009: Cheap Knockoffs and Consolation Prizes
Jun 17, 2019 0:25:02 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Jun 17, 2019 0:25:02 GMT -5
LOCATION: Key West, Florida
DATE/TIME: June 11, 2019 || 01:15 AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
She hated cops. She'd always hated them and it wasn't just because the uniform was intimidating and led to unwarranted egos in the pigs who wore them. She hated the spooks, those damned bastards who'd locked her away in that bunker and stolen two years of her life over a case against a crime boss that had ultimately gone nowhere.
She hadn't been expecting to be ambushed the moment she'd walked out of the OCW Arena and at first, she'd laughed it off, thinking it was because of that damned snot-nosed brat and his cunt of a mother that she'd insulted backstage. They'd hustled her down the block, dragging her into a seedy little noodle restaurant that had obviously closed a few hours before. She was down in this little four-walled dungeon of a room in the basement that smelled like rotten fruit. The unlit cigarette was still tucked behind her ear but she was afraid to light it now. She was afraid to do anything that might shift this unstable moment in the wrong direction.
And still, that detective in the smarmy suit watched her with beady eyes, making it clear her paranoia was justified. So far she'd been cooperative although she hadn't said much.
Yet again, she could hear her iPhone vibrating where it rested on the metal folding table, conveniently out of arm's reach. Absently the detective reached out and pressed the ignore button. The anger flared, making Kitty clench her teeth and swallow hard. "Could I just make a quick call? I'm supposed to be meeting someone and-"
She fell silent at the look on the detective's face as the man glanced up from the table before returning to messing with his own cell phone. "We're taking you back to West Palm Beach."
The implication was there and she was left staring at him in confusion. "Excuse me?"
He didn't bother to reply, knowing that there'd been more said there in that snarky reply than that simple sentence. She could make a call when they got her into custody. In the back of her mind, she knew there was something she was forgetting, something that should be clicking that just wasn't – all she could think about was the smug look on Logan's stupid face.
Her hands shook as she rubbed her face, muffling the sound of frustration that boiled up her throat. He completely ignored the outburst, almost as if he wanted to drive her crazier.
"Listen," she wanted to bite her tongue but it just wasn't happening when her anxiety was already off the charts. "I don't know what this is about and I just..." she trailed off, her voice dropping to a pained whisper. What more could come undone in her life? Mike was obsessed with the championship, barely acknowledging her. She'd been kicked down to the bottom of the barrel where she'd found nothing more than endless reserves of anger. This dangled carrot of the Savage title was too good to be true, ephemeral at best. She'd fuck it up. She'd gotten good at that lately, after all.
Her face burned. Her knuckles ached where they were clenched and she had to force herself to unlock her joints, wiping her clammy hands on her jeans.
She wasn't aware that she was muttering to herself until the cop leaned towards her. "You say something?"
Kitty tore her gaze away from the floor with effort, flinching as her cell phone vibrated against the table again. "I think maybe you should read me those rights, and then let me call my lawyer."
"There it is," the disdain oozed off the detective as he put his phone away, glancing back at the doorway as though expecting someone, "you figure you can just lawyer up, wave that get out of jail free card and the law will just roll over and play dead? You expect me to buy a load of shit just because you think you're a celebrity? I don't care if you're Cleopatra, Queen of the goddamned Nile, lady. You're facing some pretty serious charges."
Her fingers clenched into fists as she envisioned wrapping her hands around the neck of the cop. She almost considered lashing out, but common sense won over her sense of injustice. Suddenly, and quite viciously, she craved that cigarette she hadn't even gotten to light. She reached for it and had it snatched from her fingers by a uniform she hadn't even seen easing up behind her.
"If you're charging me with something, get it over with." Resistance was futile, she knew. It'd just end up getting used against her later but damn it was hard to bite back the anger. "C'mon, bacon bits, lay it out on the table. What did I do?"
"Get up."
Kitty moved to her feet slowly, wincing as her joints popped in a hideous symphony. "Gimme back my cigarette," she grumbled, almost petulant now as the uniform grabbed her by the arm, dragging her towards the door. The asshole detective walked beside her; Kitty could smell his cheap Dollar Tree aftershave: Aqua Velva or something equally nauseating. It made her think of Logan, of cheap knock-offs and wannabes, sparking that anger again. "Think maybe you'd better tell me what the fuck this is about before I start resisting."
The cop eyed her up and down, a slow, sardonic smile spreading across his lips. "Don't think talking is gonna buy your way out of this because it won't."
Kitty sighed, shaking her head. Hunter was probably about to have kittens back at the hotel – he'd probably already drained the mini bar and added thousands to her bill. "You'd make a shitty poker player, Detective Douchetard."
The West Palm Beach detective said nothing, pushing open the door to reveal the flashing lights of the waiting cruiser. It made her sick. The entire thing. "Aww....you lit up the disco ball just for me? How sweet."
Her laugh cut off when the uniform grabbed her wrist, slapping the cuffs on it. Down the block, she could see the arena, could see the lights on the marquee spilling over the sidewalk and for some reason that made her want to break down sobbing more than this situation did. She was still staring, trying to reconcile the woman she was between the ropes and the criminal they thought she was when she was shoved into the cruiser. Her other wrist was shackled to the first, a camera flash capturing her scared rabbit expression as the door slammed shut in her face. Front page news, for sure.
Dear Logan,
I want to punch you in the dick. I want to grind your face into a bowl of broken glass and then shower you with lemon juice and salt. I want to waterboard you until you cry out for Mommy and soil your pants.
I want to do so many things to you and I'm sure you'll see this as a validation of a job well done on your insectile aspirations – like the termite, you want to play at eroding foundations behind the scenes. You wish you were actually that talented. You're not.
You're not a big baddie even though you subscribe to Evil Overlord Monthly and have recently resorted to kidnapping for a desperate grasp at relevance. What's next, grave robbing? Public urination?
Oh. Wait. You claim to have done that as well. Except my brother died fifteen years ago and was not cremated. I have no idea what you're babbling about – no real shock there, I suppose. Stupid is as stupid does. If Hollywood has taught me nothing, it’s most certainly taught me the truth in that blanket statement. Ignorance usually amuses me, especially in my opponents. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling deep in the cockles of my heart to know that you're a gibbering little monkey, a few lucky strands of DNA removed from your knuckle-dragging ancestors.
Crazy people and flightless birds – where does the cavalcade of second-string losers end? Let's go with a little brevity here, hmm? Annotated for the cerebrally impaired.
Go fuck yourself, Logan. I'm the SAVAGE one here.
You're trash and I'm going to take you out.
--K
LOCATION: West Palm Beach, Florida
DATE/TIME: June 11, 2019 || 22:45 PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Hunter's eyes were red-rimmed behind the amber-tinted aviators he had on. He'd spent hours pacing the waiting area, trying to get someone to tell him something and even after he'd signed his life away and dipped into his life savings to post bail for her, she hadn't been released. He couldn't stop hearing that quiet anguish in her voice when she'd finally returned his call – he almost hadn't answered it when the unfamiliar number flashed across the screen.
He took the shades off and cupped his palms to his face, pressing the heels of his hands against his burning eyes. He felt like he hadn't slept in years and he could only imagine how tired she was at this point, nearly thirty-six hours since the last time he'd laid eyes on her. She'd told him that there was a misunderstanding, that she was being charged with a crime on a technicality, something that she hadn't had anything to do with. She wouldn't give him details. She'd just told him where she was, her voice shaking when she'd asked him to look up the number for the lawyer Jackson used to use. She didn't have the number, she'd said and he wondered if it had been manipulation or if she actually was so scrambled, so scattered that she couldn't dredge up that name from her memory. Either way, he'd offered to come, to do whatever it took to fix this.
"Hunter?" Her voice came so soft he though he'd imagined it and he blinked a few times, thinking he'd dozed off and started dreaming.
Kitty stood in the doorway, disheveled with her eyes downcast. Her top was torn on the shoulder and he felt a strange rush of pride seeing it, knowing she'd put up a fight.
"Hey," he was already on his feet the moment he laid eyes on her and by the time the syllable left his lips, he was pulling her into his arms for a hug that turned awkward in an instant. She stiffened, catching her breath and he immediately stepped back.
"I didn't think you'd come," she said, her voice still quiet and now he realized she wasn't just pulling that library whisper out of respect for the locale – she had no voice at all.
"Tell me what happened." He didn't bother to correct her assumption, instead leading her to the chairs that he'd just left.
She told him about the gym that she'd gotten in the divorce, about how someone had burned it down over the weekend and how they'd found a lighter, a gas can and cigarette butts in the rubble that had her DNA on them – circumstantial at best. A homeless man had been sleeping upstairs. He'd died from the smoke. She recited it all in a monotone, her eyes never once meeting his.
"It's over."
"What is?"
"Everything," she finally looked up, tears flooding her eyes. She refused to blink and his heart broke at the sight of it. "If they make this stick..? I'm done. Screwed."
"They won't. They can't." He didn't ask if she was guilty because he knew exactly where she'd been – he'd been trailing her like a lost puppy, after all. "I'll testify."
She shook her head, ashen. "You can't. Mike doesn't know I was with you."
He stared at her for a good ten seconds before it clicked and he felt like an absolute idiot for not seeing it before. She was never going to choose him. He was always going to be the consolation prize, no matter what he did.
DATE/TIME: June 11, 2019 || 01:15 AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
She hated cops. She'd always hated them and it wasn't just because the uniform was intimidating and led to unwarranted egos in the pigs who wore them. She hated the spooks, those damned bastards who'd locked her away in that bunker and stolen two years of her life over a case against a crime boss that had ultimately gone nowhere.
She hadn't been expecting to be ambushed the moment she'd walked out of the OCW Arena and at first, she'd laughed it off, thinking it was because of that damned snot-nosed brat and his cunt of a mother that she'd insulted backstage. They'd hustled her down the block, dragging her into a seedy little noodle restaurant that had obviously closed a few hours before. She was down in this little four-walled dungeon of a room in the basement that smelled like rotten fruit. The unlit cigarette was still tucked behind her ear but she was afraid to light it now. She was afraid to do anything that might shift this unstable moment in the wrong direction.
And still, that detective in the smarmy suit watched her with beady eyes, making it clear her paranoia was justified. So far she'd been cooperative although she hadn't said much.
Yet again, she could hear her iPhone vibrating where it rested on the metal folding table, conveniently out of arm's reach. Absently the detective reached out and pressed the ignore button. The anger flared, making Kitty clench her teeth and swallow hard. "Could I just make a quick call? I'm supposed to be meeting someone and-"
She fell silent at the look on the detective's face as the man glanced up from the table before returning to messing with his own cell phone. "We're taking you back to West Palm Beach."
The implication was there and she was left staring at him in confusion. "Excuse me?"
He didn't bother to reply, knowing that there'd been more said there in that snarky reply than that simple sentence. She could make a call when they got her into custody. In the back of her mind, she knew there was something she was forgetting, something that should be clicking that just wasn't – all she could think about was the smug look on Logan's stupid face.
Her hands shook as she rubbed her face, muffling the sound of frustration that boiled up her throat. He completely ignored the outburst, almost as if he wanted to drive her crazier.
"Listen," she wanted to bite her tongue but it just wasn't happening when her anxiety was already off the charts. "I don't know what this is about and I just..." she trailed off, her voice dropping to a pained whisper. What more could come undone in her life? Mike was obsessed with the championship, barely acknowledging her. She'd been kicked down to the bottom of the barrel where she'd found nothing more than endless reserves of anger. This dangled carrot of the Savage title was too good to be true, ephemeral at best. She'd fuck it up. She'd gotten good at that lately, after all.
Her face burned. Her knuckles ached where they were clenched and she had to force herself to unlock her joints, wiping her clammy hands on her jeans.
She wasn't aware that she was muttering to herself until the cop leaned towards her. "You say something?"
Kitty tore her gaze away from the floor with effort, flinching as her cell phone vibrated against the table again. "I think maybe you should read me those rights, and then let me call my lawyer."
"There it is," the disdain oozed off the detective as he put his phone away, glancing back at the doorway as though expecting someone, "you figure you can just lawyer up, wave that get out of jail free card and the law will just roll over and play dead? You expect me to buy a load of shit just because you think you're a celebrity? I don't care if you're Cleopatra, Queen of the goddamned Nile, lady. You're facing some pretty serious charges."
Her fingers clenched into fists as she envisioned wrapping her hands around the neck of the cop. She almost considered lashing out, but common sense won over her sense of injustice. Suddenly, and quite viciously, she craved that cigarette she hadn't even gotten to light. She reached for it and had it snatched from her fingers by a uniform she hadn't even seen easing up behind her.
"If you're charging me with something, get it over with." Resistance was futile, she knew. It'd just end up getting used against her later but damn it was hard to bite back the anger. "C'mon, bacon bits, lay it out on the table. What did I do?"
"Get up."
Kitty moved to her feet slowly, wincing as her joints popped in a hideous symphony. "Gimme back my cigarette," she grumbled, almost petulant now as the uniform grabbed her by the arm, dragging her towards the door. The asshole detective walked beside her; Kitty could smell his cheap Dollar Tree aftershave: Aqua Velva or something equally nauseating. It made her think of Logan, of cheap knock-offs and wannabes, sparking that anger again. "Think maybe you'd better tell me what the fuck this is about before I start resisting."
The cop eyed her up and down, a slow, sardonic smile spreading across his lips. "Don't think talking is gonna buy your way out of this because it won't."
Kitty sighed, shaking her head. Hunter was probably about to have kittens back at the hotel – he'd probably already drained the mini bar and added thousands to her bill. "You'd make a shitty poker player, Detective Douchetard."
The West Palm Beach detective said nothing, pushing open the door to reveal the flashing lights of the waiting cruiser. It made her sick. The entire thing. "Aww....you lit up the disco ball just for me? How sweet."
Her laugh cut off when the uniform grabbed her wrist, slapping the cuffs on it. Down the block, she could see the arena, could see the lights on the marquee spilling over the sidewalk and for some reason that made her want to break down sobbing more than this situation did. She was still staring, trying to reconcile the woman she was between the ropes and the criminal they thought she was when she was shoved into the cruiser. Her other wrist was shackled to the first, a camera flash capturing her scared rabbit expression as the door slammed shut in her face. Front page news, for sure.
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
June 15, 2019 || 02:45 AM EST
Dear Logan,
I want to punch you in the dick. I want to grind your face into a bowl of broken glass and then shower you with lemon juice and salt. I want to waterboard you until you cry out for Mommy and soil your pants.
I want to do so many things to you and I'm sure you'll see this as a validation of a job well done on your insectile aspirations – like the termite, you want to play at eroding foundations behind the scenes. You wish you were actually that talented. You're not.
You're not a big baddie even though you subscribe to Evil Overlord Monthly and have recently resorted to kidnapping for a desperate grasp at relevance. What's next, grave robbing? Public urination?
Oh. Wait. You claim to have done that as well. Except my brother died fifteen years ago and was not cremated. I have no idea what you're babbling about – no real shock there, I suppose. Stupid is as stupid does. If Hollywood has taught me nothing, it’s most certainly taught me the truth in that blanket statement. Ignorance usually amuses me, especially in my opponents. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling deep in the cockles of my heart to know that you're a gibbering little monkey, a few lucky strands of DNA removed from your knuckle-dragging ancestors.
Crazy people and flightless birds – where does the cavalcade of second-string losers end? Let's go with a little brevity here, hmm? Annotated for the cerebrally impaired.
Go fuck yourself, Logan. I'm the SAVAGE one here.
You're trash and I'm going to take you out.
--K
LOCATION: West Palm Beach, Florida
DATE/TIME: June 11, 2019 || 22:45 PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Hunter's eyes were red-rimmed behind the amber-tinted aviators he had on. He'd spent hours pacing the waiting area, trying to get someone to tell him something and even after he'd signed his life away and dipped into his life savings to post bail for her, she hadn't been released. He couldn't stop hearing that quiet anguish in her voice when she'd finally returned his call – he almost hadn't answered it when the unfamiliar number flashed across the screen.
He took the shades off and cupped his palms to his face, pressing the heels of his hands against his burning eyes. He felt like he hadn't slept in years and he could only imagine how tired she was at this point, nearly thirty-six hours since the last time he'd laid eyes on her. She'd told him that there was a misunderstanding, that she was being charged with a crime on a technicality, something that she hadn't had anything to do with. She wouldn't give him details. She'd just told him where she was, her voice shaking when she'd asked him to look up the number for the lawyer Jackson used to use. She didn't have the number, she'd said and he wondered if it had been manipulation or if she actually was so scrambled, so scattered that she couldn't dredge up that name from her memory. Either way, he'd offered to come, to do whatever it took to fix this.
"Hunter?" Her voice came so soft he though he'd imagined it and he blinked a few times, thinking he'd dozed off and started dreaming.
Kitty stood in the doorway, disheveled with her eyes downcast. Her top was torn on the shoulder and he felt a strange rush of pride seeing it, knowing she'd put up a fight.
"Hey," he was already on his feet the moment he laid eyes on her and by the time the syllable left his lips, he was pulling her into his arms for a hug that turned awkward in an instant. She stiffened, catching her breath and he immediately stepped back.
"I didn't think you'd come," she said, her voice still quiet and now he realized she wasn't just pulling that library whisper out of respect for the locale – she had no voice at all.
"Tell me what happened." He didn't bother to correct her assumption, instead leading her to the chairs that he'd just left.
She told him about the gym that she'd gotten in the divorce, about how someone had burned it down over the weekend and how they'd found a lighter, a gas can and cigarette butts in the rubble that had her DNA on them – circumstantial at best. A homeless man had been sleeping upstairs. He'd died from the smoke. She recited it all in a monotone, her eyes never once meeting his.
"It's over."
"What is?"
"Everything," she finally looked up, tears flooding her eyes. She refused to blink and his heart broke at the sight of it. "If they make this stick..? I'm done. Screwed."
"They won't. They can't." He didn't ask if she was guilty because he knew exactly where she'd been – he'd been trailing her like a lost puppy, after all. "I'll testify."
She shook her head, ashen. "You can't. Mike doesn't know I was with you."
He stared at her for a good ten seconds before it clicked and he felt like an absolute idiot for not seeing it before. She was never going to choose him. He was always going to be the consolation prize, no matter what he did.
