Prophetic Aggravation

Participants:

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Scene Title Prophetic Aggravation
Synopsis Isabelle visits SoHo to squeeze information about the Brill paintings from a lowlife.
Date February 16, 2009

Fat Cat Billiards

Fat Cat Billiards is far more than just a bar. Equipped with a plethora of tables for pool, ping-pong, shuffleboard, chess, checkers, backgamon and scrabble sets to satisfy a mob, as they say, it's almost like an adult arcade. A barely noticeable layer of smoky haze hangs in the air, and smooth Jazz plays over the speakers as the boisterous crowd goes about their business of occupying their time in whatever way they choose.

The bar looks to be fully stocked with a wide array of beers on tap and bottles, and enough of the harder stuff to satisfy most palettes. The tenders are as friendly as one might expect (it keeps the tip jars filled, after all) and are usually pretty competent when it comes to filling orders, although there's little showmanship. Just a good drink served at a reasonable price here.


Find some paintings he says.

I'll give you a camera he says.

God this is frustrating.

For the past few days, hitting the street and asking questions about pricy — and shady — purchases of art have been almost all that Isabelle has been doing with her time outside of work. Rupert Carmichael has a very peculiar choice of assignments to send the pyrokinetic on; ones that are so outside of her area of expertise — causing trouble and setting things on fire — that it seems almost like a joke, or more likely a test.

That in itself is even more aggrivating.

But the past two days haven't been without some measure of success. Isabelle is nothing if not persuasive, and either a few drinks or a handfull of roaring flames can make even the most reluctant man spill his truths to her. Rupert is right about one thing, paintings were sold off sometime in the last few weeks, clearly stolen paintings from the channels used to get them. Fences and thieves alike had taken notice of the high price most were sold for, meaning that whatever it is Isabelle is looking for, is most certainly outside of the hands of common crooks. One name in particular has been bounced around in these two days — Daphne Millbrook. According to the people she's talked to, Isabelle is certain that this platinum-blonde is the source of the paintings, and she — above all others — would know where they are.

Finding a lead to get to her, however, has been a fruitless endeavor. Which brings Isabelle to her current situation…

"Yeah, I dunno… maybe somebody was talkin' about the paintings, maybe not." Brent Farrel is a drug-dealer and all-in-all scumbag, a egular at Old Lucy's, he drifts back and forth from bar to bar, from seedy club to seedy club, a sponge for all of the filth that Manhattan has to offer. But there's one thing that Farrel is good for, and that's squealing when the right amount of pressure is applied to him.

"Look Izzy, I ain't got names, I just know…" One hand strokes back his greasy locks of hair from a receeding hairline, "…you know, some stuff. But, you know, it'd be really nice if there was some money involved for me in this." A brown eyebrow raises, and Ferrel leans across the table to stare up at Isabelle, seated across from him. The cracking sound of pool balls rattling around deeper in the billiard's bar is accompanied by the trashy tunes of Bluegrass and Country wailing out of the speakers.

God this is frustrating.

Excuse me? Money? Uh no, no thanks. At least not yet. Isabelle knows how to make a guy scream and she isn't afraid to do it to this guy. "Look.. Farrel." Isabelle's eyes have a dark look to them, strange. "Just tell me what I need to know and then I won't feel the need to slam your face into this table, so help me God. I am not in the mood." Her grey eyes stare him down. She is pissed, this assignment is harder than she thought it was going to be.

There's a puckering expression from Ferral at Isabelle's response, and the overweight man leans back in his chair, bowling shirt covered with the crumbs of the hamburger on a plate in front of him. "Izzy, you ain't gotta be such a cold — " He corrects himself, "fiery bitch all'a the time." His eyes close, one hand sweeping the crmbs from the curve of his stomach onto the floor. Unfortunately for Ferrel, he's calling the bartender's bluff.

