Kenny remains glued to the palms that sit just inches apart from each other before his eyes, unable to take his mind away from what he’s part of and what awaits him. From within the audience, the three members of his group, sitting shoulder to shoulder, watch on at the trio of people beside their leader, disdain for them and the man at the opposite end of the table from their grey-haired shot caller carried in the eyes of some. “Good evening” another audience member greets, watching the businessmen on stage nod toward him whilst the fighters remain with demeanours unchanged, “I was wondering what the nature of Jimmy Elliott’s injuries are and how they’ll affect the odds of this fight.” Looking toward the man that stands from within the crowd, Jimmy lets his employers answer the question on his behalf whilst the man who’d caused his ailments remains oddly silent two pairs of shoulders away. “Jimmy’s injuries are nothing serious. They will be fully healed by the night of the Mercer show” Wilbur assures, shaking his head at any other notion, “the odds for the fight have not changed. Jimmy is still the betting favourite.” Slightly unsatisfied with this answer, the man within the audience remains standing at the microphone, eyes wandering toward the fighter in question before the rest of his head does. “I want to hear Mr. Elliott say that” the crowd-goer responds, earning the full line of sight from the battered bruiser, “I’d also like to know how he could put himself in a position to sustain these injuries so closely to a fight of this magnitude. It seems rather unprofessional and irresponsible.” Looking toward the table with a grin, Jimmy fights the urge to wince at the pain that the movement of his neck brings, forcing himself to lean into the microphone with the curled lip of humour. “Kenny House sent the members of his group to attack me outside of my church a little over a week and a half ago” Jimmy responds with a grin, earning a sudden rise in chatter amongst those in the audience. “I don’t care what you do in your free time or how much money you have. If you ever disrespect me with comments like those again, I’ll leave you a cripple” the northeast-originating ruffian warns, grimacing slightly in turning his focus toward his opponent. “As for the fight at Mercer?” he carries on, pausing as both Wilbur and Norman pull back in their seats, affording the brawler a clear line of sight toward his adversary, “nothing is going to stop me from sending that bastard back to his family in a coffin.” Lifting just slightly, Kenny’s eyes take toward his acquaintances in the audience, looking at them with a glare of intent before setting his eyes upon the opponent in what’s to be his very final fight. “You’ve crossed a line, and now I will too...” Jimmy declares, locking into a stare with the gentleman at the opposite end of the table, not wanting to be remiss, “I’m going to kill you at Mercer.” Hearing this and instinctively pulling his face toward the audience of various, whispered quips of awe, Kenny stays deep within the trance-like seclusion he’s sealed himself into before those that will be in attendance one month from tonight. “Care to offer a rebuttal, Kenneth?” Wilbur inquires, briefly regaining the older gentleman’s attention before it pans back toward the audience, catching a glimpse of the four souls that place their devotion in his opponent’s corner as he stares into the sea of wealthy figureheads. In silence, the man turns his sight from one side of the crowd to the other, inspecting the faces that litter it like debris in the street after a controlled demolition. One after another, people of similar appearances sit shoulder to shoulder with each other, packing together like sardines despite having all the money one could ever wish for. In favour of bidding their presence toward what’s meant to be a monumental address, each well-dressed gentleman and every fashionable young woman huddle en masse just as incredibly poor individuals do when their pay has arrived at the clerk’s office, prompting an odd amusement. “Kenneth? A response?” Norman doubles down, opening the floor to the devious brawler with a quiet advantage as he again reclaims the older fighter’s attention, but only for a moment. Eventually looking back out to the audience, Kenny sees the variety in style of facial hair within each man whilst also noticing the difference in hats atop the heads of each fair maiden, the depictions of wealth not changing the fact that they’ve gathered together in the name of lusting for spilled blood just as any pauper would. “You all look pathetic” Kenny murmurs, close enough to the microphone for his words to be carried through the speakers with a pleasant grin on his face. To a mixture of some chuckles and mostly confusion, the audience remains in a hush for the villainous group founder to continue his remarks, unsure of what he means through his insult. “You sit around and pretend that you’re better than me, but that doesn’t change that you’re still here. You’re no better than the poor that litter the camps just downtown” Kenny continues, further confusing those that almost all hope for clarification as to whether or not he’s serious. “I think you should redirect your ire to-” Wilbur comments with a feigned enthusiasm, extending a hand toward Jimmy before the malicious tone of his unpleasant employee cuts him off. “If you know what’s best for you... I’d say that you should shut your fucking mouth, Wilbur” Kenny responds, watching the irritated frown that the showman wears hold firm in his direction, failing to concern the man that takes the moment to speak freely. “You’re just a freakshow with grand plans. You belong in the carnival... not in control. You speak of grandeur, but you can’t handle the responsibility of it. You don’t know when you’ve got a good thing going...” the Silver Wolf responds, speaking to a man who remains forcibly silent, “...that’s why you fired me.” Immediately picking their internalised chatter back up, the audience speaks amongst themselves whilst the stage-occupying businessmen look toward them, unsure of what is to unfold in the wake of these comments. “You look out and see people you want to be mentioned in the same breath as, but what I see are just poor people with money. Blood-thirsty savages! No different!” Kenny proclaims, extending a hand to the mostly-aghast audience, “animals. Filthy animals rotting on the side of the road... all of them.” “Do not disrespect our clientele, K-” Wilbur attempts to comment, only for the subject of his retort to kick his chair out and rise to his feet, shoving Norman to the side just as he does the same thing before snatching the businessman’s microphone. “Your clientele are pathetic!” Kenny shouts, bursting with rage in the face of the now also-standing showman, who reserves himself as the terminated brawler continues without pause. “They gather around to watch people beat each other down just like the people living in that Hooverville! The only difference is that they think paying fistloads of green makes this anything more distinguished than a brawl happening in the centre of town!” the older man continues to berate, doing so whilst Jimmy remains seated, watching on without knowing what to make of any comment uttered. “But they’re all just sitting here shoulder to shoulder. They’ve crammed themselves in here like prisoners of a labour camp! Waiting for people to beat each other to the point of near-death in the least amount of comfort you can provide! Sacrificing it in the name of combat!” Kenny continues, his enraged visage leaning only inches away from Wilbur’s irate scowl, “and they’re doing it all because of me! I’ve managed to get the richest of society to live in the quality of the poorest all just to see me!” “They’re here to see you get what’s due” Jimmy interrupts, deciding to take his opportunity whilst presented to him, picking up Wilbur’s microphone while moving the man off to the side, getting in the face of his adversary properly. “I’ve got a man sitting in a hanger out in the crowd because of you. I’m wearing the bruises that you ordered me to have. My-” the scarred fighter comments, bringing himself to a pause as he points out toward his wife, too angered to speak at first. With nostrils flaring, Kenny follows the direction of Jimmy’s extended finger, seeing the still-puffy face of the man’s wife where the tip guides his sight toward. “My wife wears the bruises that you ordered” the battered gentleman concludes, pulling the mic away whilst breathing heavily, trying to keep himself from escalating the address into a fight he knows will prevent him from getting what he wants, gradually setting his sights back toward the man opposite himself. “Arthur putting his hands on my wife was you putting hands on my wife. That will not fly” Jimmy commands, recentring the tip of his finger toward the older once-labourer before pressing it into his chest, “you’ve had this coming for a-” Making contact with Kenny’s chest, the confrontational fighter throws his palms into the younger, injured rival and shoves him back, nearly taking the man off both feet in the process. Punching the sides of his chair with each hand, Jesse fires out of his seat like a bullet from a shotgun’s barrel and lunges toward the stage hurrying to the aid of his friend whilst prompting Arthur to do the same. “Raise a hand and you’re gonna die, crumb!” the hot head at Kenny’s right hand proclaims, closing in on his side’s leader just as Jimmy’s pal does, a finger raised in the direction of his own opponent whilst the wounded church goer holds him back. “Yeah, sit down! Listen to the cripple, prick!” Arthur prods, watching as Wilbur and Norman place themselves between the two sides as the crowd gasps in astonishment, unsure of what they’re about to witness unfold. “Gentlemen! Hey, gentlemen!” the showman proclaims in a shout, trying to get the attention of Jimmy and Jesse as Willard approaches the stage, his mountainous frame supporting those he’s chosen to align with, “I need you to settle down. You’re outnumbered and we need these fights.” “They can bring everyone they want, it don’t matter! They’ve had this coming!” Jesse shouts, trying to push past his friend as Jimmy’s hand continues to wrap around his front, holding him at bay. “It’s three against two, you schmuck! Can’t you do the fucking math!?” Arthur howls back, amusing his imposing-frame pal whilst refusing to back down. “Jess, it’s not worth it. We’ll get our hands on the bastards in a month” Jimmy comments, his words only overheard by the man he restrains and the showman employer just nearby, “we’ve waited this long, another month won’t...” Looking past Jesse’s head whilst he speaks, the injured fighter’s comments come to a sudden stop as his thoughts seem to fade into oblivion, looking back to the row of his friends in the audience with a widening in his stare, prompting the group’s bachelor to do much the same. Just as the rest of the audience does, Velma partakes in the whispering of concerns and quandaries at the scene that appears to unfold, losing civility rapidly before she joins the crowd in going silent. Their smack talk falling aside just the same, Kenny’s group centres their focus on the same sight as their adversaries, quickly prompting Norman to do the same just as his showman partner proceeds. Standing up from his seat with an intense scowl on his face, Stan gently pats the hand his wife places on his shoulder reassuringly, nodding to her as he steps forward. Unsure what to make of this display aside from commendable loyalty, the audience continues to watch as even the figures on the stage go quiet, not knowing what to make of the unhealthy visitor’s advancement. “We’ve got it covered here, Stan. Go back to your seat and don’t-” Jimmy assures, quickly stepping past Jesse in favour of addressing his larger pal whilst approached, the recovering brawler’s feet already ascending the steps to the stage. Pulling his wounded arm over his head, Stan frees himself of the sling that drapes itself over his neck and uses his wounded arm to push Jimmy back into the frey alongside him, tired of sitting on the sidelines and waiting for what he can’t have. “Shut up, Jim. Let’s go” Stan defies, redirecting Jimmy back toward the scene of chaos that he now occupies, surprising the businessmen that watch whilst putting the audience into a collective awe. “It’s three on three, you fuckin’ cinderdicks!” the late arrival to the confrontation shouts, leading the charge by pushing past his pals and approaching Kenny’s group, watching as Willard steps out from behind his shorter friends and meets him halfway. Having been unable to make sense of what was unfolding, Stan’s declaration puts the crowd into an uproar, their screams of jubilation filling the theatre as both sides truly present their best fronts. Stepping back instinctually, Wilbur joins Norman in watching Jimmy and Jesse follow their much taller friend’s lead, approaching the group and getting in the faces of Kenny and Arthur respectively. As if the address had become the actual fight itself, the audience breaks into pandemonium as the warring sides press their foreheads together, aware that any punch- as enticing as it is- will ruin what they seem to be in line for. Sending the crowd into a fit of howling cheer, the warring sides continue to confront each other whilst Wilbur pulls Norman off to the side, unable to wait for the scene to die down. “Run over to accounts and put Stan and Jesse-versus-Arthur and Willard on the card NOW!” the showman declares, earning a nod from his partner, who storms off in favour of the building’s depths and leaves Wilbur to push through the two groups, separating them as best as he can. “Let them fight!” one very loud gentleman screams from the audience, hearing the earth shake and quiver as the unified mod’s feet slam against the ground with anticipation, the public collectively foaming at the mouth to see hands thrown as a preview of the war Mercer is set to host. | Stepping behind the curtain angrily, Kenny stuffs the envelope into his bag and throws it over his shoulder, the first to retreat to the backstage whilst the rest of his group follows similarly. “Don’t worry about the cripple. Willard here is gonna put him out of commission for good” Arthur comments, following after the man that leads their group as he readies himself to leave, curious about the man’s reserved demeanour. “Kenny. Why do you look like you’ve seen a fuckin’ ghoul?” Arthur wonders aloud, watching the leader of their posse look wildly around the room without responding, “I just told you we’re gonna take care of it.” “Where the hell is Wilbur?” Kenny asks instead, tapping his shoe along the ground as he begs the question to either member of his group, looking for a response before catching a third set of legs approaching. “I think he walked off with those fuckin’ dicks, why?” Arthur questions back, turning his body to face the direction his shot caller’s eyes venture in. “Are you a part of this group or is this just about the pay to you?” Kenny questions aloud, stepping past Arthur and looking past Willard to the fourth wheel of their faction, the well-built gentleman’s calm demeanour and composed attitude drawing the ire of the older brawler. “The three of us were up on that stage, so where the hell were you?” the business-intent leader doubles down, wanting an answer out of the man that stands in the doorway. “The three of you put their big guy in a hanger, and the three of you made the call to jump their boy” Rota answers with both hands tucked into his pockets, “as far as I’m concerned, I wasn’t a part of making those calls. Your problem with them isn’t my business.” With a smirk, Kenny nods his head before looking toward the room’s second exit, intent on walking off to set out for the showman. “We make a call as a group and it’s everybody’s business. You’re either part of this group or you’re not. If you are, what we do is what you do” Kenny declares, walking past Willard to confront Rota directly, stopping a short distance from the man’s frame, “are you with us?” Making a conscious effort not to smirk at the man’s decree, Rota looks off to the side and thinks to himself, allowed to do so by the leader that doesn’t intend on going anywhere without an answer at the very least. “Let me ask you something, Kenny. If I had told you not to attack Jimmy, what would you have done?” the group’s muscular insurance policy inquires, not needing long before the grey-haired man shakes his head with a shrug. “Three against one. Democracy rules. We jump the bastard anyway” Kenny responds, remaining honest and to the point in his comments, only to watch as the fourth wheel shrugs himself, taking the answer as his own. “I guess you and I don’t really see eye-to-eye on how this thing is supposed to work” Rota confesses, stepping back the way he’d come with sights set on showing himself out, only for the sound of the older man’s voice to call him back like a whisper in the night amidst the presence of nothing but one’s self. “If you’re not with us...” Kenny comments, pausing as the larger gentleman turns back, waiting to hear out the man’s claim, “...then you’re against us.” His expression unchanged, Rota stands in the doorway silently, staring at the face of the leader for a few seconds before looking back toward the hallway, nodding to himself before following through on his departure, offering not a single word as he retreats, seemingly offering the trio his conclusion. | “When were you going to tell us this?” Wilbur wonders aloud, standing before the apparently healthy man that uses his once-immobilised arm to hold Josephine tight. “The doctor told me to take another two weeks to do light work, but I’ll be good to go by the time Mercer comes around” Stan responds, pleasing the rest of his group with the news of his recovery, “I’m done sitting around while my friends watch those cinderdicks run around like they own the place.” “Will your arm hold up well enough against Willard? Or are we setting ourselves up for disaster by putting you up against-?” Norman proceeds to inquire, sitting in the corner of his partner’s office before being cut off. “His arm is going to be broken worse than it was all those months ago” Kenny interrupts, entering the office to the immediate rise in tension from those within it. “I’m just being honest. Willard is not going to take it easy on you” the intruder doubles down in a calm tone, holding both hands out as a show of good faith, aware that those inside the showman’s office have the same non-violent orders as his group does. “The address is over. Leave this room and do not let me see you until-” Wilbur rebuttals, approaching the grey-haired troublemaker with fury before being forced to stop in his tracks, hearing the flick of the invasive brawler’s switchblade swipe through the air. “I’m not leaving this office until you’ve heard what I have to say” Kenny responds, earning a groan from Norman as the man’s head leans back, shaking with disapproval as he stares toward the heavens. “It’s bold of you to assume that I don’t have a gun in my desk that I can put you down with right now” Wilbur corrects with a half-grin, too amused to keep on the enraged visage that he wears. “Neither of us like each other, but we both know that I’ve contributed more than enough to prove that you should want to hear what I have to say” Kenny responds, offering a rejoinder that the criminal plotter fails to find much of an argument for. Keeping his thoughts to himself at first, Wilbur’s semi-lowered bottom lip insinuates that his intentions are to reply, only for its return to that of the one above to suggest he’s willing to provide the unappreciated visitor with what he asks for. Standing side-by-side-by-side, Jimmy, Cathy, and Jesse hang by the window side of the office whilst watching the grandeur-tongued entrepreneur silently entertain the not-so-voluntary request. “You can’t deny that I know how to work that audience. You know that everything I said about them tonight was true” Kenny begins, lowering the tip of his dagger now that he’s been given the floor, returning it to his belt, “at their very hearts, they’re just the same as every scrappy, pissed off vagrant in that camp downtown.” “What’s your point, Kenneth?” Wilbur sourly retorts, arms still hanging by each side with fingers slightly curled, wanting to close into fists whilst remaining open out of simple investment which the presenter cannot control. “You can pretend that Jimmy is the guy you’re supposed to build this around, but he means nothing to you. Put him against a nobody and no one will care to watch his fight” Kenny replies, gesturing for the showman to redirect his gaze toward the man in question. “He doesn’t understand the crowd like I do. Put a nobody against me and I will make them care. I will make them show up” the older man doubles down, watching Wilbur’s face take toward the brawler off to his side. “He wins, I’ll give him that. But he will not make you money. He will not fill that pit with people” Kenny assures, watching every face in the room- his own included- turn toward Jimmy, “Arthur was the reason his first fight caught eyes. I’m the only reason people care about this fight now.” “Are you suggesting that I build this empire around you instead?” Wilbur questions back, watching the unchanged expression and demeanour of his uninvited guest hold itself toward him. “I can’t trust you enough to employ you, and you want me to build everything around you?” the showman continues, struggling to find anything more than fault in the proposition levied, “how do you want me to respond to that?” “By letting me prove that I’m worth keeping around even if it’s a pain in the ass that you force yourself to endure” Kenny answers honestly, surprising Wilbur with how easily the reply was offered. “If I lose in Mercer, you cut me off. Let me go and give me the kiss off” the Silver Wolf doubles down, pointing toward the man he’ll do battle with in four weeks time, “but if I beat the kid, you keep me on and let me take care of putting people in their seats.” Looking toward the ground without certainty over whether or not the risk is worth the reward, Norman lifts his eyes toward the squinting lids of his partner in crime, holding out hope that he’ll make the call this time just like he did the last. Pressing his tongue against the top of his molar tooth, Wilbur veers his head toward his friend of similar wealth before looking back to his visitor, holding the stare for another few seconds before looking back. Straight-faced, Jimmy locks eyes with Wilbur as they stand in silence, not only going without speaking, but outright refusing to utter a word. Nodding to himself with grace, the showman relocates the scruff-covered face in front of himself and lifts his chin with an intrigued glare. “You’ve got one more chance” the artiste concludes, sliding both hands into the pockets of his elongated coat, “win or go home... no other choice.” == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Monday, 20th October 1930 / Alone and with a scowl on his face, Kenny steps through the entrance of the Commencement Theatre with eyes held toward the well-dressed gentleman awaiting for him. “Mr. Ritter and Mr. Mountebank are waiting for you” the dark-skinned doorman remarks, wearing a proper suit with his hands folded at his lap, watching as the older heavyweight steps past him with a silent, dismissive wave. Dressed in the finest suit he owns, the battle-ready traveller follows the corridor that separates him from the location he’s asked to, following the patterned floors and standing candles as they lead him toward his destination. Sliding over the carpeted ground, the man’s expensive, leather shoes carry him onward whilst his eyes passively glance toward the bowl his path wraps around, the unlit stage sitting at the bottom of the steps without a soul to provide it life. Bouncing over his shoulders in defiance at the short or slicked-back style men are expected to wear, Kenny’s locks flow with each step as they carry him toward the one room within the complex presenting an open door and present lighting. Letting a breath leave through his nose, the man rounds the corner and enters the room, closing the door on his way inside knowing he’d prefer privacy to the thought of onlookers strolling by, returning the passageway he’d journeyed through to the select few who will advance through it. “You wanted to see me?” Kenny questions aloud, standing in the centre of the room whilst Norman subdues his own dissatisfaction in the corner, looking to the ground with the hopes of keeping out of the discourse for as long as he can. Having yet to lift his gaze from the patterns left in the wood of his desk’s surface, Wilbur holds a glass of scotch into the air with one hand, leaning against one side of his seat with a reserved illustration of anger hidden behind the weight of his eyes. Remaining silent, Wilbur lifts his chin just slightly whilst the breath he pulls in through his nose precedes a deep, weighted exhale as he leans forward. His palm pressing into the desk, the promoter seethes to himself whilst his chair squeaks, the shift of the man that it hosts leaving the sides of his arms to lean against the workspace’s edge. “Not under these circumstances did I wish to see you, Kenneth” the low-voiced showman responds, still yet to lift his heavy eyes toward the figure that stands in the centre of his office. “I don’t understand what you mean” Kenny replies without a shift in tone, posture or attitude, watching his employer’s almost non-existent movement come to a complete halt. Without raising his chin, Wilbur takes his eyes toward the face of the man who disrespects his intelligence, clearly holding back a great deal of incivility with how composed he’s already attempted to be. “Don’t take me for a fool, Kenneth” the showman warns in a near-growl, hunched forward like a predator stalking prey with a limp, an easy meal to earn whilst the injured animal strolls around as if there were no wound whatsoever. “I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to be more...” Kenny responds after a brief pause, incapable of finishing his thought before the glass in his superior’s hand shatters beneath the sudden clenching of his fist, pouring the light brown liquor down the length of the showman’s forearm, “...specific, as I was saying.” “I don’t care what the four of you do in that group, but I will not tolerate you disobeying my commands” Wilbur responds, completely unphased by the blood that joins his alcoholic beverage in running down his lifted arm. Patting the top of his desk, the businessman leaves his seat and casually steps around it, approaching the brazen group leader with a deep and judgemental scowl. “I know that you’re aware of what Arthur and Willard did to Jimmy yesterday morning” the promoter assures, nodding to the man that doesn’t even care to shake his head in refusal. “I don’t know if they did it on your orders, but that does not matter to me” Wilbur continues, getting into the face of the grey-haired fighter whilst looking him in the eyes, “you know what my orders were and you directly went against them.” Looking off to the side of the room without the care to reciprocate the direct gesture of the showman, Kenny licks his lips before lifting his hand to his chin, scratching at the hairs he’d gone weeks without shaving. Given the floor to speak in the wake of his boss’ silence, one half of the Mercer Arena’s main event thinks quietly to himself whilst staring through the nearby window, finding a decent look at the unimpressive city skyline beyond the boundaries of his employer’s blinds. “I heard about what happened to Jimmy yesterday” Kenny finally answers, nodding to the man as he speaks, turning his face back toward his superior’s only between responses, “but I didn’t go against your orders. Arthur and Willard acted on their-” Shaking his head with an irritated smile, Wilbur hears the man’s comment out before slapping him across the face, refusing to allow his dialogue’s conclusion with light of the discourtesy it shows to him. “You will not refuse accountability for the actions of your direct subordinates!” the assailant shouts, spit flying from his bottom lip and into the face of the unmoved Kenny, who simply lets his head take toward the direction the strike had sent it in whilst staring intently at the ground. “On their own or with your guidance, the three men in your group are your responsibility. That is the decision you made when you decided to align with them!” the showman continues yelling, only to make an effort at calming himself. Laughing at the blatant disregard that his rebellious brute takes, Wilbur wags his finger in the man’s face before turning around, retreating the way that he’d come in favour of more bitter matters. “It’s laughable, it really is. The fact that you want me to believe you didn’t know about this in the first place” the businessman speaks whilst rounding his workspace, watched on by the unimpressed eyes that Kenny holds upon him, “fact of the matter is, the acts they take are the acts you take by association.” Remaining silent, Kenny watches the showman reach toward the ground to retrieve the larger glass of scotch with an irritated grin, forced to use his non-dominant hand from the open wounds of his right. “The boldness that you have to walk into my building and pretend like any of that isn’t the case astounds me” Wilbur comments, refusing