02-09-2018, 10:08 PM
Continued from Quality Control
Moscow's public transit was among the best in the world. Not exactly a historically accurate statement, but times changed. So he sat on a surface-street bus, most of the toys he had been playing with all night handed off to a Pervaya driver, and off to find a place to have a drink.
He had some time to kill before deciding what to do about the 'boss' and the rest of his boys. Technically, his job was done, message delivered. But he'd been bored of late, and fucking around with a bunch of bottom-tier drug-dealers that thought they were big stuff was always a nice spot of fun.
The sort of fun that CCD cops seemed to not look too deeply into, so long as it was handled properly.
A few bus stops down the line and he hopped off the bus and absently dug his thumb between the knuckles of his left hand. Dmitri was a talkative idiot, but he had had a hell of a thick skull. A moment to flex his shoulders, and he made his way up the street. A few of the lads at the office had mentioned a place in the neighborhood. Stocked a few US imports, wasn't the worst dive in town.
Until he decided what to do with the rest of his night, a beer for a job well done was in order.
Dark slacks and neatly laced boots to which the term 'tactical' could easily be attached. He forewent a jacket; it was off with the Pervaya driver, as well as the shirt and vest he'd been wearing, all sporting a few new holes that matched some fresh bruises on his ribs.
A simple but well-fitted suit jacket and white dress shirt, top buttons popped and a loosened tie. At first glance, he could almost have been just an average every day office worker. Minus the hint of the shoulder holster and revolver under the open jacket, of course.
So maybe some mob bruiser type. Except he didn't ooze the bravado and arrogance of some meat-head mafioso. No challenging stares, no itching for a fight or to prove himself as an alpha dog.
He simply was one, and had no need having to prove it with boorish action.
He gave the room a brief survey and made his way towards the bar. A nod for the waitresses, another for the tender, a quick scan of what was on tap. Then he snaked a bowl of beer nuts from behind the bar with a grin to the tender, an order of a pint, and he made his way to a nearby table, intent to sit, relax, and ponder.
Edited by Hood, Feb 9 2018, 10:09 PM.
Moscow's public transit was among the best in the world. Not exactly a historically accurate statement, but times changed. So he sat on a surface-street bus, most of the toys he had been playing with all night handed off to a Pervaya driver, and off to find a place to have a drink.
He had some time to kill before deciding what to do about the 'boss' and the rest of his boys. Technically, his job was done, message delivered. But he'd been bored of late, and fucking around with a bunch of bottom-tier drug-dealers that thought they were big stuff was always a nice spot of fun.
The sort of fun that CCD cops seemed to not look too deeply into, so long as it was handled properly.
A few bus stops down the line and he hopped off the bus and absently dug his thumb between the knuckles of his left hand. Dmitri was a talkative idiot, but he had had a hell of a thick skull. A moment to flex his shoulders, and he made his way up the street. A few of the lads at the office had mentioned a place in the neighborhood. Stocked a few US imports, wasn't the worst dive in town.
Until he decided what to do with the rest of his night, a beer for a job well done was in order.
Dark slacks and neatly laced boots to which the term 'tactical' could easily be attached. He forewent a jacket; it was off with the Pervaya driver, as well as the shirt and vest he'd been wearing, all sporting a few new holes that matched some fresh bruises on his ribs.
A simple but well-fitted suit jacket and white dress shirt, top buttons popped and a loosened tie. At first glance, he could almost have been just an average every day office worker. Minus the hint of the shoulder holster and revolver under the open jacket, of course.
So maybe some mob bruiser type. Except he didn't ooze the bravado and arrogance of some meat-head mafioso. No challenging stares, no itching for a fight or to prove himself as an alpha dog.
He simply was one, and had no need having to prove it with boorish action.
He gave the room a brief survey and made his way towards the bar. A nod for the waitresses, another for the tender, a quick scan of what was on tap. Then he snaked a bowl of beer nuts from behind the bar with a grin to the tender, an order of a pint, and he made his way to a nearby table, intent to sit, relax, and ponder.
Edited by Hood, Feb 9 2018, 10:09 PM.