kore_logs | And every time you go to sleep...

Entry tags:

And every time you go to sleep...

Who: Meyer Lansky and all y'all
Where: ~Only in dreams
When: Day 83-88
What: Meyer is having some dreams. Perhaps you'd like to stumble into them.
Warnings: There is definitely disturbing imagery in here. There's copious amounts of murder and blood, kidnapping, drug dealing, and traumatic childhood memories that most definitely include murder and gore. There is also swearing, of course. More warnings will be added if more come up during the dreams.

[[This is an open dream log, to keep things tidy! I set up a couple specific threads for people, but other people can jump in as well, or they can make their own thread, or they can jump into the collective dream thread!

Please just note what day the dream is occurring on if you tag!]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

As soon as Jesse gives him the signal, he's up, gun at the ready, giving himself just enough time to line up the shot accurately and aim for the guy Jesse's not shooting at, figuring if they can both take one guy down, they'll be set. As always, he aims for the chest first, two shots this time to be absolutely certain, and then a third shot to the guy's head. There're two bullets left in his gun before he needs to reload, but suddenly, the street has grown much quieter, the only noise remaining the sound of the bullets being fired from Jesse's gun.

Glancing at him, and then glancing back at the street, he nods slightly. "That's it," he says quietly, his voice steely. The four men lie sprawled on the pavement, the blood pooling underneath them, somehow strangely vibrant despite the dim light. It's only after a few seconds that he realizes a bullet must have just barely missed him; his cheek stings, and he raises his hand to his face to wipe the blood away. The bullet had grazed him. Nothing more. Nothing to worry about.

Jesse's less lucky, but then again also not as good of a shot. Once he's standing, he fires off two, misses both, and gets himself a bullet directly into the left shoulder. His chest jerks, he stumbles back a step, but he really doesn't have time to think about it - he just steps forward again, points and aims, and this time when he shoots, the guy catches it right in the forehead. The guy doesn't even teeter, he just reels backwards onto the pavement.

Meyer's last few bullets echo out across the street and Jesse can feel his ears ringing. That's the thing that had always surprised him the most, he remembers distinctly from the first time he ever fired a gun, "Louder than in the movies," he remarks absently as he looks back over at Meyer, and the gun clatters from his hand and onto the ground. Adrenaline's got him all flustered, he's still not thinking about his shoulder. "You hit?"

He gestures to his cheek, shrugging. "Not really," he points out, and then studies Jesse more carefully, noting, for the first time, that Jesse's been shot. "We need to deal with that," he says, nodding at Jesse's shoulder, "And we need to deal with that," he says, nodding at the four men lying in the street.

There's no time to think about anything else, no time to have a heart to heart discussion about what had just happened -- although he wouldn't be inclined to, anyway, something tells him that Jesse isn't exactly used to this sort of thing. That, and the comment about gunshots being louder in the movies (movies hadn't had sound the last time Meyer had checked) had started to make him think something was slightly off here, but he hadn't quite realized it was a dream yet.

"How's the shoulder feel?"

If it's not a bad wound, they can deal with it later, but he knows better than to leave certain gunshot wounds alone for now.

"Oh yeah," Jesse remarks first, absently, like he's just now recalling the whole getting shot thing. He touches two tentative fingers to the wound and as the realization of it kicks in, so does a nice, hot flare of pain all through his shoulder. There's a tight grimace that gives him away, but he angles himself away from Meyer for a moment, to hide the worst of it. When he clears his throat, all he lets out is a sarcastic little, "It's got a bullet in it."

By the time he turns back to Meyer again, he's starting to unbutton his suit jacket with his good hand, and he peers expectantly between Meyer and the bodies. "We're not s'posed'ta just leave 'em?" he asks a bit incredulously, undoes the last button and shrugs his one shoulder out of the jacket. "I mean, it's a," and he pauses to let out a strained groan under his breath as he starts to peel the suit up and over his wound, "it's the middle of a damn street, yo, we're gonna get ourselves pretty noticed."

