The Biggest Boxing Arena


ethan_icon.gif ziadie_icon.gif

Scene Title The Biggest Boxing Arena
Synopsis Ethan makes a new paid friend.
Date January 6, 2011

The Angry Pelican

"So.. 'e shows up and all of a sudden your lips are shut?"

It's a cold night. Too cold to be outdoors tonight. The Angry Pelican is entertaining it's drunken usuals. A rather unsightly and shady crew. Not the most stylish of men, a fashionista would be left wanting more from these mostly plaid clad and hole torn men. Getting their fill of booze and sharing their own different poisons, if the men notice the pair a short distance off, they are very good at pretending they don't.

Despite the current crowd, the man standing on a small mound of dirt is drastically different. Dressed finely and expensively the man seems to radiate arrogance, at least for the moment. With his upper ground the man looks with disdain on the bleeding heap of a man below him.

"If I can't trust you anymore, Ernie. Why are we even 'ere?"

The accent is obviously British. Cockney to the more trained or distinguished ear.

Adjusting his black coat, Ethan glowers down at 'Ernie' an older, more impovershed man cowering and clinging to himself at the British man's feet. An empty oil can rests discarded on the ground a few feet away. While Ethan, also known as The Wolf idly plays with a zippo lighter.

"If Feng is on th'fuckin' island. I need to know. I 'ear rumors about an asian man.. And I'm left wondrin why I 'aven't 'eard anything from the man I'm paying to keep an eye out."

Despite the cold winds flapping his black coat, the Wolf seems impervious to the freezing temperature. One black loafer swinging carelessly into the other man's stomach. "So whot th'fuck 'm I payin' you for? Is it to get 'ores and booze? While I don't give a flyin' fuck if that's whot you spend your money on.. If that's all you're doing…"

The zippo flares up.

Ziadie is perhaps not so good at pretending as everyone else, or perhaps he just is too drunk to pretend. In any case, the older man is sitting back, staring distantly and vacantly forward over the edge of his cup, one leg folded over the other, and over the edge of his cup happens to be straight towards the other pair. There's no indication of whether he can hear their conversation, but anyone observant would notice that his grip on his cane has tightened.

The zippo claps close. Looking down at the black lighter, he pushes the lighter into his voluminous black coat. Spitting down on the man his loafer flings forward again. Snapping against Ernie's chin, the man's head swings back as he tumbles backward. "Fuck you Ernie. Get a real job."

Turning his back on the man, he makes his slow way back towards the shack bar. Brows knit at the man who can't seem to keep eyes on hiw own business. Another man's errant gaze happens to cross Ethan's pass, the man is quickly looking away. But Ziadie…

"Whot th'fuck you lookin' at?" The Wolf growls, glaring at the other man as he approaches slowly. He may not make his observation of the grip clear, but not many details escape from the ex SAS. A light snort of a laugh exhales from his lips.

"Y'gonna bring justice t'me, old man?"

It takes several minutes before there's a response, though it's quite clear that Ziadie knows he was addressed.

"I'm long done bringin' justice to anyone." Ziadie's speech is slow, slightly slurred, and carries an almost unrecognisable accent. He takes a slow sip of his drink, and leans back a bit further. He's not looking directly at Ethan anymore, but he's still alert enough, for a drunk old guy. "Can't an old man have himself a drink in peace, jus' for once??"

Ziadie shifts slightly in his seat, pulling his jacket closer about him. What wasn't visible before is visible now, and perhaps explains his first statement. On the left breast of the leather jacket are pinned several medals. It would seem that the old man served somewhere at one point, but just like the rest of his clothing, the medals clearly show the wear and passage of time.

The medals are only visible for a brief moment, though, as Ziadie puts his drink down on the low table next to him, and lets go of his cane, in order to adjust a scarf against the chill.

"Possibly. Depends on whot y'saw over there. And whot you're drinkin."

Spreading his hands across the bar, the posh Brit takes a look up and down the man. Studying the medals. "Where'd y'fight, grandfather?" Ethan asks, something akin to respect coming off in his voice. But not quite respect. The Wolf eyes the bartender cleanly. "Jameson and red bull." He barks before returning his attention to the old man. "And whotever 'e wants." Ethan pats his hand in front of Ziadie.

