Post by Craven on Jul 8, 2014 19:29:49 GMT -6
Craven stands in a back office at the PleasureDome with resident protector and enforcer, Fraser Freeman, almost laughing at his very presence.
Fraser Freeman: So?
Craven nods, he knew the report question would be coming.
Craven: She appears to be working off the books in more than one place.
Freeman can’t help but laugh at the almost worried tone in Craven’s voice.
Fraser Freeman: Why do you think you’re following her!
Craven nods and the look on his face causes Freeman to soften his stance slightly.
Fraser Freeman: I’m not Baron, if I’m honest I could care less about the loss of money. Me, I just want to keep her and every other vulnerable person I can safe! Leave her to it, it’s not like we could force her to stop working off the books, but we can keep tabs on her to make sure no one causes her harm.
Craven nods slowly.
Craven: She looks like she’s working off a debt to her dealers this way.
Freeman’s demeanor changes slightly.
Fraser Freeman: Well then I guess you will just have to go pay them a visit and have them wipe the slate clean, or are you not capable of direct action?!
Craven barely moves.
Craven: I was still gathering intel, figuring out who exactly I was dealing with and how many were involved so I didn’t have to do this more than once. Numbers were also being crunched since she was mixing and matching whatever she was in the mood for.
Impressed, Freeman quickly holds out a card.
Fraser Freeman: Here is the number of a man who will get you any information you need, I would do it myself but I am somewhat busy.
Craven accepts the card, nodding gratefully.
Craven: I'll have to use him next time... it's amazing what you can find out sometimes with a couple of pills and some bottles of cheap tequila.
Freeman nods as Craven checks his own notes.
Craven: I have the figures, fraid it's gonna cost me a little more than I have to get her out.
Freeman grins.
Fraser Freeman: Are you sure about that?
Craven looks a bit puzzled.
Fraser Freeman: Count to ten then check your bank account on that mobile banking app you have on there.
Craven does as he’s told, half wondering how Freeman knows about the app and half wondering why Freeman is doing this. Freeman, meanwhile, is typing away on his laptop. Craven checks his account and then his chin drops as he read the balance of half a million.
Fraser Freeman: Now Rick, that money is to only be used for business.
Craven nods slowly, fully understanding exactly what he’s being told.
Craven: No problem.
Immediately scanning over things, Craven nods to Freeman.
Craven: There is one thing I been meaning to ask you. How come no one seems to know what her real name is? Like, her records go back several years, before she got here but... before that it's like she didn't exist.
Freeman opens his desk draw and begins flinging through files, he pulls one out and places it on the desk in front of Craven. The files are written in French.
Craven: She’s from France?
Freeman opens the file revealing more.
Fraser Freeman: Nope, Quebec, that’s why there’s no trace.
Craven: I'm not really sure where she's from originally. She just, it's almost like she was a Jane Doe somewhere and got to start over without any help. Like, I know some people can rearrange people's lives and all but this doesn't appear to be that.
Fraser Freeman: Everything you need to know is in this file.
Craven glances through it and nods.
Craven: So you don't know either? Wow... what the fuck happened to this one...
- - - - - - -
Craven sits in his car outside Riggsy’s, a bar/pool hall a few miles off the strip in Las Vegas, Nevada. He watches as his mark, a woman calling herself Mercedes Graves, enters the bar as she has every other night he’s watched for the last month. As she disappears inside, Craven reaches up and switches his voice recorder on.
Craven: Watching somebody can be very enlightening. You learn a lot by just watching mannerisms and who is associated with things. You watch where somebody goes, where they spend their time, what they choose to do with themselves and you learn who that somebody really is.
He pauses as the door to the bar opens to allow a young couple’s entrance into the establishment.
Craven: The longer you sit somewhere though, you realize that all the value judgments that are usually made at first glance can be very very wrong. Take the bar I’m sitting in front of right now. Nominally, it’s a suburban pool hall and pub that from the outside looks like a nice little watering hole type establishment that you hear about on every old television show. The kind “Dad” would come home from after having a couple afterwork drinks with the boys before kissing “Mom” and sitting down to dinner. You go inside, and it looks like a nice, clean, upstanding place filled with people from what would appear to be all walks of life. There are blue collar guys getting off work, young people coming from class at the local colleges, professionals in uniforms or khakis, white collar guys in their dress shirts and suits, bikers in full colors, punkers, hip hoppers, metalheads, country folk, whites, blacks, asians, latinos, you name it, it’s here.
He pauses again as a couple of latin bikers in leathers and cuts walk inside.
