Numbers' Game [OPEN]

"They call them phone numbers.  And right now, about the only number I would recommend you call is 110.  Or perhaps 119.  I honestly forget which one is appropriate for this area."

The speaker had somehow managed to follow Jinpei from the nightclub he had just left, and at a glance didn't appear to be all that intimidating at all.  He was around 6 feet tall, and had a form that almost gave off an oily sheen.  He wore a long coat, made of some extremely expensive sort of down.  There was even a fringe visible around his neck, making it hard to tell just how built or lithe he was.  The long sleeves had a very similar effect, but his face more than gave away his intent.  It was a face, if not of a man prone to violence, then of one who had no qualms demanding violence be done on his behalf.  His lips were thin, set in a perpetual sneer, and his hair was slicked back neatly.  Far, far too neatly.

It was a front, and to a man like Shinpei not even a very good one.  He was a shark who'd tried to put in a set of dentures and claim he'd learned how to filter feed.  There was every sign of wounded pride rolling off of him, and he had his hands in his pocket.  If there was any way to be certain from the way he walked, there was probably a weapon in one of his hands.  He gestured towards the club with his chin, doing his best not to let his eyes off on Shinpei for so much as a second.  This time when he spoke, his voice was downright noxious.

"You like the digs?  I spent a lot of time getting them just right.  And then you just waltz in and start trying to hit on a girl without a word of apology?  You step into my place, you drink up my booze, and you start macking on girls like you own the joint?  And my sister, at that!?  You need to learn some goddamn respect, kid."

The figure took a step forward, drawing a butterfly knife from the pocket of his coat, and twisted it about without a moment of hesitation.  With a flick of his wrist a knife was pointed directly for Jinpei's throat, and the man was smiling almost amicably now.  No doubt, the weapon was making him feel particularly cocky, and no doubt just a little hilarious as well.  "Don't recommend running.  I got eyes and ears, and people are watching.  They're happy to leave it between just you and me, as long as you don't do something stupid.  So howsabout you get on your knees, bow your fuckin' head, and say you're sorry?  Otherwise, I'll take a finger.  Or maybe I'll take one of your nuts, first.  Something tells me a lil' pretty-boy like you wouldn't like that."

He pointed the knife towards Shinpei's leg, a finger resting just over the blade itself, and a look of madness in his eyes.  He was an amateur, by all evidence, and likely ready to go in for something as likely to get himself hurt as Shinpei, if things went on as they did.  But as his mouth opened, as his tongue slid over his lips, there was a hint of something else there...a sort of savage glee, a sense that whatever was going on was not in any way as it appeared.

Perhaps it was the fact that his tongue was far too slender, and ended in a pair of forked prongs.  Or perhaps it was the way his patchy skin could've been said to resemble a snake's scales.

600- 12 GP

"You're worried about me right now?  You got balls, kid.  A ton of balls, in fact.  So much balls I doubt you'd miss one!"

The figure was just about foaming at the mouth now, their movements all clumsy swipes and poorly-executed jabs.  If his idea of showing off was any sign, he'd have about as much luck landing a blow as he would sprouting wings.  He circled Shinpei with great care, his eyebrow twitching and his voice surprisingly measured even though it was clear he was growing less and less hinged with every second.  Something besides anger was driving him, something far more sinister and far harder to understand.

"I don't think you get it.  This ain't about how lame you are, or anything like that.  You're out of your element here, and this is my turf.  You want to get in good with my people, you go through me.  You come in my bar, you get something going with my sister, and you tell me to just...be reasonable about it?  You think I'm threatening you because I like doing this?  Nah, man.  Nah, there's a point that needs to be made here.  First I let you just come in my place and do as you please with family, next I've got people coming in my bar with TEC-9s and gunning down people.  I don't allow disrespect on my turf."

He let out a loud, gibbering laugh...one that seemed to have something else hovering just behind it.  It was almost as if there were two voices speaking, perfectly overlayed until the laugh had come.  But for a split second, there was a sense of something else there.  Something far far different from the oily madman in front of Shinpei.  Their eyes darted left and right, their movements growing even jerkier and more uncertain.  They jabbed at imaginary targets, babbled to themselves, but the entire time they seemed to keep Shinpei in their focus.

"Don't have to tell me...just come on in my place, show me disrespect like that...yeah yeah yeah.  Take his nuts, take his nose, take whatever I damn well please...I know what I'm doin', don't tell me I don't know what I'm doin'..."

He suddenly stopped, his expression turning absolutely smooth.  He seemed almost like a new person as he took a breath, straightened out his suit.  He was still holding the switchblade like an absolute ameteur, but there was no longer the slightest hint of madness to him.  He smiled at Shinpei, inclined his head just slightly, and spoke in a voice that was all clipped edges and calm whispers.

"You didn't do anything wrong.  Really, you didn't.  I don't enjoy the fact that I have to do this.  But I have to do this.  What we have right now is absolutely and decisively a need for violence.  But it doesn't need to be messy, or drawn-out.  If you just come with me we can make this quick and...well, not painless.  But less painful, at least."

His eyebrow twitched.  Just the faintest iota, but it was enough to show that he had no belief in his own words.  The knife still hovered by his side, his hands still poised to strike.

500- 10(22)