Log:Deadly Duo

Deadly Duo
Participants C.B, Jack	7 May, 2018 Jack and C.B. have their 'get very drunk and shoot at cans'-evening. It goes about as expected. But none of them die, at least.
Location
It is Time. Time for the epic and very manly (or childish, depending whom you ask) party of two, with guns. So, Jack's got a barbecue going - it's the only thing he can cook decently. It's in the back some distance from his cabin, the weather is great and it's still early evening. There's a small fire going in a pit, too - but he's cooking the meat on a little metal barbecue on a stand, already drinking beer. He's set up target cans over there against a little hill on top of various objects - an old bucket, a log, a pole, some on the ground too. C.B.'s 1969 black Ford Bronco pulls up, Jefferson Airplane blasting out of the rolled-down windows. The car idles off and he gets out, dressed like he just robbed an army-navy store: camo pants, green shirt, army jacket, Korean jungle boots, and yeah. Guns. He's got his shotgun with him, and his pistol is strapped to his hip as it always is. Plus he brought what looks to be a 24-pack of Narraganssett Lager. Sheesh. He grunts as he approaches, looking for somewhere to set the stuff down. A lit cigarette dangles from his lip. "Hey." "Hey," Jack replies, upnodding. He looks approvingly at the assortment of weapons - he's got his rifle, shotgun and pistol lying on a blanket nearby, so he's got a similar setup. He gestures for a couple of coolers. "PLenty of room in the left one for beer. The right one - well, I don't know if you eat meat so I bought every vegetable I could find, some that I've never even heard of." He grins a tthe other man. "Oh, and something the store clerk claims is awesome for grilling. Halemi? Haloumi? Something." C.B. shoves his huge amount of beer into that cooler after setting down his guns. He squints at Jack, taking that cigarette out of his mouth so he can more properly drag on it. "Haloumi? I don't know what is. And I eat meat, Jack, fercrissake. Just because Cat-22 is vegetarian doesn't mean I am." "Well, fuck. Who's going to eat all those vegetables then? And here I was trying to be all sensitive." Jack snorts amusedly, and turns a big steak over. There's two, and also an assortment of sausages. There's a bowl with potato-salad too however, and some barabecue sauces in flasks on a little stool next to the barbecue. "Gimme another beer?" he asks, dropping his empty into a bag nearby. No littering around here. Noticeably, Goblin isn't around - he might be inside the house. Maybe the ranger doesn't want the dog around when they get drunk and shoot at things. C.B. snorts, but he also smirks a little. "Well. Probably not me." He doesn't seem...all that interested in the food in general, truth be told, but he does get a beer for Jack and one for himself, cracking his own open and taking a long swig without a word. Jack is definitely hungry, and whether C.B. wants one or not, he gets a steak on a plate, the other one for Jack and some sausages. A nice heap of potato-salad, and some sauce on top, and it's dinner. Least he seems to care about barbecuing them properly. "This is about the only thing I'm good at, food wise," he admits, sitting down on a fold out chair. There's another for C.B. No proper shooting-party without old camp folding chairs, after all. The new beer is thirstily devoured between bites of the food, the ranger content to munch in quiet for a bit. "So, how's life? My colleagues still bothering you?" "Good. You're a man, aren't you?" C.B. says with a smirk. Though could he do it? Probably not. He does eye that steak. Truth be told, C.B. could probably use a decent meal or two; he's just a little too skinny. "Of course they are," he answers. "Don't see that changing anytime soon, either." At no point, yet, has Jack asked C.B. /why/ he threw a molotov cocktail at a police station. But he does eye the other man curiously now. Maybe he wants to, but he doesn't, to his credit. "If I could do anything about it, I would." He seems to consider C.B. not a threat to society by large, at this point. "Not hungry, eh? Eager to get to the fun part of blasting cans?" C.B. snorts. "That's big of you," he can't help but say. Then he eyes the food again. "Not really, but... I don't get to have steak too often." So he does actually stand and help himself to the same stuff as Jack, just probably less of it. Then he settles back in the camp chair again, but he goes for the beer first as he gives Jack a glance. And yes, he's still smoking. "How's your shit?" "Call it selfish interest. If they watch you, that makes my life harder too at the moment." But Jack doesn't really mean it, he's just bantering, grinning at C.B. He's already half-way through his tender steak, plate on his lap and beer set down on the ground when he cuts it. Not the most comfortable way of eating, but it's all part of the whole deal. Or maybe he needs some outdoor furniture up here. Squinting at C.B., he admits: "This is the third time this week I get drunk. I'm either having too much fun, or I got an issue." C.B. grunts again at that first sentiment. He cuts into his food, eating decidedly slower