Ziadie takes the time to observe the other man, obviously thoughtful, and takes what seems to be the last sip from the cup he'd been cradling. Carefully, he puts the cup down, and leans on his arm, running long fingers through his wiry hair. He's slow to respond, but when he does, his words seem carefully chosen, and are less slurred than he had been a moment ago. "Seventeen years on the force," he says. "Then th' same again, watchin' my buddies do the hard work while I couldn't." He pauses as the bartender turns to him. "Another stout."

"And now… Busy watchin' still?" Ethan asks, resting his hands on what makes up for a counter at the Angry Pelican. Reaching out to take the glass he brings it up, Holden takes a sip of his Jameson. Placing it back down he drinks down the whiskey coolly. Watching him quietly, he gives a light nod. "No money, is it?" Holden tilts his head somewhat, assuming the other man doesn't have much to speak of himself.

"Ne'r enough at this point," Ziadie responds. He reaches over the medals that are on his jacket. If one knew such things, below the American flag is a rank insignia, signifying that Ziadie was a sergeant at one point in time, and below that are two purple hearts and a third medal. The action seems to be a subconscious thing that the older man does. "Busy however I can be. Old man has to do something with his time, doesn't he?"

"So y'drink." Ethan says with a little disapproval in his voice. Watching the other man he lets out a little smirk. "Former S.A.S" He won't include all the black ops and all that. Or Vanguard work. No need to go into detail about his work in nearly eliminating the worlds evolved population.

"Y'need to make money, old man?" Holden asks quietly, watching the other man blankly. "I might have work for you, if y'don't fuck it up." His head tips over his shoulder at the man he had kicked into a heap.

Ziadie sits and thinks, one hand now wrapped through the handle of the cup of his drink, which he sips thoughtfully. "It passes the time." If the former cop heard the disapproval, he makes absolutely no indication of it. He does smell of alcohol, though, and it could easily be assumed that he drinks rather frequently. "And makes old wounds hurt less."

Ziadie gestures vaguely towards the cane next to him, with his free hand. "How much use can an old man be? The pension pay from the department gets me by, but I'll admit it ain't much, and it's not easy t'collect on without an address or such of the like." Ziadie pauses after that statement, adjusting his scarf and jacket once again. "I don' move fast, but let's hear it."

"Just makes you forget about the wounds because you're so fucking stupid." Ethan growls. He's lecturing an old stranger on being an alcoholic. Great work Ethan, just great. Looking down at the cane, Ethan smirks slightly. "Name." It's not a question, it's an order. Taking another pull from his drink he slams it down.

Reaching into the jacket, the zippo is pulled out once again. And this time a single cigarette joins it. Placing the smoke stick in his mouth, he lights it up smoothly. "Eh?" The question is if Ziadie would prefer a cigarette of his own or not, a splayed out hand is indicative of this.

The older man reaches into his pocket, pulling out what would smell to be a clove cigarette, and shakes his head very slightly to Ethan's second question. "Thanks, however." He sets it in his mouth, slightly to one side, and lights it, slowly. Only then does he actually look as if he's going to answer. "If you're not to mind, I'd as well like to know yours first." Ziadie leans on one arm and takes another sip of the stout. He doesn't seem to have been phased by being called fucking stupid, either.

"Y'can call me th'Wolf." Ethan murmurs, taking another sip of his drink. "And not that I'm t'mind. But.. People who know whot that name means.." He gives a light shrug. "Would never ask me t'tell my name first." He smiles lightly. "It's not a rule I enforce. I'm just assumin' you 'aven't 'eard of me. And so I'm lettin y'kno the word on th'street." The smile turns sweet.

Looking over his nose at the clove he takes a puff from his own cigarette. "Those take a fuckin minute to smoke." Ethan drawls out, motioning with his chin to the clove. "Might be 'ere all night, boy." Says the younger to the elder. Swinging the cigarette to the other side of his mouth. Letting out another puff of smoke.

"I have nowhere else to be, save for finding somewhere dry and warm to sleep at some point," the older man says, with a tone that suggests he's stating the obvious, and a hint of bitterness at the second half of the statement. Ziadie frowns, very briefly, an expression that only echoes the bitterness in his voice.