to take another fragile glass into his lone healthy palm by taking direct swigs from the bottle itself. “You and Jimmy left me no choice but to surround myself with whoever I could find” Kenny finally rebuttals, watching as the man directly opposite himself lowers the bottle from his lips, having taken three full gulps. “Jimmy has his friends and now I have mine. Because of that, you get a second headliner for Mercer” the grey-haired scallywag rejoinders whilst his superior remains silent, “you’ve gotten to promote a story so infinitely bigger than just two people with problems against each other.” Letting free a chuckle, Wilbur scoffs whilst turning his sights toward the cabinet of liquor bottles stationed just off in the corner of his room. “I know you see that, too. It’s more than just Jimmy-verse-Kenny, it’s Jimmy’s group-verse-Kenny’s group. A tale of two sides at war- one that’s been going on for decades!” Kenny enthusiastically, yet calmly remarks, not letting his superior disregard such truth with ease, “you’re looking for things like that so much that you’ve even hired a lady to go around looking for it.” “We wouldn’t need to hire people to keep in touch with you if we weren’t too busy to do it ourselves” Norman corrects from the corner, knowing his partner in crime to be too greatly irritated to make such a proclamation amidst his angry stupor. “The fact is that you know it’s important. So you’ve gone out of your way to pay someone to find what I’ve given you for free” Kenny responds, glancing over his shoulder at first before finishing his statement with returned eyes toward the desk-occupying spectacle maker. “If you want to blame me for what Arthur and Willard did, that’s fine. I can’t control them and neither can you- hell, neither could Norman!” he concedes, gesturing toward the man in the corner when necessary whilst the showman watches on in silence. “Either way, it won’t change the fact that you can’t do anything about it. The fight at Mercer is already set” Kenny responds, watching the man of grandeur tongue hang his head with a smile that he soon lifts his liquor bottle toward once more. “I’m sorry the kid got his ass beat, but he brought it upon himself starting trouble with those two rabid dogs” he furthers whilst under the businessmen’s watchful eye, “hell, you can’t blame me for deciding too, either. If you were in my position, you’d want those rabid dogs fighting for you as well... not against you.” Wearing a straight face, Wilbur lets free a sigh at the touch of the liquor on his lips, licking it free whilst swaying his head in dissatisfaction. “It’s really such a shame that I dislike you so much” the showman confesses, watching the slight shift in the older brawler’s expression insinuate that the comment had struck the faintest chord, “you’re too smart for someone that just can’t stop getting in my way.” Falling to the ground as he lets the remark settle within himself, Kenny’s eyes inevitably force themselves back toward the man that once more approaches him, not keen on stopping until they’re as close to each other as they’d been moments prior. “We’ll have a very diverse crowd at your fight with Jimmy. It won’t just be the American elite, but their crumbling middle class as well” Wilbur explains whilst walking, the soles of his shoes tapping against the ground like a woman’s heels. “In a week, you and Jimmy will have the address that you put off a while back. In the weeks that follow, you’ll interact with the public how I see fit, and continue to promote the fight” he speaks further, no longer hiding his contempt for the employee. Taking in a breath deep enough to lift his chin slightly, Kenny allows the showman to continue speaking without interruption, his peace already having been provided. “On the 29th of November, you will fight Jimmy Elliott. The arena will be packed, you will win or- most likely- lose, and you will collect your last paycheck from me” Wilbur comments, surprising the man seated in the corner with this information, details that he was neither informed of or approving of. “After that night, your services will no longer be required. You will be fired for lack of a better term” the showman concludes, looking into the visible shock and resentment that the fighter silently stares at him with, “have I made myself clear?” Leaning forward in his seat as if he were going to stand up, Norman remains within his chair, watching the discussion from afar as silence floods the room. Standing by his declaration, Wilbur remains unphased and unmoved by the comments his unfortunate adversary had made, believing that the call he’s made is the necessary one. Visibly enraged and incapable of acting upon it, Kenny steps away from the man and retreats the way he’d come, not uttering a word as he leaves the building in a fury. “This is not going to go over well with the rest of his team, Willy” Norman interjects calmly after giving the situation a few seconds to calm down, not wanting to risk his words being overheard by the dismissed fighter. “I don’t care about what the rest of his team does, Normie” Wilbur responds, continuing to stare at the doorway whilst his body turns toward returning to his desk, unable to pull his eyes away from the room’s exit as they squint deeply, “I only care about what he does.” = 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 = \ Wednesday, 22nd October 1930 / “I’m fine, dear” Cathy responds, politely pushing away a cold pack offered by her far worse-off husband, the swelling in her jaw impossible to not notice. “Take the bag, honey” Jimmy reiterates, forced to groan the remark as his opposite hand presses against his abdomen, feeling the weight of Willard’s heavy boots days after they’d been violently thrust into his core. “You need it far more than I do, dear” Cathy replies, again trying to gently press her hands against the cold compress, not wanting to hurt or outright imply that she isn’t appreciative of the man’s care. “Cath’” Jimmy attempts to reason, only for the woman’s hands to gently caress the sides of his face whilst her head shakes, again offering the faintest possible rejection she can muster. “I want you to lie down, dear. You need to” Cathy explains in a soft whisper, keeping her hands firm in their placement upon the man’s visage, not wanting to afford him the opportunity to shake his head in dismissal. “The bastard landed one punch on me. They did a whole other number on you” the woman reiterates, watching the man’s hesitant eyes hold upon her own as he’s kept from swaying his head in declination, “you’ve got the address in a week. Get whatever recovery you can, alright?” Parting his lips as he pulls in a sigh, Jimmy attempts to refuse the woman her wishes before being kept from doing so, her palms pressing the slightest amount further into his visage. “I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. What he did to me can be solved with a little bit of makeup. You? Not so much” the woman explains, keeping his refusal from being voiced, “please just do what I-” “Hey, yous! Open up!” Jesse proclaims from the opposite side of the apartment’s door, pounding his fist against the door as the woman within looks on with defeat, her husband using the man’s arrival as an excuse to pull away and address the visitor. “I’m on my- ah!” Jimmy calls out, groaning in pain as his steps carry him too quickly, the pain in his knee and the shift in his body proving to shoot throbbing aches up the length of his figure, “-way!” Fighting through every ounce of his soreness, Jimmy parts the entry as Jesse immediately storms in with bags of goods in tow, immediately tossing them onto the floor as he’s granted entry. “You’ve got cold packs, dinner for tonight, alcohol for fixing the wounds on the outside, alcohol for fixing the wounds on the inside, a couple braces for your fucked up knees, a brace for your fucked up neck and some pillows” the visitor proclaims, nodding toward Cathy as he lets himself further into the flat. “I’ve got to use the little boy’s room and then I’ll be out of yous hair” Jesse comments, having fired off the goods in quick succession as Cathy approaches the various bags, only for Jimmy to immediately try and dissuade her. “Woah, what the hell is yous doing, Jim!?” the bathroom-needing gentleman questions aloud, unable to make it far before watching his injured friend attempt to take over the unloading. “I’m taking out the stuff that you-” Jimmy replies, yet to have bent toward the ground before his good pal’s interjection cuts him off. “I love yous, Cathy. I’m sorry you’ve got a boo-boo face and that little fuckin’ crumbs gonna pay for what he did to yous...” Jesse proclaims, returning to the couple with gentle hands extended, “...but your husband ain’t putting this crap away, yous got that? He’s gonna go lay in bed, take a nap, have a couple of drinks and kicks his feet up, yous got that?” “I’m appreciative of you, Jesse. I wouldn’t have it any other way, now please convince my husband of that too” Cathy quickly reassures, finally provided with support that prompts her lover to listen. “She’s recovering from her own-” Jimmy replies, only to be stopped by the loud and vicious snapping of their guest’s fingers in his face, catching him by surprise and silencing him at once. “Yous get in that fucking room before I have to beat you down myself and dump your body in that bed, yous got that?” Jesse queries, defeating his too-weak-to-battle pal well enough to convince him to march toward the bedroom. “Thank you, Jess’” Cathy murmurs, watching their friend give her a wink and a nod, having understood his assignment well before he’d even knocked at the door, always willing to be there to aid his friends. After a brief struggle of convincing the man to fully descend into bed, Jesse finds success in putting his friend out of commission, sentencing him to the bed for the rest of the day. Returning to the living room a few moments later, the visitor helps the woman continue to put away the gifts he’d brought along with himself, earning her vocalised appreciation in the process. “Seriously, thank you for helping me with that” the woman remarks, earning a gentle pat on the back from the bachelor, who quickly strides from one side of the room to the other depending on what goodie needs to be tucked away. “I’m nothing if not loyal. My father made damn sure of that before I fled the nest” Jesse replies, still wearing the suit jacket he’d adorned for a more casual attire, “and with that, I don’t want yous on your feet for too much longer today. You took a wicked shot too.” “I’m fine. I just took a shot-” Cathy interjects, refusing to be put out of commission like her husband without much in the way of a choice. “Yous shouldn’t have taken no shot. Only scum hits a lady and I get to teach this scum some god-given manners” Jesse interjects, wagging his finger in the woman’s face as their paths cross once more, “if I came over here to get Jimmy to take it easy, yous ain’t getting anything less out of me yourself. Yous got that?” Letting out a sigh as her shoulders fall, the woman’s head falls toward the ground as their friend takes her by the shoulders and gives her a friendly kiss on the forehead. “Yous and the mister take it easy while I cover some business” Jesse concludes, completing their chore of setting aside the groceries and accessories before setting for the front door, quietly borrowing Jimmy’s hat from the nearby coat rack in the process, “these twits hurting my friends ain’t gonna fly.” | “I’ve got what you’re looking for” Rota remarks, sliding the white card through the locker door’s slot before pausing, his arms crossing over his chest as he waits for the clear word. “Anyone follow you here?” the doorman questions aloud, recognising the voice on the other end before begging the question, his voice muffled by the metal shield between himself and the visitor. “Nope, it’s just me. I came alone, checked my back and shut the door” Rota responds, waiting an additional few seconds before hearing the mechanisms within the door shift, freeing the entrance for him to step through. “We had a scare the other day. We’re just trying to make sure we have ourselves covered” the smaller in stature worker responds, handing over the white access card to its rightful owner before squeezing to the side, a smile carried on his face. “You’re looking wonderful, Mr. Rota” the sheepish coverage-overseer remarks, putting a smile on the well-built entry’s face. “Don’t try to flatter me, sir. I only have so much room in my bed” Rota quips back, sliding past the man in favour of the bountiful journey that resides on the opposite of the carving in the wall. Embraced by the nightlife in spite of it being the early afternoon beyond the boundaries of the windowless building, the muscular fighter gives a polite nod to the scantily clad women that pass him before briefly inspecting the gentlemen of similarly-little clothing as they do the same. “Hiding away from me, crumb?” Jesse calls out from just beside the bar, watching the rival fighter advance to the liquor counter without taking immediate notice of the adversary. Caught by surprise at the foul-mouthed, axe-to-grind brawler, Rota looks on at first with confusion before immediately becoming overwhelmed with guilt. “Just a reminder, Mr. Jesse... There’s no fighting in the building” Henry whispers, his words failing to meet the ears of the visitor that drowns them out, only focused on confronting the lone individual unaccounted for days prior. “I had nothing to do with what happened to your friend, Jesse. I wasn’t told what was happening and I wouldn’t have agreed to it” Rota immediately remarks, offering a defence for himself that doesn’t really sit with his intended-nemesis’ ears. “Yeah, yous had nothing to do with it, Kenny had nothing to do with it- that’s what I keep hearing” Jesse replies, nodding disapprovingly as he steps forward calmly, slowly drawing closer to the body builder, “what I’m not hearing is a reason why I should believe yous.” “Because I don’t have a problem with Jimmy, and I don’t have a problem with you- or yous, in your words” Rota responds, his attempt at humour failing to find the mark of the man who reserves much more anger than he’d intended to. “Yous say that, but my friend can’t walk real well right now. I remember hearing about how yous didn’t have a problem before that. So what did yous have?” Jesse questions aloud, watching the opposite man’s lips part in an attempt to reply. “To make matters worse, it’s not just him that’s walking around with a wound, is it?” the loyal acquaintance of his battered pal interjects, refusing to allow the man he scolds a chance to answer the prior question. “Yous put your hands on him, he’s at least about to defend himself...” Jesse carries forward, seeing a disheartened look take shape on Rota’s face the closer that he approaches, “...but they put their hands on his missus? That’s a line yous just don’t cross.” “Jesse, if I had anything to do with it, then I wouldn’t be standing here while you accost me” Rota retorts, only to watch the shorter-stature gentleman shake his head in disapproval. “I don’t know what that word means, but you’re still on their side” Jesse replies, throwing his hands into the chest of the man without much force, sending a message in the first shove as Henry steps around the counter, “their side just isn’t sitting pretty right now. At least not if I have a say in the matter.” “Mr. Jesse, I wouldn’t-” Henry comments, trying to dissuade the situation from rising any further than it had before watching the man shove his foe back once more in between comments. “Jesse, don’t get yourself kicked out of this place” Rota calmly remarks, trying to keep the situation from escalating beyond the point of control, unsure of just how well his efforts will work. “Why should I believe what yous telling me?” Jesse questions aloud once more, shoving the larger man back one further time before shoving the hands of Henry away as the bartender attempts to interfere. “Because Kenny made the plan last Friday night. I wasn’t there because I was here taking that guy back to my apartment” Rota answers, pointing in the direction of a nearly-nude, light-skinned man dancing off to the side of an incredibly intoxicated man in a suit. Looking to the direction in which the larger man points, Jesse stares in confusion at the figure in question, watching him traipse around for other men without certainty over what’s being alluded to. “I’m not sure I follow how that makes yous not guilty here, honestly” the confrontational, speakeasy novice confesses, shaking his head as he looks back to Rota. “On Friday night, when Kenny called us to talk to him, I told him I couldn’t meet because I had family over” Rota responds, doubling down on his prior statement as the altercation begins to settle, “I was actually here, picking up that guy to take him back to my place.” “How the fucks do yous know that guy? Does he owe yous money or something?” Jesse questions back, his mind thrown off the trail that he’d thought he was following in order to make sense of the new branching pathway. “Mr. Rota is a homosexual, Mr. Jesse” Henry remarks, doing his best to clear up the confusion that the slightly less-enraged brawler had worn across his face, “he’s saying that he was here bringing that gentleman back to his apartment for sex while this plan you speak of was being made.” “I didn’t know that was the plan they were making until we met at the Commencement Theatre earlier for this Saturday’s address” Rota doubles down to the still-bewildered brawler, remaining firm in his stance, “he said he’d been fired, but that he’d convinced Wilbur and Norman that the other had not acted on his behalf.” “Hold on, yous a fag?” Jesse respeaks with a deep squint in his eyes, holding a pair of fingers in the larger gentleman’s direction whilst the question’s subject rolls his eyes. “Is it really that difficult to believe that a man of my size would be attracted to other men?” Rota questions aloud, not having intended for his sexuality to be the primary focus of the discussion. “Well, yeah. Fags aren’t usually built the way yous are. People like yous can get any woman you’d want, I don’t see why yous rather...” Jesse answers honestly, trying to make sense of the unexpected revelation, “...I mean, I ain’t gonna judge yous. Whatever yous want to-” “Yes, Jesse... I’m a fag” Rota interjects, offering assistance to the man that twists himself into a verbal pretzel trying to explain himself before returning to the original line of speech, “the point is, I didn’t know they’d planned to attack your friend until about two hours ago- well after it happened.” Brought down from his puzzlement, Jesse swipes his mind of the new information in favour of returning his focus to the reason for his presence tonight, looking to the ground at a loss. “Not that it really matters, but when they’d told me about it earlier- I told them that I didn’t support that” Rota explains, watching the adversary look him in the eyes once more, “now that Kenny’s getting fired and the others are probably on Wilbur’s last nerves, I don’t see how it makes much of a difference anyway.” Assisted through the homosexuality revelation, Jesse’s rage greatly diminishes in favour of a civilised understanding, trying to find any resemblance of comfort from what he’d been told. “Listen, I’m sorry about what happened to Jimmy. I wish I would’ve known sooner so I could talk them out of it, but what’s done is done” Rota explains, seeing the face of his fellow speakeasy goer take on a more visibly accepting visage, “don’t waste your time on me. The problem that you’ve got is with them.” Walking off without anything else to say, Rota’s brickhouse-like frame approaches the dance floor whilst a hesitant Henry begins stepping back for the bar, leaving the still-fuming brawler to himself. “Fucking twits” Jesse whispers to himself whilst staring at the ground, finding it within himself to begrudgingly accept the man’s account of events whilst refocusing his anger on the three that he knows to be responsible, wanting retribution in whatever way he sees fit. == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Thursday, 18th September 1930 / “That’s the point, sir. I can’t find them” Kenny explains, watching children play around a water fountain in the centre of the town’s park whilst addressing the man beside himself. “She took off in the middle of the night with the children and I haven’t heard from her since aside from this letter” he continues, pointing to the envelope he’d already placed into the hands of the other, mostly-unfamiliar figure, “I don’t know where she sent it from or where she is. That’s why I’m hiring you.” “The envelope has a postal mark, that shouldn’t be too difficult to track down” the second gentleman replies, wearing mostly black clothing as he focuses his sight on the specific fountain that the children play around. “Does she have family that lives out of state? Relatives or friends?” the curious stranger asks aloud, unaware of the silent nod that he receives from the man paying him, “maybe the two of you lived elsewhere before relocating to Washington?” “Yes, she has family in the southern states. Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana” Kenny replies, his eyes following the children that play roughly twenty yards away, “we met in Washington, but we lived in Oregon for a little over a year before the crisis hit.” Nodding to himself, the man removes a notepad from his pocket and begins taking the tip of his pencil to it, jotting down only what sticks out. With a heavy chest, Kenny watches the children from afar as they play just as his own once did, enjoying life whilst their parents stand by or handle business of their own. “Was she intimate with anyone else in the months leading up to her disappearance?” the bowler cap-wearing inquisitor asks, only to receive an instinctual reply. “Don’t use that word” the grey-haired brawler corrects, gently motioning his chin in the man’s direction whilst wearing sorrowful eyes, “she didn’t disappear, she ran off.” “We can sit around and run up a tally about what words to use, but she’s still out there somewhere. Let’s stay focused on the questions I’m asking, alright?” the unknown, suited figure remarks, striking enough of a chord within his client to bring him around to the point. “She wasn’t involved with anyone to my knowledge. I can’t be entirely sure, but I’m as close to it as I can be” Kenny assures with the sway of his head, “I wasn’t exactly sober for much of those last months.” “Did she ever give you an ultimatum?” the stranger inquires, watching the confused narrowing of his client’s eyebrows turn toward him for emphasis, “did she ever tell you to stop drinking or else she’d leave?” Nodding in silence, Kenny looks to the man as he takes the first bob of his head to be conclusive enough of an answer. “Did she ever tell you where she’d go? To stay with specific family members or anything?” the follow-up is questioned. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be hiring a private detective” Kenny rebuttals, drawing the ire of the man who already has a handful of cash paid to him for the services he attempts to complete. “No, she didn’t” the hopeful client concludes, aware that he’d begun to get on the nerves of the man he requires help from, not wanting to ostracise him any further than he already had, “I’ve told you everything that I know. I don’t know what else I can give you, I was hoping you’d be good enough at your job to fill in the rest.” “You better hope that I am in that case since you’ve already paid me” the private eye responds, closing his folded pad before tucking it into his pocket and stepping off of the bench, “I’ll get back to you when I know more, Mr. House.” With the tip of his cap, the stranger walks off into the broader public whilst Kenny stays behind, lowering his eyes to the ground for a moment before looking forward, sombre eyes carried back to the children amidst the enjoyment of their youth. Letting a sigh slowly roll through his nose, Kenny presses his eyelids shut and simply focuses on the young lads playing, their laughter and palpable joy bringing him memories of the children he’d lost contact with at the same time as his wife. Squeezing through his lid, a tear begins to roll down the man’s cheek before being swiped at by his hand, eyes opening as he forces himself away from the deep memory and steps away from the bench, carrying himself the way that he arrived and back through the wealthy part of Seattle. = 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 = \ Wednesday, 1st October 1930 / “Yous see this? These are ten sawbucks” Jesse whispers, pressing the tips of his fingers against a stack of paper bills that he slides to the side of the counter that his server occupies the opposite end of, “I want that membership yous was talking about the other day, understand?” Nodding in agreement, the man takes the cash and places a plain, white card on the table where the check for the patron’s meal would normally reside, walking off without uttering a word with the cash in tow. Smiling, Jesse waits for a few seconds as the server returns to his duties, pretending that he doesn’t even exist, nor that the conversation ever even happened. For a few further moments, the well-paid fighter waits around before suddenly clearing his throat, sliding the white card into one of the flaps of his suit jacket and climbing off the stool he’d used for a seat. Making toward the bathroom, the combatant alters course when he rounds the corner, dipping into a side room once away from the public’s eye and shutting the door as quickly as he can manage. Letting a deep breath leave through his lips, Jesse fixes his hair and approaches a large, metal container that he gently taps his knuckle against. “Card” a voice replies from the other end of the structure, his voice carried to the brawler through the slots in the top of its locker-like door. Shrugging, Jesse slips his hand back into his attire and retrieves the solid indicator, slipping it through the slot in the structure’s top for the mysterious hand that resides behind to take ownership of. For a few seconds, nothing is said and no sound is made aside from the breathing of the well-dressed bachelor, who waits for his payment to pay off. “Welcome” an attractive young man greets, opening the cabinet-like piece of furniture to reveal a cramped passageway for his establishment’s patron to venture through. “Sorry for the squeeze, we didn’t have much to work with” the concealed doorman explains, pushing against the inner wall of the locker so Jesse can squeeze past, “no need to apologise” the paying gentleman assures as he ventures onward, ducking into an equally large hole in the wall to what the hidden entrance is. As if entering another world, Jesse emerges on the other side of the squeeze into a room just as big as the dining area of the diner he’d just left behind, finding mood lighting to surround the building that hosts scantily clad women and well-dressed men in an environment worthy of loosening their ties in. “Welcome, sir” a blonde woman in nearly no clothing of note seductively remarks on her way past the brawler, smiling at him as she ventures further onward. Tempted to follow after her, Jesse’s momentary pause allows him to become the subject of yet another passing chirp, one from a tan-skinned brunette in silk nightwear, her eyelashes fluttering as she looks the patron in the eyes, gently running her finger up the length of the man’s wrist. “Good evening, mister” she whispers, close enough to the club’s exclusive member to kiss the side of his face. Just as quickly as the first girl had continued on, the second follows suit in strolling through the window-less premises, leaving the young bachelor to take notice of how many beautiful women line the place few even know exists. “Welcome, sir. Care for a drink?” a young man questions from behind a bar counter whilst wiping the inside of a glass, dressed in a similar attire to what those in the diner next door wear, only his dress shirt and tie are coloured a contrasting black and white as opposed to the diner’s red and blue uniform. “Only if it’s your finest” Jesse replies, approaching the counter with eyes glancing in the direction of the main room, which expands further than what it seems like the building would even be capable of reaching from the outside. “You’re in a speakeasy, sir. All we have is the finest” the pale-skinned young man replies, earning a smile from the new customer who approaches his table with a nod. “I like the sound of that...” Jesse replies, pausing as he points toward the gentleman who’d made the offer, leaving the door open for an introduction. “I’m Henry, sir” the younger man replies, setting his class down to shake the speakeasy’s newest client. “Henry! It’s good to meet yous, Henry. I’m Jesse” the chipper and eager patron remarks, reciprocating the young man’s gesture before pointing toward a transparent bottle of liquor, “I’ll take a glass of that funny clear stuff, okay?” “Just straight?” Henry wonders aloud, only for his question to be completely misunderstood by the new patron. “Well, yeah. I ain’t no gunsel” Jesse responds, seeing the confused look in the bar runner’s face before assuming that he’d taken offence, “I mean, I ain’t got a problem if you are. It’s just not the life that I live, you know?” “I’m confused, sir” the server confesses with a slight shake of his head, only