2010-08-30: In Fighting

Featuring:

aedansm_icon.pngryansm_icon.png

Date:

August 30, 2010

Location:

Supermax

Summary:

There be trouble brewing!


Clap. Push-up.

Clap. Push-up.

The pattern has repeated itself nearly a hundred times now with the dark haired man staring at that same spot on the floor. His orange jumpsuit was unzipped halfway, enabling him some breathing room while he permits himself some exercise. The perspiration beads along his pasty skin — pastier thanks to the lack of sunlight he's experienced the last few weeks. But that's what happens when you shiv someone in prison. Only recently has he been let out of solitary.

The small box in which Aedan resides is, thankfully, shared by one of his own. No infighting within this cell. While, overall, the Irishman is rather zen, the people within the prison know not to cross him, lest they experience Kowalski's fate.

Finally, pushing himself up one last time, he rises to his feet.

A raspy breath, ragged from lack of oxygen, comes out through otherwise accented words, "'Em Cobras got problems, eh?" There's a merry pull at the right side of his lips into a cocky side-smile like somehow this will all come to their advantage.

"S'wot I 'ear," The man on the top grunts, flipping another page in his book. It's a good book, the good book. "Though's'good fer os, eh? Mebbe eff they stort foiten' we kin take 'em out." He lets loose his bible to raise his hand, aiming his finger gun at the wall and pulling the 'trigger' with every word. "one." pew "boi." pew "one."

Gripping up the book in his hand again, he flips another page to keep reading the passages. In another life, around the world, he would have been a priest. Except for the injustice that he witnessed against his people, the bigotry and the like. His eyes skim over each tiny printed word very carefully, and although he has the entire thing memorized word for word, he still practices his ritual reading every day just as his cellmate and best friend practices his. In push up form.

"So— " he emits absently as he turns another page. "— wot the plan then? We goin' teh 'elp Clark against Joseph? Or we goin' teh set back an' wotch'em? Ah know them spicks'er jes' chompin' teh get in favor wi' tha' lassie. They mi' try teh 'elp, jes' teh stick et in the craw teh Moby, aye?"

Bemused, both edges of Aedan's lips quirk into a smile, with an intrigued hmmmm. He runs a hand over his whiskered chin, as the smile grows into all-out toothy grin. His free hand clutches the metal of the top bunk, stretching his shoulder and bringing his gaze to his partner-in-crime.

"'Ef we git in wit Clahrk 'nd 'e wins teh foight, we be bound tah be en 'is favour." He arches his eyebrow expectantly. "'nd ye know Joseeeph? 'E be in trouble already. Yer faite keeps ye strong bro, but 'is…?" he shrugs. They both knew the dark skinned man recently converted to a form of Islamic pacifism that already effected his position in the ranks.

The hand is removed from the metal and the jumpsuit returned to Aedan's shoulders to be zipped back up. "Wot do ye tink? Aye gather we got oppourtunitee 'ere and we be fools not to take 'er." His smile becomes diminutive, sly with an arch of his eyebrows.

"Me fait' keeps me strong coz et's the righ' one, eh? Joseph, e's in wi' that nutter religion. Et's why they's losin' o'er there in the Golf. Damn 'oly war, ain't not'in 'oly 'bout worshippin' Eslam. Blessed virgen, Mother Mary," Ryan stops and kisses the little crucifix on his neck before continuing, "I tells' yeh bother, they ain't goin'teh the righ' place in the afterloif." The man's could have been one of the Skinheads with his views on other races, except for the fact that he didn't like them either. In fact, the only reason he gets along with the Hispanics on a personal level is because they're as strong Catholics as he is.

"Jorge, 'e tol' meh when we's doin' kitchen toge'er, 'e's goin' teh make the move agains' Joseph. They wanna' ge' rid'o Clark s'well," Ryan's lips curl into a rather vicious sneer, his eyes sparkling as he gives the next little tidbit of gossip. The man practically lives for the stories he hears around the common areas. "They's lookin' teh find favor wi' tha' lassie's Pa, en Africa. Y'know the one, eh? They's wonten' one o' 'er men en the lead o' the Cobras. Man, y'seen 'er eh? Good theng she don' get let out. A man ain't 'ad the arms of a good woman en a long long toim."

"Agreed," Aedan quips as he turns towards the barred entrance of the cell with shuffled steps. His hands wrap around the bars, that feeling of cool metal against hot skin drawing another smile, this one harsher than the last. His lips curl into a smile that used to make ladies weak in the knees. Perhaps it's the conversation about a lady that draws it.

"D'ya tink tey really will git 'er outta teh solitr'y?" He peers as far as he can out the bars, catching the sight of one of the guards before turning back to Ryan. "What makes ye tink she's gud?" he winks with a smirk this time as he shuffles back into the space of the cell.

"We kin git wit Jorge 'n 'is clan. Got no beef wit 'em?" his brows raise again. "Push teh girl tah teh forefront. Git Joesph out of teh weigh 'n git in Clark's graces only tah shut 'im out too?" his eyes sparkle with a mischief only those close to him in his ranks would recognize. He's concocting a plan.

"Wo' yeh thenk brother? They ain't goin'teh le' 'er loose inteh the general. Too maneh men ain't seen a real woman en too long, eh? En yeh seen 'er? She'd 'ave teh be more dangerous then they say teh last fer a minute, e'en eff she's a beast of a pig." Ryan laughs a little and nods his head toward the solitary area, waggling his eyebrows. The bible is still held tightly in one hand as he raises himself up and swings around to sit on the edge of his top bunk. "Ded'je see 'er? I was in the ketchen when they trompt'er through. I onleh 'eard she got brown 'air. Gimmeh a fine fiery redhead any day, I'd 'ave her berthin' a 'ondred babes."

"Well then it'd be fiahne waste teh poosh 'er teh teh front," Aedan replies with yet another twinkle in his eye. "Aye'd 'ate teh waste 'r bid o'n somethin' that ain't ginna 'appen." His chin drops to emphasize his point. "'Nd ye know me, always teh redheads. Yit eff aye got a shot wit teh gal —" His smile turns downright evil — it's a devilish grin if one did ever exist. "S'o we git Clahark in charge. Then? We go from there." The smile grows even more if at all possible.