"In any case." He takes another sip of the drink. "Ziadie." The older man shrugs his shoulders ever so slightly, and stares past the younger man as though he's no longer thinking about the present at all.

"Ziadie." Ethan repeats coldly. Looking down at the man. "Evolved or not?" He asks, glancing up at the other occupants of the bar. All of which are giving Ethan and Ziadie a magically large berth and personal bubble of privacy. Ethan's reputation isn't as widespread here as it is in parts of the world. But the criminal life of Staten Island knows to watch their steps around the Wolf.

"I need eyes Ziadie." Ethan informs politely. "New York is the worlds largest boxin' cage. Good versus evil. Government versus rebels. Bieber versus Jonas brothers. It doesn't matter who's fightin'. In this city, the stakes are always 'igh. And I need scouts so I know where to lay my bets. I'm not cheap. And if y'do your job, you'll be taken care of."

Reaching into his jacket a picture is laid out on the counter. An asian man in his forties is in the picture is pushed in front of Ziadie's vision. "This man is named Daiyu Feng. Want y't'look out for 'im, ey?"

Ziadie looks at the picture, and studies it for a while, then repeats the name slowly. "Daiyu Feng." He returns his attention to his drink, then to his cigarette. "It's always been dat way. Worse as of late, but always been somewhere people clash, beyond de scope most people notice." The accent is clearer at the moment. Caribbean. Jamaican maybe.

He seems to have missed the man's first question, or at least to have chose to missed it, though which isn't uncertain. "You need eyes, and as a bonus, no one notices an old man." Ziadie trails off, the pause in the air making more obvious that he knows what he is leaving unsaid.

Frowning deeply down at the counter, Ethan turns slightly to square up against the man. "I don't want t'threaten you Ziadie. But if I ask y'a question. Answer it." Holden advises stonily. He smirks a bit as the man speaks of the places where people clash. "This is th'place, Ziadie."

He smirks lightly. "No one notices an old man." He affirms. "And an old man needs certain things to keep living. Like 'eat. I can get you that, Ziadie."

Ziadie leans on the bar a bit, and takes the cigarette in his hands. "Look, son." He pauses a moment. "Whatever they call it. Evolved. Yes. Near enough to a parlour trick, more than not." The word hangs in the air, with as much of a hint that Ziadie doesn't like the fact of the matter as it is. Or that he's indifferent. Hard to tell, from tone of voice. He picks up his drink again, and sips from it slowly.

A light smirk curls up his lips, he gives a light nod. "Whot's your parlour trick, then?" Holden watches the man's other drink before taking another drag from his cigarette. Pulling it out as if in imitation of the other man he pulls up his drink and takes another pull. He pushes the picture closer to Ziadie before reaching into his coat again. A wad of money is placed in front of him. "Take th'picture. Take th'money. I want you t'be 'ere tomorrow. I'll give you a cell phone. A cell phone you're only going to use for me. The more you use your eyes for me, the more I take care of you."

Ziadie eyes the money, and the picture, and then slips both into his hand and into an interior pocket of his jacket, and lowers his voice slightly but noticeably. "Tellin' when people are lying to me. Tellin' when people are lying, in general." There's the slightest hint of aggression in Ziadie's voice. It's plain he doesn't terribly like untruths.

Ziadie watches the other man carefully for a reaction.

How useful. "That it." Ethan states dully to himself. "Well Ziadie." The Wolf lets out, smiling grimly at the other man. "Looks like we 'ave an accord. I'll see you soon. I 'ope this will be a fruitful relationship."

"Saturday, not tomorrow." Ziadie nods, though. Despite that he's been drinking the whole time he's been talking to Ethan, he seems to have sobered up some. "Tomorrow would be the day I'm supposed to pick up my pension check. I wouldn't want folks getting worried about me not showing up, and neither would you."

A light smirk flicks up on Ethan's lips. He gives Ziadie a little nod. "Saturday." Ethan repeats. Giving the other man's back a little pat. Patting Ziadie, Holden steps away from the man and makes his departure from the Angry Pelican.

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