to prompt the patron to chuckle to himself. “Yeah, I’m hearing a lot of people think it’s just confusion themselves. What’s with-?” Jesse queries, unable to finish his thought before assistance is provided from another patron. “He’s asking if you take your drink straight or if you want a specialty” Rota interjects, approaching the counter with his finger pointed toward Henry, “he’s not insinuating that you’re gay, he’s asking if there’s a specific type of drink you want.” Completely caught off guard by the rival fighter’s presence and oddly calm demeanour when addressing him, Jesse stares at the man who’d fallen to his pal just weeks prior before the bartender doubles down on the statement. “Mr. Rota is correct, Jesse. I can just pour you a glass of vodka and give it to you if you’d like” Henry explains, regaining the new patrons full attention, “or I can make you a-” “Just pour him a glass of vodka, then make him a Cape Codder” Rota interjects, waving his hand toward the bartender, who shrugs and does as instructed whilst the patron remains speechless. “A cave what?” Jesse questions back, watching the rival fighter chuckle before reaching over the countertop, picking up a paper sheet with a variety of drinks listed upon it. “I see that white card sticking out of your jacket. Since you’re a fully-fledged member and the drinks are free, go down this list while you’re here and figure out what drinks you do and don’t like” Rota instructs, handing a semi-folded piece of paper to the man that members of his group would like for him to hate. “What is-?” Jesse questions aloud, only to be kept from asking a question as a pair of drinks are laid out in front of him, one as transparent as the beverage he’d chosen whilst the other is a deep, red colour. “This one is regular vodka- which I’d try first if I were you, and the other one is a Cape Codder” Rota explains, pointing to each beverage correctly for the man to give a shot. As suggested, the bachelor of Jimmy’s group takes the straight vodka drink into his hand and sips from it, tasting a wonderful swig of exactly what he’d expected. “Now compare it to the Cape Codder... Or the big, red vodka drink if you’d rather call it that” the muscle of Kenny’s group remarks, gently sliding the beverage into Jesse’s hand. Hesitant, the member of Jimmy’s group wraps his hand around the tall, slender glass without picking it up at first, staring at the beverage with concern before looking toward the man beside him. Letting his eyes fall for a moment before scratching his neck, Rota sits with his thoughts for a second before lifting his hands in a show of surrender. “Your boy beat me fair and square. I’m not here on a mission and neither are the rest of them” Rota confesses, trying to clear whatever suspicions he knows the rival group member to hold, “it’s like I’ve said- I don’t have anything personal against you guys. I’m just showing you what a specialty drink is.” Amidst his silent pause, Jesse holds his gaze upon the opposite gentleman for a few further seconds before finally looking back to the drink in his hand, contemplating whether or not to trust the word of the man he refuses to associate with. Pulling in a long breath before expelling it for an equally prolonged period of time, the reluctant brawler finally lifts his beverage from the counter and takes a fair sip, licking his lips of the incredibly tasteful drink. “That’s why they call them specialty drinks. The paper I gave you has a list of every specialty drink they make here... which is all of them” Rota remarks, watching the wide-eyed new patron look back to him with great impression, surprised at how much he enjoyed the lone sip he’d taken. “I’m sure you still don’t like me, so you can pretty much ask anyone around here about whatever it is that you need to know” the no-longer undefeated brawler comments, “but come find me in case you’d rather ask someone you at least recognise.” Nodding toward the adversarial competitor before doing the same toward Henry, Rota wanders off into the speakeasy’s hall, returning to the company of multiple women and men that share conversation as the jazz music begins to play from the speakers throughout the building. Struck by multiple whirlwinds of change in the span of five minutes, Jesse stammers away from the bar with a passing nod paid to its attendant, retreating deeper into the speakeasy with only his Cape Codder. | \ Thursday, 16th October 1930 / “I’d like you to be more specific when you use those words” Norman responds, seated on the opposite side of his friend’s desk, sipping bourbon just as his showman pal does. “We need to expand. How much more specific would you like me to be, Normie?” Wilbur questions back, his feet sitting atop his desk, crossed over the other whilst his dress shirt sits without a trench coat over it just as the spectacle creator’s head sits without a tophat upon it. “Are we expanding into new industry? Are we expanding into new ways to leverage our hold on local government?” Norman questions aloud, swaying his head as he sits with both feet seated upon an unoccupied chair just ahead of him, “what exactly are we expanding into?” Downing what remains of the brown liquor in his glass, Wilbur politely places the empty cup to the table as he savours the potent taste, reaching for an open bottle of liquor stationed just beside himself for a refill. “I want to expand the pit on the cove for more spectators” Wilbur replies mid-pour, topping off his drink whilst his colleague awaits the continuation of that idea, “as wonderful as selling out Mercer Arena is, it’d be a lot more profitable if we just gradually booked the pit to hold as many people as the arena.” “Taking standing room into account, our pit holds around a thousand people in total. A hundred and fifty or so sit along the fixed catwalk and a hundred more use standing room” Norman replies, pressing his elbow into the side of his chair as he addresses the concept head-on. “We’d grow the building to four times its size just to match the capacity of Mercer alone” he carries forward whilst his partner remains mute, “you’d be better off buying Mercer outright at that rate.” “I already inquired about that” Wilbur responds, shaking his head as he reclaims his glass, leaning back in his seat. “And?” Norman rejoinders, watching his acquaintance pause with a glance of uncertainty to his side. “And what?” Wilbur queries back, looking for emphasis as he lifts the beverage to his lips. “Oh, for the love of- what did they say when you asked to buy the joint?” Norman proceeds to rephrase, his business partner’s eyes widening with realisation. “Oh!” the showman enthusiastically sighs, his facial expression big and wide before returning to its resting state, “they called me the devil and told me to find Jesus.” “And here I thought this wasn’t the northeast” Norman responds, looking off to the depths of the office as he sinks further into his seat, dismissively shaking his head with disappointment. “We own the land this thing is built on anyway. There’s nothing the government could do about even if we were to let them” Wilbur carries onward whilst his buddy takes another sip, “I’m thinking we expand the warehouse to seem more like a genuine arena. Maybe set up a few offices while we’re at it.” “Why not just throw our money down on renovating the docks so we can take on heavier shipments while we’re at it?” Norman wonders aloud, offering the suggestion sarcastically before immediately finding intrigue in his own idea. “And here I thought you were done giving me reasons to be proud of myself in choosing to bring you along with me up here!” Wilbur proclaims with glee, watching his wealthy friend chuckle with amusement as his own work. “We’ll fix up the docks, expand the warehouse, build some space for offices... we’ll shoot for the moon!” the showman continues to explain, planning it out within his head whilst speaking it into existence through parted lips. “Do you remember what you asked me about a few months ago at our second show? I think it was our second show, at least” Wilbur queries, watching his quiet friend ponder into the distance about what could be of the man’s mind specifically, “the idea about opening up a speakeasy?” “I don’t think I suggested a speakeasy, but I did propose something similar” Norman corrects, a squint carried in his eyes as he dismissively waves at the idea, “carry on regardless.” With a smirk, Wilbur taps the rim of his whiskey glass whilst taking another swig, wetting his lips with the bitters to a satisfying sigh. “What if we just decided to own everything on this side of the cove?” the grand-planning rich gentleman questions. “What if we buy up thousands of acres and build shops, and homes, and restaurants, and speakeasies, and everything you can imagine a city having?” Wilbur proposes, prompting his wealthy friend to hesitantly go along with imagining the proposal, “instead of just having a small plot of land, we can run an entire district.” “We’re insanely wealthy and we may just be able to convince some of our friends to throw in plenty of money on such an investment... yes” Norman responds, shaking his head with great reluctance, “but renovating everything we own now to turn the warehouse into an arena, upgrade the docks and build an office is barely what we can afford.” Swiping at the air, Wilbur dismisses the concern as of no importance, thinking bigger, better, and far more sly. “We’ll approach our mayoral friend and ask for donations from the city to improve the quality of long-suffering residents” he reiterates to the response of an intrigued gleam in his friend’s eye, “and if he doesn’t give us what we want, we’ll release those pictures to the public, force him to resign, and replace him with someone who will.” “You’d be opening us up to getting on the wrong side of the governor at that point...” Norman responds, watching the shrug that he’s reacted to as it casually dismisses the worry. Not yet finished with his point, the more sensible, less eager to be the figure of public interest businessman looks into the distance with strong consideration, eventually prompting a smile to creep in over his face. “...that sounds like we’re making the perfect enemies” he concludes to a shared look of satisfaction with his fellow criminal mastermind, their glasses lifting into the air to salute each other’s defiant boldness. | \ Sunday, 19th October 1930 / “They’ve been healing very well, thank you” Jimmy responds to an older couple, who collectively praise the more presentable appearance of the man, “my wife is very good at making sure I recover well.” Exchanging pleasantries, the younger couple are approached by the man in the colourful garments, his welcoming expression bringing ease to the couple that take up his focus. “I’m glad to see you doing better, Mr. Elliott” the priest explains, flattering the gentleman that immediately turns attention toward his lawfully wedded. “I can only look as good as she lets me... And it’s never better than how she looks” Jimmy jokes, earning a playful elbow to his arm from the woman in question, her hand shaking that of the father’s before her husband’s palm follows the same course. “You should be far more careful on that bridge with how badly you were wounded. No one can really be able to afford being out of work these days” the priest explains, cautioning the parishioner to take better measures in protecting his well-being. “I will try my best, but the boss needs us to make progress on that thing with the time it took to replace the boys who left” Jimmy explains, shrugging without much of another option, “we all had to put in overtime. I couldn’t afford to not put my best foot forward.” “Well whatever feet you place forward, make sure they’re touching upon solid ground” the church’s sermon-provider warns, taking genuine care in the man’s continued good health, “the last thing we need is to lose a beloved member of our congregation because he lost his footing.” “I promise, you will never need to worry about me falling off that bridge” Jimmy assures, receiving a hopeful nod as their priest carries on, advancing toward an older gentleman who attends the mass alone. “It surprises me how easily they were convinced you sustained those wounds by just walking into a beam” Cathy remarks, earning a smile and a breathy laugh from the man that walks alongside her, embracing the start of fall by emerging from within the church. Politely joining their fellow morning birds in stepping beyond the building’s exit, the younger couple depart from the majority of the worshippers by advancing toward the modest parking lot ahead of them, hands coupled within each other’s. “Elliott!” a strong voice proclaims from across the way, calling for the young man’s attention from a few dozen yards away. Confused just as the rest of the departing church-goers are, Jimmy turns toward the source of the shout, unable to clearly see who’s calling out for him. “Yeah, that’s him!” the voice doubles down, barking out from within the crowd once more reassuringly, earning a more-centred focus upon the man’s eye as he steps away from his wife, approaching the source of the trouble. “Oh, Geez-!” Cathy proclaims in a hurry, only the distance of a couple steps away from the man as she’s violently pushed into the side of her car by a far superior force, taking her off her feet as she topples onto the ground. Just in time to witness the events unfold, Jimmy turns back just as soon as he falls back, his feet taken out from beneath him as he’s slammed into by a far larger frame that his build is maintained through. In formal wear and all before the eyes of his congregation, the young, secretive brawler collides with the ground before feeling his head slam against its asphalt surface, thrust against it by the force of a blow from a heavy fist against the side of his cranium. “Someone stop this!” an old lady howls from within the assortment of far older individuals, adding to the frenzy that surrounds the sudden attack they’re forced to watch. Hurrying from within their ranks, Arthur dashes along the parking lot’s ground and joins his much taller friend in laying waste to Jimmy, kicking him whilst he’s doing and striking at whatever vulnerable parts are exposed to their assault. Unable to do much in the way of retaliation, Cathy climbs off the ground and begins swinging her purse at Arthur as his back is turned toward her, trying to run him off with the opposite of success. Turning back with annoyance, the hot head of Kenny’s group spins around and cracks the woman’s jaw beneath the weight of a firm right hand, not excluding anyone from the onslaught that he’d been sent to perpetrate. Amidst commotion, the congregation continues to watch on without the ability to stop the much younger, much tougher pair of men from bludgeoning their fellow worshipper. Nevertheless, a few older gentlemen without care over their frail state step up to make whatever assist they can launch, slowly advancing toward the man before the priest comes dashing through the doors and splitting his fellow believers like Moses split the Red Sea. “He’s got an axe, go!” Arthur proclaims, taking once glance at the robe-adorned priest before shoving Willard in the direction that he’d made the jump from, their scurry carrying them into the woodlands just nearby as the father sprints toward them with a fire axe. “Cath!” Jimmy groans whilst wincing in pain, pressing his wrist against his chest whilst turning onto his opposite side, pulling away from the attendance of the priest as he watches the woman stir in shock on the ground. “Help her! Help her!” the greatly wounded man proclaims, demanding that assistance be forgoed for himself in favour of the woman who needs it far more. Catching up as best as they can, the other parishioners assist the dazed Cathy and brutally battered Jimmy as best they can whilst their assailants make a getaway, hurrying into the bramble without anything more than a beating left in their wake, a message sent and point proven beyond any doubt. == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Saturday, 13th September 1930 / “Just go win” Jimmy whispers to himself, swaying from side to side with his foot tapping against the ground amidst each lean, eyes staring at the ground as his head bobs back and forth. “Just go win” he repeats, subduing his voice beneath the weight of the audience’s applause, listening to the sea of jubilation from a crowd so packed together that some aren’t even able to sit- filed into the building without comfort or luxury out of a need to witness this fight. “Just go win” he murmurs again, stepping aside in the cramped corridor he waits within for the crew tasked with freshening up the fight pit to hurry off- carrying the brooms and mops that have gathered debris and blood throughout the duration of the evening just as they do any other. “Just go win” his whispers carry forward, convincing himself that the task is one of simplicity and ease, all that’s required of him to receive what he’d been yearning for. Pounding against the ground, the stomps of the audience prompt the ground beneath him to shake, supplying the air with a rising tension that he’d already prepared for. Entering not just a fighting pit, but the den of a lion in search of proving that they are the top of their pack, Jimmy embarks on a battle that sees only the fittest survive. “They’re getting rowdy, aren’t they?” Rota wonders aloud, turning the corner to find his opponent for the evening standing around, ready to enter the arena upon the call of his name. Not responding at first, the much more lean fighter balls his fists and begins lifting them toward his abdomen, preparing to spar with his adversary in the event that the start of their fight isn’t brought on by the referee’s declaration. Letting the question fail to earn a response, the taped-fist sportsman watches as his physically superior-appearing rival calmly steps forward, the soles of his boots kicking up dry dirt from the floor they scrape along. “Relax, I’m not here to whack you before the referee says I can. I’m just waiting for my name to be called like you” Rota reassures, civilly stepping up to his fellow combatants side with eyes carried toward the end of the hallway, knowing their presence to be called for from beyond any moment now. “I don’t have any problem with you. The others may have issues of their own with you, but I don’t” Rota reassures, turning his face to look at the scrappy, similarly-aged fighter, whose eyes already remain firmly placed upon the side of his face. “This is just about getting paid to me. I’ve taken enough crap in my life and I want it to pay off for once” the imposing specimen calmly concludes with a shrug, “this is just business for me.” “I’m gonna beat you” Jimmy hastily rebuttals, not waiting much longer beyond his fellow bruiser’s clarification to double down on his determination to make this evening pay off. Keeping his eyes held on the man, the human obstacle runs his hand over his recently-cut head of hair, its strands slicked back to avoid being damped by sweat. Not changing the expression he’d carried through his explanation, Rota instead allows his opponent to step forward, not yet done speaking. “This is personal for me, this is personal for my friends. If Kenny wants to put you in front of me- fine... I’ll run right over you” the man of roughly two inches less height comments, drawing a slight lift in the grin of his adversary. “I hope the money that Kenny pays you from our fight will be worth pairing up with people who’d rather hide from a fight like a scared child than face it like a man” Jimmy doubles down, getting within inches of the other man’s face as he makes this vow, “you’ve made an enemy of my friends and I. We don’t take kindly to people that stand in our way.” Amused and unable to help but let out a singular chuckle at the comment, Rota’s eyes take back toward the direction he’s meant to venture toward, hearing the microphone-wielding commenter begin to address the crowd for their final bout of the evening. Rolling up a piece of paper towel into something more compact and layered, the muscular brute returns his glare toward his shorter opponent, both eyebrows lifted without concern over the declaration waged. “Good luck tonight, Mr. Jimmy” Rota retorts, offering a brief bow before placing the rolled up paper towel behind his lips, placing a shield between the outer flesh of his face and teeth he wishes to protect. Without another word, the man drags his boots along the unforgiving ground as he marches forward, entering a coliseum that- in his eyes- he is a gladiator of, prepared to do the service of Seattle’s emperor in putting on a show for the people. With a mindset entirely set on revenge and endurance, Jimmy’s eyes follow the taller, thicker figure until it vanishes around the corner, entering a world of mixed reaction at the call of a name. Seething in his place, the hooverville survivor rids his mind of the conversation entirely, smacking himself on the side of the head to clear the remarks as he focuses entirely on the scene he’ll be called to within seconds. “Just go win” he mutters once more, violently shaking his head as it’s thrown forward, his arms swinging forward to loosen the joints within them whilst his legs do the same. Wiping the moisture from his lips on the side of his hand, Jimmy breaks free from his place in the middle of the corridor and follows the lead that Rota had blazed prior to him, rounding the corner and entering the public’s line of sight to an even more audible mixed reaction. = 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 = Clouded by the ringing in his ear, Jimmy catches notice of the crowd’s vocal expression of awe and concern as he drops to a knee, his jaw struck with a punch that he’d initially set out to keep himself standing through, only to find his balance giving out. Bouncing from the mat as quickly as his knee had fallen to it, the physically-outmatched, yet odds-on-favourite returns to a fight-ready position, both fists reserved out in front of him as he shakes off the jab. “Alright then” Rota calmly remarks aloud, his face clear of any wounds aside from the brief shakes of his jaw, clearly having built up a slight strain from each of Jimmy’s connected dodges. Circling around each other as they both remain more than capable of keeping their standing in the fight secure, the pair of show-stealers continue to feel each other out, looking for any opening that the other provides whilst also making sure to cover their bases. “It’s been a good one so far” Norman comments, sitting in the corner of one row directly level with the former warehouse’s original floor, he and his business partner having wanted to avoid being amidst the public with how high the stakes of their current bout reside. “And it better end as a good one as well” Wilbur replies, wearing neither a grin, nor a frown as he watches on, clearly having allowed himself to take on a partisan approach to this fight just as his friend had. Ducking a swing, Jimmy throws his fist into the strong core of his adversary before pulling back, offering another quick jab to the bottom of his foe’s chin in the process. Those in the audience that had been worried of his momentum in the fight now briefly flip that emotion into hope, they watch collectively as Rota takes a pair of quick steps backward, feeling the impact of the blows with enough awareness to create as much separation as he can muster. On the offensive nonetheless, Jimmy meets his opponent’s retreat with an advancement, matching each step whilst taking jabs, hoping to connect with one whenever possible. Running out of real estate behind himself to buy in desertion of his onslaught, Rota continues carrying himself backward before bracing into a dive forward, throwing himself beneath one of his contemporary’s heavy strikes and quickly hurrying back to the centre of the platform. “Damn!” the leaner of the pair exclaims in frustration, nearly having backed his foe into the corner, only to let him slip away and regain all the ground he’d cut into. Smiling beneath the makeshift, paper towel mouth guard, Rota swipes his taped fists through the air to loosen himself up as he steadies his demeanour, watching as the man he’s been tasked with keeping from Kenny’s line of sight advances once more, this time without the metaphorical high ground. “How does he keep dodging everything Jim’s throwin’ at him!?” Jesse proclaims, watching from the opposite row of seats than the ones that their Kenny-led rival faction occupy. “Because Rota’s fighting smart. He’s not a hot head like Arthur or overly-conservative like Willard. He’s balanced” Cathy replies, gesturing her hand toward the direction of the men she mentions by name, “he knows what Jimmy wants to do and he’s not letting him have it.” Ducking low beneath another of Rota’s strikes, the clean-shaven bruiser attempts to land another blow to the man’s strong body as he had seconds prior, only to leap back at the last minute as the attempted punch is pulled. Having feigned the same shot that his opponent had countered, the muscular specimen of a man instead uses his opposite hand to throw a genuine uppercut in the bruiser’s direction, catching him by surprise and narrowly missing him by inches. Retreating three steps before bouncing off the platform a few times, Jimmy regains his composure as Rota laughs from beneath the makeshift dental cover, knowing that he’s beginning to get the better of his foe. Just as aware of this, the nearly-beheaded fighter drops his shoulders with a deep exhale before readying himself in a fighting stance once more, holding a passing thought intended to keep him on his guard at the next sign of a fake strike. “Even though neither of us want him to win, credit must be given to him...” Norman remarks, leaning closer to his friend whilst spectating, “...Rota’s the perfect kind of fighter.” Unable to find fault in the statement despite wishing to, Wilbur shrugs as he settles further into his seat, hands pressed together and palms forcefully shoving against each other, concerned about his big money fight’s status by the end of the night. “Just go win” Jimmy whispers to himself as he re-enters the position of battle, aware that such an easy command is far simpler to think of than it is to accomplish. Comfortable in his place within the bout, Rota begins to settle into a groove, each step coming off with ease whilst each half-hearted jab is delivered exactly where he wants it to be, gradually continuing to throw the foe off his guard. Mentally coming to the worry that he may be losing the fight’s momentum, the constantly-dodging gentleman focuses more on prolonging the battle for as long as he can. Pulling his head away from a succession of three jabs before side-stepping Rota’s fourth strike, Jimmy watches the bigger man’s figure pass by him as desired, allowing his fist to land directly upon the bigger heavyweight’s right cheekbone. “There you-!” Wilbur proclaims, cutting himself off before he can finish the claim, aware that he and Norman have purposefully distanced themselves away from the public, but still not wanting to present any illusion to partisanship. “There you go, Jim!” he whispers instead, earning a pat on the shoulder from his wealthy friend whilst the fight continues, leaving Rota to bounce his knee off the mat just as Jimmy had minutes prior. Shaking off the cobwebs, the muscle of Kenny’s group readjusts his posture and begins to retreat in circles, quickly stepping backward in a spherical motion whilst Jimmy follows along from the pit’s centre. Wanting to use his speed and stamina to refocus the momentum into his favour, Rota’s wheel-like backtracking comes to a sudden stop as he reverses course, now forward-stepping in a circle before closing in on the man across from him. Having placed a focus on where he throws his hands, the brute figure descends upon his centralised opponent with spinning fists, planning an attack overlooked by his adversary. Within range, Rota drops to a knee again and swipes his feet across the platform’s surface, taking Jimmy out by the legs in a swift motion, prompting the brawler to brace as he topples over, colliding with the mat viciously. Present of mind enough to remain conscious of the fight’s circumstance the moment he hits the mat, Jimmy watches his standing opponent leap toward the ground with a fist ready, wanting to take advantage of the man whilst off his feet. Refusing this opportunity, the downed man presses his hands against the nailed-together, wooden boards their bout takes place upon and thrusts his foot into the air, his boot’s heel slamming directly into the centre of Rota’s face to a chorus of audible roar. “Yes, Jim!” Jesse proclaims, watching his friend take advantage of the foe’s attack, utilising his own defence as offence in itself. “Damnit, Rota!” Kenny exclaims in the same moment, nearly throwing himself out of his seat as he watches the head of his one-man wrecking crew of an acquaintance thrust backward, kicked in by the force of a heavy shoe. Violent and sudden, Rota’s head thrashes back as the opponent’s heel meets its mark, affording Jimmy the opportunity to climb off the ground. Dazed and suffering from massive whiplash, Rota instinctively throws himself away from his adversary the moment his face is battered in, bouncing off a knee with a quick crawl away. Hurrying forward with balled fists, Jimmy watches as his aspirant tries to regain his bearings, struggling to do so as