(no subject)
It was one of those nights. The bar he was in had just had a bar fight before he sauntered on through, so the alcohol choice was slim and most of the waiting staff was busy cleaning the shattered glass from the floor.
It was just one of those days.
"We're closin' soon, bud. This better be something quick," the bartender kicked a stray bottle to the side as he slipped behind the counter. "-or else, get out. We've had a bad night."
"Pour me a scotch on the rocks." Reno slowly took a seat and placed his briefcase down next to him. "And haven't we all?"
He adjusted the goggles around his eyes.
"Tch, I guess. But the looks of it, it has been a hell of day for you too, kid." The bartender brought out a glass with ice and began filling into with the smooth scotch from the back of the stock.
"Maybe. Maybe I'm just tired," the Turk pulled out a cigarette and lit it on the candle on the bar top. "-maybe I'm just sick of this whole fucking thing."
The barkeep paused.
"-You all right?"
"Fine."
Reno grabbed the glass and placed it to his lips. The warm liquor stung at his throat.
"It's a good night to end a life," Reno murmured.
It was an hour later before he left the bar. Sober enough to do what he had to do, Reno wandered the streets of L.A, his briefcase tight within his gloved grasp. The location for his business was down in a more dingy part of town; it seemed ex-Umbrella operatives, who were used to a great flow of cash, had taken to drug rings after the corporation shut down. Michael Richards was supposed sending heroine out through China Town routes to support his extravagent lifestyle.
He had been an associate of Wesker's at one time, however, and he still was sending over-dosing victims to the German for experimental purposes. That just stung Reno as amusing; things on Earth weren't so different than Midgar and as he waltzed up to the Golden Phoenix Bar and Dance Club, he chuckled to himself.
Two men greeted him at the door, and Reno held up his briefcase. They nodded, allowing him to slip inside. There was no question; there was no need for question. The police had been in on the operation for profit as well. So, Reno slipped in unnoticed and as he headed up to the second floor, he pressed his thumb against his earring with a grin.
Behind a set of golden doors was Michael. Reno had been informed that when he made contact with the drug lord and now, he had to wait until the man beckoned him. So he did. Taking a seat on one of the golden dog statues, the Turk inhaled on a cigarette.
"Alexander Williams?"
Reno peered up.
"Sir Richards wants you."
The Turk hopped off of his perch and pressed his cigarette into the statue, extinguishing it. Then, following the suit, he exhaled a string of smoke with a chuckle.
Sir was such a pompous title.
The golden doors opened and the two men stepped inside. It was a wonderful room, full of exotic artifacts from China and Japan; not much different than Corneo's pad, Reno felt right at home.
"Leave us, Marshall," an older man, graying and wrinkled, stood from his plush leather seat. "-Alex and I need to talk alone."
Marshall, the suit who had led Reno inside, nodded and left, leaving the two men to chat.
"You are going to create a wonderful business for me, Alex," Michael sat and beckoned Reno to sit. As instructed, the Turk sat. "-but how did you hear from me."
"Your old friends said I could drop you a line. Y'know, the ones at Mark's," Reno had changed his accent for a thicker, English one.
"-Oh! Mark is so good to me. Now, what do we have?"
"I have cocaine; fresh off the boats. I know you deal the heroine, but this stuff is Grade A, and we need a seller," Reno pulled the briefcase into his lap and undid the locks on the front.
"Ah, well, I never pass off such a thing. What will be my cut?"
"Thirty; that is a good chunk of money."
"Indeed it is," Michael lit up something. Reno could have pegged it for a joint.
"Now we just need you to make confirmation," the redhead removed something from the case.
"All righ-" Michael went to stand, however it was too late. Reno already had his silenced Beretta locked on him. Two shots to the head did it, and Michael was back in his chair. The smoldering wounds in his skull pussed with red liquid and Reno quickly stood, snapped his case shut, and departed via the back window of the complex.