"It's going to have a bullet in it until we can get you to a doctor," he says. His tone isn't uncaring, but it is matter of fact. He knows better than to try to dig a bullet out of a wound on his own, especially in a delicate place like a shoulder. The risk for infection is too high, the potential of hurting Jesse far higher than the potential for helping him.

He looks back at the bodies, seeming to come to some kind of decision in his mind. "We can leave those three," he says, gesturing to the first three men that had fallen, a bit further away from the car, "But we need to do something about that one." He nods at the last man, who's sprawled out across the pavement awkwardly.

The other three are common thugs. It won't surprise or even bother anyone to find them dead in the street. But the fourth is their leader, a man whose death will arouse suspicion, and Meyer would rather the body be far away from the other three, and not connected to him and Jesse in any way.

"Yeah? And when's that gonna be?" he asks a little testily as he drops his jacket to the ground. His blood's stark against the white shirt he's got underneath, already starting to soak through his vest, and he swears under his breath again as he gingerly prods his fingers at the bullet hole. Ow, Jesus, bad idea.

But they've got a mess to clean up here first, and he knows Meyer's right - they can't just leave this guy right where they were supposed to have their damn deal. This is the kind of guy who gets noticed when he's gone. This is the kind of guy who gets them killed once it comes to attention that he's gone missing. Still, Jesse shuts his eyes for a few long seconds, lets out a hard breath and tries to gear himself up for what he knows they have to do.

"Car's no good," he reasons out as he opens his eyes, looks back at Meyer and presses the heel of his hand against his wound, tests the waters of it a little more. "Draw too much attention if we try to drive it outta here and someone sees, 'specially if we gotta dead body layin' in the back." He nods his head towards another one on the street, one of the miraculously unmarked ones that the group took up here. "We gotta take theirs, I figure, we gotta find somethin' like fuel, and we gotta find a place where there ain't nobody that's gonna start sniffin' around once they start smellin' bacon."

Crude, but, well, it's not the first body he's disposed of, is it? He sighs and pulls his hand away, grimacing at the blood smeared all over his hand now. "If we're gonna need this guy to go without bein' recognized, we're gonna have to torch 'im."

"That's gonna be as soon as we deal with this," he says, his mind obviously focused on the quick -- but hopefully masterfully handled -- disposal of the body. He does note the way Jesse's shoulder is bleeding, shakes his head in frustration as Jesse pokes at the bullet hole; "Stop touching it," he says. It's certainly not a suggestion, more an order, but he's not in the mood for giving casual suggestions at the moment. Things need to get done.

"Yeah," he says, looking from the dead man on the ground to the car and then back to Jesse, "You got any place in mind?" Already he's started towards the dead guy, intending to rifle through his pockets for the car keys. If all else fails, there are other ways to start a car, but why bother with that when it's likely the guy's got his keys on him?

The body and the implications of the body doesn't seem to bother him; the way he goes through the man's pockets is as he would do any other chore, bored and slightly detached. He takes the man's wallet, then his keys, then his cigarettes for good measure.

"You think you can help lift him with your shoulder like that?" He knows dead weight is heavy, he's not stupid, but he doesn't know if Jesse's going to be in any mood to lift the guy into the car, even once they get it unlocked and the problem of where to dump the body figured out.

"Wh-" He looks up at Meyer, and then says a little sullenly, a little petulantly, "It's my arm." But to his credit, he does stop touching it, just tries to roll his shoulder and gives a bit of a hiss.

He can't help it. He's been through an awful lot in his career; he's been kidnapped, he's been shoved in the trunk of a car, he's been beaten more times than he can count (once with a bag of money, for Christ's sake), and he's even robbed a fucking train, but he's never actually been shot before. Shot at, held at gunpoint, but he's never physically gotten a bullet in him. It's a new experience, it fucking hurts, and he's really not sure what to do with it. So he guesses he'll take Meyer's word for it.

