St. Valentine's Day Massacre

Log Archive » Logs for February 2009 » St. Valentine's Day Massacre

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Scene Title	St. Valentine's Day Massacre
Synopsis	Bebe gets intimately acquainted with the reason why most whores have a short half-life and Jack extracts the price to be paid for misbehaving. It's true romance without all of the Hallmark crap.
Date	February 14, 2009

The Happy Dagger

This building used to be a dance club a decade or more ago, and was later outfitted into a strip bar up until the bomb hit New York City and Staten Island became a refuge of the panicked people of New York City. After this neighborhood fell to ruin, the strip bar went out of business and was sold easily to a young man from Britain with similar but less legitimate intentions for the place. And so it became The Happy Dagger, a brothel that makes no claim to be otherwise, and a bright spot on a street with similar venues, lit up with lights of pink, red and orange, with a neon sign in cursive print reading its name.

Two strapping bouncers allow you through after a quick identity check, down a dark corridor wherein people seem to move in and out continually. The front room is crowded, more nightclub than brothel. There's a bar in the corner, and stages of different shapes and heights create obstacles, along with a quieter lounge area separated only by saloon style doors. Women dance aloofly or mingle with the clientele, marked as employees of the Happy Dagger by their costuming. There is a Middle Eastern bent in style, with warm colours and lights, women with Cleopatra eyes, wearing more silks than sequins, decked in Hollywood-exotic stage jewelry. The insincerity of this place is palpable. There's spiral staircase at the other end of the large area, a structure swathed in red light and eye-catching.

Upstairs is a catacomb of dark hallways and bedrooms of various sizes. It seems less like a strip club and more like the brothel it boasts to be, with more elaborate interior design. Curtains of silk and chiffon, incense making the air hazy, the walls papered with golds and reds. Women linger in the hallways to catch the strays who come up here alone and guide them to appropriate rooms.

Breaking the illusion of decadence is the occasional security camera hidden in the corner. This place is not without it's safety measures, beyond the bouncers. You may also notice that the man enjoying a drink in the corner hasn't gotten up in a while, and another prowling around outside hasn't moved from this street. The security is kept discreet and unobtrusive, but it certainly is there.

"'Allo there, ladies," Quentin calls out in his lilting, friendly voice as he pushes through the door to the Dagger. His craggy, unremarkable face pulls into a pleasant sigh as he sidles toward the bar and slips onto a stool. Though he's no regular, he's dressed well and his bearing screams of money and class. His suit is reserved and dark, but well-cut and tailored. His shoes are shined, he's shaved clean and his hair is impeccably styled.

He puts on his most winning smile and reaches out to touch a particularly attractive girl on the elbow. "'Scuse me. I seem to have a full wallet and an empty lap. Care to help me with that?"

It's Bebe who just so happens to be at the bar and within arm's reach and so when fingers brush over her funny bone, she's quick to fasten a sweet smile onto her lips just a few short seconds before she turns her sleekly-styled head to flash the new arrival with those babydoll brown eyes. "I think that might be arranged," she says, reaching a few fingers of her own out to delicately pluck at Quentin's collar, grazing the skin just beneath his chin. "I'm Bebe."

"And I'm yours," he purrs back to her. With casual boldness, Quentin curls one arm around her lower back and guides her to a light, temporary seat on his thigh. Though the pressure is gentle, it's insistent. This is a man used to getting what he wants, as most wealthy men are. "At least for now. Care for a drink, or would you prefer to go somewhere more… cozy?"

Polite, this one. He's offering her a 'choice.'

"Are you buyin'?" Of course, he is. This is just Bebe's way of playing the game; double entendre and innuendo have practically become second nature. She picked it up quick. You have to be at least a little bit clever to survive in a place like this. Brightly-painted eyes bounce from bartender to new 'boyfriend' as she considers the offer being extended. Regardless of whether it happens inside or outside of her room, the more money she can make a man spend is generally well-rewarded… but, the longer they linger at the bar, the more likely it is that someone else might catch his eye. She doesn't dare betray her desperation for a 'date' just yet, though. What's the harm in one drink?

Quentin invests in many things. One of them is people. To properly invest in people, you need to be able to read them. When it comes to Bebe's desperation, Quentin reads her like a rag novel. Rather than bothered or put off, he seems intrigued, smiling wider and pressing his torso against his date companionably. "You know," he stage whispers, his eyes locked on hers. "I think you might just be the prettiest girl here. I'd rather not wait. We can always have champagne when we're finished."

