Title: [get] O V E R it
Description: tag : murph
Coleman Benson - September 20, 2007 01:55 AM (GMT)
The mellow pulsation of the room seemed to seep insomnia. It hurt his ears, hurt his eyes, made the man cough and fidget and tick. It wound about the bruised knuckles and bandaged phalanges, paper cuts and glass lacerations were hid but not fully out of sight. It poured itself into the fevered glass, dulling the alcohol and tasting mockingly of sweet sweet sleep. It even managed to intertwine with the sutured sleeve of the white work shirt, it turned the materials of sweaters and shirts rough and restrictive...it made the man stare into the duplicated spaces apathetically watching the photographs stack one on top another...and another...and another. The background noises were too loud. The people too insipid and without variety. The cigarettes too bland. Overused. Over smoked.
Insomnia became people like Coleman Benson very well. Too well. A second skin which layered chopped up clips too many times and pried at the hinges of reality. But that's what this all was. Some fantastic nightmare stuck on repeat.It didn't really matter the breed of nightmare. Home was a nightmare, he went to the hospital to avoid the waking hours of nothing, nothing at all to do. Work was a nightmare. He slipped off to this seemingly run-down club to escape it. This warehouse was a nightmare. He found himself with three routes out. The door behind him, the cigarette perched precariously between ring and middle finger, and the half empty half full glass of dark beer before him. It wasn't a matter of which one he was going to follow. It was which came first.
Alcohol. Like accent slips it came naturally to the Irishman. He was obsessed. Nothing like it really. Picks you up, levels you out. After a day in the circus that was about the best thing for you. The pediatric oncology ward was in all sorts of hell today, had to call down scientists and surgeons alike just to keep up. Pity that. Wasn't a thing meant for children. Unfortunately, in such cases the doctor didn't have the advantage of looking his opponent in the eye...he was becoming a bit used to that luxury. Cancer and viruses were a bit different from the dregs and aristocracy of the streets...but only a bit. They were material, however, parasitic as well as infectious.
He finished the drink at hand, taking a drag on the ironically habit light as he spoke,
"Export hell, keep 'em rolling wit' maybe something a little darker, eh?" The bartender looked at him skeptically, no doubt noted the darker definitions beneath the eyes, the slightly haggard look of the surgeon, the muscles clenching about the cigarette. Completely destroyed, Coleman could've given a fuck less. The night had not nearly begun.
Murphy McManus - September 21, 2007 12:22 AM (GMT)
Murph normally didn't come to the Industry. The atmosphere was much too posh for him, and the crowds were generally much too large for his liking. However, the normal shit-hole of a bar he attended was closed for the night (there had been a brawl there the night before and half of the place had been destroyed), so Murph didn't really have a choice but to find a new watering hole.
The minute Murph stepped into the bar, he immediately cringed. The pulsing of the bass, the loud chatter of people... it was a bit annoying. The Irishman much preferred to be either by himself, or surrounded by a few close friends. Anything more was merely a nuisance. Ah, well... it's not like he had much of a choice, right? Murph shoved his hands deep within his worn black pea-coat and removed a smashed cigarette and a zippo, quickly lighting the thing. As the nicotine slowly began it's whirlwind trip through his bloodstream, Murph let out a small sigh of relief as the bar came into view from behind the crowds. Ah. Sweet release.
Plopping himself on a barstool, he slapped his hand on the surface of the counter. "Guinness an' a shot o' whiskey..." he muttered passed the cancer-stick shoved between his lips, waving a hand in a hop to it motion. The bartender nodded and turned to prepare Murph's order without much ado. Grunting in mild satisfaction, Murph turned to the side and surveyed the others near him. On one side was a woman who was likely the sort who walked the streets for money, and on the other, a man who had a sort of gaunt look to him. Much rather preferring to converse with the latter, the male nodded his head in mild salutation. "Evenin'..." he said politely, awaiting the other's response. If the stranger gave a short reply, Murph would take the hint and drop the conversation. But for some reason, the Irishman felt the need to talk... to someone, anyone.