"Whatever," he concludes as he snatches up his things, sticks the gun back into the waist of his pants and slings his jacket over his shoulder as he follows after Meyer. "There's, uh." He wracks his brain, mulls it over and gives a minute shake of his head as he stands over the body with Meyer. "Lemme think." He knows he'd better make it fast.

With another shake of his head, he holds out his hand. "I don't know. Lemme see the keys." If Meyer'll hand them over, he'll unlock the car, throw his jacket inside and then kick at one of the dead guy's feet. "Gonna have to. Ain't like you're gonna get him in there yourself. Gimme a hand, wouldja?" And he grabs at the shoulders of the guy's jacket, hoists him up a little and lets out a strained groan as a white hot shot of pain runs down his arm. This is gonna be rough.

Edited 2013-06-23 09:19 (UTC)

He hands Jesse the keys, then takes off his own jacket, tossing it into the car as soon as Jesse opens it. He doesn't want to get blood on it, and he doesn't want to inadvertently tear it from the heavy lifting they're about to do. Before putting his gun back into his shoulder holster, he reloads it -- better safe than sorry -- and ignores the fact that his brain is telling him he needs a cigarette right now. There'll be time for that later.

"Okay, look, you grab his feet, I'll grab his shoulders. That should be easier." He's pretty sure he could haul the body himself if he had to, but he prefers to avoid it. It would be slow going, and the longer this takes, the more likely to get noticed they are. He's had a pretty good run of not getting arrested so far, and he'd like to keep it that way.

He trades places with Jesse, hooking his arms under the dead guy's armpits, hauling him up, waiting for Jesse to grab his feet so that they can muscle him into the car. It doesn't particularly matter how graceful they are about it, as long as the end result is shoving the dead body into the backseat.

Jesse gives Meyer a look when he's asked to change, combined with an annoyed little tch as he lets the body slump more against his knees. Even with his shoulder burning the way it is, he's got this annoyed sense of duty, a stubborn little 'I can do this' sense of mind that doesn't make him wanna let go for a few long seconds.

But the street is only empty for now and he does comply, because they need to get this thing the hell out of here and there's only so far his machismo can take him. The legs do prove to be significantly easier to lift than the bulk of him, and even then he's straining, but before long they have the body crammed into the car, ungracefully and all.

He does listen to that same urge Meyer has as he slumps himself into the passenger side door, retrieves a cigarette out of the case in his pocket and props one into his mouth. His breath heaves a little more, he looks a bit peaky, but he'll live. "Warehouse," he mumbles with the cigarette still caught in his mouth, "few blocks down, think it's one'a those fish-packin' places or somethin'. Smells like shit already, oughta do the job for us."

As soon as Jesse gets into the car and gets out a cigarette, he gives up trying not to light one of his own. It was only a matter of time, after all. His lighter takes a couple of flicks to get lit, and he curses under his breath at it; they already have to deal with a dead guy, the last thing he needs his for his lighter to stop working. Cigarette finally lit, he focuses on driving, trying to strike a balance between going slowly enough so they don't look like they're in a suspicious hurry, and going quickly enough that they're less likely to get spotted.

"Okay," he says, finally taking a deep breath and glancing over at Jesse, making sure he's not stoically and quietly bleeding out in the passenger seat. "We'll get rid of that--" he gestures to the back of the car with a not particularly pleased expression on his face, "--and then we'll go our separate ways until we can figure out another deal for the heroin. If anyone asks us about the guys who go shot tonight, we don't know anything about it, yes?"

It's not like he thinks Jesse's going to talk about it -- he only picks partners he thinks are good at being discreet. On the other hand, he wants to make it clear that there's a decent chance someone'll come sniffing around as soon as they find the bodies. As Jesse had said, the warehouse is close by, and he pulls the car in behind it, as close to the entrance as he can. This late at night, it looks abandoned.

He takes another contemplative drag on his cigarette before parking the car and getting out, looking around quickly, hand on his gun, making sure there's nobody out there, and then gestures to Jesse that the coast is clear.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And every time you go to sleep...

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject