hell is empty and all the devils are here {{Open}}

[sablesepulchre4]

O, thou invisible spirit of wine,
if thou hast no name to be known by,

Welcome to the Alleyway.

The first rule of the Alleyway is: you do not talk about the way Boss Puck speaks.

The second rule of the Alleyway is: you do not talk about the Alleyway.

Third rule of the Alleyway: if someone yells "stop!", "fuckstockings", or "OMG", they're out of the Alleyway for good, after being forced to wear tutus and do ballet out the door. Additionally, if someone passes out and etc, the fight is over.

Fourth rule: only two guys to a fight, unless you're fighting the Boss, then it's a free for all. Fifth rule: one fight at a time. Sixth rule: the fights are bare knuckle. No shirt, no shoes, no weapons. Seventh rule: fights will go on as long as they have to.

And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at the Alleyway, you have to fight, but you get free booze all night if you win.

The ninth rule is more of a reminder than a rule: do not mock Boss Puck.


The difference between Puck and James Fellows couldn't easily be observed, but it was still there all the same. It occurred to the man as he took a hook to the temple and was slammed into the dividing partition. Puck gave a shit whether or not he got hurt. With a grin on his face, Jamie turned around quickly, giving his opponent a nasty kick to the groin. Jamie, well, Jamie was in it for the kicks.

His opponent kneeled over, covering himself the best he could as he tried to get over the pain. Jamie, with his usual etiquette, used a foot to topple the man sideways onto the dirty ground. "I am Puck's revenge." Another kick was delivered to the man's stomach to make a point. "I am Puck's bleeding heart." Kick. "I am Puck's bloody insanity." Kick. Jamie leaned down, pushing the man over onto his back with his foot. "But most of all, I am fucking Boss Puck, and you'd better remember that, shite."

A final kick was delivered before Jamie exited the ring, glaring at all those around him as if daring them to make a sound. He sat down on a chair making a gesture towards one of the lackeys. They brought him a beer then scrambled off like scared house mice. Good for them. Lord knows what would tick him off again this night. The poor kid on the ground forgot one thing - don't mock Boss Puck - and for that he would bleed.

let us call thee DEVIL.

[DR. FINN THOMAS]

What is this feeling
Of power and drive?

[/color]

Filled with evil, but truly alive!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[/color]
[/center]

Finn Thomas was in business.

No, no, not the math teaching business. That was during the day. A math teacher taught math during the day.

No, this business was darker. Much darker. And much more fucking awesome.

Finn didn’t fight. His arms didn’t bulge with muscle as the enormous man-slaughtering merchants of deaths’ did. His legs were skimpy, and his entire body just kind of alluded to a grasshopper, or a very skinny snowman. But no matter. There were things beyond the boundaries of physical limitations, and Dr. Thomas was one of those things. He dipped a hand into his pocket, feeling the cold metal of the pistol, then the harsh plastic of the knife blade. The corners of his lips curved upward into a sadistic grin. He certainly wasn’t teaching geometry to these nubs, that was 99.9999999999999999 percent certain.

He sat, fingering the weapons, until he could bear the excitement no longer. He stood up from his seat, allowing it to tumble backwards and clatter across the fast eroding wooden floorboards. A single shot pierced the hum of masculine shrieks and clinking glasses. “There can only be one Dr. Thomas!” he declared loudly to the bustle within the fighting ring, watching as a lanky-looking little fighter crossed the floor and cascaded into the nearest seat. Not really, of course. The statistics indicated that there were approximately 723,890 other men bearing the name of Dr. Thomas, approximately 68% being pediatricians. Still, he’d always wanted to say that.

Finn squinted as the man from the ring called for more liquor. Something about the way he walked looked…achingly familiar. What on earth was the correlation? Finn thought hard. He certainly didn’t recognize the face, but that walk looked just like this kid in his AP Calculus class…well, why not. It was a fight club. Why not find out? He always stressed the importance of hypothesis and conclusion in his classes, after all. Particularly with Honors Geometry, those ungrateful little bastards.

Finn yanked up a chair and slid into the seat opposite the guy. “So listen kid, you’re lookin’ kinda old to be in high school, but are you in one of my classes? Because if so, I want to know why the fuck you’re here instead of doing the twenty three pages of homework I assigned. You’re getting a big fat F. You hear me? BIG FAT F!”

status;; Hurray…
tags;; Whoeverr
notes;; He’s awake I think, but I’m not sure yet 0_0
words;; 187
credit;; mikeyface of CAUTION two point oh!