Craven: Once inside though, if you stay long enough you realize eventually, it’s all a front for something very different. One by one, you’ll eventually see every patron visit the same little back room. They go in all nervous and come out more lit up than Times Square on New Year’s and you quickly realize that nobody is noticing because they’re all here for the exact same thing. You wait a few more minutes and realize all the employees have made their visit as well and they’re all breathing the same rarified air themselves.
He nods to a passerby as he glances away from the door.
Craven: Amy Zing is a great example of what this place represents. At first glance, she’s a cute little girl you’d expect all the guys in the place to walk up to and say, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a shitshack gin joint like this?” when it comes to professional wrestling. She’s small, she’s unassuming, she doesn’t make a whole lot of noise and doesn’t just bow up on anybody.
Pausing again to collect his thoughts, Craven watches two police officers wander inside the bar.
Craven: Look a little deeper and now you think she’s a girl scout too. She’s kind, she’s sweet and she only ever seems to have nice things to say. She’s exactly the kind of person the ones I’m watching right now would call a mark and think they could easily take advantage of her. They’re think her happy nature would make her a pushover and overly trusting and thus somebody they could swindle without much effort at all and they would all be shocked shitless when that turned out to be not the case at all. She’s faster than you could imagine and until you’ve seen it up close, first hand, you can’t even claim to have an idea. She’s stronger than she looks, well-schooled enough to take advantage of your arrogance and kicks hard enough to remove things if they aren’t attached properly. Amy Zing is a born killer hidden inside a baby doll visage, a walking venus flytrap come to life and if you let her sweet exterior fool you in, she’ll eat you alive.
He looks up and sees a particular dealer walk into the place. Smirking, Craven starts to sing.
Craven: Tweeter and the Monkeyman were hard up for cash
So they stayed up all night selling cocaine and hash
To an undercover cop who had a sister named Jan
For reasons unexplained she loved the Monkey Man
He shakes his head and watches the door of the bar swing shut again.
Craven: Monkeyboy there just walked in, probably looking for money he’s not gonna get tonight while the tweaker running this place, who actually gets called Tweeter because of the amount of tweaking he does and because of the tattoo of Tweetie Bird he has on his right biceps, is likely to run interference for Monkeyboy. Incidentally, I call him that because he walks like a drunken ape straight out of the movies. Don’t worry, Amy, I’ll save enough to give you a test…
Smirking, he nods and starts singing again.
Craven: And the walls came down
All the way to hell
Never saw them when they standing
Never saw them when they fell.
Fraser Freeman: So?
Craven nods, he knew the report question would be coming.
Craven: She appears to be working off the books in more than one place.
Freeman can’t help but laugh at the almost worried tone in Craven’s voice.
Fraser Freeman: Why do you think you’re following her!
Craven nods and the look on his face causes Freeman to soften his stance slightly.
Fraser Freeman: I’m not Baron, if I’m honest I could care less about the loss of money. Me, I just want to keep her and every other vulnerable person I can safe! Leave her to it, it’s not like we could force her to stop working off the books, but we can keep tabs on her to make sure no one causes her harm.
Craven nods slowly.
Craven: She looks like she’s working off a debt to her dealers this way.
Freeman’s demeanor changes slightly.
Fraser Freeman: Well then I guess you will just have to go pay them a visit and have them wipe the slate clean, or are you not capable of direct action?!
Craven barely moves.
Craven: I was still gathering intel, figuring out who exactly I was dealing with and how many were involved so I didn’t have to do this more than once. Numbers were also being crunched since she was mixing and matching whatever she was in the mood for.
Impressed, Freeman quickly holds out a card.
Fraser Freeman: Here is the number of a man who will get you any information you need, I would do it myself but I am somewhat busy.
Craven accepts the card, nodding gratefully.
Craven: I'll have to use him next time... it's amazing what you can find out sometimes with a couple of pills and some bottles of cheap tequila.
Freeman nods as Craven checks his own notes.
Craven: I have the figures, fraid it's gonna cost me a little more than I have to get her out.
Freeman grins.
Fraser Freeman: Are you sure about that?
Craven looks a bit puzzled.
Fraser Freeman: Count to ten then check your bank account on that mobile banking app you have on there.
Craven does as he’s told, half wondering how Freeman knows about the app and half wondering why Freeman is doing this. Freeman, meanwhile, is typing away on his laptop. Craven checks his account and then his chin drops as he read the balance of half a million.
Fraser Freeman: Now Rick, that money is to only be used for business.
Craven nods slowly, fully understanding exactly what he’s being told.
Craven: No problem.
Immediately scanning over things, Craven nods to Freeman.
Craven: There is one thing I been meaning to ask you. How come no one seems to know what her real name is? Like, her records go back several years, before she got here but... before that it's like she didn't exist.
