Jacked Up

-{Chapter 1: It Began with a Hangover...}-

~~~~~

Monday, February 4th, 2013

Buffalo, New York

Verdant Meadows Rentals, Apt. 304

"Oi, Dee."

A voice broke the silence of Denise's pigsty of a bedroom, punctuated by a thick British accent.

"Get up."

Denise groaned, shifting slightly in the tangled mess of sheets that was her bed.  A low moan that may have at one point been a curse word escaped her mouth, muffled by her pillow.

"Come on, get up."

No response.

Conrad groaned.  It was going to be one of those mornings.

"Denise," he sighed, shaking his roommate, "Wakey-fucking-Wakey, luv."

"Screw you," came Denise's muffled response, accompanied by a limp, half-hearted swing of her arm.

"Dee, get the hell up.  We've got a big day ahead."

"Is someone gonna shoot us if I don't get up?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Then go die."

Conrad groaned, rubbing his forehead in frustration.  Wordlessly, he left the room, headed for the apartment's living room.  There were several shuffling and clicking sounds, followed by a short silence.  Before long, a soft beat began to play through the apartment.  Soon afterwards, it was accompanied by a heavily-accented set of lyrics.

"Yeah I'm out that Brooklyn, now I'm down in TriBeCa,

right next to Deniro, but I'll be hood forever,

I'm the new Sinatra, and since I made it here,

I can make it anywhere, yeah, they love me everywhere,"

"Your stupid rap covers aren't gonna get me up, Con," Denise groaned through her pillow.

The music ended after a few moments.  More shuffling.  Suddenly, the sound of a harp, along with various other string instruments filled the room.

"Don't you fucking dare-"

"My little pony, my little pony!"

Conrad's singing voice took on a much softer (but just as accented) tone.

"What is friendship all about?"

"Goddamnit."

Denise scrambled out of her bed as quickly as she could in her sickly state, rolling off and impacting on the floor with a painful thud.  She pulled herself from the floor, eyes scrunched into a narrow squint, and clutched her head in one hand, steadying herself against the wall with the other.  A quick glance at her watch established the time of day as 10:43 AM, far too early for Denise to be awake on a Monday.

"Fine, I'm up," she moaned, "just quit it with the pony shit..."

"C'mon, you know you love it!"

"Not when I'm coming off a high, you prick."

Soon, Denise had found her way to the living room.  After much swearing and debate regarding Denise's opinion of My Little Pony, which Conrad adored, he finally agreed to turn off the music.  Denise wold never admit it, but she did find the show to be a silly, but fun way of winding down after a long day.

The two were an odd pair.  Neither of them seemed compatible- Denise was an angry morphine junkie and Conrad was a British-American slacker, but they got along.  Perhaps it was their shared distaste for a 'normal' life that made them tolerate eachother.  Perhaps it was money that kept them together.  No matter the reason, they had managed to survive in a lower-class neighborhood teetering on ghetto status, and that's what was important.

It was only when the pair had begun eating their breakfast for the day (toast and leftover fried chicken) that it occurred to Denise that Con would only want her awake so early for a reason.

"So what exactly is so 'big' about today?"

"Well," smiled Conrad, "For once in our time spent together we actually have money to spend."

That gave Denise pause.

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"What about the rent?"

"Taken care of," he grinned, taking his now-empty plate to the mountain of unwashed dishes that was their sink.

"Debts?  We still owe Reggie for that thing with the cookies."

Conrad winced at the thought of the infamous Cookie Incident.

"Surprisingly, that's taken care of too."

"... Wow. I'm actually impressed, Con."

"I know," he replied with a shudder, "I was worried Reggie'd have us killed for that."

Denise let out a small guffaw, "No, genius, I mean we actually managed to get off our lazy asses long enough to get some real paper."

Denise finished her plate, returning it to Mt. Unwashed, "So what exactly do you have in mind for it?"

Con leaned against the kitchenette's counter with a smirk.  "Well, the smart thing would be to put it in a bank account and save it up.  Thing is, we're morons, so I figure we could just take it and see how quickly we can blow through it all."

Denise chuckled, "Sounds good to me."

~~~~~

Monday, February 4th, 2013

Buffalo, New York

Big Jim's Bar

They were very good at wasting money.

The duo sat at opposite ends of the bar, each sporting a set of new clothes that would likely be covered in a layer of sweat and grime by the end of the month.  Conrad sported a spiffy (in his own words) Blue-and-white letterman jacket and grey fedora, while Denise had opted for a simple, crimson down jacket and faded purple blouse- the same color scheme she always seemed to wear.  They had even gotten their hair done up, with Conrad's scraggly head of hair cropped into a short, neat style and Denise's in a modest, but presentable ponytail.

