Post by Dean McCoppin on Jun 16, 2017 19:53:50 GMT -6
Dogs are Man's best friend (age 15)
- - -
Dean was not sure what had gotten to him to make him barge into this place. He had had a normal childhood. Poor family, some hardships, but generally loving parents. He grew up with all the principles he needed. Yet, he was aware that something kept choking him and his family. It came in the form of letters and of strange men in suits coming to visit for late night games or drinks, that usually ended with his father shouting or breaking down in fear.
Eventually, the fifteen year old found himself barging into the office of local mob boss, Bill Thorne. Thorne was middle aged man, robust and imposing, his olive toned skin almost looking sickly in his pale office light. The shine that came from his balding head looked oddly sickening, and would keep Dean distracted had he not been caught by his dark, empty eyes.
Everyone knew where Thorne lived. Everyone knew what he did and what he commanded. Yet, little to nothing was done to stop him. People just...acted as if he was part of Rockwell. That did not sit well with Dean, especially when it came to his father's expense. So, in an act of impulse, he had barged into Thorne's office, pushing and hitting a couple of bodyguards before being subdued and thrown inside the office of the big boss himself as per his orders.
Dean had bled from his nose for a bit, the sore feeling of his right cheek swelling against his will keeping him a bit shaken as he tried to address Bill Thorne, before finding himself mesmerized by how he presented himself. A simple man, who barely ever raised his voice. It kept Dean and everyone else focused on him each time he spoke. It was as if he was apathetic, yet always watching. It was unsettling.
It was then that Dean knew he was in over his head.
"You know, kid?" the older man whispered, a questioning tone in his raspy voice almost sending chill down Dean's spine. He felt as if Bill was holding him in place just by the way he uttered his words, as if he just emanated power from them. Even though his tone was soft and slightly amicable, something did not quite seem right, as if he was veiling some mean demeanor under false sympathy "Everyone loves dogs. I love dogs myself. I think the greatest problem about them is one that completely makes them unreliable, though."
By this point, the man's gaze had been directly shifted towards Dean, making the young boy take a deep breath while trying to retain his composure. He had promised he would be brave, so he would have to hold his ground here. It was easier said than done, though, because Bill had completely dropped his smile now. In its place, a rather expressionless face remained, dark eyes completely glued onto Dean, wanting him to hear what he was about to say.
"They're all cuddly and cute, alright. You play with them, you bring them into your house, you even let them sleep in your bed. They're your kids, in a way. Kind of like you, you know?" Bill continued talking, shoving his thick cigar into the metal plate placed on his desk, the tortured scream of the cigar's dying essence heating the metal surface up making Dean cringe slightly, displaying how uncomfortable he was feeling now. "Until one day they lose their sense of smell. Dogs see through their noses, and when they can't smell you any more, they don't really know who you are any more either. You go from beloved owner to stranger. And they go from your best friends...to wild beasts. The only way you can fix this is...well..."
Dean was completely hypnotized by the way Bill had been speaking, each and every single one of the man's words coming out in a rather contained manner, but with power beneath them. It was as if he was telling him a campsite horror story in front of a fire. He had Dean focused so much on what he was saying that the young boy had come to ignore how he was gesturing and how agressive his body language was starting to become, his face contorted into an expression of pure contempt as he suddenly clenched his fist around his cigar, crushing the small object under it. Dean could not help but flinch at the sudden gesture, seeing the small fermented tobacco leaves slide through the spaces between Bill's thick fist tightly gripping it to what seemed like oblivion.
Silence had now filled the room, with only the sound of their breathing being audible in Bill Thorne's office. It was turning out to be the worst part of this little encounter between the two, with Dean finding it hard to stare the man in the eye as no words were spoken between them. He could not tell whether Bill wanted to actually let him go or have his neck crushed right there to send a message. The horror of not knowing was choking him. The eagerness of curiosity was burning him. The screams of his instinct telling him to run was driving him mad.
After what seemed like an eternity, Bill opened his hand, choosing to focus on his palm for an instant before smiling a bit. "You understand me, don't you, boy? I think everyone can be alright in this operation. We don't have to be dogs at all. Not me, not you, and certainly not your old man, right?" he mused, playfully picking up the tobacco leaves out of his large palm before eyeing Dean's disturbed expression, grinning slightly, his voice as monotone and calm as ever. "I'm making myself clear, aren't I?"
The raven haired boy tried to talk, but for what seemed to be a long while, he just could not speak. The metaphorical years of threatning silence seemed to have made him mute, his throat having dried up and found itself blocked by a lump lodged in it. Rubbing his right hand on his neck, Dean coughed a bit before whispering in a barely audible tone. "Crystal."
Bill nodded at him, his robust neck seeming almost mechanic as it motioned his head up and down, his affable expression returning for a bit. "You may go now, kid. You probably have better things to do." he retorted in a rather casual manner, adjusting his glasses and cleaning his hand up with a firm swipe of his other palm before looking back at his documents.
Dean merely nodded in response, picking up his blue coat from the coat hanger and seeing himself out, not looking at anything in particular as he closed the door to Bill's office. Walking down the stairs in an almost clockwork motion, he thought about what he had heard and how he had felt, apathy stamped in his face until he was sure he was far enough from that dreadful place.
Turning around in an alley, he pressed his back against the wall, finally allowing himself to inhale some fresh air, bringing his lungs back after what felt like an eternity. It was at that moment that Dean had learned how tiny he actually was in a world he did not fully understand. He stood no chance against men like Bill in the path he was taking. He needed not to be afraid.