Well, there's a relief. "In that case, come with me…" Ah, there it is again. Entendre. Innuendo unleashed. And just in time, too, as there's a very particular redhead weaving her way through the Friday night crowd with hell or high water intent toward the bar. Bebe's smile warms by a degree as she's spared the embarrassment of being shown up again in the wake of Jade — that envious, auburn-haired cunt just can't stand to watch Bebe work her awkward wiles and she so often goes out of her way to show the younger woman up, no matter the expense. According to Chris Rock, every woman has a rival in the workplace and, for Bebe, it's most definitely Jade.

Undaunted by Quentin's very preoccupied state, Jade makes for the intercept course and manages to present herself to both of them at the bottom of the stairs and says, "You sure you can handle this one by yourself, Bebe? He looks like too much man for you." It's entirely possible that was intended to insult them both. Two thumbs up for tact.

Sniff. Quentin wraps his arm around Bebe just tightly enough to be considered protective as he eyes Jade from tresses to toes. Then, without acknowledging her presence further, he guides Bebe around her and up the stairs. As they crest the top, he pauses just long enough to glance back darkly at the redhead. "Change your hair. That's a bad color for you."

Le snub.

Jade's heavily-painted eyes smolder with the snub and she stalks back off into the crowd in search of someone else to antagonize. Maybe she might be able to collar and corner Jack. That always makes her feel better.

Meanwhile, Bebe can't help but beam and seem just this side of smug as Quentin refuses to change his mind or his choice. In a few minutes, this is probably going to be something Bebe sorely regrets but, right now, it's secretly fantastic. One of the drawbacks of being the new girl in town is that the location of her accommodations are directly next to the stairs — first door down on the left-hand side of the long corridor — and that means even with the door closed, she can hear nearly everyone who comes and goes. Once inside the room, however, the beat of the music becomes aggressively subdued and the language of screaming and shouting into the other's ear becomes a much more pleasurable one instead of required in order to communicate. "So," Bebe wagers, reclining ever so subtly against the edge of her bed. "…what did you have in mind?"

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Quentin propels Bebe away with a gentle push. It's a playful thing, aggressive, perhaps a gesture to set the mood. Does the refined, mild-mannered investor have a wild streak?

He does indeed.

When he slips out of his jacket and lets it fall to the floor, there's a dismissive manner to his movements that affords no respect for the expensive garment. "Bebe… Baby…" the name and the endearment are tested and whispered side by side. "Baby, baby, baby. I want you to scream for me. Can you do that?"

That's a trick question and they both know it. "I can do whatever you want me to," she offers unabashedly, apparently not sufficiently put off by the slight shove to keep her from playing the role of helpful whore and fiddling with the man's necktie. However, she isn't so naive as to forsake the faithful caveat of working girls everywhere, and so she whispers in a voice meant to be teasing, "…just so long as the price is right."

Quentin's face stretches into a taut, tight-lipped smile as he unbuttons his shirt and slips out of it. This will be good. This will be very, very good.

The knife comes out of nowhere. It's not aimed at Bebe, though. He angles the inside of one forearm in her direction, revealing layer upon layer of scars laid out in neat lines from inner elbow to wrist. Some are an angry red. Some are older, in shades of pink and white. Two of the cuts are new enough that they're surrounded by half-clotted blood.

"So…" he murmurs calmly as he draws his blade along his own flesh, opening a fresh slice that bleeds freely onto the carpet. "It'll be three tonight. Not bad, all things considered."

And then he lunges. Again, not with the knife. He grabs her by the chin with his bloodied hand, nose to nose and eye to eye with her in an instant. "Scream for me," he demands.

Whoa, okay, no. She emits a little shriek but that certainly won't qualify as a scream for anyone keeping score. Bebe may be young but she's no longer naive when it comes to this business and she's got enough sense to realize that this guy is so far from right in the head… things are bound to go a lot further south (and not in the good way) before she'll be able to blink. However, she's being clutched just out of reach of her panic button, though she is straining an arm up to reach it, tucked up underneath her bedside table. "Get off me," she protests in a voice barely above library level.

The grip around Bebe's jaw tightens painfully, wetly, and then Quentin shoves her down on the bed. He slides in beside her sinuously, still courting her despite the drastic change in their 'relationship.'

"You can do better than that, my dear," he encourages her. "You're so young and so full of energy…" The knife is clutched loosely enough in his far hand to be more of a promise than a threat. Still, he's not above providing a bit of incentive.

Quentin presses his palm against Bebe's belly gently at first. It's almost a caress until he hooks his fingers into sharp, dangerous points. He bears down and twists until he's prodding at organs without breaking her smooth skin. "Those," he comments clinically, "Feel like your intestines."