The life of a murderer was lonely, after all.
Coleman Benson - September 26, 2007 01:18 AM (GMT)
Coleman let his gaze wander to the numerous empties heaped into the waste bin behind the counter, his mind photocopying the sight and dimming it's duplicates as they began to stack up. Mundane. After mingled nights of blood and prayer the majority of the world and its calculations seemed uninteresting, it would pass relatively quickly, the boredom. Needless to say, the effects of violence toned down the background noise, any noise, putting the world on a temporary hiatus... where insomnia enhanced it all, the combination made this seemingly small building he shared a hell.
It was after these short seconds that he realized he was being addressed at all. Shifting his attention to the man next to him, he observed within his peripheral vision the female to the far side of the man, containing a a grin but barely he had taken earlier note of the others sharing the space ; The bartender - younger, just barely legal, about 6'1'' and looking more like a football player particularly with the juvenile aspect of braces who spent more time talking to the girls at the counter than passing drinks down the bar. The overly urbanized college girls dolled up for no particular reason, as much enamored with themselves as the reverberating sense of ecstasy rushing between the dancers. More examples followed these traits, happy people or people pretending to be, oblivious or wrapped in the shallowness of their thoughts. They were both the best conversation the other would find in this mess.
His response was thus delayed now by 10 seconds without much cause beyond the fact that he had begun over thinking everything again. He examined his drink as he spoke, deliberately but in no way indicating that he wished to end a conversation that hadn't started, "And yerself, congratulations bein' the first to order a decent drink. T' be expected though, coming from a ... Dubliner ? " Normally more contained he felt compelled to fix the man's accent to some physical place,only half flattered that he had been chosen in opposition to the walking herpes epidemic two seats down. Bland conversation starting...almost something he'd say to a patient, back to fucking work.
But what other options were there? Particularly when he was feeling so much more conversational than usual.
Murphy McManus - September 27, 2007 12:15 AM (GMT)
"And yerself, congratulations bein' the first to order a decent drink. T' be expected though, coming from a ... Dubliner ? "
Murph cocked his head to one side, the fact that the stranger's accent mirrored his own surprising him. However, there was a small amount of pleasure mingling with the surprise; Murph missed Ireland every single day, and the fact that he had found a kinsman made an all too bleak evening a bit brighter. "What did yeh expec' me t' order? A martini? Cosmopolitan?" Murph said the drinks with a waggle of the brows and flourish of the fingers, as if to say the only sort of men to drink those cocktails would be slightly on the dandy side. "Fuck no! I can tell yeh righ' now, I'd rather be sober then drink tha' shite..." Lowering his hands, he chuckled a bit, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Finally, Murph shrugged. "Well, nah, tha's not true. I'd rather be drunk!" With that he turned a bit, acknowledging the arrival of his drinks with a grunt.
Without so much as a thought, the whiskey was downed in one gulp, followed (of course) by a large gulp of Guinness. Beer as a chaser. How much better did it get? Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, Murph turned back to the male, nodding a bit. "Aye, Dublin. I'm assuming yer from there, too? Bloody nice t' see an Irishman 'round 'ere. Can' tell yeh..." he mumbled, trailing off, a rather nostalgic look coming to Murph's face. Home was... well, it was home. Murph had friends, family... and safety. That was key. No one thought he was a murdering douche bag in Ireland.
Blue eyes focusing back on the male, Murph took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. "An' what brings yeh so far from home?" he asked, merely trying to keep the conversation going. What else did he have to do?
Coleman Benson - September 27, 2007 01:37 AM (GMT)
Coleman's grin only broadened at his counterpart's antics, his mind soaking up the foreign humor greedily, having been deprived any trace, however minuscule, of Ireland these past years. The smile developed into a laugh, simply the presence of some other normal person alleviated some of the reverberating tension of the cramped warehouse. "Oy, ye'd have to be a type more Brittish to stomac' tha' sort o' alcohol and feel 'nything- but then I don't suppose that'd matter to ye much if ye were. " His response was one he'd have given were he sitting in a bar amongst numerous kinsmen where the continued jibes about their mainland associates were all too common. " I'd rathe be drunk a' tha' , a feat I've been tryin' t' accomplish this past hour- not as though I'd subject myself to this place sober, lord no. " The hand holding the cigarette rotated in circular gestures to indicate the obviously air born plague about them.