"I know you ain't gonna bash my head in, because you know what?" His brown eyes wander up and down Isabelle, a smile creeping up on his lips. "You ain't got shit for information, an' if you beat my head in, you sure as shit ain't gonna get any from me, you know?" Proud of himself, he reaches out for his half-finished burger with a certain ravenous look in his eyes, content in the notion that there's no way Isabelle would do something to him in public.

Right?

Wrong.

As the fat guy is going for his burger to make himself even more fat, Isabelle's hand snakes out and grabs it before he can take a bite, "I always try to be nice to you and you just.. never learn." Izzy growls and with her other hand she throws a fast punch right to his face.

While she is punching her palm surrounding Farrel's arm is growing increasingly hot, as in searing hot. The smell of burnt flesh would soon be smelt. "Now are you ready to talk?" she looks perfectly innocent as she talks but anybody that knows her, knows that she isn't innocent.

Jerking back from the blow to his face, Ferrel falls straight out of his chair, restrained by one ham-hock of an arm. "Fuck you Izzy, you know tha—AAAAAH!" The searing sensation of heat flowing from the woman's hand scalds and blisters flesh beneath her touch. His eyes clamp shut, mouth hanging open, "Aahhh! You bitch! Stop it!" He writhes on the floor, arm bent up in the air, held by the wrist. As he kicks and screams, people around the billiards bar immediately stop what they're doing, eyes wide in disbelief as they watch smoke come from Ferrel's arm. "Ahh you crazy bitch! Fine! Fine!"

Struggling on the ground, Ferrel howls out exactly what Isabelle wants, "T-There's some chinks down in Chinatown! Ahh fuck— stop!" His arm struggles around in her strong grasp, sweat beading up on his brow. No one in the bar moves to stop Isabelle, seeing her hand glowing orange, like hot-forged iron where it clamps around Ferrel's forearm. "Liu! His name is Liu! Liu Ye! He's a fucking Triad, he bought one of the paintings! Ask around there — god damnit stop you crazy bitch!"

"Aw sweetie. What happened? Not much of a man to play anymore?" the pyro sneers as she releases his wrist after the information she wants is given. The look in her eyes… the satisfaction at the man's pain is downright scary. She is obviously enjoying the pain she caused the man.

Isabelle looks around the bar and gives anyone looking at her a look that only spells out that if they keep on looking towards her, well then she can burn wrists all night if she wanted. Pushing her chair back with a wicked grin, Izzy stands and saunters over behind Brent.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" she whispers into his ear and rubs his shoulders. "Thank you for being a good boy." She slaps Brent's sweaty cheek softly and stands up straight, then fixes Farrel with a stare. "The information better be right, or I'll come and hurt something that I think you value more than your arm." She winks darkly and nods her head at him.

Seething with his arm cradled close to his chest and hunched over on the floor, Ferrel look sup at Isabelle with a furious expression, "I-It's fucking right." He sputters out, looking down at the red hand-print on his arm, "Oh God my arm…" His breath shudders, saliva running from one lip as he forgets to swallow from how terrible the pain is. "I hope the fucking Triads cut you up like a goddamned fish you crazy bitch!"

With Isabelle out of her chair, everyone who was looking at her has looked away, though one person on their cell phone quietly ducks into the bathroom to stay out of the way, in case she just saunters over to the wrong people. The best part about all of this, and Isabelle knows it quite well, is that Brent Ferrel will never go to the cops, because he's far too worried they find out about the less than savory things he's been dealing with on Staten Island.

It's funny, his arm smells a bit like smoked ham.

"Ya know.. I didn't call you one name." Isabelle looks behind her and her hair has fallen into her face. Without warning, a foot is extended towards Brent's head and the single kick sends the fat man to the ground clutching his chest. "Now, I'm ready to go." Izzy looks at Brent one last time before her booted feet make a clicking noise as she exits. Her hair swings back and forth as she moves. Mission accomplished.

At least some of it.


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February 16th: Red Herring
Previously in this storyline…
An Artsy Endeavor

Next in this storyline…
Amateur Night

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February 16th: Unhappy Homecoming
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