"Stop it! LET GO OF ME!" Oh. So that's where she hides her outdoor voice: in her guts. The noise she makes at first sounds like a gasp — the pressure on her stomach expelling any excess air from her diaphragm silently — but, when Quentin digs in, twisting his fingertips against her flesh, she coughs out a suddenly panicked scream and begins to struggle with legitimate desperation beneath the man's sickly superior weight.

Curiously, the knife held in his off-hand tremors momentarily when she cries out…

Downstairs…

Jack looks up abruptly from pressing his face against Jade's scented neck. "Viv," he calls out to the senior girl. "Have a look at the monitors, will you? I'ma head up to the hall and make my rounds."

Meanwhile…

"That's more like it," Quentin rumbles pleasantly. "I wish I could bottle that for later. Thank you, my dear."

The tip of the knife trails up the front of Bebe's clothing, hooking in straps, buttons, and fabric as it passes. Finally, it comes to rest under the point of her chin. "I'd say we should do this again, but that would be insensitive."

Bebe's lower lip puckers and trembles as the knife is brought to bear beneath her chin. She seems to be sucking on another scream, but she's saving it until it's safe to squeal without being forced to cut herself on the blade. Her flailing limbs suddenly fall very still and she stares up at the ceiling instead of at the man taking pleasure in taunting her with a blade that the bouncers should have caught before letting the man into the brothel… if he could have otherwise been permitted entry at all. Instead of screaming, she whimpers and dares the wonder aloud, "What do you want from me?"

"Everything," Quentin purrs, pricking the knife just through the first few layers of Bebe's skin. "Isn't it poetic? You struggle for your life. You lose. Unjustly. Meanwhile, I go out and kill again."

His next sentence is cut off when the door explodes inward, propelled by a flashing, vicious kick. The racket is nothing compared to the sound of Jack unloading his Webley into Quentin's back at close range. Four of the six rounds hit; two in the killer's shoulder and two in his flank. The others sink harmlessly into the wall.

With quick, clinical precision, Jack cracks his revolver open, ejects the spent brass, and shoves two half-moon clips into the chambers to reload them. Then, almost too quick to follow, he's across the small room and on top of Bebe's attacker, peeling him off of her and throwing him to the floor. "You okay?" he queries breathlessly, torn between gathering her into his arms and shooting Quentin four more times.

The sudden startling brought on by the very literally kicking down of the door causes something unusual to happen that no one's apt to notice until long after the fact. Though Quentin may have been in the process of burying his blade into Bebe's soft skin, there's a split second between surprise and the first shot wherein the tip of the knife bends its way free of whore-flesh and flings itself across the room and out of her attacker's grip at the very moment he's struck by bullets in the back.

Bebe is bleeding… which probably means she's not as close to okay as she'd like to be. However, it is only a flesh wound and she'll soon be fine, albeit plagued by bandage for a few days. She doesn't get up right away, still stuck in a state of shock, but once she's sure it's Jack in the room she flies from her frozen position on the bedspread and clings to her savior about the waist with both arms. "My hero!"

Quentin is down and bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. By Jack's best assessment, he isn't going anywhere. This leaves him free to lower his firearm and wrap Bebe up in a comforting hug. "Shh. S'okay, baby. It's okay now."

Only it's not. Ragged, bloody, and dying, Quentin staggers to his feet and picks up a hefty glass bottle from Bebe's nightstand. Swung neck-first, it makes a very handy blunt instrument.

"Sh—" is all Jack manages to get out. He raises his hand instinctively and blocks the attack with his arm. His exclamation turns to a heavy, muffled grunt of pain as glass shatters against bone, spraying the room with tiny, sharp shards of shrapnel. Knocked away, his revolver clatters across the floor and slides under the bed.

Getting showered in glass isn't precisely the most pleasant of sensations but it isn't really painful. Small slivers of what had, at one time, been a bottle of blackberry soda leave a litany of little nicks and superficial cuts on the exposed cheek and shoulder unshielded by Jack's chest. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as being slowly stabbed or abruptly having a bottle forcefully broken over your forearm… or suddenly getting slashed in the side.

It was a blessing in disguise for Quentin when the bottle he had intended to bludgeon Jack with shattered upon impact; his knife was out of reach but here he was suddenly in possession of a much more vicious weapon. He capitalized quickly on the twist of fate and lunged for his original victim — wee Bebe — burying the broken bottle neck into the tender flesh exposed between the hem of her gold lamé halter top and the hip-hugging waistband of her too short black skirt. The scream that the little whore chokes out is no doubt just the thing that he'd been looking forward to all night. Third time's the charm.