he winces in pain, having taken a massive blow without much in the way of protection. Still on a knee, Jimmy throws his fist into the side of Rota’s head twice as the larger man attempts to crawl and stammer away, unable to make it back to his feet properly as the war wages on. “No! No! NO!” Kenny proclaims within the audience, sharing in the same distraught realisation that the tides have swung entirely within their foe’s favour at each punch landed that Rota just can’t find a defence for. Smelling blood in the water, Jimmy continues to follow the wounded animal of a contender with blows to be dealt, aiming for the head as if his adversary were a serpent and the kill was one he needed to make right then and now. Refusing to go down without being fully aware of where he is and when the next strike is coming for him, Rota shields his face from one shot after another whilst unable to make it off of one knee, hoping to just buy time as he pulls his arm back for a heavy swing. Unrelenting in his thirst to topple the beast of a human in the name of getting to the prize at the end of the blood-covered tunnel, Jimmy swings with reckless abandon as his nemesis’ strong hand tries shoving him away. One after another, his hand pulls back and fires forward like a brass jacket ripping through the barrel of a gun, sights fully set on ending this contest until the moment that those same sights go dark within an instant. Desperate and resorting to whatever can stop the brutal shots, Rota throws his fist into the air underhandedly without any mind toward where it’s going, his balled fist ripping into the air with great luck before cracking Jimmy beneath the chin. In an instant, the hands of the brawler on the offensive go from strong and forceful to entirely limp, the man’s advancement coming to a shocking end as his body collapses backward, spit flying from his lip as he descends through the air and crashes into the mat. “No! Godda-!” Wilbur howls, punching the air as he leaves his seat, unable to bypass the emotion the forces him into a public corner, still not recognised by most of those who’d paid for admission. “AH! YES!” Kenny proclaims as he leaps from his seat, Arthur following the same act of jubilation whilst Jesse nearly falls out of his seat in horror, watching Jimmy crater into the mat like a limp rag, stunned beyond even the worst of what he’d inflicted upon Rota. Louder than they had been all night, a sudden shock comes over the crowd as they watch the betting favourite go unconscious, lights knocked out like law enforcement putting an end to a good night. For those with money behind Jimmy, they stand in a palpable hush out of shock whilst those gambling in the less-favourable corner do much the same- only out of awe instead of ghastly surprise. Falling onto his backside with both hands wiping at his face, Rota feels the effects of a car crash take over his head as each punch had landed where they’d intended, his inability to make it back to his feet not being of the referee’s interest, however. With his eyes wide open and hands sprawled out at either side of his body, Jimmy lays against the canvas without movement, looking into the spotlight high above the mat that he’s rendered entirely immobilised atop. “ONE!” the referee proclaims, his back turned toward the still-seated, currently-stirring, lost-in-translation Rota with favour focused on the man who shows no signs of getting back up. “TWO!” he proceeds to bark, having watched the tides of the bout shift with such a jerk that even the most violent of whiplashes wouldn’t depict it accurately. “THREE!” the well-dressed official exclaims, the count that he makes still yet to be noticed by the cobweb-headed brute seated behind him, still trying to gather his bearings of just where he is. “Get the hell up, Jim!” Jesse barks as the official makes it to the next count, hands wrapping around the back of another audience member’s seat as he leans forward, trying to howl loud enough for his friend to hear. “FIVE!” the referee follows further, still seeing no sign of life from the fighter that remains looking into the heavens, the count finally being taken notice of by Rota- who suddenly looks forward to view the success of his last-ditch resort. “Stay the fuck down, kid” Kenny mutters beneath his breath, standing from his seat with eyes fully centred upon the downed brawler, watching as his figure appears to have frozen in the middle of making snow angels. “SIX!” the official proclaims, finally watching the subject of his count blind for the first time since being laid out, waiting for the man to make it back to both feet with the little time that remains. “SEVEN!” the next count proclaims, forcing the somewhat-present Jimmy to begin turning over and onto his side, looking to push himself off the ground as quickly as he can. “EIGHT!” the official barks, watching as the downed man falls back to his stomach from one knee, trying too quickly to return to his feet. Reaching out in front of him all the same, Rota slowly succeeds in trying to get up to one knee, which he gradually uses to bring himself back to a standing position. “NINE!” the referee finally counts, watching Jimmy spin around on shaky legs, having forced himself back to a stand as he turns to face his fellow combatant, physically able to continue the bout whilst mentally trying to find his way back to the fight. Clapping his hands together to the sound of a crowd’s applause, the referee kills the count and determines both men to be capable of carrying on, allowing them to resume their competition in search of a conclusive end. Still struggling to process his surroundings, Rota begins stepping forward on instinct, watching as Jimmy tries to match each approaching march with a retreat, hoping to buy time that he can use to gather himself accordingly. Not too keen on throwing punches just yet, the pummelled fighter metaphorically assumes control of the wheel without truly knowing how to drive, stepping forward with hopes of ending the fight without being comfortable enough in his position within the brawl to fully go onto offence. “He doesn’t know where he is, Jim! Get your shit together, you damn prick!” Jesse proclaims, trying to cut through the audience and insult his friend into properly adjusting course. Quickly pulling in one short breath after another before throwing it out of his lungs with force, Jimmy steadies his every movement and carries himself forward, looking into the eyes of his adversary to see a slight, drifting-off gaze within them. “Just go win” he mutters to himself whilst narrowing his eyes, tightening the wrapping of his fingers as they ball into a readied fist, his legs regaining their strength whilst advanced upon. Throwing a quick jab forward without much presence of mind, Rota seals the bout’s fate by opening himself up to the renewed barrage that there’s no coming back from the second time around. Firing lefts and right with reckless abandon, Jimmy gets the muscular brute onto sea legs as the physically-superior foe begins stepping backward, losing his footing just before losing his last ounces of defence. Winning the test of endurance he’d hoped to bring the fight down to, Jimmy lays in one shot after another before sending a message to Kenny and a receipt back to his mercenary. Unable to protect himself, Rota eats each shot before his opponent’s pulled arm fires upward just as his own had, the well-built obstacle thrown in his adversary’s path eating an uppercut of his own that closes the bout off. Rocked enough for his head to just cock back and not return to level, Rota’s eyes take toward the ceiling and keep them there as his body falls backward, landing into the pit as Jimmy steps past him- already knowing he’s had the fight won. “THE BASTARD IS NEXT!” the Mercer Arena-bound brawler exclaims to the emotionally beside-themselves audience, defiantly guaranteeing them the match they’ve waited months for as the referee counts. “ONE! TWO! THREE!” Rota finds himself subjected to, eyes closed and consciousness thoroughly snuffed out in such a way that the count isn’t even heard by the man. “FOUR! FIVE! SIX!” the following numbers are howelled, prompting Wilbur and Norman to shake hands with great pleasure as they solidify their biggest bout to date- having made a beautiful payday from this evening’s event in the process. “SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE!” the referee carries on whilst Jimmy taunts to the crowd, his friends collectively cheering as they anxiously wait for the official to seal the deal and deliver their pal a conclusive victory. Already having made his peace with what he’d just witnessed, Kenny seethes whilst Arthur and Willard shout unpleasant remarks to their nemesis, waiting to hear the final digit being proclaimed for the audience to further lose their minds over. “TEN!” the official declares with absolutely no difference in reaction from Rota between the first and final proclamation, sending the crowd into a frenzy. The calmest of the bunch, Kenny stares at his now-guaranteed opponent for the end of November with an outright furious expression. “Ladies and gentlemen, your winner... Jimmy Elliott!” the announcer declares whilst the victor throws his arms out at either side with the battle cry of triumph, having done what he’d come to with sights on finishing the job. | “You’re pulling my leg...” Jimmy responds with wide eyes of shock, unable to comprehend the winner’s purse that finds its way from his employer’s hand and to his own. “Seven thousand dollars” Wilbur reassures, wrapping both hands around the top of his cane whilst pressing its base into the cement ground of the purposefully boring and uninspiring locker room, “you drew the crowd, you picked up the win, and you did what you were supposed to. You’ve earned it.” “Does that mean I get to fight Arthur when Jimmy takes on Kenny?” Jesse wonders aloud, wanting to guarantee his own future whilst the opportunity presents itself. “Yes, you’ll get Arthur on the same night” Wilbur replies, carrying on the conversation whilst Norman sits in the corner with a cup of water in his hand, “but what’s more important is that we’re selling out an arena event.” “It was originally supposed to be sixty nine hundred, but we threw in an extra bonus as a ‘thank you’” Norman comments, nodding his head toward the paper check in their fighter’s hand, “you proved to be dependable. You kept our arena show in line and we figured it’d be good to show you a little appreciation for-” Kept from speaking by the sound of a knock at the door, Norman’s words evade him just as the rest of the room’s do, their faces finding surprise at the room’s entrance. “I don’t mean to interrupt” Kenny remarks, letting himself into the room without friends following behind him, approaching empty handed and in good faith. “And yet, you do” Norman coldly responds, prompting the grey-haired fighter to look toward his direction in the corner of the room, the focus being paid for a very short period of time. “What do you want?” Jimmy asks aloud, even more of a callous tone taken than the wealthy businessman’s. “To congratulate you” Kenny answers honestly, slowly walking further into the room knowing how hostile the situation at hand can be, “you earned the win. I can’t deny that.” Leaving the man hanging, Jimmy opts not to respond to the man’s credit, watching as his slow approach carries on, following the lead of his words in not yet having concluded. “I don’t have a problem with you, kid. I know you’ve got an issue with me and I accept that” Kenny continues on, appearing to have entered the domain of his enemy in the name of clearing the air beyond the thick layer of fog that appears to overwhelm it. “I want to apologise for getting Stan hurt. I want to apologise for making this mess” the Silver Wolf explains further, shrugging as his steps come to an end just a short distance from his opponent in a month and a half’s time. “I just really hope that you and I have a fair and clean fight in a few weeks. Not something cruel and purposefully brutal, but respectable” he concludes, extending a show of the same respect in the handshake he offers to his younger adversary, “may the better man win.” Provoked into a smirk as he hangs his head, the recently-showered brawler tries to prevent himself from laughing as he sits with his thoughts for a moment, allowed to do so in silence whilst the rest of the room stands around and watches. Closing the distance between himself and the man he’ll fight as desired in a few weeks, Jimmy stares at the still-outstretched hand for a second before looking Kenny in the eyes, speaking in a civilised and composed manner. “I’m going to destroy you” the younger man responds with a chipper visage, watching as the disappointment in Kenny’s face takes shape, his eyelids pressing together and head lowering just as his hand does. “I’m going to leave you broken. I’m going to embarrass you in front of everyone that’s worth a damn. I’m going to end you” Jimmy concludes, watching as the man’s disgruntled face lifts to look him in the eyes, “and Kenny, when I’m done with you, there will be nothing left.” Pressing his lips together, the grey-haired archenemy simmers with the man’s comment whilst remaining unmoved, eyes taking back toward his younger contemporary with genuine despondency. “I really wish that you didn’t say that” Kenny confesses, shaking his head gingerly before stepping backward, retreating the way in which he’d entered with the same sorrowful expression, “congrats again.” Turning around as he re-enters the corridor, Kenny vanishes around the corner and wanders off, heading in the direction of wherever his feet care to take him whilst silence continues to permeate the locker room in his aftermath. Keeping to himself, Norman lets his eyes fall to the cup in his hand whilst Wilbur takes his eyes to the corner of his face, looking at Jimmy just as the man’s friends do. Not speaking, the victorious man feels the weight of anticipation come over him just as it had prior to tonight’s fight, overwhelming any ounce of jubilation that he can carry toward his triumph. With great intent, Jimmy instead stares at the locker room’s entrance whilst settling with the results of this evening’s battle, his knuckles bruised and face bloodied from it, but his heart beats and breaths steady knowing that he’s finally at peace with the guarantee of revenge now promised. == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Thursday, 31st July 1930 / With her hands coupled at her lap, Cathy emerges from her shared bedroom with a slight narrowing of her brow. Quiet and calm, the apartment’s hallways host nothing more than the sound of the woman’s own footsteps, each passing inch trailed over leading the woman further toward her living room. Glancing over the chesterfield with a slight wonder, the woman finds her husband with his knuckles pressing into the floor, holding the rest of his body upward as it leans parallel to the ground. With the slightest frown, the man’s wife watches the beads of sweat drop from his face, falling to the hardwood floors and gathering into a middling puddle. Unaware of the woman’s presence, Jimmy continues suspending himself above the ground, his eyelids pressed shut and breaths forced into a steady, repetitive process. Transported into a mental state that completely forgets about the strenuous activity he partakes in, the couple’s breadwinner forgoes physical satisfaction in favour of pushing his body to its limits. Protruding from his arms, the definition within Jimmy’s arms begins to show as his body tenses up, his hands shaking against the ground that he remains hovering over. Veins showing through the skin of his neck, the man continues to prevent himself from giving into the tempting desire to call it quits, refusing to fail in ensuring that the only way he returns to the ground is when his body physically cannot handle the stress any longer. Watching along without being noticed, Cathy stands by and waits for her husband to conclude the draining exercise, the steps she’d taken toward the living room having been completely unnoticed just as her presence is. Pressing his teeth together as it grows gradually harder to breathe as efficiently as he had, Jimmy feels the trembling of his extremities begin to increase, dying to give in to the will of gravity and allow the fighter to crater into the floor. Parting his lips slightly as it becomes too difficult to breathe through his nose, the heavyweight begins breathing through the tiny slot between his two front teeth, creating a sighing, hiss-like sound with each attempted breath. Clearly displeased with the pain that her husband forces himself to go through, Cathy fights the urge to intervene and offer reassuring words in the name of letting the man follow through with what his will keeps prolonging. Shaking violently, the man’s arms continue to quake beneath the weight of his body as they beg for release, the man’s knees beginning to burn at their joints as his hips start sagging like a wooden board that had spent three weeks floating in a lake. No longer able to breathe without it throwing him off, Jimmy pulls in as much as he can manage as his eyelids part, pupils holding down the miniature lake of sweat that had gathered below, falling from the tip of his nose and awaiting his plunge. Angrily staring at the ground with a refusal to quit, the propositioned bruiser looks deeply into the puddle of sudor with the assistance of the Seattle sunlight peeking through the curtains of his window. Reflecting the room in ways he can barely notice, the collected droplets present the brawler with an illustration of himself, one that details cannot be made out of, but- to Jimmy- are undeniably a depiction of himself. Quickly letting out a deep gasp as he fights to hold onto every last second of elevation that he can manage, Jimmy parts his eyelids as far as he can without any option but to look at the reflected outline of himself. Shaking his head as his left knuckle rolls to the side just the slightest amount, the man’s balance is thrown off without any possibility of being brought back, sending him crashing into the floor, face dipping into the puddle, and back rolling onto the floor with dissatisfaction. “Damnit!” he proclaims in aggravation, covering his face with the palm of one hand whilst taking the opposite into a ball, slamming it against the floor as he regains his breath. Muzzling any less pleasant comment she can make, Cathy looks toward the spot in which her half-nude husband had suspended himself, the sweaty spots from where his knees and fists had pressed into the floor remaining where they’d been cemented. “Is this for your fight against Rota?” she wonders aloud, earning the attention of her husband as he finally takes notice of her presence. Swiping his sweaty hair back with the palm that had covered his face, Jimmy groans as he attempts to sit up, propping himself slightly-forward beneath the power of an elbow pressing against the floor. “What else would this be for?” he asks, curious as to what other answer he could receive from the woman, assuring her accuracy without actually doing so. Without a word and with a noticeably understanding expression, Cathy offers a small smile to her husband before turning away, walking off to attend to other matters within the home. Not receiving any reply of note, Jimmy is left to again let his energy spend itself, the arm he’d propped himself up with returning him back to the floor with a sigh. Falling to the floor alongside the other, the sweat-stained set of fingers that he’d run through his hair slap at the ground and leave him lying beneath the window bathing his living room in sunlight. Glistening in the glow of the afternoon sun stabbing into their home, the fighter’s abdomen continues to lift and drop repeatedly with each recaptured breath. Defeated by forces beyond his control, the man with a test on the horizon continues to sit with his thoughts as they run wild, influenced by the adrenaline he’d spent on attempting to defy what humans were not meant to- unsure of why he even cares to try as much as he does. = 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 = \ Tuesday, 19th August 1930 / “That’s not what I’m sayin’” Jesse responds, shaking his head dismissively as he twirls the prongs of his fork around a mountain of sauce-covered spaghetti, staring at the plate whilst he does so. “Then talk better, you buffoon!” Stanley replies, slicing at his plate of prepared fish with the knife in his healthy arm whilst gingerly stabbing at it with the hanger-freed arm he’d wounded not too long ago. “I’m not interested in settling down and watching a broad pop out babies left and right” Jesse retorts, sliding the pasta off his fork with his lips before speaking as he chews, “I like drinking and spending time with yous and Jim and Cath.” Shaking his head with a smirk, Stanley chews with his mouth shut whilst his wife offers a rejoinder, politely dipping her metal spoon into the bowl of soup she’d waited slightly longer than her pals for. “You won’t be able to drink and spend your nights in the gentlemen's club for the rest of your life, Jesse” Josephine comments, watching an arguable scowl take shape over the fighter’s face as he shakes his head. “That’s not true! There’s a smooth old guy that’s down in the middle of town every night throwing dough at every broad that walks up and down the joint, yeah?” Jesse rebuttals, earning a light chuckle out of the woman’s husband, “he’s living life big time! So will I!” “I highly doubt that, you pill” Josephine jokes, earning another hint of amusement out of her husband as the man opposite her ironically lives up to the comment. “I’m no pill! Yous just not right!” Jesse responds, swallowing his bite of pasta with the fork’s prongs held toward the woman’s direction, “I won’t even just live in the parlour either! I’ll own the damn thing, damnit!” “You’ll be dizzy with a dame before Josie and I even pop out the first baby” Stanley responds, arguing the complete opposite of his friend with a smile, drawing amusement and refusal out of the group’s bachelor. “Don’t yous put that curse on me, Stanley!” Jesse proclaims, turning the prongs of his fork against the still-recovering acquaintance as he shares in their laughter, standing by his point, “I’ll own gentlemen's clubs from here to the other coast while you send your kids off to school!” Sharing in each other’s amusement, the trio enjoy their night of fine dining amidst the public, embracing the night of a dying summer outside on the patio before the sound of a deep, masculine voice catches their ear. “You two Jimmy’s friends?” Rota wonders aloud, gaining their full attention as he stops along the side of the road, having been walking through town before taking notice of the fighters one hip-high gate away from him. Without saying a word, Jesse throws his fork to the table and stands from his seat, letting the utensil bounce a few times before carelessly falling to the floor. “Stand down, stand down! I’m not here for a fight you damn hooligan!” Rota proclaims, stepping back with both hands lifted in a show of surrender, eyebrows furrowed as the hairs of his growing beard touch upon the collar of his buttoned shirt. “What yous want!?” Jesse quickly questions aloud, balling his hands into a fist that hangs by each side, approaching the small-in-stature gate separating himself and his friends from the street that their adversary occupies. “Nothing. I was just heading home” Rota responds, his grizzly tone at least carrying a calm and collected reflection within it, suggesting he truly did not intend to start trouble. “And yous just noticed us and dropped in to say ‘hello’?” Jesse questions back, watching the man roll his eyes and shake his head, eyes taking toward the road he still has yet to travel. “No, I noticed you and took it as a chance to remind you that I’ve got nothing personal against you” Rota responds, doing nothing to convince the fight-ready man that his words are spoken from a place of sincerity. “You sided with Kenny and kept Jimmy from getting his revenge” Jesse replies, allowing his tension-filled arms to slowly release his palms from the heavy grasp of his squeezing fingers, “that’s personal to us.” “Then, listen, I’m sorry that another man can’t do business without the three of you thinking this is something personal” Rota rebukes, his comment intriguing both the recovering fighter and the man’s wife. “Kenny offered me a huge pay if I fought Jimmy and a cut of what he’ll make if Jimmy beats me... Which he won’t” the well-built brawler confesses, offering information that his adversaries had already come to assume, “he made a strong argument and it would’ve been stupid to turn him away.” “So you make a deal with the devil and expect the good guys not to hold it against yous?” Jesse counter-argues, surprising the man opposite him at first. “What makes the three of you think that you’re the good guys?” Rota questions aloud, casually approaching the gate to close the distance between himself and the opponents now that their conversation has become more naturally civilised, “I’m not saying you aren’t, but what makes us the bad guys?” “Your big friend and his little buddy broke my friend’s arm a few months ago and now Kenny’s dodging a fight he deserves by putting yous in the way” Jesse answers, throwing his hands out at either side with a shrug, “what kind of good guys do that?” “From what I understand, the same good guys who only fought you and broke his arm on that first night because you picked a fight with them before that” Rota retaliates calmly, aware of his physical superiority to the instinctually angry gentleman on the opposite side of the gate that neither of their upper bodies are separated by. “We didn’t pick that fight” Jesse rebuttals, only to watch as the much more dominant-appearing gentleman scoffs at the notion. “Nobody wants to be the person that started the issue when people that know nothing have to take sides” Rota replies, only to draw the ire of the opposite friend group’s bachelor. “What makes yous think that your buddies- whatever their names are- weren’t the ones that started it?” Jesse questions aloud, his assumptions being corrected at the first chance the body builder-appearing bruiser is given. “I’m not saying they did. They probably did honestly, but that doesn’t matter” Rota answers, swaying his head in refusal at the idea that it is worth any concern, “the point is we’ve got no good guys in this. There’s just you with your motives and us with ours.” Not satisfied with that response, Stanley takes a step around the table, not fearing that his safety or long-suffering recovery are in danger at the brute’s hands. “What’s your motive?” Stan wonders aloud, stepping up to the side of his younger, shorter friend with genuine curiosity held in his stare. “I want to make sure I keep getting paid, and that I keep getting paid a lot” Rota answers honestly, stepping away from the waist-high iron fence without care over having any further dialogue with the professional foes, “I just wanted to let you know that I don’t have an issue with you. Maybe the people in my team do, but I don’t.” Walking backward for a few steps, the large competitor corrects his direction and begins venturing in the way he’d initially set out to carry himself through. Watching on without uttering a word, Stan and Jesse wait for the figure to disappear within the crowd he walks alongside, taking a long while before the large frame can fall from their line of sight. Sceptical to the man’s claims, the sense he makes out of the situation is difficult for either man to not at least take into consideration. | \ Saturday, 23rd August 1930 / “I don’t care if you don’t have a problem with them. We do” Arthur responds, wearing the most bitter expression that his face can host as he addresses the well-built man seated beside him, “that means all we care about is you winning.” Crossing his arms as he sinks further into his chair, Rota takes the man’s comments into his mind without actually addressing them, offering them silence in return for their vocalisation as he focuses his attention on the fight occurring below. “The kid’s scrappy. He’s not going to stay down unless we make him stay down” Kenny assures, sitting to the muscular brute’s left whilst addressing the shorter man to Rota’s right, the giant enforcer they carry on as backup sitting on the opposite end of the quarter as the grey-haired leader. “Give me a brick and keep an eye out... I’ll make sure he stays down” Arthur retorts, watching the unamused expression that the mastermind reacts to him with as it’s passed along. “We’re not taking the kid out at the knees, Artie” Kenny rebukes, watching as the shorter man’s eyes roll at the refusal, his back leaning into the chair as he stews with the dismissal. With palms pressing against his slack-covered thighs, Arthur simmers quietly as the conversation dies for the moment, affording him an opportunity to watch the elegant dodging of strikes from those a few rows of seats below. The dust being kicked off of the wooden platform they brawl atop finding its way to illumination beneath the heavy spotlights, Arthur’s eyes follow its ascent higher and higher, rising into the air above the level of his head and carrying on. “I don’t understand why you’re still trying to be a good lad about this, Ken” the irritated man finally quips back, regaining the ‘Silver Wolf’s attention, “he’s got a gripe with