When the day was over and the sun had set, they found to their surprise that they had not, in fact, used all of their surplus cash.  Naturally, this called for a drinking binge, followed by Denise sneaking off to feed her addiction in a back-alley.  Things hadn't quite progressed that far yet, but they almost assuredly would.

Conrad was chatting up a young, blonde woman in trashy, but stylish clothes- the kind of person who throws money around like confetti, but still dresses like a skank and hangs out in sleazy parts of town on the weekends because they want to feel 'dangerous'.

"I tell you, luv, the drinks here are good, but they're nothing compared to what we've got in Manchester..."

"Con, you were born in Queens!"

The blondie let out a cackle at Denise's sudden interjection, while Conrad merely gave a scowl in her direction.

"I was born on a flight to Queens! That makes me British!"

"Oh, it's fine," slurred Blondie, happily drunk at this point, "You're still cute."

Denise rolled her eyes and motioned for the bartender to bring her another round of scotch.

Time passed, and the bar slowly came to life, save for Denise, who sat in roughly the same spot, still drinking her scotch.  Conrad had taken Blondie off to the recently-repaired karaoke machine, and was merrily rapping along to a Kanye West hit while the girl giggled and leaned against him.

"I know it's been a while,

Sweetheart, we hard-ly talk, I was doin' my thing,

I know I was foul bay-bay,

a-bay late-lay you been all on my brain,

And if somebody woulda told me a month ago,

Frontin' though, yo I wouldn't wanna know..."

Meanwhile, a few more patrons had arrived- nobody of particular interest, just the usual hoods that came in every night to laugh and forget about how bad their lives really were.  There were a few louder patrons- and not just angry drunks.  No, these morons were genuine assholes, spray-tanned, hair-dyed ghetto 'rich kids'.  Probably criminals.  From the way they were talking, Denise suspected they might even be Mafia children; just grown-up enough to act like tough guys but not enough to realize it's their parents who have the real power.

"Fuck you staring at, you dumb broad?"

Damnit.  She shouldn't have stared too long.  Smart thing to do would be to mumble an apology and get back to drinking.

"Just a bunch of loudmouthed pricks who don't know when to fuck off."

'Smooth move Denise,' she admonished herself, 'Smooth move.'

"Excuse me?"

The leader of the pack came forward, flanked by the rest of his goons, "I don't appreciate skanks like you tellin' me to fuck off."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she cooed, sarcasm practically dripping from her mouth, "let me rephrase that- Why don't you and your goons take your funny-lookin', roid-ravaged dicks, shove 'em up your stupid, spray-tanned, guido asses, and fuck off!"

That certainly got his attention.  Along with the rest of the bar.  Even Conrad had dropped what he was doing, abandoning his rapping to focus on the scuffle.

"Damnit, Dee... Hey, er, wait here a second, luv?"

With that, he eased Blondie into a nearby chair and rushed to his companion.

"You better take that back, bitch," the head punk growled, "you better take it back!"

"Or what?" Denise replied with guffaw, "You think you're hard?  You ain't shit compared to the assholes I had to deal with back in Newar-"

Before she could finish her thought, she was interrupted by a fist impacting with her face.  Denise fell to her knees, clutching her nose, from which a slight trickle of blood flowed.

"OI!"

The head goon turned to Conrad, who was approaching quickly.  The kid instinctually reached into his hoodie.

"You want some too, fuckface?!"

Gasps arose around the bar.  The dumb kid had drawn a revolver, and held it level to Conrad's head.

"Woah, Leon, take it easy man..."

The crew muttered nervous warnings and assurances, but their words were ignored.

"No, no, fuck these assholes!  Nobody fucks with Leon Dibenedetto!  Nobo-"

The tables were turned in a New York minute.  In the blink of an eye, Denise shot up from the floor and grabbed hold of the goon, 'Leon Dibenedetto' apparently, kneeing him square in the stomach and wresting the gun from his hands.  As he doubled over in surprise, Denise took the opportunity to make a punch of her own, delivering an uppercut to his face with the barrel of the pistol.  Shoving him towards his cronies, she raised the gun.

The punks let out a series of surprised yelps, helping their leader to his feet and  slowly backing towards the door.  In the confusion, Conrad had drawn his own weapon, a small .22 pistol he kept for emergencies, and kept it aimed squarely at Dibenedetto's head.

"Yeah, you better run," Denise growled, "Because if I see you here again, I'll splatter your brains on the FUCKING BAR!"

"You're gonna regret this, you little bitch!"