than Jack, but with a sort of mechanical precision, like he's certain his food is going to get taken away at any moment. "Is three a lot?" His beer is already almost gone. The guy drinks fast. "For me it is. Before that I hadn't been drunk three times in a year, not really." This doesn't stop Jack from finishing his second beer either, and he gets up to get another, bringing one over for C.B. for when he's done with his. He finishes his meal standing up and eyes the sausages - but he's quite full now. Instead, he sits down and just lazes with that beer for now, while C.B. eats. "Anyway, it was fun. It'd be worse if I drank alone." He raises his beer in a little toast, at that. "Frankie alright? She seemed a bit... stressed last time I saw her. She get those visions a lot?" C.B. certainly takes the second beer without complaints, because he's finishing his first and dropping his cigarette butt in the can while he's at it. "Well. There's shit all to do around here. Nothing wrong with drinking." Though of course he'd think that. He continues to slowly work on his steak and sausages and such. The question about Frank gets a weird little look from the writer. "She's always stressed. It's nothing new." "Don't give me any weird looks, now." Jack says, pointing his beer at C.B. "You two are not so bad, I'm allowed to give a shit." He stifles a yawn - maybe he didn't get enough sleep last night, he does look a bit haggard. So, he shoots to his feet to not get all dazed after that hefty meal and the beer, moving to load up his shotgun in preparation. "I'm feeling right enough buzzed to start shooting." C.B.'s barely made a dent in his food, but he puts his plate aside as he lights another cigarette. "I'm not even close to buzzed yet, but I'll entertain you." He also stands. And says nothing further about Frank. Such a talkative sharer, our C.B, when it comes to his personal life. "I had a bit of a headstart," Jack says - or he's perhaps not as used to drinking, despite his recent bouts of it. He moves to aim at a nearby can, the big rifle square against his shoulder. Even if he's a bit sloshed, the shot hits the can and it flies back and ends up being mostly bits and pieces. "I should train more with a shotgun," he admits. C.B. doesn't get to shooting just yet. He actually just wanders close to Jack, drinking his beer and watching. "Not bad," he mutters. "Who taught you how to shoot, anyway? Or did you learn it on," Jack can probably feel the contempt that C.B. applies here: "The force?'" "Grandpa taught me to shoot rifle and shotgun, but the pistol, I learned that in 'the force'," Jack says, holding the shotgun pointed down. "And well, we had to train all the time with shotguns and pistols. The rifle, I kept up with on the side. Not a lot of use for a hunting rifle in New York," he notes dryly. Maybe a sniper sort of rifle, but he wasn't that sort of cop, obviously. "What about you?" "My old man," C.B. says, squinting at Jack. "He taught me." He takes another swig of beer. "Maybe one of the only useful goddamn things he did." His blue eyes follow Jack's movement with the gun, though he doesn't reach for his own yet, still. "My dad, bless his heart, was an artistic soul and never held a gun. He painted. Mom? She could shoot," Jack says and grins, remembering his own parents fondly. He aims another shot, it goes a bit wide and the can stands there still, mockingly. "Your turn." He glances at C.B. thoughtfully. "Your dad was no good then?" C.B. gives Jack an interesting look as he goes on about his family. It's almost sullen. He drinks more beer and shakes his can. "I'm not done yet." And yeah, he doesn't really seem particularly drunk. Which doesn't mean he wasn't drinking before he got here. But he looks off into the woods instead of at Jack at the question about his dad. "Something like that." "Alright," Jack says, but he pauses in his shooting to finish his beer. He watches C.B. thoughtfully, shotgun pointed at the ground. "I've been a lucky guy," he admits, about things in general. Or maybe he means his parents and family. "Time to take out the stronger stuff. I got whiskey and moonshine. Don't ask me where I got the moonshine from." "The more I see you shoot, the more relieved I am that you don't hate me," Jack notes dryly, eyebrow shooting up - he's impressed. He grins, and wanders off to the other cooler, digging around for a bottle of a clear liquid. He's got no glasses - who needs glasses? - and takes a chug from the moonshine. It makes him actually cough a bit, before he hands it to C.B. "It's decent stuff. Neither of us will go blind, I promise." "Who said I don't hate you?" C.B. says with a smirk, putting the gun down again. He takes the moonshine from Jack and takes a swig, but doesn't cough. Barely even seems to react. "If I haven't gone blind by this point, I'm not worried about it happening any time soon." "Fair point. Well, you don't want to shoot me, at least? I'll take what I can get," Jack jokes. "I barely feel any urges to shoot you, any longer. How far we've come." He raises his shotgun again, aims, shoots. The can is hit in the 'bulls eye' - it gets crushed and falls to the ground some distance behind. "Why do