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Confessions [closed] Marcus & Mallory

Who: Marcus & Mallory J. Quinn
Where: Middle of the New Jersey Landscape
When: April, 8th - Midday

It was to say the least a miserable spring day, as spring days were want to do. But he stood out side in the damn rain anyway. His head tipped low, water dripping from the brim of his battered old hat, it was probably as old as he was, maybe older. One hand clutched the brown paper wrapped neck of a bottle, and brought it to his lips. He took a long pull. Taking his time to really let the Jack burn on the way down his throat. His shoulders hunched against the increasingly bad weather. It was chilly. He'd done Blue the service of letting the old Hound spend the day in the cab of that truck of his. The black one that had marks on the sides that looked an aweful lot like he'd gone ten rounds with Wolverine, and the comic book super hero had lost. Mallory's graying hair was damp any where the wind could blow water on it, and his leather coat was beginning to get heavy with water.

Hunting was scarce. Hunting was -less- than scarce. Hunting was nil. They'd even run out of rats to chase. So, Officially, he was out looking for game. Unofficially, he was going crazy. Stark raving lunatic locked up in a abandoned asylum, praying for something to change and make it all worthwhile. Wolves could cover sixty miles in a single night. A wolf in human clothing had no problem walking ten or fifteen miles from his den. Was this a smart idea? No. Even less smart that he was walking alone. The rain had started half an hour into his walk. His denim coat was soaked through, his hair hung in wet strands around his face, stuck to his neck and shoulders. It was as a clensing, the Earth was washing him clean of the troubles in his head. He paused briefly to light a cigarette, his vice, his crutch. He'd give it up when the world was safe again. Until then, he would cling to it. He started waking again, nose working at the air. The rain washed all scent away, and the patter drowned his ears, leaving him in sensory deprivation, something that should have put him on edge, but his mind was elsewhere. (done)

Mallory was in his own world, drowning his sorrows. God damned never ending, ever lasting sorrows. When he finished off the bottle it joined others, with a loud clink in the baseboard of the truck's bed. He fished another - when Mallory set about to get drunk, he did it with gusto. The cap twisted off and thrown at the ground impatiently. He took another drink. Nothing short of a pass out drunk event was effective any longer. He'd drink till he was unconcious. Hell maybe he'd choke on his own vomitt. Death by alcohol overdose, how very John Bonham of him. He smirked maliciously, the expression have a distinctly predatory nature to it. He saw the other man approaching, and would have ordinarily been surprised, even put off by it. But certainly suspicious - out this far form no where. But as the figure's shape became some what more clear - some what was relative given he wasn't too far from seeing double. He stared and than he growled, right in his throat like some kind of mother fucking animal. "You again...:" He fumbled into his coat searching for a knife he had hidden on him some where. Somewhere. It was on him...Somewhere.[d]

: Marcus took a long drag on his cigarette as he paused on top of a rock. Letting out the cloudy breath, he hopped down to the next level of ground. This brought him in sight of the big black truck. It tugged at the back of his mind, some flashframe of a memory that had spent the last three yars trying to fade. No, surely not. Not here, in the middle of fucking nowhere. He took a deep breath, but his senses were dulled by the smoke and the rain. He took two cautious steps forward and saw the man. He growled, as well. Deep in his chest. It was not a human sound, no human could make that noise. His lips pulled back, shoulders lifting like hackles, eyes staring a challenge. He stepped sideways, circling around, the wolf part of him calculating, trying to find he best way to flank the enemy. He was alone. Wolves were not meant to face enemies alone. Wolf howled to flee, lure him back to the pack where his family would do their jobs. But the human knew better. Better to take the man out now, or be taken out, and pray that the man's animal wouldn't be able to follow Marcus's scent in the downpour. "Me." His voice was lower than normal, gravelly, the wolf wanted out. Now. (done)

Mallory's eyes were dialated, and his mouth slurred some what as he stared at the werewolf. "Come to die?" The Hunter had never had any qualms about where and when his victims showed up. He was doing the world a service, no more monsters. No more families like his. No one should have to bury their young bride. He had a knife in his free hand, straightening his spine away from the smooth black surface of that truck. Blue seemed to notice the action and let out a deep bellowing bay - a sound that even to unknowing ears was easily distinguishable - enemy!. Mallory took a step forward, but the bravado in it was lost due to the shortened stride, and he teetered ever so slightly before seeming to snap himself together. "I'm going to kill you, be greatful, it's the only good thing you'll ever do for humanity." He was vicious when drunk, his rage and pain burning and turning and combining in a warped perception of just how the world saw men like himself. Never mattered to Mallory, but killing the werewolf from some years ago, the one that got away, would make a certain part of him feel a whole lot better. [[d]

: If he'd had more of his human mind in control, he would have laughed. It might have been hysterical laughter. The man had so very neatly touched upon the problems raging inside him. He was -trying- to help humanity, a race he no longer belonged to, and yet still cared about. He wanted to save them. And he wasn't doing it. He didn't need the hunter's slurred speech or inability to walk to tell he was drunk. The reek of alcohol was strong enough despite the rain. That in itself was almost funny. Of course, the wolf knew nothing of humor. He stepped sideways again, studying, watching. He saw the knife. He'd need to rid the man of that thing. The wolf begged to shift, use teeth and claws to tear the man apart. Marcus almost agreed, finding a sick pleasure in the thought of infecting this guy. Hold it together, human hands and human brain would have to win this. Yes, he was circling, biding his time, studying with his eyes focused intently on the enemy, never backing down their callenge. He knew he was outnumbered, but he would not back off without fighting. It was stupid, it was manly, but somewhere he knew running away would be worse in the end. (Done(

Mallory was drunk, but underestimating him was a mistake. Marcus knew that already. The man was aging, and it was catching up to him, but that didn't seem to stop his desire any more. Angry words were matched with gray flint colored eyes that were jaded like steel, raging with hate. It was bitter and all consuming and drunk or not Mallory made a bid for Marcus's throat. Swinging the knife wide, knowing it would likely miss he brought his left hand up in a swift upper cut. The force which carried most of his body with it. He was drunk, and that slowed him some what, made itharder for him to think, impossible for him to really focus on much of anything. But that didn't stop him from being Deadly. Mallory Quinn had a reputation, and he'd earned it the hard way. [d]

: Never go after a lefty with a knife in your right. Marcus's dominant hand shot out to grab the hand with the knife, which naturally left him wide open for the punch. He fell back, hand still wrapped around the wrist with the knife. He used his height to try and pull the man down, with the hopes of smashing the hand to the earth, loosening the grip on the knife. He snarled, feeling the hot breath of the older man, smelling the stink of it. He was in defense at the moment, get rid of the silver blade before acting. (done)

Mallory was easier to manipulate in his present state. Drunk and a little bit worn down. He crashed hard onto the ground making a sound that came between a grunt of pain and a snarl. His hand crushed into the ground by Marcus's superior strength quivered and trembled, eventually forced to let go of the knife. There were others, 8 in total pocketed and pressed around his flesh. But he hardly seemed to care as he leg shot up to jab hard into Marcus's groin. "Sonovafucking bitch!" He roared at the werewolf, in a voice that made the echoing bay of his hound seem tame. Blue for his part barked, snarled and tried to claw his way through the interior of the cab, but was ultimately trapped inside. In the struggle to regain himself Mallory's hat left him, rolling away with the brim facing up. Water gathering inside of it, and rain drops touching that precious photograph tucked in the band. Mud and dirt in his hair didn't seem to phase him as he fought against Marcus's hold on his arm. [d]

: The shot hurt, but future children were the last thing in his mind. This seemed to spur on the wolf inside. Change. Change now. Let me fight it. Growling deep in his chest, Marcus fought two battles. The lesser of which to stay human. Had he been in charge of his voice, he may have made a quip about the sort of person his mother really was, how she could probably kick this old man's ass. The knife was gone, Marcus heard it clatter. It had occured to him that it wasn't the only one, but the others would be no trouble if Mallory's hands remained pinned. Marcus pushed with his body, trying to roll the hunter over. He had strength, youth, and sobriety on his side. But the other had the skill. The wolf saw the man's bare throat and begged to take it, whined in the back of the human brain, tear it open, you have the advantage. But Marcus was not a killer, and even with his life in danger, he did not want to start. (done)

Marcus wasn't a killer, Mallory sure as hell was. He had slaughtered untold numbers of werewolves. If his own bragging or the legends were to be believed hundreds capped the numbers. It could have been that many, more or less, it didn't change the fact that he was an all too mortal human, who slaughtered all too unhuman monsters. And he enjoyed it. He was drunk, and he was aging. His vision wasn't quite as sharp as it once had been, his reflexes dulling every so slightly. He saw the difference, someone ordinary wouldn't have been able to tell. But he had skill and decades of expierence. And when he had Marcus where he wanted him, Mallory played the sneaky under handed card. He violently jerked his wrist and threw his body. This gave him a moment to escape, and he did hauling himself to his feet with a speed that made his age seem a trick of the eyes. On his feet he growled. Two steps and he kicked Marcus in the face. Because he could. "FUCK YOU!" He screamed, the careful control he had had in their first encounter had long since left the...clearing.[d]

: Marcus howled, his vision draining of its color. He could feel the claws under his skin, and his flesh prickled. He pushed himself to his knees, blood dripping from a split lip and his nose. That blood was poison, teeming with whatever it was that made him a werewolf. He paused, appearing to catch his breath for a split second before launching himself at the hunter, hands curled into claws, powerful legs propelling him toward the older man. (done)

Mallory caught the wolfman as he lounged, with a holler on his lips that was almost gleeful. Like a man doing something he knew was dangerous, leaping from a building and not caring ifthe landing hurt - all that mattered was the flying. But the wolf had height on him, and had power. And Mallory caught him, holding Marcus's face from his own but was propelled backwards on his unstable feet. He slammed hard into the front fender of his truck. Rocking it hard enough the glass bottles loose in the back rattled. This set the hound off. He threw himself at the dashboard glass snarling, throwing spit and saliva as he tried in vein to get to the werewolf holding his master prison. Mallory was seeing stars and his head swam, it rolled on his neck for a moment as if he had no control over it what's so ever. [d]

: Marcus held back an urge to spit blood into the man's face. Oh, it would be fitting, it would be justice. Give the man what he feared most. His strong left hand pressed to the older man's throat, standing in for the wolf's teeth. He ignored the dog. He would deal with the animal if it broke free. "You're lucky I was weak before." He growled, a spray of blood and spittle coming off him despite his earlier care. "You probably wouldn't have won." His hand dropped, seeking out Mallory's own dominant right, knowing the man was sneaky, and would likely be stabbing with something silver very soon. "Unlucky for you, I've learned some things."

Mallory was breathing hard, harder than he should have been. The effort it took to maintain himself while drunk was taking its toll. He wasn't as young as he once was. He stared at the wolfman, and laughed. Right into his face as Marcus snarled down at him. It was the mad house laughter of someone who was unhindged. The hand on his throat he pushed into it, leaning up into with a challenging curl of his lips. When Marcus's spit and blood landed on his face Mallory thrashed beneath him. His neck choked and he coughed and went for a knife. But Marcus had learned and his right hand was trapped, his left keeping the Wolf from getting that much closer. Mallory's flint eyes stared up at the animal above him. "Do it. Go on, kill me. You want to. Just do it." [d]

: "I am not a monster," he growled, the words barely human. His hand tightened its grip. "That's something you're good enough at for the both of us." English? What? He wasn't human after all. "I should turn you. I should make you a real monster." He pushed against the hand attempting to hold him back. This was the part where he should say something like 'i will let you live, never come back.' But that was weak. Weakness is what had made it so there could be a second meeting. He was frozen.

Mallory stared at him there was nothing in those eyes. At least nothing that resembled a real fight in them. His eyes flashed when Marcus suggested that he turn him, infect him. Make Mallory into the very thing that had taken his beloved Felina from him. And in that moment he saw her, beautiful Felina torn apart, bleeding, gagging. And he snarled throwing his body up against Marcus's stronger one. In another light it could have been vaguely sexual. In this light it was violent and desperate. "JUST FUCKING KILL ME YOU ASSHOLE! GET IT OVER WITH ! KILL ME! KILL ME!" He screamed at Marcus, despite the fact that he was restrained and the man's hand was cutting off air. His face was red and his blood was boiling. And than something gave and he went slack against the wolf, his face contorted with agony. "Just...kill me." [d]

His eyes narrowed. Another trick? Were Marcus fully human, he might have loosened his grip and stepped back, taking pity. But there was enough anger pent up inside. Anger at the world, anger at his life, anger at this hunter. He slammed the man back against the truck again, hearing the thud of a head on metal. "You would like that, wouldn't you?" He snarled. "Given the choice between this and death? It's not that bad, you'd be powerful." No, this man didn't -deserve- the gift. He loosened his grip and punched Mallory in the face, then stepped back, panting, watching. Glaring. (Done)

Mallory was slack in Marcus's grip, but his head was rolling. It wasn't very coherent he wasn't coherent. There were tears. There were honest, no tricks. He was just lost, his head swam and his heart slowed to a deafening crawl. He wanted to die. He wanted it so badly he could almost taste it. He wanted to say something but he couldn't form any words. When he was loosed his body began to slump. He slumped forward barely on his feet. And than he was hit. The punch connected square with his nose and Mallory went flying to the ground in the most ungraceful pile of limbs and aging muscle there was. He was stunned, for a moment the world was black. He opened his eyes and stared up at Marcus, the rain beat down on him, running the blood from his nose thin as he spilled. "So what? So fuckin' what? I've done this...done this for decades. Longer than you've probably even been alive you prick. And it doesn't make a difference. Not one bit of difference. She's still dead. She's still gone...god..." [d]

: He stared down, a shaking hand raising to brush his soaked hair out of his face. "You're not doing it anymore." He whispered. He took a step closer and hunkered down. The wolf knew the threat had faded, but was still on edge, still ready to take control. The human was curious. There was no pity there, let's not think he'd gone soft, but he was interested. "This a new tactic? You're finally outmatched, so you try and prey on my sappy human side?"

"She was my wife." Mallory was in his own little world. He stared around him, grappling with the ground to sit up right. He spat his own blood between his legs. And wiped some of his blood from beneath his nose. He was really bleeding. It was probably broken, again. Wasn't the first time. He couldn't even legitamently say it was the seventh or eight time. He fondled his head looking for his head, but it was gone. He stared at it a ways away, gathering rain. He pointed. "She was beautiful...and a fucking monster comes out of the god damned sage and kills her. She...she was perfect." He thumped his head back against the side of his truck. He pointed again at the hat, it was a long way from him it seemed. "Felina. Felina Rosa Quinn. My wife. We'd hve been married 38 years tomorrow." [d]

: He took all this in, not sparing a glance for the hat lying in the mud. It was perephial. It did not matter. His sad story didn't matter. The wolf stared out through his eyes, glaring, challenging. The man's position on the ground was a human version of the submissive pose, and the wolf was pleased. "How sad. Are you finished?" There was the little fact of making sure the guy was no longer a threat. (done)

: Mallory just sat in the mud, in the rain. Wet and miserable. He felt like hell. Death warmed over. This wasn't the first time he'd done this, drunk himself into a stupor. The previous year he'd spent the night passed out on the truck's tail gate. He leaned forwad and spat more blood onto the ground. It was miserable inside of his head. When he closed his eyes he saw her, beautiful felina covered in blood. "Go to hell. You wouldn't understand, you have no idea what love feels like." He leaned forward and ran his hands beneath his eyes, trying hard to avoid doing anything less masculine. The alcohol swam in his blood. He pulled a silver knife, feeling the weight of it in his hands was comforting. He flung into the mud, watching it stick perfectly. Weighted for throwing. No threats issued, he didn't give it to Marcus, or evenlook at the wolf. He just felt like stabbing the earth, because it some how felt better than doing nothing. He'd considered each year just shooting himself in the head. He had the gun, silver bullets in the cab of the truck. Instead he just sat there. [d]

: He snarled at the words. "You don't know me. You know -nothing- about me." He watched the knife fly. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to throttle the guy until he was unconcious so Marcus could make his escape in the hopes that the hunter wouldn't remember. It was hard to stay angry at this pathetic wretch, even if Marcus had almost died at his hand once upon a time. "I know more of love than you ever could." (done)

"I was ten when I met her.....no...I was younger than that. BUt that's when I saw her. She was radiant." He coughed, and checked the blood flow from his nose. It had mostly stopped. "Never loved any one else. Just her. She was so beautiful. Go ahead, look for yourself." He pointed at the hat, not for the first time wondering if the picture in it was ruined. He didn't have any backups. He hadn't had much when he'd left. Little more than his truck, a gun, some bullets and a puppy. He'd learned a few lessons. "Oh I married her. I married her soon as I could. You know I never touched any one else until I married her? Ever. She wanted to wait, so I waited." He nodded an affirmative to himself. That was something he'd never told any one. Most had just assumed he and Felina had been sexually active prior to marriage, it was after all the 70's. And they had been together since , well as long as any one could remember. "And one night..we were sleeping under the stars. She loved that, being out side. She used to say to me 'Mal, can't you hear the sage singing?'. I never really believed her. But we were there...and than it came at us. I was away...ya know, takin' a piss" For a brief second that thick Texas accent emerged. "I ..I've lived there my entire life, I'd never seen anything like it. Just a fucking monster and it...it got to her first. I tried to stop it...it was too late." He tugged at the collar on his faded shirt, the fabric soaked through enough you could see his skin. He pulled it open revealing a scar that was older than the rest. It was a huge mark he'd been cut stem to stern. "Too late...she died there...right there under those stars. ...Wicked Felina the girl that I love..." The last was half hummed half spoken. Drunken slurs. [d]

: He did not look at the hat. He was still glaring the challenge, staring into the other man's eyes. To look away was to submit and open himself to attack. He let the monologue flow over him. Yeah, the story sucked, he'd die if something happened to his own wife. But that was no excuse. "Are you quite finished?" His voice was quiet, still gravely with supressed growls, but the anger had ebbed. He rocked back on his heels and reached a hand for the hilt of the knife, being very very careful about grabbing it far from the blade. A weapon was a weapon if the guy decided to spring. He stood up, looking down at the drunken killer. He licked his lips, tasting his own blood for the first time. He wiped the dribble away. The wound was already closing, though it would be hours before it was gone. "I really should kill you. Put you out of both of our miseries. But I'm not a killer." (done)

"You should." It sucked, in ways that were harder than most realized. He remembered holding her castket as a pall bearer. It hurt. Their anniversay would dawn with the sun tomorrow. And than, a few short weeks later he'd be faced with the memory of the night she died. He closed his eyes and sat there, pathetic and alone. He'd been on the road for over 30 years, alone for over 30 years. What associates he had were few and far between, and he would hardly call them friends. Hell of them couldn't stand him. Obsessive. Driven. Mad. And a drunk. He had more whiskey some where. He wanted it. But didn't feel like standing up, so he just remained in the cold, wet mud. If he survived this, he might regret it in the morning. [d]

: He turned the knife in his fingers, always wary of the blade. Silver to bare skin would burn as acid. Silver in the blood would kill. But being armed felt good. "I thought you were a mighty killer." He blinked, letting the wolf flow out of him. The danger seemed to be gone. He backed up a few paces, eyes still on the hunter. When he was a safe distance away, he glanced around the scene. Footprints may be an issue, but his scent would wash away with the rain. The hunter likely wouldn't remember. The dog would, however. Thankfully it couldn't speak. Running away was not the best idea ever, leaving the hunter to seek his revenge later. But he couldn't bring himself to kill. (done)

"Yeah that's me. Fucking hunter. Best damn werewolf hunter in the west." He nodded his head. Tonight he was just Mal. Alone in the universe and still in mourning. He kicked his legs out and stared at the ends of them, his boots covered in mud. He wouldn't worry about foot prints, or anything. He had a decent memory for drunken escapades, though he'd likely hate himself in the morning. Both for letting the bastard just stand there like some superior sort of creature. He was diseased, he had no right to judge. None. Though maybe he did, he wasn't sitting in the mud, in the rain, drunk, pouring his broken heart out to a damn fucking monster. "Someday it'll be enough...I'll have killed enough of them..enough of those god damned monsters, and...and it will be better. I'll go home when I've done enough. No one else should ever hold the love of their life in their arms and watch her die.. We wanted children. Two. a boy and a girl. We were going to start trying soon...this shouldn't have been my life." [d]

: Knife still in his hand, he walked closer and hunkered down. He reached out and roughly jerked the man's face up to stare down at him. "We are not monsters. We are people. Human beings with lives and families of our own. Just because something terrible happened to you does not give you the right to ruin lives. You are -worse- than what attacked you. It had no control, no idea what it was doing. It was acting on instinct. You know exactly what you're doing. That makes you the monster." (done)

The truth could hurt, except it wasn't entirely the truth. Mallory knew what he was doing, to some degree. But that rage was out of control, the anger and the pain. The sense of vengence and betrayal from god, from the damn universe. From the land he'd known as a boy. He had never figured out who it was, who was the monster that had taken Felina from him. All he saw when he had doubts was her eyes, lifeless, her body covered in blood. And the wretched screaming that rang in his ears. It had been his voice, he knew that later, but at the time the voice, the man begging and screaming at god not to take her had been someone else. Someone entirely seperate from him as he'd held onto her. He stared at Marcus, flint colored eyes hallow and missing things thatmight have made them whole. He was a mess. Every hunter had a story, they all started some where. Most were similar to Mallory's, someone they loved was taken from them too soon, too violently. Too unreal. "All I see is her..." There wasn't room for doubt in his heart, there wasn't enough left of it to worry about such things. Though guilt plagued him, he chased it away with alcohol and even more disturbing nightmares. [d]

: He groaned and rolled his head back, growling swears at the heavens. This man was not listening. He let out a breath, suddenly wondering where he'd dropped his cigarette. It was certainly ruined by now, but the nicotine would be welcome. "Then you are blind." He swung back for another hit, maybe he could knock the guy out and just leave him here. Maybe he'd drown.

: Maybe he would. Except when Marcus came back for another swing, invluntarily Mallory blocked him, the hand shot up with reflexes that were sharper than his old age. He'd learned the hard way, and his body had a preservation instinct his mind did not at the moment. He did not however do any counter strikes, though the balled nature of his other fist suggested he had briefly thought about it. He dropped the block and his fist. " I miss her..."[d]

: "I get that. That doesn't make it right." He was tired of talking. He frowned, contemplating. He could easily carry the man back to the compound, put a watch on him, he'd never get away. Not alive, anyway. But what would be the point? Well, there was a point. They'd know where he was. But it was dangerous. "You're pathetic," he muttered and spat onto the muddy ground. There was blood there, mixing with the rainwater. He rocked back onto his heels and stood slowly. His legs creaked under him. (done)

: It was a fair assumption he wouldn't make it out alive of the compound. But it had already been established that was something that concerned Mallory Quinn. The real question was how many of them would he take with them in the process? A drunk, an aging one at that , hemight have been that didn't change the fact he was still lethal. He had proved time and time again he could kill their kind, willingly and maybe with a certain amount of satisfaction. He was enraged. And with good cause - what kind of wound did it cause to lose love like that? That 30 years later it was still that raw. He nodded his head. "Maybe, still know more than you do though." [d]

: "You know more about killing innocent people than I do. But I know more about love." He said, squaring his shoulders with a wince. He'd done something to it. A massage was sounding nice. Gentle hands of his mate, soothing him. Forget the cigarette. (done)