But how can a dog not fear without forgetting how to smell fear itself?
- - -
Dean was not sure what had gotten to him to make him barge into this place. He had had a normal childhood. Poor family, some hardships, but generally loving parents. He grew up with all the principles he needed. Yet, he was aware that something kept choking him and his family. It came in the form of letters and of strange men in suits coming to visit for late night games or drinks, that usually ended with his father shouting or breaking down in fear.
Eventually, the fifteen year old found himself barging into the office of local mob boss, Bill Thorne. Thorne was middle aged man, robust and imposing, his olive toned skin almost looking sickly in his pale office light. The shine that came from his balding head looked oddly sickening, and would keep Dean distracted had he not been caught by his dark, empty eyes.
Everyone knew where Thorne lived. Everyone knew what he did and what he commanded. Yet, little to nothing was done to stop him. People just...acted as if he was part of Rockwell. That did not sit well with Dean, especially when it came to his father's expense. So, in an act of impulse, he had barged into Thorne's office, pushing and hitting a couple of bodyguards before being subdued and thrown inside the office of the big boss himself as per his orders.
Dean had bled from his nose for a bit, the sore feeling of his right cheek swelling against his will keeping him a bit shaken as he tried to address Bill Thorne, before finding himself mesmerized by how he presented himself. A simple man, who barely ever raised his voice. It kept Dean and everyone else focused on him each time he spoke. It was as if he was apathetic, yet always watching. It was unsettling.
It was then that Dean knew he was in over his head.
"You know, kid?" the older man whispered, a questioning tone in his raspy voice almost sending chill down Dean's spine. He felt as if Bill was holding him in place just by the way he uttered his words, as if he just emanated power from them. Even though his tone was soft and slightly amicable, something did not quite seem right, as if he was veiling some mean demeanor under false sympathy "Everyone loves dogs. I love dogs myself. I think the greatest problem about them is one that completely makes them unreliable, though."
By this point, the man's gaze had been directly shifted towards Dean, making the young boy take a deep breath while trying to retain his composure. He had promised he would be brave, so he would have to hold his ground here. It was easier said than done, though, because Bill had completely dropped his smile now. In its place, a rather expressionless face remained, dark eyes completely glued onto Dean, wanting him to hear what he was about to say.
"They're all cuddly and cute, alright. You play with them, you bring them into your house, you even let them sleep in your bed. They're your kids, in a way. Kind of like you, you know?" Bill continued talking, shoving his thick cigar into the metal plate placed on his desk, the tortured scream of the cigar's dying essence heating the metal surface up making Dean cringe slightly, displaying how uncomfortable he was feeling now. "Until one day they lose their sense of smell. Dogs see through their noses, and when they can't smell you any more, they don't really know who you are any more either. You go from beloved owner to stranger. And they go from your best friends...to wild beasts. The only way you can fix this is...well..."
Dean was completely hypnotized by the way Bill had been speaking, each and every single one of the man's words coming out in a rather contained manner, but with power beneath them. It was as if he was telling him a campsite horror story in front of a fire. He had Dean focused so much on what he was saying that the young boy had come to ignore how he was gesturing and how agressive his body language was starting to become, his face contorted into an expression of pure contempt as he suddenly clenched his fist around his cigar, crushing the small object under it. Dean could not help but flinch at the sudden gesture, seeing the small fermented tobacco leaves slide through the spaces between Bill's thick fist tightly gripping it to what seemed like oblivion.
Silence had now filled the room, with only the sound of their breathing being audible in Bill Thorne's office. It was turning out to be the worst part of this little encounter between the two, with Dean finding it hard to stare the man in the eye as no words were spoken between them. He could not tell whether Bill wanted to actually let him go or have his neck crushed right there to send a message. The horror of not knowing was choking him. The eagerness of curiosity was burning him. The screams of his instinct telling him to run was driving him mad.
After what seemed like an eternity, Bill opened his hand, choosing to focus on his palm for an instant before smiling a bit. "You understand me, don't you, boy? I think everyone can be alright in this operation. We don't have to be dogs at all. Not me, not you, and certainly not your old man, right?" he mused, playfully picking up the tobacco leaves out of his large palm before eyeing Dean's disturbed expression, grinning slightly, his voice as monotone and calm as ever. "I'm making myself clear, aren't I?"
The raven haired boy tried to talk, but for what seemed to be a long while, he just could not speak. The metaphorical years of threatning silence seemed to have made him mute, his throat having dried up and found itself blocked by a lump lodged in it. Rubbing his right hand on his neck, Dean coughed a bit before whispering in a barely audible tone. "Crystal."
Bill nodded at him, his robust neck seeming almost mechanic as it motioned his head up and down, his affable expression returning for a bit. "You may go now, kid. You probably have better things to do." he retorted in a rather casual manner, adjusting his glasses and cleaning his hand up with a firm swipe of his other palm before looking back at his documents.
Dean merely nodded in response, picking up his blue coat from the coat hanger and seeing himself out, not looking at anything in particular as he closed the door to Bill's office. Walking down the stairs in an almost clockwork motion, he thought about what he had heard and how he had felt, apathy stamped in his face until he was sure he was far enough from that dreadful place.
Turning around in an alley, he pressed his back against the wall, finally allowing himself to inhale some fresh air, bringing his lungs back after what felt like an eternity. It was at that moment that Dean had learned how tiny he actually was in a world he did not fully understand. He stood no chance against men like Bill in the path he was taking. He needed not to be afraid.
But how can a dog not fear without forgetting how to smell fear itself?