<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"><i>Boyscout. </i>Saint. Nicknames he had acquired during the last fifteen years, maybe longer, depending on how far back you wanted to smell the burnt leather of tires squealing away from a curb. Jack - that was his name now, not the name he was born with - had been hired on the spot when he was seventeen years old to be the wanking hand of an old gangster who needed a young, rebellious fresh slap in the face of a smartass who didn’t want to bother finishing up high school and who thought a life leaving a cloud of smoke behind was better than coming home to a drunk bastard of a dad.<br/>
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He was thirty five now, he thought. Maybe a year older. Maybe younger. He had shoved the end of a burning cigarette inside the last cake he had gotten, turned around, and walked away. Age was just a number and all that jazz. Though Jack did wear years on his skin like some people wore tattoos -- and he wore those as well, the ink staining the tanned leather that came from too much sun and no sunscreen. Maybe stress too. Maybe the smoking, the drinking, the occasional line of blow or LSD… that probably contributed too.<br/>
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And he didn’t plan on stopping any time soon. God have mercy on his soul.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, right. He came with super powers, in a way. Nothing like Superman, Spiderman, or even Batman -- did Batman even have anything other than the fact that he wouldn’t just fucking die and that damned utility belt? -- but there was something like power that hummed underneath his fingertips, made him sensitive to the world. And sometimes, depending on his mood, he could blow shit up without the help of the glock he had tucked in close to his hip or the .45 he had at the small of his back, hidden underneath the t-shirt that fell untucked over the pair of distressed jeans he had picked up off his floor when he had started his day. Really, the only things he took care of was the heat he packed and the shitkickers on his feet. The rest just went with the roll. Not that he was out trying to impress anyone.<br/>
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Especially not now, stumbling into his usual shithole in the wall. The ciggy still hung out of the corner of his mouth, blazing defiantly, when the door chimed and creamed as he shoved at it to let him him. His gait was haphazard, swaying to the left, despite his efforts to stand upright. His penny copper stare was bloodshot, unfocused, and had a mean squint once he adjusted to the seedy ambiance of the bar. But fuck if that light that swung low, a bit too green, and a bit too bright over the pool table dead center in the place wasn’t the worst kind of distraction for him.<br/>
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Get a load of that shiner, ladies and gentlemen, that came into view just as he slid onto a barstool. He finally plucked the cigarette from between his split lips, accentuated the swollen eye and dried blood from his equally swollen nose. Dragging an ashtray over, he buried his addiction into the ash of other people’s forgotten indulgences, and clicked his fingers on top of the counter to get the attention of the frisky bombshell of a bartender he liked. The bar top he hated, too new -- they were trying to make the place too nice for what it was, and that was the underbelly of some skeevy shit. And wouldn’t he know?<br/>
<br/>
Jack was about to call out for her by name when the rowdy bunch hustled inside right after him. From his spot in the corner, he was out of line of their immediate peripheral, but he knew them on sight. European, obnoxious, worked with the Viper bitch whose bad side he was currently on. From somewhere in the back of his mind, past the pounding of his head, the sting of his cuts especially where his busted up knuckles were concerned, he rummaged through the blurred memories to where the alarm bells were coming from.<br/>
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<i>Fuck it. </i><br/>
<br/>
“She’s talking about the fuck I gave her after dealing with idiots like you, so back off. Go sit down, drink the piss beer you just ordered, and don’t look at her - or me - and we’ll all be peachy fucking fine. Got it?” <br/>
<br/>
It was at least enough of a comment to give the men pause, look over his way. Though one look at Jack with his rough edges and swollen face was enough to make them all grin, glance at one another, and then start a shoving contest that ended with the biggest, blondest faggot shoving his dark haired neighbor hard enough that he nearly toppled off his stool. And as goldilocks chuckled, dark and sinister turned his attention back on Jack's own blonde, leering at her. "I bet I can give you a better <i>fuck </i>in the bathroom here than he can  sober and on best day, blondie," he offered.<br/>
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To Jack's credit, he was going to wait and see how Olivia took the Euro trash's offer before he moved from his seat. His ass was happy where it was, for now, though his voice sounded like gravel in his ears when he spoke up again. Yeah, he could use something strong to get rid of the scratch in his throat. “Olivia, get me a whiskey, I don’t care what shelf, straight up.” That would hit the spot and numb him out even more than he already was.</span></span>