[sablesepulchre4]

O, thou invisible spirit of wine,
if thou hast no name to be known by,

The ninth rule is more of a reminder than a rule: do not mock Boss Puck.

When the gunshot sounded, Jamie merely continued drinking his beer, tilting the bottle up impassively. The shouting man seemed significantly out of place in the Alleyway, or at least this alleyway. He was the type of people who would, if let loose, kill innocents in the street in broad daylight. They'd smash up the world if they thought it would make a pretty noise. "Be careful," Jamie said, speaking quietly but his condescending tone made the sound ring throughout the silent club. "Crying 'havoc' and loosing the dogs of war isn't the most intelligent thing to do in a fight club."

Puck remarked that it was just like a fool to move attention to himself then stand unmoved. Agreeing silently, Jamie turned his attention back to his drink, leaning back and closing his eyes, but keeping his ears open to listen for the man's movements.

The scraping of a chair next to him and a better-than-thou tone marked the man's presence, which Jamie duly ignored. Let the fool speak his turn at the pulpit then move on. After a long rambling bit, the boss deigned to look at the man, rolling his head to the side and looking at him with irritation. "Beg yours? Were you speaking to me? I'm sure you weren't speaking daggers to me - I must be mistaken." Jamie's voice was a calm and sent a message of humility, but his eyes portrayed a different story.

This man would give the devil his due, one way or the other.

let us call thee DEVIL.

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

Call it sadism or Schadenfreude, but something about men beating each other bloody and senseless tickled Charlemagne's fancy. Of course, he had no interest in fighting himself; physicality was not something that really sat well with him, after all, as he was a man of the mind, not wholly of the body. However, that wasn't to say Charlemagne was physically inept, as this wasn't the case. Anyone who actually watched him clamber up into those trees he loved so much would know that, apart from having quite the graceful climbing strategy, he had enough upper body strength to pull off such strategies, despite how little it really did show in terms of his physique. . . or maybe that was just the oversized blazers he wore. It was hard to tell.

No, that wasn't it. He was just. . . how to phrase it. . . he was not interested in participating in the fighting itself. He. . . transcended, yes, that was the word, he transcended such things. But that didn't make the bare-knuckle warfare any less entertaining for him to watch.

And so there he had stood, hidden so well in the shadows and corners of the fight club, his eerily wide, expressionless blue eyes transfixed on one thing, and one thing only - Jamie Fellows.

Charlemagne was enraptured with the man. He couldn't put a finger on what it was about him. . . well, on one thing specifically, anyway, as there was so much to be curious and fascinated with. He knew he should not have been there, that he should not have followed Jamie here intentionally and passed it off as mere intrigue with the fight club itself. This was breaking his rules, doing this, those rules that he had lined up so carefully for the specific reason of preventing himself from having to be careful. Rule Number One: Don't get too involved with a subject of study.

He did like to break rules, but that shouldn't be a habit he applied to his own regulations.

Still, he didn't feel like leaving, so he decided he wouldn't. Those hedonistic tendencies of his seemed to be overruling his normal standards - if he wanted to watch men be beaten to a pulp, and if he wanted to watch Jamie Fellows do it, then by Bast, he would.

. . . what was that? Someone else was talking to Jamie? That wouldn't do. He was supposed to be fighting; that was what Charlemagne had come to see, that was what he had sunk to the level of wearing non-showy street clothes for so he wouldn't be spotted. This could not continue. If Jamie was going to interact with anyone, anyone, in a manner that did not include kicking the living daylights out of their bruised and broken body, then it should be HIM.

Charlemagne did not have much experience with the emotion of envy, so he was unable to recognize this was what he was feeling, but as he slid into the chair beside Jamie, he was sure that his expression was all smiles.

To either of the gentlemen at the table, the silence and suddenness of the action might have made it seem as if Charlemagne had just appeared in the seat. He was good at that.

"What a lovely gathering of minds," he mused aloud, leaning back in his chair with a grin that was slightly more impish than usual - and that was truly saying something. His Cheshire brand of British accent was clearer than usual, which might or might not have been a side-effect of his unintentional jealousy.

