Participants:
| Scene Title | All Roads Lead to Home |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Ethan and Raith are the best criminals in New York City. Unless they hit the liquor store first, and then it's kind of sad. |
| Date | November 9, 2009 |
Streets of new York City
"Fucking nuns."
The stolen car has the windshield wipers on full to batter away the onslaught the rain is unleashing on the Buick. Outside, it is a dark, cold and wet world. But inside the vehicle, it is warm, semi-amiable, and smells like booze. The engine hums lightly as it sits in idle on the corner. A few stores lining the street sitting happily and blissfuly unaware of the two men in the vehicle. Lights on and open signs illuminated, the Starbucks situated next to the Laundromat which neighbors the Dunkin' Donuts are ripe for the pickins'.
"I 'ave no problem with 'ittin most women."
One hand tilts up the bottle of wine before the mouth receiving it quickly rejects it, ending up with spittle all over the dashboard. A groan follows the sudden move, as the hand quickly goes to set the bottle down and exchange it for a different one. The car is actually littered with liquor. More booze than there is room for. The trunk of the vehicle is slightly ajar, packed to the brim with stolen alcohol goodies. Open bottles are here and there, drowning the floor of the vehicle in different assorted tastes and spirits.
"But a nun. Fuck me. That's a ticket straight to 'ell, if there is a 'ell. That's what I'm sayin, bein' faced with the situation where you need to 'it a nun, brings up all these questions about life, and the afterlife, and whether or not you've done right by your family. And in that time you're thinking deeply, the nun doesn't 'ave to think deeply at all, she just 'as to get 'er mace out."
Ethan has the brown hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his brow. Sunglasses adorn the bridge of his nose, and a balaclava that was pulled up over his mouth now rests on his neck, pulled down for the sake of drinking. Though he already tried to drink through it once, and discovered it didn't work. Glancing to the driver of the vehicle, Ethan passes the random bottle of tequila he found over.
"I'm sorry bout that, by the way."
Maybe it's the alcohol, but Ethan sounds sincerely apologetic. Before he's rummaging through the bottles of alcohol at his feet. "Kind of put a sour note on the 'ole thing." Breath reeking the tell tale scent of alcohol flows out into the vehicle. "Maybe round two will cheer you up."
Raith more than happily accepts the bottle of tequila with his free hand while the other one is preoccupied as it has been for the past three minutes: upending another bottle of water into his face to wash out the stinging, blinding spray. "It's fine," he says, slightly gurgled as water splashes into his mouth, "I took mace for you. By Catholic law, that means I get to be a saint." Unlike Ethan, Raith's balaclava has no sunglasses (or preferably, goggles) to keep pepper spray out of his eyes, and rather than the hood of his sweatshirt, the top of his head is covered by a black, very-cheaply made cowboy hat (probably a size too small) they swiped from the liquor store. Or maybe it was the thrift store next door. It's kind of a blur at the moment.
Finally, tossing the empty water bottle into the back seat, he upends the bottle of tequila into his mouth, and after less than a single gulp, returns it to the upright and tosses it into the back seat as well. "Necesite mas tequila." His Spanish isn't slurred, but whereas he normally is able to nail an accent, one of several, right now he sounds like a gringo. Giving his forehead two solid thumps with the palm of his hand and shaking his head vigorously left-to-right, it seems as though he straightens himself out through sheer force of will. "Who d'we hit next?" he asks, "Coffee'll keep us straight, but y'can't have coffee without donuts."
"If there was three of us, we could each hit one of those places, like a race." Ethan sounds mystified this, and pathetically disappointed that it is not a reality. They should have invited Eileen. But there are only the two of them. "Fuckin' Starbucks. Fuckin' Monopoly. Little coffee 'ouses can't grow because of this fuckin' giant prostituting itself out every day with that weird fuckin' nipleless mermaid." Or whatever that is. Ethan growls through the window, letting his head bump against the window. "I say we 'it Starbucks, make all their customers go to Dunkin' Donuts." Ethan gives an affirmative nod, as if this was a great idea.
"What do you think?" Though the Wolf frowns slightly over at the other man. "You can't be a fuckin' saint. You don't even know catholic law." Either does he, but whatever.
"So?" Raith asks. Who cares if he knows Catholic law? He's going to be a saint, goddammit! "Now, ain't nothing wrong with Starbucks being big. Have you seen the benefits they give their people? But I like the way you think. Maybe Dunkin'll give us a sponsorship. No more money problem, wouldn't that be swell?" It would. "That'd be the best thing ever, yeah. Let's do it. Hey, and then, if we have time? let's hit Dunkin' and make everyone go back to Starbucks…." Raith seemingly loses his train of thought, but it comes back after a moment in a very jarring fashion.
"Hey, Ethan. Who d'you think is manlier? Te'dora, Gabriel, or Petre… Petrol… that other guy? What's his name?"
"Petron." Ethan confirms with a little nod. As he reaches for the back of his pants, frowning deeply. "I don't know where I put my gun." The man leans over to peer into the heap of bottles both full and empty, before he reaches in to fish around to hopefully find it and… Yahtzee! Pulling out a six gun, a small smile forms up on his lips. "You want to use a gun, or the baseball bat this time?" Then he takes a moment to think about Raith's question. Who is the manliest? "Eileen."
"That's a great idea. Then we can go get sponsored by… McDonalds. They sell coffee now!"