I seem to shoot better when drinking?" "Barely? Guess I need to work harder." C.B. concentrates on the moonshine for awhile, not seeming overly eager to shoot again. "And you shoot better when drinking because...well, that's just been true since time immemorial." He reaches into one of his front shirt pockets for a rollie, placing it between his lips, then goes patting himself down for matches. He's got a little book that looks exactly like the cover of Slaughterhouse-Five. "Work harder to make me not want to shoot you at all, or work harder to make me want to shoot you?" Jack asks with a brilliant smile - he's definitely quite a laid back drunk. Seeing the book, he looks curiously at it, and finds his own cigarettes - a new pack since last - lighting one up and resting the shotgun against a boulder. "You read a lot, huh? And do you write anything now?" C.B. raises an eyebrow, smirking in Jack's direction. "Work harder to make you shoot me. Where's the fun in not getting shot?" He lights up with the little matchbook and flings the match to the ground. Jack gets a dubious look for his questions. "I'm a writer, Jack. It's what I do. I'm guessing you, like most of this town, don't read much more than the back of a cereal box now and again. Am I right?" He helps himself to another swig of moonshine. Smirking, the grin almost constant on his face, Jack nods at C.B. and tips an imaginary hat. "Almost. I actually read a book every now and then. But my spare time is mostly spent carving figurines out of wood. What little I have of it." C.B. might remember that cat figurine he almost gave to the writer way back, but gave to Avalon instead. "Oh, right. Quaint." C.B. takes a drag off the cigarette. He's still holding the moonshine, but not drinking now. Nor is he offering it to Jack -- Jack might have to take it by force. "Well, my last book came out in the fall, but. I don't only write novels." /Now/ he takes another swig of the moonshine, muttering at the bottle, "What's it gonna take?" Jack eyes the bottle, but lets C.B. have it - Jack goes to get the whiskey instead. Probably much weaker than that moonshine, better for him. He takes a swig, smokes lazily. "I'll read your books. Who knows, maybe I'll like them." He is curious, so asks; "What else do you write? Poetry? Anarchist manuals?" Another snort from the Author. "You will not. You'll talk a big talk, but you won't read them. The Instigate was over 700 pages. You really think you're gonna read all that?" So distrustful! He perches on the edge of a tree stump and gestures with the cigarette. "All sorts of shit. Poetry, yes, and essays, and op-eds, and short stories...'anarchist manuals'? Really?" Another snort, then he adds with a smirk as he lifts up the moonshine again, "Not in awhile." "700 pages? Fuck, that sounds painful. But I'll at least /try/. If I can't, I'll just be honest about it." Jack sits down on that boulder himself, shifting the shotgun carefully so to not cause an accident. They're not drunk enough for that, yet. "Maybe I should start with the short stories." He scratches his cheek - he needed a shave three days ago. "Why did you throw a molotov cocktail at the station? I... even if I know you 'hate the man', that doesn't make sense to me. But if you don't wanna say, it's all good." He holds a hand up, in a pacifying gesture - he's not interested in causing any sort of strife here. C.B. makes a face at the idea that 700 pages is 'painful.' But that's what he thought, right? Then he shrugs. "I can lend you a book of short stories, but you're not obliged to read them. Seriously." Then his brows raise again, the cigarette halfway to his lips. "I'm guessing you didn't read the news stories about it." "I'll read those," Jack promises, nodding firmly. "And no - I only know that bit. I didn't run a background check on you or anything," he says, suggesting he might have done other times, on other people. "To be honest, with what's going on around here, someone throwing molotov cocktails is barely to raise an eyebrow about right?" "Right. Sure." C.B. stares out into the woods, away from Jack. "Anyway, I threw the molotov into the station because I'm crazy. I was having an episode." He says this without emotion, just smoking his cigarette and drinking the moonshine. Then he puts the bottle down and stands, starting to move back to position to shoot another target. There's just the /tiniest/ wobble to his steps now. "That simple, huh?" Jack takes that in stride, just accepting it for a fact, whether it is or not. He's got an explanation and it works for him. Watching him wobble, he stands up - he's had quite a lot from that whiskey bottle - and sways a bit himself. He gets his hand gun, the Glock, and starts shooting with that instead. Just to show off - he uses his left hand now. Apparently he's just as good with that hand as a can in the back on a stump flies into the air. "Nothing is simple." C.B. watches Jack shoot with his left hand and snorts. "Show off." He aims his shotgun at a can and fires, hitting the can at the /very/ edge, and mutters curses around his cigarette. Jack squints at his gun, then at the target, back at the gun. "Definitely shooting better