you. This should be personal for you, too.” “The kid’s right. I brought you both here because I wanted to prove a point to Wilbur. Stan’s a decent fellow, and he got hurt because of the decision I made” Kenny replies, displaying a self-awareness that his acquaintance doesn’t align with, “if he wants a fight with me, he has a reason to.” “And you’ve got a damn family to bring back that he’s threatening” Arthur hastily counters, watching the sway of the older man’s head suggest the comment hadn’t quite landed where he’d wished it to. “Coming at you trying to get back at what happened to his big lug of a pal puts your place here in danger” the bold and ruthless right hand man reiterates, “you can try to make yourself irreplaceable all you want, but once you start losing- it’s game over.” “He’s not going to win” Kenny responds, only to overhear the amused laughter that his lower-ranking subordinate reacts with, disrespecting the man’s claim as his eyes set back toward the intricate brawl occurring below. “The kid is a scrappy bastard who will hit like a ton of bricks, but he’s not going to beat me” the older gentleman doubles down, prompting the unconvinced hot head to completely disregard the comment. “Look at me when I’m talking to you” Kenny warns, looking around Rota- who’d been minding his own business and watching the fight up to this moment- to find the hot head continuing to refuse any change in his dismissive attitude. Crossing his arms tightly against his chest, Arthur remains fixated on the swings and kicks thrown a short distance away as he hears the group’s leader step out of his chair, politely squeezing around the muscular gentleman between them. “I told yo-” Kenny begins to repeat himself, grabbing at the younger man’s arm to lift him toward his feet, only for the action to have been well-expected ahead of time. Swiped away viciously, the out of line brawler pushes himself from the seat he’d occupied and gets in the leader’s face, writing off the comments that his superior wished to reiterate by cutting him off. “You’ve got no way of guaranteeing that you’ll beat Jimmy” Arthur shouts back, able to get away with doing so amidst the sea of noise coming from the hot crowd, their chants and jeers overwhelming the conversation kept between the present foursome. “You’re trying to show respect to someone who shows you none. You’re too calm to be the leader that you think you’re trying to be” the dissenting gentleman comments, catching the grey-haired shot caller by great surprise. Remaining kept to himself without much of a true dog in the fight, Rota keeps his hands tucked into his arms as those above him continue to bicker, a slight smirk carried on his expression as he shakes his head at the lack of organisation already displayed. “Is that right?” Kenny challenges, nodding his head at the concept that his grudge-wielding subordinate is further ahead of the curve than him. “Jimmy isn’t coming to just beat you, he’s coming to send you a message” Arthur argues, finding success so far in arguing that they’ve already become behind the curve in their preparation. “All it takes is one injury for you and you’ll be done for here” the hot head continues, finding no further movement in the head of the man whom he answers to, “you can’t risk pretending to be an upstanding citizen fighting a clean fight when you’ve got someone who wants to put you out of commission.” “I’ll tell you one last time... I don’t have an issue with Jimmy” Kenny restates, continuing to find a lack of give in the reception he receives from the man who stares him down, Willard’s tall frame also standing from his seat to show support for his friend’s argument. “And I’ll tell you one last time... you should” Arthur replies, falling just as silent as the group’s leader does whilst their eyes remain glued upon each other, separated just enough for Rota to continue watching the fight without issue as the ultimate blow is dealt. “Ladies and gentlemen, your winner... Sam Rowe!” the bowtie-wearing announcer declares to a hail of cheering, the odds-on favourite having pulled out the victory to net the audience the slightest of profits for their troubles. In the same breath as the declaration is made, the proclamation provided by both warring sides of the same party comes to a close, their polite returns to their own chairs putting a momentary halt to the entire argument. “I’m glad we’ve got no confusion about who’s in charge” Rota sarcastically remarks, drawing the ire of the man to his right whilst wearing a cheap grin. “I don’t need your snide comments, Mr. Moderate” Arthur passively quips, keeping his arms locked together as he simply enjoys his evening whilst those who’ve taken it upon themselves to elicit his services stew with their own mounting pits of dissatisfaction. | \ Friday, 29th August 1930 / Entering the Commencement Theatre to find the lights shining brighter upon the elegant walls than they normally would, Jimmy looks around without a soul to guide him, stepping alone in a move he’d rarely make when out and about in public. Fancy candles lining each stretch of walkway to assist in the already-dim lights that would normally provide mood-inducing illumination, the scar-healed fighter carries on toward the steps of the theatre without much in the way of anticipation. Stepping through the archway and past the unattended bar counters, Jimmy descends the first few steps of the building’s main bowl before realising that the stage isn’t only empty, but it is entirely unlit in the way he knows it to be. Whilst the fountains outside continue to circulate water through their architecture and the building appears fit for residence, the odd lack of life prompts him to take on an eerie feeling made present through the deepening pit in his stomach. Not allowing it to show, the fight-ready traveller returns the way he’d come, not wanting to take the chance of getting lost by wandering past the stage and into the even darker hallows of the businessmen hosts’ home. Not wanting to intrude upon whatever conversation or duty may be underway, Jimmy quietly keeps to himself as he follows the passageway to whatever lies at the end of it, figuring he’d just take to the opposite direction if this track fails to suit him adequately. For minutes, seemingly without end, the man continues to wander through the mostly-unfamiliar building, finding stretches of walkway ending at sets of staircases and dead ends that refuse to allow him any continuation. Discovering more of the same in the opposite direction, the visitor begins growing disheartened, aware that he can easily call out the names of those who wish to see him, but unable to bring himself to the belief that he can’t find them on his lonesome. In what feels like circles, Jimmy continues to walk with more attention paid to tiny passageways and missed entrances, peering into one room after another without knowing exactly what he’s looking for. Growing more impatient the longer he strolls, his hand takes to the knob of each entrance before finally pulling at one that isn’t locked, the barrier it belongs to swinging inward gently to reveal a set of stairs within the darkness that the fighter is afforded the chance to climb. Pausing with obvious reluctance, Jimmy squints as he attempts to look through the darkness, not sure where the staircase is meant to lead him or what lies at the top of it. With great hesitation and already equally strong annoyance, the man gives into the call of the corridor and steps in, allowing the door to slowly close behind himself after scaling as many steps he could whilst the light was still present. Finding his way through the dark, the man carries onward, feeling like he’d already come too far to go back- and likely being correct in that assessment. For a short few moments, the man tries to follow the mental image he’d taken just prior to the light vanishing, growing more comfortable with each accurate step he takes. One foot in front of the other, Jimmy continues to lift his rubber boots upward until he finally does so with no result, the sole he brings down surprisingly coming to the same level as what he’d already stood at. With his climb complete, Jimmy begins wandering forward like a man born without eyes, his hearing and touch strengthening in lieu of being literally kept in the dark. Like a member of the undead roaming without a clue of where it’s headed, the man holds both hands out as he carries forward, inevitably pressing his palms against the outside of a door that it takes another moment for him to find the handle to. With the faintest difficulty, the man opens the entrance to the rooftop to the sight of a dying day’s sunlight, the glowing star at the precipice of the sky beginning to fade beneath the surface to put an end to yet another set of the callender's twenty four hour blocks. Forced to shield his face at first, Jimmy looks beyond his hand at the modest skyline of the Pacific Northwestern city, its growing population promising to adorn the sight with much greater pieces of eye-catching wonder in the years that should follow. “It looks rather bland, doesn’t it?” Wilbur wonders aloud, catching the fighter he’d invited by surprise as he stands a few paces behind, the base of his cane pressing into the structure that they stand upon. Carrying a squint toward the view, the showman remains standing in silence, waiting for his crowd-drawing brawler to look back toward the view he speaks so poorly of, offering a response on the grounds of what he takes away from it. “I don’t get to see any of it from this high up. Well, I hadn’t gotten to before” Jimmy answers, providing a remark that the wealthy figurehead had already come to expect, snapping out of his presentation-fitting posture to approach the building’s edge. “I don’t plan on leaving this place looking like a broom closet forever, Jim” Wilbur comments, walking past the man he’d purposefully led to the building’s very top in favour of approaching its very final stretch. “This city already pretty much answers to Norman and I, but that isn’t enough for me” the showman comments, the lack of breeze allowing his trench coat to remain steady as he glances back toward his acquaintance from over his shoulder, a smirk carried in his expression, “I’m sure you already knew that, however.” Comfortable enough in his ability to draw an audience that he can step forward without fear of being shoved off the ledge, Jimmy strolls up to the side of his employer and looks out at the sea of rooftops ahead of them, the vast majority of the buildings within the city not reaching a height of the one they currently occupy. “They don’t have buildings here like the ones they have in New York” the bruiser originating from the northeast responds, passing a look to the man beside him, “is that what you’re referring to?” “It will be someday” Wilbur answers with a nod, continuing to stare out at the world ahead of him whilst his employee’s face eventually takes to the same direction. “I’m imagining a few towers in the distance. A big platform people can view the city from right along the water... Piercing into the sky like a needle” the performer carries on, extending the palm of his hand into the distance, “a world perfectly marked by my hand and my wealth. One that carries my name without being named after me.” “I’m not an architect if that’s why you called me here” Jimmy states, hoping not to lead his employer down the wrong line of thought, “I did work on a bridge, but I didn’t design the bridge. There’s not much that I can help you with here.” With a smirk, Wilbur shakes his head in refusal before stepping away, spinning around to retreat the way in which he’d first come. “No, I just wanted to let you know that the fight between Kenny and yourself is sold out for the Mercer Arena. I’ll have to provide my patrons with the money back if it doesn’t go on as scheduled” Wilbur comments before again spinning around, looking toward his prize fighter with a lifted, left eyebrow, “I’d appreciate it greatly if you didn’t force me to hand them their money back.” “I’m going to beat Tom Rota, and then I’m going to beat Kenny House. You better not expect anything less” Jimmy responds, guaranteeing his victories in succession without any shred of doubt, receiving a confident nod from the man opposite himself. “Alright then” Wilbur replies, nodding with approval before venturing toward the rooftop entrance, preparing to return the way in which he’d arrived. “Is that all you brought me here to talk about?” Jimmy calls out, watching the door fly open at the behest of Wilbur’s hand as he pauses, knowing that he can simply descend into his theatre home without answering, “what’s the point of telling me about what you want the city to look like if that is all you wanted to talk about?” Wearing a grin, the showman looks to the rooftop for a moment without speaking, nodding to himself before finally carrying his line of sight toward the fighter. “We both know that I have the power and the leverage in this city to make every single one of those buildings I talked about happen” Wilbur responds, taking the first step back toward the theatre’s interior before finishing his thought, “I wanted to remind you of what I’m capable of just in case you thought losing to Thomas Rota was an option.” Without speaking, Jimmy watches the man carry on with his departure as the door remains open, leaving the brawler alone with only his thoughts to accompany him. For a moment, he questions Wilbur’s motivations before disregarding them as unimportant, his desire to beat Rota and guarantee himself a shot at getting his hands on Kenny remaining as strong as it’s always been, his chin lifting higher as he stares into the Seattle skyline once more, determined and focused. == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Saturday, 19th July 1930 / With blood running down the side of his face from a deep gash over his left eyebrow, a victorious fighter returns to the sanctuary of his stuffy little locker room with deeply bruised knuckles. Covered in sweat, all the heavyweight really wishes to do is hit the showers, desiring to feel fresh and rejuvenated, wishing to wash himself of the battle scars that he’s painted with whilst finally stepping through the doorway of his private room. Stopping in his tracks before he can even venture more than a pair of steps inward, the lowered-guard brawler finds a man sitting in the chair he’d occupied prior to stepping into the centre of battle. Leaning at an angle in the seat with his arms interlocked across his chest, an unfamiliar man from the faintest glance sits with his legs stretched as far out as they can reach, one ankle crossed over the other as the stranger’s head hangs over the back of the seat. “This isn’t your locker room” the grizzled fighter remarks, sporting a dark goatee that stretches halfway down the length of his neck, earning the attention of the man that his scraping footsteps had failed to grab. “That’s correct. It’s yours, Thomas Rota” Kenny replies, widening his eyes and lifting his head, face directing itself toward the glistening skin of the now continually-stepping bruiser. “Tom is fine, thanks” the triumphant gladiator corrects, his abdomen muscularly shredded into eight abs that grow less defined and more defined with each breath. “Sure. It’s your locker room, Tom” Kenny reiterates, patting his thighs as he steps off the chair, joining the room’s tenant in climbing to his feet. “So why are you in here?” the well-built bruiser questions aloud, reaching into a small, paper bag in the corner of the room to retrieve a plain, white towel. Visibly unamused with the unannounced drop-in, Tom watches his visitor approach him until their eyes are level, faces looking into each other’s. “I thought I could run some business by you” the older gentleman answers honestly, inspecting the man’s physique with a nod, “I’m looking for someone to help me with a little issue that I’ve got, and I don’t think I’m gonna find another twit in this place better to solve it.” “Yeah, I’m not interested in your little games” Tom responds, obviously reluctant to buy into what anyone around him is selling- not wanting to take the chance of being propositioned with snake oil. “I don’t know you, I don’t trust you, I don’t care what problems you’ve got going on” the muscular man doubles down, politely stepping around his wealthy contemporary with a cold shower in sight, “take your little business and run it by someone else, yeah?” “This isn’t a trip for biscuits, Tom. I’m not fancying you sourdough here” Kenny assures, turning with the man that attempts to walk away, his follow-up at least buying him a few more seconds successfully. Silently turning back toward his guest, the successful pugilist sets eyes back upon his older colleague and waits for further information, allowing him to make his point whilst in a charitable mood. “I’m not looking to play games, Tom. You’ve got strong hands, you lay in a wicked uppercut, and you’re just the obstacle that I need to separate myself from Jimmy Elliott” Kenny explains, watching the furrowed brows of the near-nude fighter react to him. “You insulting me?” Tom queries back, unsure of what his visitor is trying to insinuate as he steps forward, watching the shaking head of his grey-haired fellow-bruiser correct such a conclusion. “No, I mean I need you to be a literal roadblock” Kenny retorts, squashing any chance at misapprehension as the sweating boulder of a gentleman returns within such proximity that his breath can be felt running against the older man’s chin. “Elliott and I are fighting to one-up each other. We’re giving Wilbur exactly what he wants and trying to show that we can do it better than the other” the fully-clothed fighter currently without any true next fight scheduled explains. “I have an idea that will not only give Wilbur what he wants- which is a packed house- but make him a ton more money” Kenny concludes, doubling down on his vow as he’s quickly met with silence. Breathing through his nose with a scowl that brings out the definition of his facial muscles, Tom stares back to the man who’d dropped in on him without warning before looking to the ground, seeing the traces of dirt and sand that their respective boots had carried in. “What’s in it for me?” Tom wonders aloud, finally opening himself up just enough to take consideration into what he’s proposed. “You made just over a thousand dollars with tonight’s fight, yeah?” Kenny wonders aloud, stepping forward with his voice lowered the slightest amount, carrying a near-whisper to avoid any possible ears lingering within the dark. “How would you like to make nearly three thousand with one fight with the possibility of getting another few thousand from me later on?” Kenny inquires, pulling his face a slight distance away from the gentleman that stands before him, watching as the man’s eyes remain glued to the ground. “You’ll have your back covered whenever you lose. We’ll save you from getting the axe for poor performance” the ancient-in-comparison brawler explains, only for the strong voice of the opposite man to refuse such a notion. “I don’t fail, cinderdick” Tom interrupts, pressing the tip of his heavy finger into the mastermind’s chest, watching the man’s lips press shut and voice go quiet, his eyes slightly widening as they watch the brute’s digit pull away. Stepping back with the towel still in hand by his side, the locker room’s tenant for the evening takes another glance around the mostly-empty space, thinking quietly to himself as Kenny waits. “I’ll give it some thought” the partially-clothed powerhouse responds, speaking not another word before leaving the room, stepping off in the direction of the showers as the man he leaves behind begins to smile. “Let’s do business then” Kenny whispers to himself, nodding as he takes another look at the seat he’d waited upon before walking off, venturing down the opposite direction from where his potential acquaintance had come from with eyes on the immediate future. = 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 = \ Wednesday, 23rd July 1930 / “Ladies and gentlemen, your opening favourite... Jimmy Elliott!” Wilbur proclaims, hearing the roar of the audience that his Commencement Theatre hosts as the prize fighter steps through the curtain, entering from behind the stage whilst his promoters occupy it. Casually placing his hands together, Norman subdues any partisanship in the name of fair representation, though internally- he burns with pleasure at the idea that the stage’s newest-occupant will do what he’d wished to a week prior. Claiming ownership over the side of the table he’d meant to sit behind seven days earlier, Jimmy takes his seat and presses the sides of his hands against the table. Allowed to continue their ovation, the audience affords their odds-on-favourite an opportunity to survey the bowl that surrounds their stage. In the same seats they’d occupied the last time they’d made an attempt to hold the address, Jimmy’s friends applaud with the rest of the populace, his wife the most eye-catching amongst them. From one side of the humanity horde to the other, men dress in their finest of attire as do the ladies. With professional caps on and cigars in most of their mouths, the gentlemen wear solid-coloured dress jackets over button up shirts, a pair of slacks falling down the length of their legs. Much more vibrant, the women adorn more colourful garb, hats with longer brims- some draped over by vails, and long dresses in a litany of patterns that all sway with the movement of their hands. Listening to the applause from her front row seat on the direct opposite side of Jimmy’s closest pals, Velma lights a cigarette with one leg politely crossed over the other, watching the air cloud with a haze of potent smoke as she shakes out the match’s flame. “Jimmy’s opponent has a record mirroring the fighter’s own- an undefeated one-and-oh in hand-to-hand combat” the spectacle-creator declares to the audience, “as of now, it’ll be the fight with the highest-stakes that we’ve ever put on.” Clearing his throat with a slight lean forward, Jimmy presses his lips as close to the microphone as he can get them whilst his employer parts his lips- attempting to speak. “It’s going to be the quickest fight you’ve ever put on, too” the seated heavyweight doubles down, earning a re-ignited ovation from those in the audience who have predicted the man’s victory with the assistance of a handful of cash. Humoured, Norman wears a grin with amusement whilst Wilbur laughs aloud, joining those within his audience in reacting whilst Velma delicately taps the tops of her fingers with one hand against the palm of the other. “That’s a man, Jim!” Stan remarks with pleasure, nodding in approval whilst Cathy gently nudges his unwounded side with her elbow. “Nonetheless, there needs to be an opponent for you to quickly battle as well!” Wilbur declares, pressing the base of his walking cane against the hardwood stage, standing directly in front of the table his fighter patiently waits behind. “Ladies and gentlemen, equally undefeated, this is your second chance to welcome Kenneth House to the stage!” the showman announces, gaining a chorus of cheers from slightly less than a quarter of the crowd- the remainder of the audience jeering outright. Shining into the audience, the spotlight that Wilbur’s fixed to where the theatre platform’s curtain rod would normally reside finds its way to an empty chair, its red, velvet-like upholstery having gone the entire evening without being occupied. Having prepared to round the table without shaking the hand of the man who they’d exchanged pleasantries with one week prior, the businessmen catch the open seating out of the corner of their eyes, noticing the lack of presence from the opponent. “Where’s Kenny?” Wilbur wonders aloud, asking the question toward Norman whilst Jimmy watches on from his seat, looking around the audience with as little insight as his employers do. Glancing back from the comfort of her seat, Velma furrows her brows at the man’s absence just as well, the friends that Jimmy had brought along remaining within their own places just as she does, though with much greater dissatisfaction. “He didn’t even show up!” one man howls out from the audience as the somewhat mixed reaction settles down, earning a complete rebirth of jeers as even those who’d put money on the man now turn their support against him. “This is not going to happen” Wilbur calmly speaks, his comments being brought on with just enough volume for those he shares the stage with to overhear, “this rat is not going to cost me another-” Disobeying his cue, Kenny emerges from the arch that sits at the very top of the theatre’s staircase, staring out at the audience for a few seconds before the light that had fallen upon the chair he was meant to occupy begins to lift toward his actual figure. Re-earning the outnumbered cheers that he had been receiving, the man’s appearance puts a silence upon the semi-relieved promoter, who lets free a sigh knowing that his plans for the evening won’t be ruined once more. “What is that twit doing?” Jesse inquires, asking around to his pals without receiving any answer, just as uncertain and confused as those on the stage are. Continuing to revel in the reception, Kenny pans his line of sight from one side of the aisle to the other, stretching his glare all the way to the opposite half of the building’s main bowl before even taking the first step toward the centre of each seat’s focus. “I think he’s giving you a run for your money, Willy” Norman jokes, watching the attention that the older-looking brawler commands, the mixture of applause and refusal wafting over the grey-haired warrior like a cool breeze on a hot, summer’s day. “Please, the silver wolf can’t out-dandy m-” Wilbur retorts, only to stop himself silent as he repeats what he’d just uttered aloud himself internally, dawning a smile upon his face as his eyelids inch closer together, “the silver wolf.” Continuing to receive the crowd’s reaction as vehemently as when he’d first stepped through the arch, Kenny remains put without any end in sight, allowing the audience all the time in the world to provide him with exactly what his employer wants them to- their attention. “Once again, ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome the equally undefeated...” Wilbur howls, earning the grey-haired mastermind’s line of sight once more, “...the Silver Wolf! Kenneth House!” Amplifying ten-fold, the audience roars at the man’s repeated introduction, watching a smirk lift in the corner of the former labourer’s mouth before he finally begins to descend the staircase. Having hidden shortly behind and away from the path of the spotlight’s luminosity, Arthur and Tom begin to follow the man shortly behind whilst Willard lingers around in the back, accompanying the men to the very end of the descent as their reinforcement. “Which one is that!?” Stan questions aloud, looking on with great inquisition as he follows the foursome down the length of the audience, their each step closer to the bottom of the stage watched on with great suspense. Not caring over the matter, Jesse’s ire is simply drawn toward the group as a whole, the anger of himself and his pals feeding off of the source that their stage-residing friend wields. “Thomas Rota is with them?” Norman questions aloud, carrying a squint toward the quartet before looking in the direction of his partner in crime, the wide smile that the trench coat-laden gentleman wears being impossible to hide. “This just keeps getting better, Normie” Wilbur cheerfully remarks, passing a glance to the man whilst their prize fighter remains paused, trying to refrain from putting a look of anything other than composure upon his visage. Eventually making his way to the steps that separate himself from being level with his promoters and opponents, Kenny gives a nod to his acquaintances, who couple their hands together at their laps and remain put. With a scowl on his face, the grey-haired soldier of intelligence approaches his employer with eyes of stone, reaching out his hand with parted fingers. Assuming this to be a display of respect, Wilbur reaches out to shake the man’s hand before watching the digits carry past his open palm, instead reaching for the moving coil microphone that resides within the other one. Tearing it away from the showman, Kenny presents an unpleasant demeanour rigid enough that even the grandeur-speaking businessman is taken back, watching their golden boy’s adversary depart with eyes facing the audience. “You... girl...” Kenny speaks into the audio piece, his stretching digit held in the direction of the smoking woman employed by the man he’d just torn the talking stick away from, “...when is my fight with Jimmy scheduled for?” Admittedly not clued in on the answer, Velma stares with surprise at the way in which the dubbed ‘silver wolf’ speaks, everything from the cadence to his posture reading like a man more full of himself than anything people had known him to be, only able to muster the shake of her head with loss. “Halfway through September” Norman answers instead, watching the confrontational fighter spin around at the sound of his voice, which is carried through the second stick that hadn’t managed to be snatched, “the 13th of September, to be more specific.” Standing at the front of the stage- well ahead of the trio who’d occupied it long before he had- Kenny nods to himself and looks toward the air before pointing