"Yeah, Eileen is fuckin' metal," Raith says in agreement. "Hey, yeah, they do! Is their coffee any good? I haven't tried McCoffee yet. Fuck, I need a cheeseburger, now." Maybe drinking so much wasn't such a hot idea. When they started, things were crystal clear. But now, they're getting a little bit… fuzzy. Raith checks by the door, and then looks over his shoulder before reaching under the seat in front of him, banging his head against the steering wheel in the process. "Hey, didn't we have a bat when we started? Where'd you put it?"
"Fuck. I think I might 'ave left it in that guys face." Shit. Now they're down a bat. "Oh well. Use some bottles." With that, Ethan is going to lean into the door to open it. And with the opening of the door, a few bottles fall out of the car and crash onto the wet ground outside. Holden lets out a pained groan before going to shove himself up and out of the vehicle. Tucking the gun back into the back of his pants. "You ready? I want my name to be Jeff this time. You can be Ashleigh." And with that, he's closing the door, turning to face Starbucks. The balacalava is pulled up over his lips.
Raith likewise climbs out of the car, although it takes him a moment to figure out how to unlock his door. "Hey, E… Jeff?" He said Jeff, right? Yeah, he said Jeff. "You known Eily since she was a like, a pup, right? What kind of guys does she go for, do y'know? Like, is there a type or something?"
"What did you say?" Ethan asks, peering through the rain at the other man. "She tried t'fuck me. So people like me I— Wait a fuckin' minute. Whot th'fuck are y'askin' for?" The Wolf growls, glaring drunkenly at Raith. "She's fuckin' Gabriel." Right? "And even if she wasn't you're way too old, retarded, and creepy for 'er to be innerested, so don't fuckin' think about it so I don't 'ave to…" The threat is implied as Ethan pauses in his verbal onslaught to work out a much needed burp. Blleeechh. "Let's rob this fuckin' place."
Clearly, Raith touched on a sensitive topic, not that this was much of a secret. Most people would take that as their cue to stop talking and start robbing. But Jensen Raith isn't most people, and one thing that everyone who's met him should know about Jensen Raith by now is this: he's fucking nuts. He also enjoys pushing the big shiny buttons that he finds. Bad combination. Very bad combination. "So, what you're saying is," he begins with a big, Aviators-eating grin, "I should shave my head and start talking like a drunk bare-knuckle boxer? Cuz Gabriel's nothing like that, meaning she'll be all over me by tomorrow morning. Jeff, you're a goddam genius."
"I'll shoot your big toe off." And suddenly the revolver is in Ethan's hand, his aim vaguely pointed around Raith's front foot. He looks quite serious about the threat, even though it's probably the alcohol speaking. That and the anger issues that have been begging therapy four countless years. But all that is ignored as Ethan aims hard for Raith's toe. "Shut up about it, and you leave the fuckin' girl, a fuckin' lone." He looks perplexed for a moment. That last word didn't quite work. Damn.
Raith looks perplexed for a moment as well. That last word really doesn't work. "You can't tell me what to do," he snarls, although it doesn't sound very much like a snarl. Or even all that threatening. "The boss says so, and we do what the boss says and I'm…."
It's an awkward pause that follows, before Raith raises one finger to tell Ethan that he should hold whatever thought he has. He then pushes his balaclava further up on his face, turns to the side, bends forward and calmly pukes all over the street. As calmly as a man can puke all over the street, at least, he calmly pukes all over the street.
"You're as much the boss as I am a bear fucking Nazi." Ethan explains hastily. "And I've never liked bears. Or Nazis." He adds in, quickly, looking quite displeased at the thought. Then Raith is bending over. Oh fuck.
Taking a step back, Ethan lets out a snarl as the puke begins to flow freely. And with his aim so centered, well, what the hell. The trigger is pulled and a loud bang is let out as the bullet is flung out of the revolver and at Raith's foot. Meanwhile, Starbucks starts to get suspicious of the guy outside with the gun and the puking guy and the car full of liquor. The cops are called.
Getting dressed was probably the smartest thing Raith did before they set out on this little venture, and the bullet thankfully ricochets off the steel plate that rests atop Raith's toes. Of course, that doesn't stop him from hopping around on one foot, cursing until he realizes that he's fine. But a quick glance at the Starbucks imparts important information. "Fuck. Jeff, I think they're on to us," he says, "Yeah, they're definitely onto us. FUck, get in the car." In a flash, Raith is back at his door, only to find his escape plan foiled.
"Fuck! You locked the doors!"
"You locked the doors, you were in it last, you fuckin' retard!"
No matter! There are still five bullets left in the revolver. That means five whole bullets to unload into the passenger side window. Call it overkill but Ethan isn't about to get his arm all scratched up reaching in to unlock the door. The loud shots pierce through the window and eventually demolish it entirely. Ethan actually takes the time to clear out what little remaining glass there is with the barrel of the gun. And finally he's popping the lock and jumping in, closing the door behind him.
"Alright, let's fuckin' go!" Someone should probably tell him, he needs to unlock the door to the driver's side.
No one really needs to tell him, because after another moment of panicked struggling, some sober part of Raith's brain kicks on and he winds up and slams his elbow into and through the glass, unlocking his own door and jumping inside. Rather than bother closing the door, he immediately starts fumbling with the ignition. Fortunately, he left the keys in it, so starting the car is not a problem. Immediately, it stalls. He starts it again, this time getting it right. Slamming his foot on the accelerator and throwing the car into gear, Raith narrowly avoids slamming into the car parked in front of him. It's only by luck or a miracle, perhaps, that bottles of liquor, wine and maybe even lighter fluid don't come cascading out of the trunk. "Which way is home?" Raith demands before sharply turning right. "Doesn't matter! All roads lead to home!"