Still spitting out a string of mangled curses, Jack jerks away from the bottle and grimaces painfully. His coat has saved him from taking any slashes, but the raw impact of bottle on bone has left his arm numb. It falls to hang limply at his side as he desperately reaches for the back of his belt. There's an audible hiss of metal on leather as he draws his paratrooper's knife and brings it to bear. He glances over at Bebe's screaming, writhing form, but there's no time to stop. Instead, he launches himself at Quentin.

The following melee is brief, but very intense. At first it's a desperate scramble just to sink something sharp into another man's flesh. A primal, predatory conflict. Quentin flails and scrapes at Jack with his jagged bottle, and Jack jabs and slashes at Quentin with his blade. Unfortunately for Quentin, glass is much less durable than steel. The bottle is deteriorating; flaking away a piece at a time as it tears into the thick wool of Jack's coat and the flesh beneath.

The pirate accepts each attack stoically, deflecting it with his otherwise useless right arm. Though they're at a stalemate for the moment, time is on his side. He's bleeding, but he's not bleeding out at anywhere near the rate that Quentin is. That, and he's got eight inches of good English steel to back him up.

Meanwhile, Bebe bleeds at a much more prodigious pace than her woolen-armor-clad white knight. She had intended to evacuate the room but only got at far as her second step before she crumpled onto the floor beneath the suffocating weight of the brand new pain Quentin so salaciously introduced. The sheer agony of the wound makes every breath feel like she's sucking down lungfuls of liquid fire; it's all she can do to gasp and cry with the protected side of her face now pressed against the shards of glass left on the floor.

A small bevy of gawking girls has gathered in the hall and the noise of more shoes skipping steps on their way up the stairs signals the arrival of additional cavalry.

Quentin makes a mistake. He comes too close, giving Jack a chance to use his size and strength to his advantage. One jarring headbutt later, Quentin is sprawled out on his back and reaching desperately for what remains of the broken bottle. He doesn't get a chance. Howling and spitting like a hunting cat, Jack collapses on him knife-first. The blade sinks into the serial killer's torso and beyond, digging into the carpet.

That's not enough for Jack. He jerks the paratrooper knife loose and stabs downward into Quentin's body over and over. Each stab is accompanied by a scream, and each scream is louder than the last. "Mother… fucker! Mother… FUCKER!"

Finally, one of the girls has the presence of mind to peel the battered pirate off of his prey. Physically and emotionally exhausted, he slumps back onto his rear and cradles his wounded arm protectively. "Christ…" he groans.

The respite doesn't last. It can't. He's on his feet seconds later, fighting through the pain and barking out orders as he approaches Bebe tentatively. "Viv! Call Logan and then get a doctor in here. Go! Jade, bring me some towels and some water. The rest of you go downstairs, grab a patron, and start shaking your tits. C'mon, don't just stare, fuckin' move!"

Wee Bebe whimpers pitifully while her big, brown eyes issue forth steady streams of saltwater tears that travel down her appled cheeks and serve to adequately smear her make-up along the way while making the all the world a blurrier place. The arm tucked up underneath her body with fingers still clutching the gaping wound in her side is slowly beginning to go numb due to lack of circulation and the precariously steady loss of blood. However, the other — her left — extends limply out in an attempt to find purchase on whatever part of Jack she might be able to ensnare, be it bended knee or splayed hand.

Through the tears, she tries to struggle out word but they get muddled and lost between each heavy breath or shuddering sob until, at last, something intelligible: "…I'm scared…"

"Don't worry, baby," Jack murmurs reassuringly. "I gotcha." He blinks away tears and gulps down the lump in his throat that threatens to give away his distress. "I gotcha," he repeats hoarsely, his hands hovering and trembling over Bebe's wound. Very gently, he lifts her fingers away so he can inspect it. Bloody, but no glass embedded. He takes a deep breath and strokes her cheek, unintentionally brushing streaks of red across her face. "You're gonna feel this," he warns.

Then, abruptly, he presses down with his palm to stop the bleeding.

Again, the whore on the floor cries out in wordless agony while the fingers of both hands curl and clench reflexively. She's positively wide-eyed with pain and suddenly the whole world seems to shine so bright that the periphery of her vision blazes brilliant white. She clings to whatever she can and fights the urge to further scream to turn out more tears if only to spare herself the misery of making her wounded belly bounce. Her breathing is hard but steady and she suppresses no small urge to shriek instead of speak. "Don't leave me," she utters weakly. "Please…"

It's delirium more than anything. With the absence of adrenaline flooding her system, she's slowly going into shock.

"Never," Jack replies softly. Without releasing his grip on Bebe's wound, he leans down over her and brushes a gentle kiss against her forehead. When he straightens, tears fall from the tip of his nose and splash against her cheek.