He laughed, it was spattered out into the air like gun fire. He rolled his head to look at the werebeast. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that kid. You think ..." He brushed some mud from his pant leg, it did very little good. "...because you've had it longer you know more about it? You, are a baby at love." He held up his left hand, and there it was. That gold wedding ring still stuck to his hand. "Nah, you don't know. You won't, until they're gone you have no idea how deep it goes. If you're lucky, you'll never find out." [d]

: "I'm touched, really. Someone like you worried about my poor heathen heart." His left thumb idly turned the ring on his own finger. It was solid titanium, even gold jewelry contained silver. That's how you got the bright alloyed gold, blend it with silver or nickel. "No, I know more about it because I don't just obsess over one person, but because I have love for all those in need. Respect for the personal rights of others. Which is why I am not a killer." (done)

Mallory stared at the ring, twisted it on his weathered hand. He had hands that showed the years - the skin was leathery and the knuckles disproportionate to one another - they'd been brokenplenty of times. He stared at that beautiful ring, what it represented. Eternity. He'd meant it, he'd love her forever. Till the day he died. But there had been times, sitting alone at a truck stop watching young lovers, old couples, young families, angry families even that he envied those who got to live that blissful ignorance. Who had connections tot he world. "I love my dog..." [d]

: Oh screw this. He tilted his head back, staring up at the sky, long hair sliding down his back in wet trails. "Congratulations. You and your dog have many happy years together, you sick fuck." He took two steps backwards. He was done with this. The guy was talking in circles, and it was obvious Marcus wasn't going to finish him off. (done)

He closed his fist with the wring still clinging to his finger. He tilted his head to stare at Marcus. "Don't be smart, boy. I'm twice your age." Maybe not that old, but he was old. And expeirence wise, well there was a reason they said he was the best. He hadn't sent word to Texas since he'd left. Wearing the same suit he'd worn to her funeral, and nothing to his name. He'd stopped and emptied his bank account of the few hundred he had saved up. Destroyed all of his ID and simply vanished. He didn't know they had sent someone to look for him once, but had come up empty. He didn't know what lay back at Quinn Ranch was a pale shadow of the ranch's once majestic glory. He didn't know any of that, and they had no idea if he was still alive - what he was doing, where he was doing it. Or that every night he went to bed saying good night to a ghost that wasn't there. "Mind handing me a fresh bottle from the bed?" [d]

: "So you can cut my feet out from under me? No. Though maybe you'd finally succumb to alcohol poisoning and take care of yourself so I don't have to." He dug for his cigarettes in ihs coat pocket. He frowned at the pack, it was soaked. He dug his fingers around inside, searching for a dry one. Thank the stars there was one. He put it to his lip and lit it. "Get some sleep or something. Drown for all I care, here in the mud. I'm done with you." (done)

He rolled his eyes. "No. I want a drink. And thanks to you I'm going to need jackie chan's chiropractor to fix my back, so just get me the god damned bottle." Mallory could be a lethal man, a deadly killer. But there were other parts of him, parts of him that had loved so deeply he still hurt. That had been sweet and charming, and good enough for a beautiful young woman with all the promise in the world ahead of her. Enough to give it up to marry a rancher's son, who had no designs but to be anything but a rancher's son. Who barely graduated high school. "If you're so done with me, why are you still standing there?" He had to partially sheild his eyes from the droplets as he angled them to stare up at Marcus. [d]

: He met those eyes, staring the wolf's challenge. "If you come near me or mine ever, there will be no mercy, no matter how much you whimper and blubber about your pathetic excuse for a life." He took several steps back, never taking his eyes from the man. By luck alone he didn't go sprawling on his backside in the mud. He stared down at the man another few seconds, sucking on the cigarette, then backed into the trees. Only then did he feel safe enough to turn around. He had no plans to go straight home, that would be the death of his people. Running sounded good, running flat out through the woods to work off the jitters. Maybe he' shift. Maybe. (done)


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