A deep inhalation of the nicotine laced smoke was shortly followed by the dark, brooding liquid beginning to sweat and dampen the outside of the glass. With a sigh he continued, "Yeh, been a long time since..." Almost absentmindedly he stared into thick drink, allowing it to swirl about and roil, rebelling against the motions of his wrist. Reminded him of the sea, the coastlines of Ireland which were as much a ruling part of him as the air breathed a thousand times over in this sordid city. He put it from his mind, taking another deep swig of alcohol. Smirk fading a bit he flicked his gaze back to the Irishman beside him, "Rare thing, particularly wit' every daft fool gettin' it into 'is head tha' every Irishman is about t' hold a bloody gun to 'is head. "
It wasn't the fact that Coleman may or may not engage in violent pastimes...but the fact that every idiot spoke warily to him after each successive report of 'the Saints' in the media. Eh, people had guilty consciences...for things that were hardly impressionable...until they off and knocked up some hooker and then it was entirely normal. But that wasn't the pleasant conversation at hand. "Been 15 years since I were last there, though tis where I was raised...and there's hardly an hour that passes that I don't miss it so damned much. But what can I do, eh? Can't just drop the hospital with all these fuckin' mob wars, dying prostitutes, and crack whores wandering the streets. And yerself? Some'ow I can't see you as a regular t' dives like this.
Then again it wasn't any of his business, prying habits came back quickly when one's been deprived of company for so long.
Murphy McManus - September 27, 2007 02:38 AM (GMT)
"Oy, ye'd have to be a type more Brittish to stomac' tha' sort o' alcohol and feel 'nything- but then I don't suppose that'd matter to ye much if ye were [...] I'd rathe be drunk a' tha' , a feat I've been tryin' t' accomplish this past hour- not as though I'd subject myself to this place sober, lord no. "
Murph laughed, glancing over his shoulder at the crowded room, the murky light barely filtering through the masses. Anyone could hide in here, Murph suddenly realized. Maybe he should frequent the bar more often. But fuck. It was just so loud! "Aye. Tha'd be why I'm tryin' t' get fucked up as quick as possible. Fuckin'... techno music..." he muttered, momentarily taking a reprieve in his smoking in order to deliver a steady stream of golden ale to his stomach. Faster... he needed numbness faster, dammit.
"Rare thing, particularly wit' every daft fool gettin' it into 'is head tha' every Irishman is about t' hold a bloody gun to 'is head. "
Murph choked back his last gulp, blue eyes widening a bit at the statement, though a small quirk at the corner of his lips showed he thought the statement was a bit amusing. No doubt Murph had a hand in that assumption, what with the Irishman being trigger happy and all. It was somewhat strange, to this day, to know that he was silently influencing a wide range of people. Slightly empowering, but strange nonetheless. "Yeah... the fuck's up wit' that', aye?" he mumbled into his cigarette. Aye, the fuck is righ', he thought wryly, making a mental note to relay this conversation to Connor. He'd think it was a right joke.
"Been 15 years since I were last there, though tis where I was raised...and there's hardly an hour that passes that I don't miss it so damned much. But what can I do, eh? Can't just drop the hospital with all these fuckin' mob wars, dying prostitutes, and crack whores wandering the streets. And yerself? Some'ow I can't see you as a regular t' dives like this.
Mob wars. Hah. All too familiar territory. Ignoring the thought, however, he shrugged at his question, and figured that at this point the truth couldn't hurt. "Fuck, man... m' normal bar was fucked up las' night. Bloody fight, glass every where. Had t' find a new place, an'..." he waved around him, "... well, shite. This place has alcohol. I guess tha's good enough fer me t'night..." Sure, there was probably another dingy bar he could've found, but nothing could ever beat a good ol', rough n' tumble Southie.