Freeman opens his desk draw and begins flinging through files, he pulls one out and places it on the desk in front of Craven. The files are written in French.
Craven: She’s from France?
Freeman opens the file revealing more.
Fraser Freeman: Nope, Quebec, that’s why there’s no trace.
Craven: I'm not really sure where she's from originally. She just, it's almost like she was a Jane Doe somewhere and got to start over without any help. Like, I know some people can rearrange people's lives and all but this doesn't appear to be that.
Fraser Freeman: Everything you need to know is in this file.
Craven glances through it and nods.
Craven: So you don't know either? Wow... what the fuck happened to this one...
- - - - - - -
Craven sits in his car outside Riggsy’s, a bar/pool hall a few miles off the strip in Las Vegas, Nevada. He watches as his mark, a woman calling herself Mercedes Graves, enters the bar as she has every other night he’s watched for the last month. As she disappears inside, Craven reaches up and switches his voice recorder on.
Craven: Watching somebody can be very enlightening. You learn a lot by just watching mannerisms and who is associated with things. You watch where somebody goes, where they spend their time, what they choose to do with themselves and you learn who that somebody really is.
He pauses as the door to the bar opens to allow a young couple’s entrance into the establishment.
Craven: The longer you sit somewhere though, you realize that all the value judgments that are usually made at first glance can be very very wrong. Take the bar I’m sitting in front of right now. Nominally, it’s a suburban pool hall and pub that from the outside looks like a nice little watering hole type establishment that you hear about on every old television show. The kind “Dad” would come home from after having a couple afterwork drinks with the boys before kissing “Mom” and sitting down to dinner. You go inside, and it looks like a nice, clean, upstanding place filled with people from what would appear to be all walks of life. There are blue collar guys getting off work, young people coming from class at the local colleges, professionals in uniforms or khakis, white collar guys in their dress shirts and suits, bikers in full colors, punkers, hip hoppers, metalheads, country folk, whites, blacks, asians, latinos, you name it, it’s here.
He pauses again as a couple of latin bikers in leathers and cuts walk inside.
Craven: Once inside though, if you stay long enough you realize eventually, it’s all a front for something very different. One by one, you’ll eventually see every patron visit the same little back room. They go in all nervous and come out more lit up than Times Square on New Year’s and you quickly realize that nobody is noticing because they’re all here for the exact same thing. You wait a few more minutes and realize all the employees have made their visit as well and they’re all breathing the same rarified air themselves.
He nods to a passerby as he glances away from the door.
Craven: Amy Zing is a great example of what this place represents. At first glance, she’s a cute little girl you’d expect all the guys in the place to walk up to and say, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a shitshack gin joint like this?” when it comes to professional wrestling. She’s small, she’s unassuming, she doesn’t make a whole lot of noise and doesn’t just bow up on anybody.
Pausing again to collect his thoughts, Craven watches two police officers wander inside the bar.
Craven: Look a little deeper and now you think she’s a girl scout too. She’s kind, she’s sweet and she only ever seems to have nice things to say. She’s exactly the kind of person the ones I’m watching right now would call a mark and think they could easily take advantage of her. They’re think her happy nature would make her a pushover and overly trusting and thus somebody they could swindle without much effort at all and they would all be shocked shitless when that turned out to be not the case at all. She’s faster than you could imagine and until you’ve seen it up close, first hand, you can’t even claim to have an idea. She’s stronger than she looks, well-schooled enough to take advantage of your arrogance and kicks hard enough to remove things if they aren’t attached properly. Amy Zing is a born killer hidden inside a baby doll visage, a walking venus flytrap come to life and if you let her sweet exterior fool you in, she’ll eat you alive.
He looks up and sees a particular dealer walk into the place. Smirking, Craven starts to sing.
Craven: Tweeter and the Monkeyman were hard up for cash
So they stayed up all night selling cocaine and hash
To an undercover cop who had a sister named Jan
For reasons unexplained she loved the Monkey Man
He shakes his head and watches the door of the bar swing shut again.
Craven: Monkeyboy there just walked in, probably looking for money he’s not gonna get tonight while the tweaker running this place, who actually gets called Tweeter because of the amount of tweaking he does and because of the tattoo of Tweetie Bird he has on his right biceps, is likely to run interference for Monkeyboy. Incidentally, I call him that because he walks like a drunken ape straight out of the movies. Don’t worry, Amy, I’ll save enough to give you a test…
Smirking, he nods and starts singing again.
Craven: And the walls came down
All the way to hell
Never saw them when they standing
Never saw them when they fell.