toward his posse. “Jimmy’s going to fight Tom Rota on that night instead” he answers, immediately eliciting a wave of confusion from the wealthy onlookers that he presents himself to. Finding a squint from the now empty-handed showman, the brazen group leader steps forward, making his case to the man that he knows will look to do whatever makes the most amount of money. “If Jimmy can beat Tom, then he can have his fight with me” the man proclaims, only to watch Norman step forward with a microphone lifted toward his lips. Without caring to think twice, Kenny follows through on his mission by slapping the talking stick away from the hand of Wilbur’s business partner, adamant about addressing the showman himself directly. Taking immediate retaliation to this, Norman throws his hands into the fighter’s chest and violently shoves him back, nearly taking him off his feet before the rest of the onlooking group joins their shot-caller on the stage. Getting between the grey-haired ticket seller and his own partner in crime, Wilbur shoves them both back and refuses any further hostility, throwing his finger in the faces of both Tom and Arthur as the first men to come to Kenny’s aid. “If you want to make money, this is how you do it!” the Silver Wolf proclaims, shouting in the showman’s face as the crowd reacts accordingly to the appearance of outright, boiling-over tension. With wide eyes, Wilbur gets in the face of his subordinate and presses his forehead against the man’s own, angrily breathing through his nose at the lack of respect shown for his colleague. “If the kid wins, then he’s earned the fight that he wants! If he loses, then he doesn’t! It’s as simple as that!” Kenny howls into the mic, veins protruding from his neck as he steps in front of Arthur, pressing his hand against the acquaintance’s chest to hold him back just as Wilbur does with Norman, “those are the ground rules! And if any of these people want to see Jimmy and I fight, they’re gonna need to buy a ticket to see Jimmy fight Tom for that right!” Steering clear of the immediate trouble, Jimmy stands from his seat and remains behind the table, earning a passing glance from Kenny whilst Jesse climbs up to the stage, joining beside his friend whilst the grey-haired brawler remains fixated on the showman promoter. Wanting to get his hands dirty with the villainous mastermind, Norman tries to push past the reach of his wealthy friend before being carried back. Wrapping his arms around his pal’s torso, Wilbur drags Norman back to somewhere private, taking him by the shoulders before speaking in confidence. “We’re not going to let the inmates run the asylum around here, Willy!” the crafty businessman remarks, trying to look past his anger for Kenny in the name of making the right call in the moment. “We’re not, but I can’t deny that he’s got a great point!” Wilbur corrects, watching his friend’s face begin to sour at the idea that common ground had been found amongst the two. “Making Jimmy run the gauntlet to get to Kenny would help us delay the real big fight and still get people to show up in droves!” the spectacle-dependent provocateur confesses, immediately recognising the displeasure carried in his pal’s eyes. “And if Jimmy loses, we don’t get the real big fight at all!” Norman reiterates, providing the strongest counterpoint that can be made to the proposition at hand, one that his colleague does not shy away from accepting. “Yes, and if that bridge happens to come upon us, we’ll address it when we have to. But for now, this is brilliant!” Wilbur remarks, pulling his buddy’s face back toward his own as it tries to veer off to the altercation-starter awaiting response. “This is the smart move. It’s ballsy, but it’s smart” Wilbur concludes, making his point without fear that his acquaintance is too high on adrenaline to see the sense in it. “We came up to the Pacific Northwest for the purpose of owning it. There is no bigger gamble than that one” he continues, doubling down on the reassurance that their decision now needs to set the standard for what they carry forward with, “we’re taking a risk with this one, but it’s far from the heaviest gamble we’ve ever taken.” “No one gets rich without taking chances” Norman quickly responds, watching a smile overtake the showman’s face as their minds reach the same track. “That’s why I chose to bring you up here with me!” Wilbur proclaims, patting his partner on the shoulder before turning back toward the scene of chaos with a smile, taking notice of the raucous crowd for the first time since involuntarily drowning them out minutes prior. “I see that smile on your face, but I’m not done...” Kenny finally carries on, seeing the grin that spreads from one side of his employer’s face to the other and taking it as the sign that his proposition has caught the right set of ears. “If the kid beats Tom on September 13th, then I’ll fight him on the last Saturday of November...” the Silver Wolf continues, watching the showman’s chin lift with intrigue amidst the pause, “...but I don’t want it happening in that pit you’ve got down by the water.” Puzzled, the spectacle-maker passes a glance over his shoulder to the equally-bewildered Norman, who restrains his displeasure for those that wield the microphone and the centre of attention. Remaining quiet, Wilbur turns his face just to the side as if to gesture a continued explanation, wanting to hear out the mind that proposes his change in plans. “I told you that I wanted to prove that I was invaluable. I can’t be replaced by other fighters you’ve got working for you, and this is why...” Kenny declares, another dismissive stare carried in the direction of Jimmy, who stands by without wanting to defy the orders set upon him by Wilbur, “...If he and I fight, I want it taking place in front of five thousand people out at the Mercer Arena.” Leaning forward slightly in her chair, Velma attempts to disregard the howling of the audience that foams at the mouth for the chance to gain admission to the fight, the limited capacity of the Smith Cove pit having refused most the opportunity to do so without infinitely deep pockets. Immediately looking on with surprise at the proposal before instinctively veering his line of sight toward the audience, Wilbur finds each soul hosted within the bowl appearing more like dollar signs than actual people. Admittedly finding great intrigue in the prospect of running such a massive show, the direct howling of approval from the crowd serves enough to convince Norman that his adversary may have a point too good to refuse. Watching as his now-potential opponent make a name for himself whilst he does nothing, Jimmy ignores the questions that Jesse asks of him whilst waiting for the showman’s answer. For a few moments, Wilbur remains utterly quiet as he gazes out at the audience, finding their ovation to be too lustful to ignore. Gently reaching out to reclaim the talking stick, his scratches at the soft part of his neck just beneath his chin and looks the grey-haired combatant in the eyes. “You’ve got a deal” he answers to a deafening cheer from those now practically guaranteed a seat at the biggest fight yet to be offered, watching as the men shake hands on the agreement whilst an angry Jesse and an oddly-composed Jimmy stand by. | “This is ridiculous!” Jesse shouts, more angry than the rest of his friends are disappointed, their collective stroll away from the Commencement Theatre being spent within each other’s palpably quiet company. “Yous got your damn shoulder messed with because of the dumb fucking twit!” the bachelor comments toward Stan, receiving nothing more than an agreeing nod before looking toward Jimmy, “and yous just got fucked! Your match with Kenny is off because of the-!” “It’s not off, it’s just delayed” Jimmy interrupts, correcting his friend’s conclusion with an almost care-free and casual tone in his voice, puzzling those that he walks with- his wife included. Walking in silence for a few seconds, the group continues along their way whilst the man’s declaration is taken to heart, the circumstances that surround it not lost on anyone. “What’s going on with yous, Jim?” Jesse wonders aloud, speaking calmly with obvious dissatisfaction carried in the way his quandary is presented, “Kenny just walked up and told you to fight some other crumb just for the right... the right... to fight him.” Understanding very well what had just happened, Jimmy nods in agreement without uttering a word, “talk about the balls he must have to suggest something like that” Jesse tacks on. “And is it going to fucking stop me from getting my hands on the filthy bastard?” Jimmy chops back, taking a quick step ahead of his peers before spinning around, preventing anyone from continuing to walk as he addresses the man. “I don’t care if he puts the fucking Japs ahead of me. I’ll run through their whole fuckin’ empire just to wrap my hands around his throat” the man carries onward, shaking his head in defiance as he approaches his lady-less friend. “I’m not meaning to speak out of character, brother. But don’t ever talk to me like I can’t take on some fucker if I’ve got to” the young, married gentleman calmly warns. “I wasn’t, Jim. None of us are” Jesse quickly responds, assuming he’d been misunderstood the first time around, “we know you’re gonna wipe the floor with the bastard.” “I’m gonna get paid a fat chunk of dough by beating muscle man in a couple of weeks... And I’m going to beat muscle man in a couple of weeks” Jimmy explains, shaking his head at the man who now stands in silence- hearing him out. “I know you don’t means to be telling me that I can’t beat him, but talking like this is a problem because I have to beat him to get at Kenny might as well be you talking like I can’t beat him...” the group’s leader assures, a defiant and confident stare carried through his pupils, “...and I will beat him.” Pulling his head back just slightly, Jimmy lifts a finger toward Jesse out of wanting to prevent the man from using his silence to speak. Digging a carton out of his pocket, the young man pulls a smoke free from within before offering up one to each of his contemporaries, passing around matches that they all use to light their tobacco stick. With a satisfying pull, the group sits in the sweet stench of their darts as the light and puffy-looking clouds waft through the air from their lungs. “I’m not going to just fight Kenny, I’m going to beat him into apology” Jimmy declares, crossing one arm over the other as he stares out at the waterfront they travel through night beside, watching lights of street lamps reflect off the rippling waters as a soft breeze rolls through. “He can delay what’s coming for as long as he wants, but I will not let him get away” the young man concludes, earning a few rolling nods of approval from those who join his company as he looks to them, “sooner or later... all roads will lead back to me.” == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Wednesday, 16th July 1930 / Collectively residing within the seats that line the theatre their showman presenter calls home, the wealthy figures of depression-stricken America gather around the stage that their friend in the trench coat stands upon. Now shown exactly what kind of spectacle the fight promoter is capable of putting on, the rich men and women that line the building’s bowl of seats howl and roar, applauding and cheering whenever necessary- invested in the product being offered to them. Drowning out the raucous ovations and the palpable awe, Jimmy sinks further into his seat, pressing his back into the fabric-covered seats bolted to the ground. Grasping the varnished, wooden armrests to each of his sides, the man begins feeling the weight of anger and tension within his chest alleviate from him, like the weight of water gradually lessening as the heat of the air turns it into a weightless gas. Breathing slow and prolonged breaths, the fighter watches the showman as time begins to decelerate, each motion of Wilbur’s arm appearing as if the rest of his body were hitting the brakes- moving close to a pause. Pressing his eyelids together, the brawler tries to compose himself, feeling a chill in the air run down the length of his neck, which burns hot beneath the droplets of sweat that travel down the length of his flesh. Paying no mind to those who’d accompanied him to the theatre as they watch on at the grand lead-in the showman on stage provides, Jimmy gradually speeds away from relative consciousness, travelling halfway into a mental place of peace and serenity. Gently resting over the edge of the sides of his seat, the young man’s fingers release all of their tension and simply sit over the smooth, wooden lip. As if falling out of his own body, Jimmy feels his weight disperse as he rests comfortably in the modest theatre chair, recently reupholstered to provide the guests that Wilbur hosts an even more preferable experience. Parting his lids once more, the fighter that waits to leave his seat until the call of his name had been uttered watches on at the continued motion of the two gentlemen atop the stage, unable to hear the deafening applause from the audience as his ears refuse it attention. Trapped within his own head, the only sound that his isolated eardrums take into account are the muffled breaths that Jimmy pulls in and lets free from deep within his core. Every now and again, the blood that rushes through the veins in his neck will make the faintest sound of motion, returning the brawler to the moment in which his physical body still resides within. Falling to each of his sides, the bruiser’s eyes take away from the patrolling, trench coat-wearing city conqueror and supplant themselves onto the back of his each hand. Neither trembling or swaying, Jimmy’s fingers simply remain draped over the edge of each wooden support, unable to truly be felt in a way less like the sensation of pins and needles, but something more akin to outright paralysation. Comfortably numb to it all, Jimmy can’t help but lift his heavy eyes back toward the stage as Wilbur’s figure approaches him, blocking out one of the spotlights that sit near the back of the elevated platform and shine upon the ceiling with a detailed sketch illustrated upon it. “Ladies and gentlemen... Jimmy Elliott” the showman remarks calmly, extending a hand toward the man as he sits within his seat, snapping the trance that his fighter had been lost within. Having already been requested to the stage amidst the spell that his opponent had endured, Kenny stands alone on one side of the table, ready to take his seat the moment his presence on the dais is no longer the only one. Suddenly returning all at once, the weight of Jimmy’s frame returns to his body as the man attempts to stand up, struggling to feel the sensation of touch within his hands and feet. Mustering enough strength to climb out of his chair with little issue, the oddly uncomfortable fighter begins making his way toward the small set of stairs a short distance away, allowed to do so freely as Wilbur backs away, leaving way for the crowd to applaud their defiant hero. Still feeling the moisture that coats his skin roll down his neck, Jimmy fumbles his hand upward to fiddle with his tie, trying to provide the smallest amount of release by undoing it just slightly. With his chin slightly lifted and the only one in the entire auditorium watching the state of his opponent’s posture, Kenny waits with hesitation in the place he’d been left standing, unsure that his adversary is entirely alright. Quivering, Jimmy’s bottom lip feels the harsh, gasp-like breaths leave the man’s lungs in a rush, as if every movement were both physically taxing and utterly draining. Literally trying to put his best foot forward nonetheless, Jimmy attempts to take the first step that sits in front of him, lifting his numb leg upward awkwardly as the next four stairs remain ahead. Instinctively using his adrenaline as best as he can, the fighter’s mind thinks to act too soon for the rest of his body to catch up, lifting his second leg toward the next step before his first has any opportunity to support himself. Tripping up the third and fourth stairs to the sound of the crowd’s very quick suppression of cheers, Jimmy presses his palms against the lip of the final step just ahead, barely managing to keep his face from colliding with the corner of each platform. With an eyebrow raised in curiosity of his audience’s sudden change in reaction, Wilbur turns to prized fighter with great confusion, Norman’s figure remaining standing just to the side of Kenny as he also takes notice of this odd issue. Still acting exclusively on his impulses, Jimmy makes an effort to complete his climb to the stage, successfully carrying himself off the staircase and to solid, level ground. Letting out a quick and heavy breath, the brawler begins to correct his posture, standing upright as hastily as he can before immediately widening his eyes, feeling every pound of weight that his body carries bring itself to his head, leaving his cranium to feel like a medicine ball that he can’t muster the strength to carry. “Ji-?” Wilbur wonders aloud instinctually, seeing the forward lean of his valiant fighter and noticing it to just be more of the same odd demeanour, drawing his concern. Completely ignoring the showman’s call as his body tilts forward, Jimmy’s eyes roll into the back of his head as every ounce of strength crumbles just as his legs do, throwing his body forward without warning. Dropping the charade of the eccentric promoter, Wilbur hurries to the aid of his brawler just as Norman does, hearing the awful sound of a body collapsing into the wooden platform with no restraint, able to be likened to that of dropping a twenty pound bag of sand on the kitchen floor. Following a much similar approach, Cathy rushes to her husband’s aid just as their friends do, dismissing the audible awe of the crowd as the promoters hurriedly call for their paid medics standing by. Clearly surprised at this instance as well, Kenny remains standing behind the table that he’d occupied since being brought to the stage, the bottom half of his jaw still held toward the air. With brows lifted, the older brawler turns his head toward the place within the audience that he’d emerged from, seeing a pair of unmoved and concern-lacking faces also looking in the direction of the fallen brawler. Filled with more disdain than anything else, Arthur and Willard carry their glare toward the opposite end of the stage from their new acquaintance, also passing little care of the crowd’s bewilderment just as the rest of those on stage do. Sneakily sliding a glass bottle of pills back into his pocket, the smaller of the two men eventually frees his hands to adjust the flaps of his jacket, wanting to remain appearing professional as their friend on stage looks on. = 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 = “I’m not sure, but his face is going to hurt for a bit after that fall he took” a man in professional wear replies, pulling his stethoscope away from the chest of the collapsed fighter. “I’m not giving up this opportunity. I want to get my hands on-!” Jimmy replies, shaking his head from one side to the other as he attempts to climb down from the examination table, only to be held back from doing so by both the fight’s promoter and his own wife. “You’ll get your hands on Kenny, we’re just not going to have this address tonight” Wilbur responds, offering reassurance to the dissatisfied brawler who’s too light-headed to provide much of a rebuttal. “Has he been drinking tonight? He could’ve gotten a Mickey Finn” the doctor proposes, only for the gesture to be waved off by the fighter, who continues to sit with dissatisfaction, but is successfully gestured to remain seated. “It doesn’t matter what happened, we’ll reschedule tonight’s address until next week” Norman responds, standing with his arms crossed in the doorway to the room, “he will not be allowed to drink before the address, and we’ll keep him away from the public until showtime.” Looking toward his taller, one-armed friend in silence at first, Jesse holds back his interjection as the room goes quiet, providing something pleasant enough for each of the inhabitants to accept other than himself. “No, if yous got Micky Finned, I wanna know who’s guilty!” the bachelor of the three proclaims, stepping between Stan and Cathy to approach the well-dressed public speaker. “Yous got someone going around and drugging your fighters. There better be nobody wanting more to find out who did this than yous” Jesse states, pointing his finger in the direction of the sighing showman. “I know I wear many different hats, but that truth doesn’t extend to my profession. I’m not a detective, Jesse” Wilbur retorts, watching as his drugged fighter’s wife gently pulls their bachelor pal away from the wealthy show-stealer. “I doubt we’d come anywhere close to finding out who’s responsible for this, but if we did manage to pull off a miracle-” the extravagant businessman explains, only to find himself interrupted by the sound of a distant voice emerging from behind Norman. “What about Kenny’s new friends?” Velma inquires, holding a set of papers close to her chest with crossed arms, gaining the full attention of those inside of the room. “Why would Kenny want to Micky him tonight? Wouldn’t he wait until the actual fight?” Stan questions back, struggling to find any motivation for the odd timing. “Are Kenny and his new friends still around?” Norman inquires, genuinely intrigued in getting to the bottom of this dilemma. “They were supposed to stick around for post-address comments, but I was told they were just about to leave” Velma answers, watching Norman immediately drop his reserved posture and politely squeeze past her, venturing deeper into the building with his mind set on answers. “Who are Kenny’s new friends?” Jesse questions aloud, wanting an answer to the question that he had been refused the day prior. “I’m under strict order by Mr. Ritter not to tell you who-” Velma begins to reply, only to be cut off by her employer’s voice. “Arthur and Willard. The big guy and his smaller friend that he brought to commencement night the other month” Wilbur interjects, shrugging his shoulders and swaying his head from one side to the other at his newest employee, “I’m sorry to steal your limelight, Velma. I’m not too bothered with discretion in light of tonight.” “No need to apologise, sir. Most of our clientele is incredibly wealthy and there aren’t even many people betting against Jimmy in the first place” Velma assures, stepping further into the hospitable and clean sideroom. “As far as motivation, there isn’t really one present for tonight. If this were a fight night, it’d make more sense to weaken Jimmy. But not an address event” the woman carries onward, “there aren’t many suspects with adequate motivation to attempt a Micky Finn.” “If they’re the ones who did this, I want to fight the small one that Jimmy beat a few weeks ago on the same night of the Kenny fight” Jesse remarks, calling his shot without the need for further information, drawing conclusions where they’re important. “Velma’s already told you about the ‘side versus side’ promotion, so I’m all-too-inclined to give you that fight and make it a spectacle” Wilbur responds, addressing the bachelor before redirecting his focus upon the man seated on the table. “Go home, get rest, and keep away from Kenny and his pals” Wilbur orders, listening to the rummaging of the doctor’s hands through the set of tools he uses in his practise. “My orders to refrain from getting involved with Kenny until I say so remain in place. I will cut you out of this completely if you-” he doubles down, unable to finish his command before the professional’s patient vows his understanding. “You don’t need to worry about m-” Jimmy responds, attempting to climb off of the table before his knees immediately give out, throwing his body into the awaiting arms of his wife and boss. Struggling to get the man back to the patient’s table, the pair remain silent to allow the ironic follow through of their brawler’s statement. “You were saying, sir?” Wilbur sarcastically replies, earning a defeated glare, the drugged bruiser fighting to regain his breath as he rolls his eyes. | “He’ll be off his feet long enough for the address to get postponed” Arthur replies, walking behind his taller friend as their grey-haired accomplice remains to his left. “As long as I have time to do some digging on the fighters this Saturday, that’s all I need” Kenny assures, brushing shoulders with members of North America’s elite as he passes them by, allowing his new mountain of an acquaintance to lead the way through the crowd and toward the building’s front doors. “Why not just let us get a good shot in on him instead?” Arthur questions back, unsure of the motivation behind taking such a civilised approach, “he’d be banged up well and good for your fight.” Shaking his head dismissively, Kenny stares forward and parts his lips, attempting to speak before apologising to the rich lady that he accidentally bumps into mid-step. “Because I don’t want Jimmy hurt, I simply needed to buy more time” the grey-haired mastermind answers, squinting his eyes as he struggles to focus on the direction in which they head, surrounded by dim, mood lighting on all sides of himself. “Rota’s fighting this Saturday, and if I can get a little bit of time with him man-to-man, he might go for my plan” he continues, his each word striking his scheming partner’s bemused ear. “Why do we need to add Rota to all of this? I thought the point of pairing up was to get rid of Jim’s numbers advantage?” Arthur questions back, keeping his head low and voice more subdued, not wanting those that they pass to overhear as the exit grows closer. “If we can add him, that’d be great. But that’s not the plan that I was talking about” Kenny corrects, drawing further puzzlement from his fellow traveller. “You have a second plan? What for?” Arthur questions, their shared dialogue being passively overheard by the tower of a human that they follow for added leverage in splitting through the audience. “Because our alliance serves a purpose beyond the fight with Jimmy” Kenny responds, lifting one hand from his side whilst his contemporary tucks both into his pockets, the older, long-haired brawler gesturing to each of the three men in their group including himself. “If we stick together, we’ll have an advantage over almost every other fighter that Wilbur can throw into that cesspool of a fighting ground” the intelligent and stubborn aggressor remarks, “but I want more than to just even the odds against Jimmy. I want an advantage of my own.” “And how exactly do you plan on doing tha-?” Arthur questions back, embracing the heat of the Pacific Northwestern night as they step through the building’s front doors, entering the sweltering evening as he’s interrupted by the grasp of a hand on his dominant arm. Torn free from his pocket with the medicine bottle in his palm, the hand of the party responsible for tonight’s early conclusion to the address is shown to the world with evidence to boot. “Your tall friend is a lot easier to notice than you must’ve thought to think you could leave our building without being seen” Norman comments, snatching the bottle from Arthur’s hand before the criminal can be given the chance to drop it, hoping for the shattering of it into bits to be capable of exonerating him from whatever charges their employers may see fit. “Did the three of you think you could just Micky another fighter and nothing would happen?” Norman questions aloud, prompting the ringleader of the circus that he interrogates to approach with a scowl. “If anything, you should count yourself lucky that we didn’t go through the traditional route of taking our enemy out at the knees instead” Kenny retorts, getting in the face of the slightly-shorter businessman, “we got what we wanted without Jimmy having to walk around with a black eye or a cast on his leg.” “What exactly was it that you wanted out of tonight, Ken? What was all of this about?” Norman questions back, sliding the hand he carries the bottle with into his pocket to protect it from any action of his untrustworthy pals. “We just needed the address rescheduled to another night. You’d told us about it after you started shelling out admission” Kenny argues, defending his stance without much effect on the stone cold-faced promoter. “So you thought that drugging one of our fighter’s drinks was going to be the smartest way to-?” Norman questions back, only to receive a scoff and interjection from the opposite party in return. “Wilbur wants to make as much money off of these fights as you do. That requires giving people a reason to show up, and what better way to do that than by using this to promote?” Kenny challenges, defying his employer and standing firm in his position. Smiling, Norman holds back his laughter for a few seconds as he looks toward the ground, letting it leave his mouth in a subdued, yet noticeable manner. Sliding his left hand free from the slot of his pants to scratch at his skin, the businessman turns his eyes toward the departing crowd of people that, one after another, walk away with their guaranteed refund. “I know that you and Wilbur have this affinity for Jimmy and his pals because of how much their fights drew the last time around, but I’m not going to stand around and watch the two of you play favourites with-” Kenny begins to continue, only for the weight of