Murph's brows raised, and he raised an accusatory finger in the male's direction. "Wha' about yeh? Fuck, yeh work in a hospital, yeh mus' be loaded. Why come down t' this shite hole?" he said, grinning wryly.
Coleman Benson - September 28, 2007 02:40 AM (GMT)
The trauma surgeon rolled his cigarette from knuckle to knuckle, watching the smoke streams meld into the haze of rave and toxic meshes of one night stands. The unfortunate rush of music and adrenaline continued to act as the only definite source of grounding material. "I hear yeh there...I'm jus' waitin' on the damned strobe lights." He let slip a sigh, the desaturated hues began to brighten despite the numerous smudges that spattered the various objects, they followed through the clouds, across the bartender's features, and the smeared tattoo on his counterpart's hand. It took him a few moments to realize the source of this issue, removing the rimless spectacles he wiped the fog from the slightly battered lenses as his vision distorted more. Replacing them with middle and fore finger he, with the same hand, brought the half dead cigarette to his lips and surveyed the afore mentioned tattoo...Justice. That was true irony.
The Latinist looked up as his kinsman choked the slightest at his last quip. Coleman canted his head to the side slightly, observing the man's reaction with growing interest and amusement. This was becoming increasingly more captivating, almost eerily so. He had his doubts, of course, but it was obviously a sensitive strain with the other. "Yeh alrigh' there ?" A short lived laugh broke the statement's continuation."Dunno, must be some cult following, aye? Fuckin' loonies the lot of 'em, if I wan'ed to hurt someone in the middle of New York Ci'y, d'ye think I'd use somethin' that attracts tha' much attention? Think it may 'ave somethin' to do with those 'vigilantes' running around, two brothers an' their da or two brother's an' a jack the ripper imitator...must be the second for how the bodies are done up , aye? Probably some fuckin' surgeon who's lost his mind. "Now this...this was a dangerous if not stupid thing to say. Not exactly light conversation either...however, it was nothing that couldn't be remedied.
Drunken civilians liked to talk, they said absolutely idiotic things which they knew nothing about, and half the time didn't realize how ridiculous they sounded. Unfortunately Coleman had only practiced the role of drunken civilian...the other scraps and titles of it would have to continue of their own accord, or at least, that was the hope. Another drag brought a pause to this worry.
Taking the time to let this settle, but only enough time to allow himself to finish his drink and order another, he traveled those all too familiar tracks of inopportune events. Good enough. Eventually all decisions pointed to that prospect somewhere down the line...a pity really. A heart transplant wasn't a cure...but it was good enough. The Saints didn't cure evil people but they sure as hell excised them. Good enough. He drummed his fingers against the counter top, it was all a bit half measured. People appeared so docile in those moments, however. The moments maybe between sleep and awake. They never would really realize unless something monumental happened to them.
That really wasn't the point, the girl to his right had been feeling him up for the past half hour and yet he'd barely deigned to notice her hand on his thigh. Her features were a type a-symmetrical...maybe sometimes things just weren't good enough. Fuckin' caffeine...had to be. His thoughts rarely spiraled this far into discord and away from the concrete. Imbalanced chemicals obviously. And what was left but to watch for the subtle signs that would tell?
"Ah damn...but it explains a lot. " Sometimes idiots liked to trash bars well beyond the extent of fun...the average IQ was dropping and having particularly distasteful effects when coupled with alcohol. Raising his hands in seeming defense against the accusing finger, "Oy, I never said I was more than a janitor o'er there. Who's to say I'm not some dirt poor asshole, eh? " He grinned a bit more before resuming his relaxed posture, "Tha' or as yeh said, this dive has alcohol, why waste 30$ on something I could get for 2$? Costs a lot less t' get fuck'd up for an insomniac down here than it does up there. " Eying the other with mock skepticism he raised his next point, "But yeh don't have herpes or heroin tracks, what are yeh doing in a plague ridden place like this, aye? You hoping to catch an airborn form of gonneria? "[/b]