when drunk." Just to see if he's right, he starts shooting without proper aiming, trying to take down three different cans at different positions. First one he hits, second is a glance which makes the can wobble but remains standing, third hits the stump and it makes the can drop, but not because he hit the can itself. He laughs out loud - he doesn't laugh a lot, but for some reason he finds this very amusing. Or, he's just drunk. C.B. snorts a little as Jack starts shooting all willy-nilly. He throws his shotgun down and reaches for his own pistol, then starts shooting, though there aren't a lot of targets left and he...doesn't seem to care. Which means he shoots a bottle, but also a tree stump and an actual tree. Jack has to reload and does so quickly. Now the two are just crazy but neither of them are flailing about with their weapons. "Hey, hang on," Jack shouts. "I'll set up the targets." He'll wait for C.B. to stop, then jog over and put cans and pebbles and anything available up on stumps, boulders, that bucket. Back at C.B's side he'll start pinging off targets, alternating hands just for the heck of it. "I'm so not telling anyone we did this." "Why? You embarassed to be seen with me or something?" This time, C.B. takes a swig of moonshine and then a shot directly after. He pings off the stump in front of one of the cans, but misses the can itself. "No, but shooting like this goes against everything I've been taught and trained," Jack admits. "Buuuut, I did say we'd act as hillbillies, and here we are now." He turns to his side and tries to shoot from behind his back, but he is careful - he doesn't want to put a hole in himself. He doesn't hit anything, doing it like that - the shot goes into the little hill, a pufft of dirt thrown up. "Oh, please. Fuck your training." C.B. stops shooting for a moment to concentrate on drinking. He is really making short work of that moonshine. "All your training served to do was turn you into a machine for the Man. If anything, you should make a concerted /effort/ to /break/ yourself of what you've learned." Does he realize he's pointing all accusingly at Jack? Because he is. Because he's finally a mite tipsy. "Don't you start that now," Jack says good-naturedly. C.B. just can't rile him up on that part. Maybe he even agrees, a little. "I've done plenty to disobey the man, it's not about that - it's about justice, in the end. To give it to people. To make sure they're /not/ crushed by 'the man'." He is pretending to be a cowboy now, putting the pistol in the holster and quickdrawing and shooting. He hits once out of five times. "The man takes many faces, anyway." "Don't give me that!" C.B. waves his gun around -- might want to watch that, because who knows when it'll go off? "You don't need to be part of a /fascist police force/ to care about justice. If you /really/ cared about justice, you'd see what I mean, you goddamn goody-two shoes. You make me sick!" He's yelling now, even hopping up and down a little, all red-faced...guess the alcohol's finally found its way into his bloodsteam. But how serious is he about anything he's saying, really? It's not like he's leaving. Lowering his gun, Jack squints a bit at C.B. The gun being waved around makes him almost dizzy - he's had half of that bottle of whiskey between the shooting sprees. "You want a molotov cocktail?" he offers dryly, holstering his pistol. "You look like you're about to have another episode." He grins, obnoxiously. "Hey. I'm not defending the police force... I've seen a lot of bad stuff, especially in New York. Corruption. Bribes. Planting evidence. I saw some really good shit too." "Fuck you, joyboy! You don't WANT to know what one of my fucking episodes looks like." C.B. hurls the gun on the ground...and it goes off. Fortunately, away from the both of them, but it makes him jump and mutter many curses under his breath. "I'm just saying, Jack, do you even know what justice /is/? Or is it just some fairy tale you tell yourself at night so you can get to sleep? Oh, wait, let me guess, a guy like you probably doesn't even have trouble sleeping. You probably sleep through the night, sound as a baby." But he tells this to the trees, because he's pacing in a circle and he comes out facing a tree when he's done with that. "I..." Jack hesitates now. He's usually quite self assured and confident about what he is and isn't. But he's not usually being yelled at and questioned like this, either. He jumps to the side as the gun goes off, jaw setting as he grinds his teeth for a moment. He picks the weapon up and puts it on the stump C.B was sitting on, watching the author pacing amongst the trees. Tired now, he sits down and drinks more whiskey, bottle resting on his thigh between sips. "I wish I could've given you justice," he says quietly, cause that's the only thing he can figure this is about. "What?" C.B.'s head whips over so he can squint at Jack. "What're you talking about? Given me justice?" For a minute, it seems like he's going to keep going off, but instead he stalks closer, moonshine in hand, cigarette ashing like crazy off his lip, squint-squinting at the ranger. Jack shrugs, looking a bit reserved now. "I don't