Norman’s hand to shove him back, cutting his words off the second that his honour and dignity are called into question. “Do you see all of the people that you’ve just given a complete refund to?” Wilbur’s right hand man shouts, questioning his fighter aloud as some passersby take a glance in their direction, unable to see for certain what the altercation is about or who is involved, and choosing to carry on with their night. “Your actions lost us money tonight. Unlike Wilbur, I don’t care about the grandeur...” Norman proclaims, taking a step forward to occupy the space that his defiant opposition had just recently been pushed from, “...I only care about profits.” “Don’t put your hands on him again” Arthur comments, stepping further ahead of their grey-haired leader to now step in the face of the promoter, who presents a wide smile in return. “Who’s going to stop me, you fruity gunsel?” Norman queries, meeting the man’s effort by stepping closer to him, getting in his face just as he had, “I don’t think you understand how fast I can wipe you and your entire family off of the face of the planet.” “Step back, Arthur” Kenny remarks, extending a hand toward his teammate’s shoulder before finding defiance, the brash and brazen subordinate in this chain of command refusing to follow the orders he’s given. “No, Ken. This guy isn’t going to just get in our face and boss us around like this” Arthur responds, his valiant rebuttal to his employer backed up by the redirection of Willard’s focus, who aids in staring down Wilbur’s partner in crime. “You mean like a boss? Because I sort of am your boss” Norman replies, unphased by the outnumbering that he faces, caring not for whatever physical altercation he may find in the present knowing what leverage he could wage in its aftermath. “I’ll say it one more time...” Arthur defiantly responds in a near-whisper, getting so close to the promoter’s face that the tips of their noses are no further than five inches apart, the loose cannon’s breath wafting over the businessman’s face. “...you aren’t going to boss us around.” Flaring his nostrils, Norman utters not one word as he holds his defiant stare in the face of his aggressors, watching as their leader gradually gets them to back away. “Go wait in the car, I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute” Kenny interrupts, defusing the situation at hand in hopes of preventing any escalation greater than what he was anticipating the evening to hold. Folding to their leader’s wishes, Arthur and Willard step away, continuing to scowl at the unmoved promoter as they walk toward the vehicle that now waits for them at the side of the curb. “Listen, I don’t have a problem with Jimmy. Bringing those guys over here was just a business call, and pairing up with them is the same thing” Kenny explains, gradually re-earning the full attention of the man whom his disorderly accomplices had irritated beyond the point of disrespect. “The kid’s a good one and he’s coming from a rough background. I don’t hold ill will toward him the way he holds it for me” Kenny continues, watching as the professional opposite himself remains nearly motionless. “I needed this thing held off for a couple more days at minimum. We decided that this was better than jumping him” the older brawler explains, speaking as if he’s the civilised one in this scenario, “the kid doesn’t deserve that.” “Do you think that makes what you did any better? Do you think that makes you come across like the good guy here?” Norman questions aloud, a deep squint carried toward the man he shakes his head at. “You brought them here, and Stanley has his arm in a hanger because of it. You’ve teamed up with them, and now Jimmy’s in the infirmary” the businessman rebukes, forcing the grey-haired criminal to bow his head in shame, “if there’s any bad guy in this scenario... it’s you.” “My wife ran off with our kids and cut off all communication, Norman. Do you know what that does to a man?” Kenny swiftly switches topics, defending himself with whatever he sees fit to. Standing in silence as the comment goes without response, the older gentleman lifts his eyes toward the city’s night sky, trying not to speak with anger in the face of mending fences with the man whom his acquaintances had used the night to put off. “I don’t blame the kid for that, and I don’t want to see him hurt... but he’s in my way” Kenny remarks, nodding to himself as his fingernails scratch at his stubble-covered chin. “This- the fighting stuff- is what will give me a chance at getting my kids back. Maybe it’ll give me a chance at getting my wife back” the man confesses, at least offering an explanation the promoter can find sympathies for, “I ran her off by finding more time to get to the bottom of a bottle. I can make that right now by making this work.” “As much as I can appreciate that, I find it hard to feel sorry for someone who’s willing to step on the toes of everyone he comes across for his own interests” Norman replies, only to draw a smirk out of the older gentleman opposite himself. “Oh, come on. Norman, are we really going to pretend like you and Wilbur are doing anything different than me” Kenny rebukes, staring forward with a grin at his employer’s unchanged visage, “how many people have the two of you already walked all over to get where you are.” “Wilbur and I haven’t even come close to stepping on the last pair of toes we’ll ever need to cross to get what we want...” Norman responds, refusing to finish his thought at that, “...but unlike you, if I were in your shoes- I wouldn’t feel sorry for myself either.” Immediately feeling defeated in the point that he looks to prove, Kenny parts his lips to disregard his intention. “I’m not trying to get you to-” the man begins to counter, only for silence to leave his lips as his employer interrupts, cutting to the chase without offering the man the space to speak. “You’ve lost us hundreds- maybe thousands- tonight. You’ve driven away people that we can’t guarantee will come back the next time around” Norman points out, refusing to let his newly-minted troublemaker refuse any blame for the evening. “If you want to keep setting a terrible example for your children by showing them how willing to stab people in the back their father can be- that’s fine with me” Wilbur’s right hand man concludes, returning the point of his finger to the chest of the next big show’s headliner. “But let me make myself clear... you will not lose us money ever again” Norman finishes, taking a step back as he prepares to venture back for the theatre, “the last thing that Wilbur and I need to do is cut you and your friends off because you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Turning away, the well-voiced investor in the fighting organisation walks off for the way he’d come, leaving the main eventer to his lonesome whilst the rest of his posse watch on from the car. Wearing a scowl accompanied by furrowed eyebrows and the tip of his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth, Kenny watches his employer walk off as his loose hairs are blown around by the mid-summer breeze, the evening having come to a close with him receiving what he’d wished for. == Seattle Noir == \ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Saturday, 5th July 1930 / “What does the history between yourself and Willard look like?” Velma queries, seated opposite the sweat-covered and bloodied gentleman, who sits upon a wooden seat within the confines of a dingy, poorly-lit room with a smile. “We’re labourers- just like most of the other chumps you’ve got fighting here” Arthur responds, both hands pressing against the tops of his knees as he shakes his head with a grin, “listen, hot mama. I just slid that crumb out there a new pair of teeth. What’s with all these questions?” “Are you hard of hearing? I’ve already told you twice now” Velma answers without much joy in her face, displeasing the victorious fighter that now grows less pleasant with the crass remark. “What did you just say to me, dollface?” Arthur questions aloud, climbing out of his seat before approaching the well-paid, yet un-established lady that shows him disrespect, “don’t talk out of line now, pearl.” “I’m employed by Wilbur Ritter himself. I have complete freedom to say whatever I want to you” Velma replies, standing out of her seat whilst meeting the advancing brawler halfway, not shying away from an altercation beneath the coverage of her employer’s protection. “You just won your fight, and you’ve likely gotten back into his good graces with that. Don’t fall out of them now” she doubles down, staring at the now-angry bruiser as he seethes in his place, “answer my question if you want your paycheck for tonight.” Holding his disgruntled scowl upon the lady, Arthur remains standing halfway between the two seats in which they’d occupied seconds prior, watching her return to the chair, but kept from taking her seat back upon it. “Excuse me, doll” a voice remarks from the doorway to the unpleasant locker room, catching the attention of both figures inhabiting its interior. “I understand that you’ve got orders from your boss to carry out, but would you mind letting me speak to our winner over here in private real fast?” Kenny wonders aloud, sporting a tweed overcoat and a professional, full suit piece with a cap atop his long, grey locks of hair. “What the hell for?” Arthur questions aloud, watching his fellow well-dressed fighter enter as Velma leaves in disappointment, again kept from carrying out her duties. “Because I don’t know that there’s a better time for us to talk than now” Kenny replies, keeping his words to himself for a moment as he waits for the woman to walk off, continuing to pause as her shoes tap along the solid ground outside, assuring the new entrant that she’d fully left. “I’ll ask again... What for?” Arthur queries, standing with both of his taped hands hanging at each side whilst the new arrival tucks one into his pocket and rests the other one across his chest. “For the purpose of seeing whether or not the two of us can help each other out” Kenny responds, using the hand outside of his pocket to tap the sweaty brawler on the chest, “do you know how much you’re getting paid tonight?” “I’m getting paid what I’m owed” Arthur replies, only to carry a deep squint when he watches the older gentleman’s head shake from one side to the other in refusal. “No, Jimmy Elliott got paid what he was owed... twenty-five hundred dollars. The exact same as me” Kenny responds, keeping his voice low enough to evade the ears of anyone who could be listening in, “I saw the checks that Mr. Money Bags is going to cut you all. Just over a thousand.” “What!?” Arthur shouts, immediately enraged before being gestured to lower his tone by the finger that his elder visitor places beyond his lips- which still sports a cut from weeks prior. “Wilbur’s already told all of you that you get paid based on how much money you’re able to peddle. Gambling wages, admission wages, liquor wages, all of it” Kenny replies, breaking bread with the man who stands opposite himself, “if you can get more people to show up, you’ll get a bigger paycheck.” Grimacing as he looks toward the door, Arthur clears the space of being occupied by anyone other than himself and the guest, irate and forced to subdue his anger. “I can get you in fights with big crowds. I know what the people come out for, and I can make sure you’re on the cards that draw well because I’ll be on them too” Kenny explains, regaining the younger brawler’s full attention with this vow, “but if I’m gonna make that work for you, I’m gonna need something in return.” “You want your piece of the pie too, right?” Arthur assumes, surprised to find the shake of the older bruiser’s head reply to him immediately. “You can keep every last cent he pays out to you. You win your fight, you keep your cabbage, we all eat really good” Kenny assures, letting his free hand join the pocket directly opposite the other one, “but I want you and that big guy that you’re friends with looking out for each other.” “What does that mean?” Arthur questions back, his anger having dissolved in the face of his confusion, unsure of what’s being proposed to him. “Jimmy and I have some problems. Our issues are for the same reasons that you and your big friend are here” Kenny answers, clarifying his point whilst adjusting his stance, taking a more firm and upright posture, “Jimmy’s got friends that are watching his back. If he’s gonna have his friends, then I’m gonna need some of my own.” “You want us to work with you like a team?” Arthur queries, earning a nod from the man directly opposite himself as their minds reach the same internal passageway, discovering the same destination they now venture through. “The big advantage that Jimmy and the other fella who beat your boy a couple of weeks ago have are the allies they make with each other” Kenny reiterates, stepping back toward the chair of the woman he’d politely requested leave them on their own. “If the three of us work together, we’ll be able to get the most out of it. Wilbur won’t just be promoting me to the audience, he’ll be promoting all of us” the proposition-proposing gentleman remarks, climbing off of his feet to take the interviewer’s unoccupied seat. “That means more people show up for all of us. We get paid more and Jimmy’s friends don’t have their precious advantage anymore” Kenny carries forward, shrugging with ease at the offer, “everyone of us wins.” Staring at the ground with a slight parting of his lips, Arthur sits with his thoughts for a moment as the still air makes it impossible for the sound of anything other than their collective breaths to meet his ears. “So...” Kenny questions back, crossing one leg over the other before coupling his hands atop his lap, his long locks flowing over the coat to the gentle sound of ruffling with each motion of his head, “...what do you say?” = 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 = \ Thursday, 10th July 1930 / “Thank you for taking this meeting with us, Mr. Nichols” Wilbur remarks, shaking the hand of the politician that stands opposite himself and his business partner before taking a seat at the empty restaurant’s table when appropriate. “Gentlemen, for the sake of transparency- I wasn’t sure that I should take this meeting” the city’s mayor replies, folding his hands opposite the pair that take seats with him, “the two of you haven’t been very quiet about wanting to wet your feet on my shores.” “You say that like we floated here in a boat from across the ocean” Wilbur jokes, the only one of the trio holding a genuine grin, Norman’s face holding a polite smile to the showman’s right whilst the politician opposite them retains an emotion nothing of the sort. “Well, I don’t want to waste any of our time, so I’ll just state myself clearly and beyond misapprehension” Mayor Nichols remarks, lowering his chin slightly as his serious visage deepens, “I know that you’ve been breaking federal law.” Caught by surprise at the bluntness in which their adversary speaks, the pair of businessmen opposite the relatively-unknown candidate turn toward each other in silence, unsure of what to say next. “Do either of you gentlemen wish to respond?” the mayor queries, staring past the candlelight in the middle of the table to the pair of faces that soon look back to him, their freshly-shaven jawlines wearing shadows cast by their angle toward the open flame. “Well, you’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Mayor...” Wilbur begins, taking the helm of the conversation as he leans into the table, coupling his hands together atop the cloth-covered bench, “...we’ve broken several.” Turning his chin upward slightly, the politician takes surprise in this confession as he furrows his brows, needing a moment before nodding toward one of the officers stationed beside himself. “So the two of you are admitting to this? On the record and without interrogation?” the mayor questions back, watching as Norman nods silently whilst his eccentric business partner puts their claims into speech. “Of course! What’s the fun in turning a city into our personal playground if we can’t have any fun with it?” Wilbur queries, taking a glass standing just a short distance away into his possession, swirling the red wine that sits within it as he continues. “As I- myself- have stated clearly, we didn’t come here just to lay our roots down. We’ve come here for infamy” the showman carries onward, “we’ve bribed officers, bribed the dock workers, served liquor in the age of prohibition... all of it for the sake of infamy.” Caught completely off guard by the ease in which this discourse has taken its course, the mayor pats the table’s top and stands out from his seat, his eyebrows raised and hand waving toward the officers accompanying him. “I believe that’s all I needed to hear gentlemen” the mayor explains, looking toward the policeman beside him with lips parted, prepared to order a pair of arrests before being corrected by his criminal foe. “You’d be wrong in that belief then, Mr. Mayor. I’d even argue that you’ve barely heard the first thing” Wilbur replies, finishing his sip whilst Norman lifts a finger in the direction of a server, preparing to not only have a conversation within the establishment, but enjoy a meal as well. “The two of you are no-good criminals, gentlemen. I have no reason to hear you out” the mayor replies, doubling down on his disregard as he continues his attempt at leaving, “officers, arrest these-” Attempting to return the way in which he’d entered, the city’s mayor stops in his tracks as the palm of law enforcement’s hand presses against his chest, forcing him to remain within the presence of those who join him for dinner. “What are you doing?” Nichols questions, looking to the cop he’d made an attempt at ordering around, shocked to find that it isn’t his command that they follow. “He’s doing what we paid him to do, Mr. Mayor” Wilbur replies, prompting the politician to turn back toward him with wide eyes, continued shock carried through his troubled visage. “We knew it’d only be a matter of time before word got around that two novices to the area had paid off everyone worth a pretty penny to skirt past the rules” the showman carries on, taking lead of the conversation whilst his business partner requests a menu from the well-dressed server. “When word gets around, it’s only a matter of time before the mayor hears about it. And, in due time, the governor will have heard of our presence as well” Wilbur explains, extending a hand toward the seat the politician had intended to leave, gesturing for him to return to it. “When that day comes, we’ll take care of him just as we’re taking care of you now” the top hat-wearing fight promoter explains with a sadistic grin, “please, Mr. Mayor... reclaim your throne.” Glowering in the direction of the intelligent and poised criminals, the mayor concedes to the orders placed upon him with little alternative to choose from, reluctantly descending back into his chair. “We’ve broken laws left and right up to now, and we will continue to shatter them after we’ve taken care of business tonight” Wilbur clarifies, reaching for a cloth napkin off to his sides before wiping his hands on them, “the entire police department in this city is on strict orders to refrain from putting cuffs around these wrists.” “You’ve broken the laws of prohibition. That’s a federal crime...” Nichols rejoinders, earning a shrug for his troubles whilst doing so, “...that’s not pissing on Washington state, that’s going against the will of Washington D.C.” Continuing to wear his smile, Wilbur tosses the towel back upon the table whilst taking one of the menus that the waiter returns to them with, placing it in front of himself for later use once he’s concluded speaking. “Within due time, Hoover himself can sit in the exact seat that you’re occupying right now and he’ll have just a little power in the matter” the showman assures, placing the palms of both hands against the smooth, glossy cover of their dinner cards. “I want everything. I own your police department, I want to own your population, your city’s wealth, your economy... I want to own Seattle” Wilbur explains, stopping at nothing short of the big prize, “and as long as you’re in office here... you’re going to let me.” “Why would I do that?” Nichols challenges, prompting the showman’s eyes to fall and shoulders to roll. “Because if you don’t, I’ll democratically install someone in your place that will” Wilbur answers, holding the keys to a kingdom he’s yet to legitimately stake claim of the throne to, holding out grand dreams of one day fitting its Pacific Northwestern crown atop his own head, “you’ll either play ball or you’ll be pushed off of the court. I will, gradually, come to control everything in this city.” “You speak with the cadence of an emperor” Nichols retorts, immediately watching the head of his opposition shake with glee. “I prefer dictator. The quiet kind of dictator, but dictator nonetheless” Wilbur argues back, continuing to speak whilst he opens the menu, pointing to a dish at random for the server that awaits him. “I will fund the infrastructure projects, own fields, own properties, feed the poor, everything the Hoover administration has failed to provide this country” the grandeur-laiden, master-schemer proclaims, “and you will not get in my way.” “With what you’re claiming to have done already, I’m not sure I see how I’m supposed to stop you” Nichols explains, pleasing the showman that points his finger forward. “That’s the spirit! But, Norman and I are both aware that you’d still try unless all of this was made clear to you” Wilbur confesses, pressing the fabrics of his expensive coat into the wooden seat hosting him, “so, we decided to explain to you how things would work from here on out in person.” Hanging his head whilst gently scratching at the top of his eyelid, the mayor sits quietly with his thoughts whilst the pair of men opposite himself await his continued attention. Stationed around the table with their hands held at their laps, the policemen do nothing to intervene, taking their orders from the private citizen that may as well have bought the land to which the city was built upon by now. “You will leave through the front of this establishment where the public can see you” Wilbur explains, jotting down each of the politician’s next steps in real time. “Someone with a camera will photograph you leaving this expensive establishment with a police escort whilst the public withers away and starves in your commander-in-chief’s camps” Norman carries on, finally taking his turn to speak, “and if you ever decide to act accordingly against us- those pictures will make national headlines.” Troubled and anxious, the mayor finds himself at the mercy of those directly opposite himself, wearing the exact opposite posture as the pleased, powerful and upright-seated havers-of-wealth. “You will never inform the governor about our little meeting here. When we want something done, your office will get it done. When we want blind eyes turned toward us, your office will suddenly go blind” Wilbur takes the helm once more, “and if we ever smell descent coming from you, we will kill your political career and leave you in those squatter’s camps ourselves. Understand?” “You know that I don’t have a choice” Nichols angrily rejoinders, still speaking with a calm tone as the men opposite him nod in approval of that claim. Concealing their smiles as best as they can, the policemen await their marching orders as the suited politician- already in the bad will of his suffering populace- finds himself within the possession of more powerful owners. “I understand” the mayor responds, conceding defeat without a leg to stand on, pleasing those who do business with him as they nod approvingly. With the wave of a hand, Wilbur gestures for the borough master to step away from their table and rejoin his armed enforcements, freeing the powerful criminals to enjoy their evening of fine dining and lavish luxuries in peace. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Ritter” Norman quips, extending the hand that his partner in crime reciprocates the gesture of. “Much the same, Mr. Mountebank” Wilbur retorts, claiming ownership of the seat that their mayoral chess piece abandons in his exit, retaking the cloth he’d wiped his hands with earlier before tucking it into the collar of his dress shirt, addressing his friend whilst clinking the rims of their glasses together, “now, let’s celebrate.” | \ Tuesday, 15th July 1930 / “Will you be joining us at Wilbur’s theatre tomorrow?” Cathy wonders aloud, looking across the table to their peers with a glass of wine in hand, a candle and some plates of food separating them beyond the wooden length of the surface itself. “We’d never leave our pal out in the cold” Jesse assures, tilting his head back to take one quarter of his wine glass’ contents down at once, licking his lips with a satisfied sigh. “Have they told you anything about when the fight’s scheduled?” Stanley inquires, seated beside the shorter-in-stature acquaintance whilst looking toward his longtime friend. “I haven’t spoken to the doll since she broke into our home. Wilbur sends one letter every few weeks and I haven’t gotten one of those since before the fight” Jimmy responds, shaking his head as he reaches for his own wine glass, “I’ll know tomorrow, though. He’s not chiselling, that’s what counts.” “Do you think he’ll have me fight with yous that night?” Jesse queries, receiving a shake of his host’s uncertain head in response. “He won’t even tell me when my own fight’s happening until tomorrow, how would he be telling me anything about yours?” Jimmy wonders aloud for the sake of voicing rationality, only for the laughter of his wife and his mate’s lover to fill the room. “I’ve not clue, do I!?” Jesse proclaims, amusing Jimmy and prompting Stanley to chuckle whilst gesturing his hand toward the wine bottle in silence. “How’re you healin’ up?” Cathy questions aloud, passing the tall, glass of beverage to the bachelor’s hand without notice whilst addressing the good friend sitting directly opposite herself. “The Big Man’s doctor says it’ll take quite a bit longer, but I’m not looking too bad right now” Stanley answers, passing a sly look toward his wife with a flimsy grin, “the broad and I have made it work, though. Haven’t we, Josie?” Heavily insinuating adult activities to the tune of the group’s larger amusement, Stanley prompts his wife’s playfully embarrassed grin to take toward him just as a knock at the door interrupts their fun. “We expecting company, Jim?” Jesse questions aloud, the first to let his laughter die out in the name of bringing attention to the obvious at the flat’s entrance. “Aside from the three of you- no” the prize fighter responds, climbing out of his seat with a towel in hand, wiping the grease from around his mouth before making toward the door, wanting to take on the appearance of someone professional. Sifting across the floor whilst those that remain around the table wait patiently for further insight, Jimmy’s feet carry themselves across the apartment and to the door, opening it to a look of uncertainty. “Can I help you?” the apartment’s primary tenant inquires, only to step aside and allow the woman that approaches a free route inward. “Velma. I’m Mr. Ritter’s employee” she answers, taking six steps into the flat without interruption before turning back to the most notorious fighter that her boss has employed to date. “The woman that broke into our home the other week?” Cathy questions aloud from the table, joining her husband in rising to her feet at the lady’s appearance. “It doesn’t take much effort to pick a lock, darling” Velma answers, watching the three visitors that had seated opposite the main couple join their friends in standing upright- led by Jesse. “When is my next fight!?” the man on his second serving of red wine wonders aloud, hurrying around his seat with such speed that he even steps further ahead than his friend’s also-approaching wife. “You don’t have another fight scheduled yet. Wilbur will send you a latter when he decides you’re needed next” Velma answers, furrowing her eyebrows as she takes a step back, creating distance between herself and the slightly-buzzed brawler. “Is there a purpose behind you making this visit?” Jimmy questions aloud, redirecting the conversation to the purpose he’s more interested in, continuing to stand by the door he hopes his unexpected arrival will soon step through to leave once more. “Yes. You’re outmatched now” the visitor replies, leaving her statement both open-ended and vague as she stands with her hands coupled together at her lap, staring at the apartment’s owner in the face as she finds his expression to sport confusion. “What’s the story, morning glory?” Jimmy queries back, one eyebrow raised higher than the other as he requests clarification, watching the woman casually stroll further into the home. “You and this drunkard over here are allies. Stanley doesn’t really matter right now because he can’t fight” Velma answers, gesturing to the significant other-less Jesse at the start of her statement. “Kenny has put together a group of people to serve the same purpose that this man and Stanley serve to you” she carries on, again gesturing to the somewhat inebriated gentleman prior to pointing out the tall, wounded brawler. “I don’t understand, the three of us are friends” Jimmy retorts, gently closing the door before crossing his arms, addressing the woman’s comments without much of a choice but to, “what are you getting at?” “In the world that surrounds these fights, friends serve more of a purpose than just being buddies. They’re allies. In times of trouble, you’ve got people watching your back instead of taking shots at it” the well-dressed, polka-dot sporting employee of the wealthy showman explains. “If they’re more than just allies- like friends- that’s great. But the important thing is that they serve the purpose of an advantage” she carries on, “Kenny’s decided to find allies of his own.” “And who are they?” Jimmy wonders back, going along with the line of discussion now that it’s proven to be worth hearing. “Wilbur has disclosed to me that I’m not allowed to give you the answer to that question, but you will find out at tomorrow’s conference from what I understand” Velma replies, prompting the tenant’s head to lower as his wife’s hand rests upon his shoulder, “the conference is sold out and will host the most wealthy of our clientele. We will put tickets to your fight with Kenny up for offer at-” “I don’t care who’s going to be there. Why bother coming here to tell me that Kenny found some friends to watch his back if you’re not going to tell me who they are?” Jimmy interjects, raising the only inquiry that matters to him in the moment. “Because Mr. Ritter is going to market this as being more than just you facing Kenny” Velma answers, allowing her prior point to fall to the wayside in favour of addressing the fighter’s concerns head-on, “it’s my job to inform you of-” “What is he ‘marketing’ this fight as then?” the undefeated fighter proceeds to interrupt again, irritating the professional woman enough to force a sigh out of her, the hat on her slightly-hung head lowering itself forward alongside the headwear. Gathering her composure following the disrespect, the woman presses her teeth together and gathers her breathing under control. “He’s marketing this as your side against Kenny’s side” Velma concludes, again biting her tongue and addressing the prominent question head on with a collected tone of voice. “My side against his side?” Jimmy questions aloud, still crossing his arms over his chest as the woman’s face lifts once more, her eyes connecting with the fighter’s own as he continues, “is that all?” “That’s all I came here to tell you” Velma assures, capable of hearing the silence that she’s immediately met with as the flat’s owner nods his head, looking off to the side as he takes the woman’s comments to heart. “I apologise for the rash way in which my husband speaks” Cathy remarks, finding sympathies for the woman who’d come only to do her job, “there’s a lot on his plate and he’s been very eager to get his hands on Kenny.” “It doesn’t help that she introduced herself to us by breaking into our home” Jimmy clarifies, looking at his wife with raised brows before turning to find Velma’s beleaguered expression staring at the floor. Collecting himself, the apartment’s owner uses the break in their collective speech to gather himself before the woman that stands before him shatters the illusion of quiet first. “I would just like some people to stop walking all over me so I can just do my job” Velma answers, again keeping herself together as she looks toward the apologetic lady off to her side, “I’m not in a world that’s very polite to me.” Continuing to press his lips together, Jimmy looks to the floor as his breathing steadies, his tongue’s tip slamming against the roof of his mouth as the air goes quiet once more. “I’m sorry, miss. I could be more courteous to you” Jimmy concedes in a soft tone of voice, earning the slightest grin out of the lady whose preferred rock-solid demeanour had broken down over the duration of their discourse. “Thank you” Velma replies with an equal hush to her tone, appreciative of the man’s concession before gradually clearing her mind of as much of their dialogue as possible, “now, if you’ll excuse me.” Following her own lead to the door, Wilbur’s employee ventures onto her next unscheduled appointment, leaving the group with the food for thought that they will be forced to sit through for at least one calendar day. “Alright. We’ve got work to do” Stanley remarks, earning a collective nod from his peers as the same conclusion had been drawn amongst each of them. == Seattle Noir == Season 2 Premiere
