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IC contact for
lastvoyages
[If I don't have an active post up, feel free to use this post to have your character call, videochat, text, or knock on Tiffany's door.]
Private - After the 'Dial W for WTF' breach
I am so fucking tired.
Private
Can you come over?
Re: Private
Depends. You got fags? I'm all out.
Private
Yeah, of course.
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[tbh if you had any homosexuals tucked away he wouldn't say no to that either.
BUT NEVER MIND THAT he's coming and knocking on your cabin door, let him in Tiffany.]
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[She's already on the couch, setting out a big spread for him to choose from. There's the promised cigs, along with some chips, soda, and teabags. She'd debated putting some beer out, but had ultimately decided to only do that one on request.]
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Harry makes his way in, and he looks tired - eyes dark, face pinched into a frown even deeper than his usual.
"Cheers," he says, reaching for the cigarette packet and digging out his lighter. "Get up to much these last few days?"
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"Some people get all the fucking luck," Harry grumbles, and slumps on the sofa, taking a deep drag of his cigarette.
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Harry sighs.
"Fucking nonsense, all of it. You got anything stronger than beer?"
He's not having this conversation sober, and beer doesn't count.
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Harry lifts his eyebrows.
"What've you got, fucking moonshine? I'll drink it."
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She grabs him a glass on the way back to the couch, but really, if he just drinks straight from the bottle, she won't judge.
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Harry pours himself a shot, squints at it for a moment, then throws it back and immediately hacks out a cough that becomes a barking laugh.
"Christ almighty, Doggett. You could strip paint with that."
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"Like on those occasions that you specially fucking loathe yourself?"
Says the man who's pouring himself a double before settling back into the sofa.
"...Don't suppose I was so different there to how I was back home," he offers, eventually. "London club. Few extra industries on the side."
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"Yeah," Harry says, and throws back his fuck-awful liquor so he can blame it when he says: "He - that bastard had his act together in a way I never fucking have."
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"...I came up through the black market," Harry says, eventually. "I've had rackets since I was teenager. I went breaking bones for bigger fish until they got sent down or killed or fucked off to Spain. I loved the Stardust, don't get me wrong, but it was a front. I needed that place so I could look halfway decent to the taxman. And everyone knew it. I was never going to get any respect while I was peddling smut 'round Soho to pay my girls."
It hurts to say. The words stick in his throat, and he pours another drink to soothe it. But they're true.
"He went the other way 'round. Built his legitimate business, then expanded where he saw the need."
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"There any reason you couldn't do that, or wouldn't want to do that?"
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"There were a lot of reasons I couldn't do it," Harry says. "Didn't have the cash, didn't have the connections," he scoffs, "didn't have a clue I had any other options. Now..."
He sighs.
"I'm too fucking old and I'm in too fucking deep. If I get out of the game, all and sundry'll think I've grassed on every bastard I know."
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Somewhere else, Harry thinks. Somewhere away from - what? The boyfriend who killed him, the best friend who betrayed him? The various thugs and dodgy accountants and hangers-on who'd leave him dead in the water, the moment they got a better offer? The memory of the poor fucking boy he'd set to his death, Bernie-
He'd miss his mum, he supposes, but - bless her, she's not got long left.
"Somewhere else like where?"
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