know where this all is coming from, except it feels like you've been treated real bad at some point. Or someone close to you." He lights another cigarette himself. He's remained calm through all of this - one might wonder what /would/ make him riled up. Or angry. "Is this really all about politics?" C.B. scoffs and looks away, though the red in his cheeks is fading and he just looks kind of...tired now. "It's just the booze talking," he insists, pulling on the cig before tossing it on the ground. At least he snuffs it out with his boot. Then he tromps over to retrieve the pistol from where Jack had set it aside. "I bet you a bottle of that moonshine you can't hit that can from... here." Jack stands up, moving a bit behind C.B so there's a longer distance to the can he's indicating. "If you lose, you owe me a story. Make it a good one. And a short one." He grins. "I won't lose." C.B. checks the chamber -- okay, still a bullet or two left -- and squints over at that can. At least he's put the bottle of moonshine down; it's close to empty as it is. Sure enough, though he doesn't make a /good/ shot, he still manages to ping the can. Then smirks over at Jack. "Toldja." "Alright, that was too easy." Jack stands next to C.B. - he has to try himself, So he picks a target at an equal distance, aims for a few seconds - his hand shake a bit at first, before he manages to focus. Bang! The can goes flying. "We're a deadly duo. Bad guys, beware." He blows imaginary smoke from the barrel. "We need a good name." C.B. whistles appreciatively. It /was/ a good shot. Then he reaches over for that moonshine again, missing the first time and getting the bottle on the second try for a nice swig. "No, we really don't." Such a killjoy. "Yes, we do. You need to write a crime novel, with us as models," Jack insists, getting into this now. He's apparently a bit silly when getting properly drunk. He randomly shoots at something over there, something he can barely see - he hits the can one meter to the side of it, instead, by pure luck. Maybe it's getting to that time when they should put the weapons away. "I write /real/ books. Not silly genre fiction." C.B. tells Jack. "'Sides, if anything, I'd probably be the criminal in the goddamn book, not you. I bet you're bad at crime." His words are flowing just a /tad/ easier right now. "Heeeey," Jack says, his idea changing when C.B. continues on. "Even better. You'd be the mastermind criminal, I'd be the one trying to take you out. Well, the fictional us," he slurrs, waving his gun now too before shooting a few shots at something back there. "Damn it, someone is moving that can around." "I TOLD you, I write REAL books. Genre fiction ISN'T REAL, it's pure commercial pablum..." C.B. squints over at the area where Jack just shot, then stumbles over towards him. "Let me see that gun. There's proibably something wrong with it." "What is a REAL book then?" Jack asks, handing the gun over without a second thought. His official piece. His old superior officers would cry if they saw it. He's DEFYING THE MAN. "I love Raymond Chandler's stuff, even if it is misgon... misogyn... sexist." C.B. examines the gun, squinting at it...then he even takes out his glasses so he can give it a closer look. Just don't point the barrel in your face, C.B. The glasses are silver and wire-rimmed and oval-shaped. Some hipster '60s thing? Is C.B. a hipster, or just a young man who likes old stuff? He writes on a typewriter and he's always playing the Beatles and stuff in Cat-22... "Raymond Chandler actually knew how to /write/, even if he started out writing genre fiction. But most of those assholes don't. A -real- book doesn't just following some prescribed hooey because the author thinks it will sell copies." Piece inspected, glasses sliding down his nose, C.B. brings the gun up and rests it on his forearm, tongue sticking out a bit as he takes a shot out into the woods, but...who even knows where it goes. "Shoots okay...I guess. I don't know." "Gimme that," Jack says, grabbing for his weapon. He's stopped drinking - but that whiskey bottle is mostly gone. He's properly sloshed, but least he's still standing and he can talk almost normally - barring the really complicated words. And then he abruptly changes subject. "I met my own daughter yesterday. She's twenty, and I didn't know she existed until yesterday." It took him awhile to mention, perhaps not thinking it'd be the sort of topic C.B. would care about. But he's feeling a bit sentimental now. "I'll bring her around Cat-22 so she can meet your miserable self at some point. Just so I can say 'Don't be like him.'" He grins. C.B. puts up a bit of a fuss, but Jack does eventually get the gun away from him. He watches Jack dubiously as he shares this particular piece of information. "I bet I have one or two of those," he says, nodding. "Floating around, somewhere. Just lying in wait to make my life worse." "I'm still in the 'I have a daughter. I am a dad'-phase, with a rosey tint to it," Jack admits. He wrangles his gun back, holsters it clumsily - it takes him a few - and then he gestures back to the cabin. "I need snacks, let's go in and find food. And then maybe I have to pass out."