"Evening, gents. What a smashing conversation the two of you seem to be having, hm?"[/color] Those blue eyes twinkled faintly with mischief.

[DR. FINN THOMAS]

Finn downed his…what the hell number beer was this anyway? Finn wasn’t normally one to forget numbers, but he was too drunk to think about math right now. Ha! Too drunk to think about math! He’d seriously never envisioned himself saying that before. He continued to stare at the man, who was looking less and less familiar as time wore on, but at the moment he wasn’t going to try and pinpoint the face. Discrete data was for the fucking daytime: nighttime was for approximations and controlled bullshitting.

Finn adjusted his glasses and breathed in the steam and smoke of the room. This was the life. Fuck yes. He raised a hand for another beer. So what if he made a complete fool of himself? He’d remember nothing in the morning. This was a fucking fight club, and it was Saturday Night in fucking New York City. Fuck yes. Fuck yes.

Plus, Verizon was up 45 points today. Which may have had something to do with it.

"Beg yours? Were you speaking to me? I'm sure you weren't speaking daggers to me - I must be mistaken."

Beg yours? Speaking daggers? What kind of talk was that? It sounded like that play guy…Shakepeer? Takesqueer? Whatever. The guy with the white-hair. Or maybe it was grey. Whatever. Something.

Finn rocked his chair back to two legs, sipping his beer. He was a fucking math God: pretty words didn’t mean shit in his hazy brain right now. “Hey man,” he grunted, taking another sip. The colors began to swirl together, dancing with fission and fusion as the liquid meandered down his throat. Shapes began to lose their outlines, and movements became blurs. Why was he talking to this guy again? There must be some reason. “I dunno what the fuck you just said, but if you think you’re mistaken then I-“ another sip “guess you probably are.”

“What a lovely gathering of minds."

Finn glanced up. Who the fuck was this? Actually, he'd probably been there the whole time. Finn wasn't the most perceptive this time of the night. “Thanks. Minds are certainly…uh…” he inhaled the final sip and slammed the cup down upon the table with more force than he supposed he’d intended, though he wasn’t sure he’d consciously been intending anything. “Never mind.”

"Evening, gents. What a smashing conversation the two of you seem to be having, hm?"

Finn put his hand up for another beer. Hey, déjà fucking vu! And what the fuck was this kid going on about? Smashing? Was this like, Harry Potter club or something? Jesus fuck. Where in damn hell was that beer?

[sablesepulchre4]

O, thou invisible spirit of wine,
if thou hast no name to be known by,

Jamie's eyes flicked over to the new fellow that had joined the two... men. You really couldn't even call the two acquaintances - Jamie usually reserved that word for the men who weren't drunk out of their mind and who'd already received their fair share of violence. He watched quietly as the man attempted to make conversation with the two, but gave up in an irritated fit, gesturing for a beer. The waiters, or whatever the hell you would call them, were lingering to the side, waiting for approval to give an armed man alcohol. Smart move. With a sigh, Jamie held out his hand in a 'give-it-to-me' gesture. "Gun, you sot. Now, or there'll be no drink for you."

The drunkard was obviously out of his element. He looked far too tidy to be a regular here, and for another thing, Jamie had never seen him before. The Alleyway only opened if the Boss or one of his underlings were there, and seeing as that his underlings had been a bit scarce as of late, the club only opened up when the Boss was around.

But this other man, who had appeared out of thin air, Jamie was positive that he had never been at the Alleyway before. He vaguely recognized him from somewhere, but the brew of drugs and liquor and adrenaline in his system kept the memory just out of reach. Jamie could remember the manner of speaking and the eyes of the man, but nothing else was coming to mind. Though the whole not-being-at-the-Alleyway-before was an issue. The eighth rule of the Alleyway was pushing itself to the front of Jamie's fogged mind. The man didn't look anything like a fighter, in fact he looked exactly the opposite.

"A lovely conversation indeed," Jamie said after another swallow of his beer, looking at the man with an amused look on his face. "Though I suppose that neither of you know the rules of the Alleyway, hmm?"

let us call thee DEVIL.

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

Charlemagne wanted to laugh.

So he did.

