Participants:
| Scene Title | Hypothetically |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Diego needs guns and things to fire out of them. Turns out he's been trying to deal with some schmuck who just wants to get drunk and do hookers all the time. MAN. It's a good thing he found Deckard! |
| Date | November 19, 2008 |
There's something about the fringes of Staten Island that will always inspire sentiments of unease. After the bomb, much of Staten Island has fallen into glorious disrepair, so much so that places that were already in stages of decay look more like monuments to entropy than once urban settlements in decline. While much of the island was suburban residential areas before the bomb, there were two crowning moments that drove this borough of New York into an early grave. The first was the mass exodus of survivors and panicked people fleeing Manhattan. They came by foot, bicycle and car across the bridges to Staten Island, all manner of desperate and frightened people flooding into a crowded place. While some fled through to New Jersey, others simply couldn't — or wouldn't — go further. This, like in Queens, led to an eventual chaos that would in time eclipse the pandemonium in the eastern edge of New York after the bomb.
Staten Island was in the direct path of the fallout from the explosion, and after thousands fled to the island, the entire populace was forcibly evacuated. Those few that managed to stay, clung to their homes desperately, and those few who did would suffer from radiation sickness and the ever-escalating crime rate. By the time Staten Island got the "all clear" from the government, the damage had already been done.
What was one suburban neighborhoods and parklands is now a monument to decay. Houses lie in various states of disuse and ruin, and like much of New York has seen property values nosedive. Few want to move out to a formerly irradiated zone, and even fewer want to return to a place so rife to violent crime. Now, much of Staten Island lies in various states of decay. Houses abandoned by families that fled the city, were forced into forclosure and were never resold, or simply places where entire families went missing and are now squatted in by any number of transients line the once peaceful streets. Staten Island is a home to crumbling infrastructure, spotty electricity, and people who wish to remain undiscovered by law enforcement. Few police will willingly go into this now infamous island.
Once a teaming (if cramped) place of growth and learning, George Cromwell Elementary has fallen into a state of decay. Rusted chain link fencing has been raked back from a modest playground as if by a giant set of claws, leaving cracked asphalt exposed to the unsettling silence of this particular part of town at night. There are few lights and fewer cars. But there are people. Or, at least, a person.
Flint Deckard hangs upside down from the middle of a set of monkey bars, overcoat flared cape-like over his head. He's wearing sunglasses, and a suit, so. Either a crazy person or a very confused vampire.
Confused vampires and crazed businessman aside, Staten Island runs to a certain crowd. Somehow, Diego doesn't really fit in with that crowd at first glance. For one, he's come straight from the office so his general after hours apparel isn't in effect this evening. Instead the man wears an apparently custom tailored power suit with a long peacoat as protection against the cold. Smoke trails lazily from a fat cigar pressed between his teeth. And his dog trots steadily at his side, giving no indications of joy or sorrow.
The sounds of metal scraping on concrete give first warning to the man's arrival. After holding the mangled chain link surrounding the concrete aside for Capone to meander through he follows. It isn't hard to spot Deckard.
"Having fun?" There's the faintest hint of amusement evident in the man's tone.
"I can't feel my feet," is Deckard's ambiguous reply. He swings there for a few seconds more, then shifts his weight enough to get a grip on one of the bars further along so that he can…sort of…maneuver himself into a drop that is approximately as graceful as one might expect from a middle-aged guy who has been playing on monkey bars. "Mr. Smith, I presume. And dog."
"Capone. Unless you'd prefer it if I ambiguously address you as 'human'." Puff. Blue-grey tendrils, the reaching arms of a tiny phantom, arc towards the sky from that cigar which is summarily plucked from his lips and held in his left hand. Diego is at least respectful enough to blow the stream of inhaled gasses out of the side of his mouth before stepping forward and offering his hand. "Mr. Deckard."
"Yes. Ambiguously, erroneously. I am open to any and all vocabulary words that toot your horn." Coat lapels tugged back down into place with a stiff jerk, Deckard takes Diego's offered hand and gives it a firm pump. Salesman's shake, if a little more harried than the average guy selling used cars on the side of the road.
