go down;

[dealwith_them]

Title: Go Down
Setting: Modern AU
Character(s): Marcel
Summary: But she's going down with him.
Warnings: Language. Mentions of snuff.

He spends approximately two and a half minute looking the picture over, does Snuff King – like it isn’t obvious who the media darling is and what it means, holding her picture between his fat hands. Marcel watches him in the meantime, watches how his thoughts wander across his face. Because Snuff King is a simple man and his thoughts aren’t any better. So, when he opens his mouth, his English as broken as Marcel’s own even before it rolls off his tongue, Marcel already knows what he’s going to say.

“No, no.” Shakes his head. Leans back in his leather chair, the photo abandoned on the mahogany table. Like a cheap joint, which is probably the most accurate description of Cleopatra that you can get, fancy books and all that other shit included. Marcel raises an eyebrow, leaving the photo to rot somewhere in the middle, too. “Palach, no one want watch old woman die. They just wait and it happen anyway.”

Marcel actually doesn’t remember what Snuff King’s real name is. Probably something with a lot of J’s and a lot of I’s that he wouldn’t be able to spell even if he cared to try. They get all offended when you throw in letters in the wrong places, but that’s how he rolls and some petty Russians don’t scare his pants off. He could kill them in less than a minute, Snuff King who’s probably called Ivan or Julij or something starting with D and his little buttboy of a bodyguard. Whatever. He reaches for his glass of vodka – only good thing that ever came out of the Russian Federation, if you ask him – and takes a big mouthful. Giving the man a few seconds to rethink, because they both know how much trash he’s talking right now. Snuff King says nothing, though.

“Give me a break, man. You know how much she’d sell for.”

The entire underground would pay millions to watch JL’s precious wife get torn apart, piece by piece. Fucked, hole by hole. If he wasn’t already a triple-time millionaire, Marcel could live the good life, into the next frickin’ century for the money it’d earn him. Snuff King knows it too, and he’s greedy enough that he’s easily tempted by the chance at living like a proper king, not just one who sells dead Thai hookers for slaughter. That’s why he’s currently looking at Marcel with that wannabe sceptical look that makes his eyes sink inches back into his head.

Then, he leans forward. Gesture of trust or something. Marcel mirrors him. “How you make sure Tsar not take revenge? Else it is too risky.” His voice is kept low. His bodyguard steps forward. Needlessly, because it’s JL that you don’t want to shake hands with. Marcel’s cruder about the entire art of murdering and pretty proud of it, too. Somewhere deep inside, JL likes it messy, Marcel knows. He’s just hid it away beneath layers of attaché cases and manicures. All that shit that makes people think he’s a harmless pretty boy. When, in reality, he’s Augustus II.

But Marcel’s got it all figured out, of course. He’s not stupid, he knows his little bro will get pissed as hell. Think it’s the end of the world or something equally idiotic. So Marcel will leave him the recording. A couple of rewatches and JL will be good as new. Might even learn how to wank, finally. Who the fuck doesn’t know how to jerk off in the first place? Cleopatra’s got to have cut at least two inches off his dick with her frosty pussy. He probably can’t find it anymore, all snowbound. Way below zero. Sure, he’ll admit the plan isn’t ingenious, by far – but it’s what it’ll take and it’s something only he could pull. The former State Minister’s fat wife will go on another academic tour and he’ll snatch her away right under JL’s nose. Send some fake texts, copied off her phone. Perhaps a voice mail. It’ll take at least 24 hours for JL to suspect anything and by then, she’s strapped up good in some basement here in Moscow, having her little heart ripped out.

It’ll be glorious.

“Just do your job. I'll do mine.” A few years off the continent. Maybe try his hands on Japan again. Or the big US. JL will hunt him, but not down, because Marcel knows him and he knows how the story goes. He’ll just need to stay alive x times 365 days and JL will come around. He’ll see that it was for the best and that it sure as hell was about time.

Raising his glass, Marcel nods at Snuff King. Snuff King only takes two seconds this time, to raise his own and go bottoms up. In two and a half minutes from now, he’ll ask for 60 % of the profit. Marcel will offer him 40. He’ll go for 50. They’ll eventually settle on 45. And the show will go on. It must.

Because if Marcel has to take the fall, to avoid JL doing it first, as fuck if he ain’t going to take Mireille down with him.