He laughed quietly to himself over the absurdity of the situation, of how Jamie didn't remember him and Charlemagne didn't care, of the drunkard who apparently had a gun, and at himself - at himself for coming here when he knew he should not have.

It was okay, though, because he was having too much fun to leave.

"I overheard the rules," he responded, looking mildly at Jamie with a little smirk playing over his features. "I hadn't intended to make myself. . . visible." So why had he? Why had he done something so idiotic? Surely he had to have some justification, it wasn't as if he was a creature of impulse. . .

Oh, now he remembered. He'd been. . . upset that Jamie had been speaking and not fighting.

Upset. That wasn't quite the right word. What was the definition for what he had felt? He couldn't put a name to it; it was a jar without a label, what could it possibly. . .

. . .and now he was worrying. Charlemagne didn't worry. This had to stop at once.

"Want to hear a riddle?"

[DR. FINN THOMAS]

C’mon, c’mon, where is it? Finn rubbed his eyes tiredly, gesturing to the waiter who grinned satiatedly at him. The fucking waiters at this place were ridiculous. Honestly, it was enough to make him want to smack them all over the head 38.1230948 times. Yeah.

"Gun, you sot. Now, or there'll be no drink for you."

Fuck. Finn had forgotten about the pistol. He rummaged through his pockets and retrieved it between thumb and forefinger, as if it were a grenade threatening to explode at a single act preemption. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure why he brought that around with him, especially when he came to the Alleyway. Since all that Neta MacHare shit had gone down, he’d just felt the need to always have it around with him, always felt the need to keep his fingers wrapped around the handle even though he hadn’t the faintest idea how to pull the trigger, always felt the need to…kiiiilllll.

Kill? What the fuck? Where had that come from? Finn shook his head to clear it. This fucking beer. He tossed the guy the gun and snatched the bottle, gulping it down. The guy, who Finn was now absolutely certain was not a student at Baum, took another, sardonic sip of his beer. "Though I suppose that neither of you know the rules of the Alleyway, hmm?"

Rules! Bah. Baha. Bahahahahahahahahaha. “Rules.” Finn drank and slammed his glass on the table. “If I had a penny for every rule I’ve broken in my day, I’d have more hoes in my living room than multivariable calculus textbooks.”

"Want to hear a riddle?"

Finn turned abruptly, for at least the second time tonight. Okay, really, who was this kid? He reminded Finn of that movie he’d confiscated from his Workplace Math student the other day, where the white-suit freaks randomly appeared outside the lady’s window and wouldn’t leave? Yeah, like that. Quite the unprecedented apparition.

Oh, and he appeared to know this other guy. Well, Finn Thomas certainly wasn’t one to be a third wheel. And besides, he’d been quite the “riddler” back in his day.

“A riddle, eh? Hit me up.”

[faryllll]

The Alleyway had plenty of rules, all right.

Amid the most important rules was the one about not getting high and mighty with the bouncer chick unless you were suicidal or something. Most of the Alleyway's veterans knew that Curly Lenorette had been partly, if not completely, responsible for most of the disappearances that had occurred with random men (and sometimes women, when worst came to worst) coming into the club. Then again, none of them really chose to do anything about it. People had to take those kinds of risks upon entering a high-maintenance fight club such as the Alleyway.

And apparently, those were the kinds of risks that many people were willing to take, since the club was crowded tonight. The sounds of a glass slamming on the counter, a body falling to the floor, and the glass that said body was holding shattering were nearly simultaneous as Curly slipped off of the barstool to drag the potentially unharmed corpse to the back room. Yet another victim, another sinner in the hands of the Boss, and another reward for her - one less idiot to bother her.

And if certain death was just too harsh for whoever came her way, then just a good punch in the gut, groin or head would do just fine. The Boss would understand that she couldn't kill everyone all the time. That would bring about suspicion, and that wouldn't be good for anyone, sinner or not.

Yet when she saw a congregation of three men nearby, Curly couldn't help but to become curious at what was going on. Then again, abandoning a dead body to talk to a group of guys wasn't the most intelligent move to make at that moment, so she carried on with her business, dragging the man by his arms until he was properly disposed of in the storage unit. Of course, she looked up every once in a while at them to make sure they were still there. Her interest was still piqued, but she wanted to make sure her hands were clean before she went over there to talk with them.