Diego raises an eyebrow at the words, but the amusement in his tone leaks into his expression. "Well, I'm pretty sure he is- in fact -a dog." He looks down at Capone, who sits easily at Diego's side, as if to double check the dog's genetic relation to the canine family. "Anyway, I like business Mr. Deckard. Lets get down to it. I have a few personal needs I need to address first. Twelve gauge sawed off shotgun, with a pistol grip." After a brief pause for emphasis he continues, "But I want the modifications professionally done. I won't waste my time on fucked off hackjobs. Barring that, just a regular old twelve gauge, and I'll do it myself- obviously, I'm not looking for registered weapons or anything with serial numbers, yeah?"
"Can do." Deckard is a business man. Time is money. Although, more significantly lately, time is just time and valuable in and of itself. Not something he's inclined to waste. "The serial number won't be a problem, but assuming you don't just want me to grate it down where the compressed metal is still in there for our mutual friends with the NYPD to find, it could be a little more expensive than whatever Shady McGee and his homies are hawking on the fringes of Midtown. If you have the money, I have the time and the means."
Diego eyes Deckard pointedly. "I have the money. Next, ammo. 7.62 NATO, 5.59 NATO, and .30 Carbine rounds. Unlike the gun, I actually need an estimate on price and expected time of delivery." Puff.
For that, Flint actually pauses a moment before reaching into his coat. Little black notebook thusly summoned, he flips it around quickly to a blank page, drags the pen out of the binding, and scratches down the appropriate calibers. "I can have a more accurate estimate on both for you in two days. But for now," he scrawls down a number and holds the pad up for Diego to read before he flips it shut again. Not ludicrous, but not cheap, either. "Something like that."
Diego looks when he's prompted to do so. When he looks back to Deckard's face his head cocks to one side. "We'll see where we're at when you have a closer approximation of the price." Puff. Blow. "Now, Mr. Deckard, I have to ask you something. Hypothetically, if I found a need to take delivery on a large amount of material; we'll say for the sake of argument, two or three hundred assault rifles or other high profile items. SMG's, combat shotguns; preferably clip loaded, but if I had to settle for something like a SPAS, so be it. Not neccessarily two or three hundred of one; maybe a combination. And enough ammunition to make owning them worthwhile. Is that within the realm of what you can manage, or would I need to find a bigger fish." Puff. "Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically," says Deckard, "I would wee my pants with excitement if I ever saw that much merchandise floating around with my pseudonym on it." The notebook, having done its duty, is tucked neatly back into his coat. There is no change in his expression behind the sunglasses at talk of hundreds of guns and ammunition to go with him. He deals with crazy people a lot. Seriously. "Realistically, you need to find someone who has evolved lungs, legs and a taste for international affairs."
"A shame." Realistically, given the set of circumstances prompting the question, Diego's need would probably be more around 30 than 300. But there's no reason to tell Deckard that. "Hey, can't hurt to ask. I know a Russian but he always wants to get drunk and fuck hookers anytime I try to deal with him." He shrugs, turning to look back the way he came. "Enough about the hypothetical, anyway. The reality is that shotgun, and I'm very much looking forward to seeing what kind of product you put your name to."
"Wow, really? He sounds like a wreck." Convincingly derisive, Deckard can't help but lean back a little while he sets to groping around after his box of cigarettes — as if that's going to mask the whiskey drifting on his own breath. Fortunately hookers do not leave a smell. At least — well. Flint gives the dog a sidelong look as he lights up. "I look forward to you seeing what kind of product I put my name into. Pleasure meeting with you, Mr. Smith."
Whiskey and hookers are well and good, mind you. Just don't try and bring them in on a business deal. Diego pulls a card out of his pocket and offers it to Deckard. The card is just a simple white business card with a phone number; no name or logo. "Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Deckard. Have an excellent evening." And with that, he turns walks off, shiney black shoes ringing abnormally loud on the broken concrete of the ruined neighborhood, almost ominous in breeching the silence.
Deckard's, "You too," is muffled around his cigarette. Rather than turn to pace off in his own scuffed up shoes, he turns to crane a look back around at the abandoned school. Eventually he finds his way over to the swing set. It creaks when he takes a seat like it'd very much like to fall apart and drop him on his ass, but holds long enough for him to finish his smoke. So cold. So ronery.
 November 19th: The Blunter Side |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 November 19th: I Think I'm Paranoid |