\ Seattle - 1930 / \ Tuesday, 10th June 1930 / “We’d be doing better business if we set this shop up as a speakeasy during the off-days” Norman replies, his forearms pressing into the cold cylinders that prevent himself and any other party of luxurious wealth from falling into the pit countless yards below. “In due time, brother. All good things come to those who wait” Wilbur promises, joining his fellow in staring over the edge, watching those they’ve employed to clean the joint do as their hourly pay is earned through. “This is the key to venture number two, which is the key to venture number three, and so on” the trench coat showman remarks, reaching within his long attire to retrieve a pair of cigars. “We’ve got the dicks under wraps, the docks covered and the goodie bags went home happy. We got a win” Wilbur assures, handing over one of the wrapped smokes to his partner in crime, “let’s not go around trying to turn our money mill into a gin mill, alright?” Begrudgingly accepting the toast, Norman lights the end of his cigar and gently taps the stick against that of his Californian friend’s own, watching the crew below take soapy water and mops to the variety of blood stains and splattered spit that their centre of attention hosts. One after another, labourers swiftly ready the battlefield for this Saturday night’s next round of matches, doing so under the supervision of the civilians just beginning to get their feet through the door of the untapped, Pacific Northwestern market. “So, Kenny-versus-Jimmy next?” Norman wonders aloud, pulling away from the railing so as to take one of the wooden chairs behind himself, “we’ve got a lesser-quality card in a few days to see just what kind of draw those boys are. How long do you think you’ll go holding this off?” Licking the taste of high-quality, strong tobacco from the soft flesh of his upper lip, the showman squints whilst remaining leant against the catwalk’s overlook, a shake of his head preceding another hit from the imported dart. “We don’t want our deep-pocketed friends making tracks before we can get the ball rolling. We need these marketable fights while we got them” Wilbur answers, pressing his side against the bannister whilst looking toward his business partner. “People will come to see Jimmy and Jesse throw hands separately. I’m sure people will do the same for Kenny” the showman concludes, looking his acquaintance in the eyes as he speaks aloud, “it’s best to keep them all apart for as long as we can.” “You want us to not put on our markee fights?” Norman inquires out of intrigue, unsure he follows the line of thought that his partner in crime presents. “We don’t want to run out of markee fights is what I’m sayin’” Wilbur corrects, crossing one arm inside the one that carries his cigar whilst leaning his back against the platform’s lip, “if people will keep showing up for those three, let’s keep them from fighting each other until the people can’t wait any longer. We don’t want to run out of our payload too soon.” “Then let’s see if we can get even more guys in that category” Norman answers, presenting his pal with a proposition yet to be thought of. “I beg your pardon?” the showman queries, pulling the cigar back toward his lips whilst the seated businessman explains himself. “If people don’t need Jimmy to fight someone he’s got an issue with to convince them to show up, let’s make more Jimmy’s” the brains of the operation responds, “let’s get people our clientele will show up for because of their name alone.” “Like a crowd worker?” Wilbur questions aloud, earning little more than a shrug for his troubles. “We’ll keep an eye on guys that just keep winnin’ or pulling off the biggest shocks- like Jesse did- and start spitting their name around town. Get the word out that them showing up is worth the price of admission alone” Norman doubles down, prompting his showman partner to stare off at the distance with a look of intrigue carried through his porcelain visage, “we can have them fight nobodies in between the fights we’ll make big money off of.” With parted lips, the man of grandeur-tongue slowly nods to himself with both arms crossed, taking a hit from his cigar once more before directing its tip toward the pale-skinned pal beside him. “This is why I wanted you to come up with me from California, Normie” Wilbur concludes with a grin, only for the operation’s intricate mind to shrug with satisfaction, already aware of his worth as it now proposes a way in which their operation can get out of the starting gate already aiming for the next level. = 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 = \ Saturday, 14th June 1930 / “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this fight! Thomas Rota!” the suited announcer proclaims to an obvious mixture of cheers and jeers, pleasing the eyes of some whilst others watch their potential winnings flush themselves out of reality at the lifting of the victor’s free hand. “That makes him level, correct? One win to match last week’s loss?” Wilbur queries, watching Norman nod in silence to answer him, not wanting to battle for verbal supremacy with the outrageously loud audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this fight! Sam Rowe!” the gentleman with the microphone explodes into a shout one, full match later, pointing the folded-up paper toward the victor of the fight to a mostly-ecstatic audience. “That didn’t take long” Jesse murmurs, sitting in his seat with his arms crossed, thoroughly unimpressed with the bout put up by the triumphant fighter’s adversary, speaking to his fellow winner without earning much of a response, Jimmy’s seat remaining taken amongst the crowd within the descending bowl. In his own seat directly across the fighting pit from the coupled group of friends, Kenny pays those that he’d used to get his foot through the door no mind, continuing to scout those that may eventually find themselves opposite himself in the pit. “You keeping an eye on the old dog?” Stanley queries, his wife’s hand held within the palm of his own as he raises the question. “I’d be whacky not to” Jimmy answers, wearing the facial scars of the previous week’s bout that makes him such a heralded star within these parts of Seattle as his eyes lift from the older man he’d once worked in labour beside. Venturing high, the battle-proven figure that the fight pit’s inauguration has been centred upon guides his eyes toward the creators of the sport, finding the trench coat wearing gentleman from within the crowd as the showman continues to spectate and chat amongst western America’s elite. “I’m not suggesting Mr. Money Bags pick up some nightwalkers off the street, but a few lookers walking around this joint wouldn’t hurt” Jesse mutters aloud, crossing one leg over the other as he drags on his dart. “He’s too busy talking with the other big boys to care about arm candy, Jess” Jimmy rebuttals, continuing to watch the laid-back figure of opulent wealth intermingle with the rich until the moment that their target of interest gets up, climbing out of his seat without company. “The point of this place is to watch the fight and throw money around, not to pitch woo with some snaggle-low” Stanley rebuttals, addressing the concern of the man opposite Jimmy, his arm wrapped around Josephine as she watches the crews prepare the pit for the next round of fights. “I’ll be back” the centre-most man remarks, getting out of his chair before shimmying down the row of seats with his subject of interest in mind, “stay puts, the two of yous.” “Where are you off to?” Stanley questions aloud, gently grabbing his pal by the wrist before he can step too far past him to continue on unevaded. “Our old dog’s making tracks for the water bowl, I’m gonna keep that eye I’ve got on him” Jimmy answers, tugging his hand away from his acquaintance’s reach before setting off for the crowd at large. Turning his face toward the direction of the pit just in the nick of time, Wilbur catches a glimpse of Jimmy attempting to enter the broader public, unsure of why until he notices the long, grey locks of hair that do much the same a few rows below him. “Would you like another drink, sir? I can go get one for you” the showman quips, taking the glass of the wealthy, appreciative figure he’d spoken to before heading off to the commons area. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Norman questions, prompting his business partner to lean forward as he’s amidst his retreat. “Our big match setting itself to meet in the middle? Of course I’ve noticed, Normie. Do you really think I’d be making a refill trip like a server if it wasn’t for a reason?” Wilbur queries back, speaking just loud enough for his acquaintance to hear, “I’m protecting our investment.” | “Good going out there” a woman quips, wearing a tailored suit more akin to what men would wear than the dames themselves, catching the returning fighter off guard. “Yeah?” Sam Rowe queries back, one eyebrow raised higher than the other as he approaches the woman, who immediately extends the palm of her hand toward his chest. “I’m not looking for you to bed me... I work for Wilbur” the lady explains, nipping any chance the sweaty brawler had at flirting with her in the bud before offering a handshake. “You work for Wilbur doing what?” Sam questions back, unsure of what specifics come with the open-ended assertion. “I’m in charge of promoting the shows. Finding guys with actual issues behind the curtains you just came back from and seeing if that can be brought to the pit” the woman rebuttals, again offering the hand she extends without reciprocation. “My name is Velma” she greets, wearing a dainty hat over her curly, blonde locks, a ruffled, polka-dot dress worn beneath a long, trench coat-like jacket and skirt, “I understand that you’re Samuel Rowe.” “Sam Rowe. Samuel was my father’s name and I don’t want whatever those funny things at the end of people’s names on mine” Sam replies, crossing his arms across his hairy, sweat-covered chest as he again refuses to reciprocate the woman’s present hand. “I believe you’re referring to suffixes” Velma corrects, only to receive an indifferent shrug of the man’s head for her troubles. “Alright, so you know big words. Congratulations” the man rejoinders, wearing a curious glare that can only be considered lost and uninterested, “can I go back to my lockers?” Slightly furrowing her eyebrows, the woman looks away from the man’s face and toward the hand that she holds out to him, only to again receive disinterest in the man opposite her. “Sure” the woman finally concedes, aware that she’s getting nowhere with the reserved fighter before stepping aside, allowing the man to carry on with his evening whilst she watches on, waiting for his figure to disappear around the corner before nodding with satisfaction and making tracks herself. | “Whichever one your hand gets to first, I don’t care really” Kenny answers, pressing his balled knuckles into the wooden countertop that separates him from the bartender. As instructed, the well-dressed server takes a glass bottle of simple shape and pours a steady glass, garnishing it with a mint leaf before handing it over to the man who’d ordered it. “Thanks for that!” Jimmy proclaims with appreciation as he cuts the pair off, snatching Kenny’s drink from the worker’s hand before downing it all at once, drawing the disapproval of the older brawler beside him. “Can you keep those filthy paws away from my fucking drink, yeah?” the grey-haired fighter queries with a disgruntled expression in his face, only for the adversary to sprout a smile toward his direction. “It’s funny that you should be asking me to keep my filthy paws out of your business” Jimmy rejoinders, sporting a stiff, grizzled mug in the direction of his older contemporary. “Do you and I have a goddamn problem, Jim?” Kenny inquires, stepping away from the tavern counter to approach the man that he can’t get to in time, cut off by the interjection of the well-dressed fight promoter. “If either of you touches the other, I’ll have both of you thrown out of here in opposite directions just to keep you from killing each other along the way” Wilbur declares in a grunt, pressing the palms of his hands into the chests of both men. “What’s your story, morning glory? I thought you wanted to give people a good show” Jimmy questions back, extending his arms out at either side as he turns his inquisition toward the man who provides his post-fight payment. “I want to give people a good show between two healthy fighters” Wilbur corrects, turning his front fully toward the man who’d main evented last week’s card, “what I don’t need is people getting a free look at what they should be paying to see.” “Are either of you dicks gonna clue me into what the problem here is?” Kenny wonders aloud, only for the showman’s trench coat-laden back to be turned toward last week’s main eventer and, instead, toward the man responsible for creating the rift between the two. “He knows about you letting Arthur and the big guy in on his pal’s being present at commencement night” Wilbur answers, snickering at the older gentleman as his ire is offered a direct aim. “Whether it was your intention or not, he’s got a friend who can’t move an arm for months because of you. Yeah, there’s a problem between the two of you” the wealthy gentleman proceeds, only to further irritate the older brawler. “Hey, I did you a favour. The only reason he isn’t walking around like a nobody right now is because I know exactly what you need to make this place work” Kenny counters, pressing the tip of his finger against the showman’s chest in the process. “It wasn’t my intention for Stan to get hurt, but it happened. You got a lot more money on opening night than you would’ve without me” the fighter continues, speaking whilst the man opposite him lets his face fall toward the floor with a heinous smirk. “Besides, if we’ve got a problem- I’m fine with that. I can accept putting Stan in that arm hanger, and I’ll take the young gun on” Kenny doubles down whilst the crowd begins to cheer in anticipation, “we’re in a fighting hall. Let’s fight.” “First of all, if you ever lay your hands on me like you’re the one in charge here, I’ll burn them off with a hot piece of metal. Is that understood?” Wilbur queries back, defiantly stepping closer toward the man so as to illustrate the dynamic of power that separates them. “Second of all, you’re going to fight. It won’t be tonight, and it won’t be for at least a few weeks, but you will fight” the showman carries onward, “and if the two of you try to throw hands behind my back, I will find out and I will-” “Everyone shut your mouths! I’ve got somethin’ to say!” Jimmy orders, catching both Kenny and the figure of wealth who he’d cut off by surprise, silencing them like he does with the rest of the crowd as his voice is projected through the building’s surrounding speakers. “If you don’t know me, that’s fine. If you do, then you saw what I’m gonna do to the next guy up after last weekend” the bruised brawler comments, standing in the centre of the pit with the cord microphone in his hands. “Last weekend, Jesse wasn’t supposed to fight that big guy. Our pal, Stanley, was” Jimmy explains, directing his hand toward the friends that now become the spotlight’s centre of attention. Watched on from afar, both Wilbur and Kenny remain as quiet as the majority of the crowd does, the audience’s voices only raising to the sound of applause as the wounded fighter and his giant-slaying bachelor friend are presented in the house lamp’s glow. “Stanley didn’t get to fight, though. If you were present in Mr. Ritter’s home before that, you’d know that he got smacked up pretty bad by the big guy. So, the fight was a no-go” Jimmy carries forward, spitting the taste of tobacco out and onto the blood-stained, sweat-covered wooden stage in the pit’s centre. “The only reason the big guy was there was because of that man” the wounded, yet victorious fighter declares, pointing back to the men who he’d left the company of seconds prior, “Kenneth House.” Wearing a deep squint, the older gentleman turns to look at the businessman responsible for putting this entire system of matches in order, though Wilbur’s face remains entranced by the gentleman who’d taken it upon himself to step into the pit. Hanging his head for a moment as he steps closer to the side of the fighting stage that his next opponent occupies, Jimmy sprouts a smirk and holds off on speaking any further, waiting until he’s as close to their end of the building as its layout will afford him the chance to be. “Kenny House put my friend’s arm in a hanger. He can’t work, he can’t provide for his wife, and he can’t do what he wants to do... Which is to get in this pit and fight” the late-twenties man explains, speaking to a silent audience that reserves their judgement for the grey-haired brawler. “Hey, Wilbur. The rest of these guys won’t understand what this means, but I know that you do” Jimmy continues forward, directing the tip of his index finger in the wealthy gentleman’s direction whilst the audience- including Norman and his friends watch on. “You said Kenny wanted to prove that he wasn’t replaceable like a lot of us are. That’s fair. You want me to get on your good side? That’s fair too” the man with the microphone declares, redirecting the aim of his finger toward the grey-haired former labourer beside the trench coat promoter. “How about this for getting on your good side?” Jimmy questions aloud, taking inspiration from the man who’d been the most-recent man to pay him money by turning up his degree of showmanship. Climbing into the first layer of seats beside the pit, the as-of-yet undefeated fighter ascends further into the audience, leaving the front row in favour of the second, and the second in favour of the third. “These people want to throw dough around on big time fights, so I say we give them a big time fight” Jimmy proclaims, throwing his hand out at one side to the sound of an audience roaring in applause, eager to see the bout presented to them like spectators to a duel in the ancient coliseum. Taking a look around the arena, Wilbur finds the variety of clapping hands and towering voices projecting themselves from all directions, trying to subdue a smirk that begins forming in the corner of his mouth. “I think they want to throw dough at a fight between me and Kenny, and I think they want to do it sooner than later!” Jimmy declares, re-earning the intrigued line of sight that the businessman hosts as the audience’s roar grows even bolder. Tossing the microphone back into the hands of the well-suited announcer, the crowd-pleaser continues to embrace the love of the event’s attendees as they pat him on the back and invest their care into the proclamation wagered. Satisfied with the interest that his fight pit’s success had been built off the base of, Wilbur nods his head approvingly as he stares down at the mid-audience crowd-worker. “I think you may have some competition in the ‘irreplaceable’ business, Kenneth” the showman proclaims, fetching a tall bottle of liquor from the mill-runner before returning the way he’d come, providing a pleased nod in the direction of the standing fighter. “Hey, Wilbur. Is this fight actually going to happen?” the wealthy gambler that the businessman returns with a bottle of liquor for questions aloud, only to receive a silent nod of assurance from the promoter. “Do me a favour and let me know before anyone else. I want to be in on the fight before the house odds start swinging with a seat reserved” the rich spectator requests, handing over a ball of cash to the gentleman in the trench coat, exchanging it for the bottle of liquor. “I can certainly make that happen, sir” Wilbur assures, pleasing the gentleman before passing a glance toward Norman, quietly nodding to the business partner that wears just as much delight in the turn of events as he does. | \ Sunday, 29th June 1930 / Dressed in proper church attire, Jimmy joins his wife in exiting the pew alongside those who he’d joined for mass. One after another, the congregation files out of the chapel and to their respective modes of transportation, some gathering together in line for the bus whilst a select few others begin approaching their private vehicles. Along the way to their home directly opposite the end of Smith Cove that their bloodsport career is hosted within, the couple decide to take a quick stop directly outside of the camp they’d once used to inhabit. “So much has changed in such little time” Cathy mutters aloud, seated in the passenger’s seat with eyes taking toward her window, those of her husband’s own following much the same action. “It certainly has” Jimmy concedes, aware of the pace in which the quality of their lives has taken, finding it impossible to look back at the hardships in which they faced without smiling at how it all turned out. Climbing out of their vehicles with proper clothes and a proper life to live, the couple stare out at the encampment they used to reside within, unable to do so without taking pleasure in the fact that their nice shoes and unstained clothes do not need to step any further toward it than they do now. “I feel awful for the people that still live there” Cathy confesses, wearing furrowed brows at the thought before feeling her husband’s hand gently rubbing at her lower back, comforting her in the fact that it’s all behind them now. “Let’s just not forget that we got lucky. We could be one of them right now if it wasn’t for a few good things happening” Jimmy clarifies, watching as the love of his life spins in his arm and places the soft palm of her hand against his face. “Let’s just never lose sight of that for as long as we live” the man concludes, not needing to utter any further word before his wife’s lips press against his own, her eyes locking on his whilst they embrace. Having visited their past, the couple moves on in favour of their present and future, returning to their apartment and opening the door to the scent of tobacco smoke. “Salutations, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott” Velma remarks, sitting in a chair near the centre of their commons area with one leg draped over the other, her formal wear remaining of a simple skirt and a soft, silk, polka-dot top. “Why are you in our home?” Jimmy questions aloud after a brief pause in his doorway, not having expected the hazy cloud that coats the air of his living room upon entering. “Because Wilbur has a key to everyone’s property and he likes making sure he can get business handled when needed” the unexpected guest responds, letting her elevated leg fall to the ground as she steps off of the seat, approaching the fighter and his elegantly-dressed wife. “How was the mass?” Velma inquires, completely switching the topic of conversation whilst carrying a folded piece of paper in the hand that doesn’t carry the filterless cigarette. “It was just as you’d expect it to be. We gave love to our god and came back home, why?” Jimmy questions, still standing like a statue in the centre of his doorway as the visiting woman attempts to speak further on the matter. “Why are you here?” the homeowner asks instead, staring the smoking figure in the eyes as he questions the nature of her presence, refusing her any alternative line of dialogue. “Because Wilbur would like to inform you of your next scheduled appearance” the woman answers, handing over the folded piece of paper to the man whose eyes it was meant for. “You and Kenny will sit at a table on opposite sides of Mr. Ritter as you address the crowd at his home” Velma continues, only for her claim to be interrupted by the homeowner once more. “I thought he was calling it the ‘Commencement Theatre’ from now on?” Jimmy questions aloud to the response of a quiet nod, the assurance that he receives satisfying that aspect of his concern. “You will meet at the Commencement Theatre in three weeks time for a sit down to address your fight and any questions that will be had from whoever will be there” Velma carries forward, not wanting to leave anything up for interpretation, “the date of your fight isn’t scheduled yet, but Wilbur will have it decided by then.” “And who are you again?” Jimmy questions, looking into the smiling face of the woman that stands opposite him within his own home, her hand extending toward him just as it had to everyone that she’d meet. “Velma Sharp, I’m in charge of helping Wilbur discover which fighters have real animosity between each other in order to-” she answers, only for her title to fall by deaf ears as the fighter and his wife move aside. “I don’t care what you’re in charge of, Velma- please, leave my home” Jimmy interjects, slightly disappointing the woman who’d attempted to remain civilised and professional, her hand falling slowly to her side before her head nods in return. “Be there in three weeks” Velma concludes, stepping forward and through the entrance she’d initially entered, hearing the door slam shut on her way out as the work she’d been sent to complete becomes another chore she’d satisfied the responsibility of. == Seattle Noir == |
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