The crew scuttled out the door, making threats as they went along.

Slowly, Denise and Conrad calmed down, lowering their guns.  Conrad turned to Denise, and was just about to berate her for recklessness, when they were interrupted by the sound of clapping.

"Bravo, my friends!  Bravo!"

A pale man in a spotless white suit sauntered over to the pair, slowly clapping all the while, "I have to admit, you two have quite the talent."

His voice was soft and effeminate- unnervingly so.  The kind of voice that you'd expect from the devil when he's pitching you a deal involving your soul.

"Oh, where are my manners?" the stranger chuckled, feigning embarrassment, "Can I offer you two a drink?"

The duo's responses were simultaneous...

"Bugger it, why not?"

"Fuck do you want?"

... If not identical.

"Straight to business, I see?  I like that.  Please, take a seat," he cooed, motioning to his table, "Mr. Davidson?  If you could get the drinks?  Just put it on my tab."

Conrad shrugged, just tipsy enough not to question how the man knew his name, and Denise warily took a seat across from the man.

"You know Conrad?"

"I know a lot about both of you, Ms. Hartman," the man replied, "You could say I've done my homework."

Denise was getting uncomfortable. "Homework on what?"

"Well, you see, I'm on sort of a... Recruiting mission, if you will; looking for individuals who meet a certain criteria, and you just happen to fit the bill."

"How so?"

"Well, where do I begin?" he offered, pausing as if he were pondering, "Ex-convict, living in a slum... Well, those are nice benefits, but what really interests me is your past.  Racketeering, gang-related violence, several murders...  It's a wonder you got off with only two years."

"Yeah, well, I have connections," she responded.

"Ah, yes, Troy Masterson.  The corrupt DEA agent that so generously helped you out..." the man paused for a moment, "But that's the thing, isn't it?"

Denise remained silent, prompting him to continue.

"Agent Masterson has a spotless record, and I do mean spotless.  Sure, there's the occasional bit of misconduct that one would expect from any officer of the law, but he was never corrupt.  Then you came along, and he broke every rule he could to keep you out of prison, simply because he owed you a favor."

The man gave a sinister grin, leaning over the table.

"That's what I'm looking for.  Heaven knows, there's plenty of people just like you, but they're all dead or in prison, and for a good reason.  You can make connections.  You're that kind of person that no decent human being could stab in the back.  Why?  I have no idea.  But it's there.  And that's what I need."

"Need for what?" Denise growled with an equal mix of confusion, distress, and anger, "and what about Con?"

"Conrad?  He's like you, in a way- he hasn't had the opportunity to express that talent as... Magnificently as you, but it's there.  And from what I've heard, the two of you make for quite the dynamic duo."

There was a silence between the two.  Denise was deep in thought, wondering what exactly was going on.  Things were happening too fast.

"Oi!  I'm back," Conrad called out, "and I have drinks!"

"What are you?" she asked, ignoring her companion, "FBI? DEA?"

The man looked surprised, then, to Denise's Frustration, began laughing.

"Oh, heavens, no!" he chuckled, "Believe me, I'm nobody important.  I'm offering you a job, both of you, that's all."

"A... Job? What?" Conrad asked, confused by the lack of context, "Dee, what's going on?"

"Look, just hear me out," the mysterious stranger continued, "I can offer you a new beginning in a beautiful locale, with all travel expenses covered.  I'm afraid I can't be more specific than that unless you agree, and I won't ask twice.  If you say no, I leave, and you never hear from me or my... associates... again.  What do you say?"

Denise was shocked to say the least.  This deal sounded good- too good. She felt like she was selling her soul to the devil, and it made her uncomfortable.  Still, what did she have to lose?  She was practically a crack bum, spending what little money she managed to save for herself on morphine.  No other opportunities were available to her- she knew she'd never get an offer like this again.  But it still felt wrong- like something out of a horror movie.  Hell, Denise didn't even remember seeing the guy walk in.  She needed more time, she needed to-

"Fucking brilliant, man!  Sign us up!"

Conrad made the decision for her, like he had many times in the past.

The stranger smirked a smug smirk, eyes lighting up with glee.

"Well, alright then."

Wait.  That wasn't glee....

His eyes really were lighting up.

"Woah, hey, I never said-"

Denise never got to finish her sentence.  With a flash, the entire group disappeared from the bar.  The bartender would never remember the encounter clearly, simply recalling a brief brawl between a few street punks and little more.  It was business as usual in Big Jim's Bar for the rest of the night.

All the while, a drunken blonde girl sat by the karaoke machine, wondering what had happened to that charming Brit from earlier, never having noticed what had transpired...