Description: Alan R.B., apprehended by the MCPD, languishes in lockup. But--! The battle never ends, as the master bullshit artist runs afoul of master interrogator, Sho Easten!
[OOC] Sho says, "you're like a goddess"
[OOC] Sho says, "made out of chocolate"
If it was a regular police building, they'd never be able to hold Alan R. B.. But the holding areas of the Division 8 Special Precinct Building were built for fighters, with heavily reinforced walls, doors, even the chair in the interrogation room. Alan R.B., lately of "R", currently claiming to be a freelancer, is as aggressively unconcerned with being in holding as he can be, though his knuckles are bloody from trying to punch through the wall of his holding cell by striking it about a thousand times over the course of a few minutes. He isn't wearing handcuffs - it's more like two blocks of iron connected by a cable, further connected to the table itself.
They've had him waiting in the interrogation room for a pretty unnecessary amount of time now, but he is leaned back as far as he can, drumming his heels on the floor, looking up at the ceiling and appearing to count it while whistling Frank Sinatra songs. His hair remains as immaculately styled as ever, and there's nothing tha can be done about the chi crackling over his skin even now.
[OOC] Sho says, "what's going to be on alan's file"
[OOC] Ålân R.B. says, "pretty much everything can be tracked all the way down to who his parents are, though their last known location is 'an RV in New Mexico'. Pretty much anything short of what happened in Taizhou, so the scars on his neck and abdomen are a mystery"
[OOC] Sho says, "what's a taizhou, was that jinchuu 2"
[OOC] Ålân R.B. says, "yeah"
[OOC] Sho says, "word, god knows i have no idea what happened there so it works"
[OOC] Ålân R.B. says, "so sho'll know his main thing, that his fiancee died when they were just out of highschool and he stopped being a chubby funny guy and resurfaced as a prize fighter a few years later and got recruited by R"
The door opens, and a man walks in. It might take a little while to place his face, but it was the last thing that Alan saw before he was rather unceremoniously choked into unconsciousness while slammed into a slot machine. Right now, that face is wearing a long-sleeve shirt, a tie, and a pair of slacks. He still has boots on, though. Burn scars run from the collar up to the sides of his face, and he doesn't have his signature shades on.
It's Sho Easten, and he's fast in sitting right down, putting his briefcase up on the table. Without missing a beat, he presses the record button on the machinery built into the table. "January 7th, fourteen-thirty," he says, the time and date necessary for the start.
Still, without missing a beat, he levels his gaze on the restrained man. He leans forward, the fabric of his sleeves tight against the thick muscles of his forearms. " You know why you're here," he states, "And you know what questions I'm going to ask. Start talking."
There's no fear, no animosity. This is business; this is work.
Alan had determined to himself that when someone finally showed up, he'd just ignore /them/, see how he'd like it. Or she, he could swear he saw a blonde cop hanging around with a /great/ ass. But when it's this guy, well, he just can't help himself. Alan lets the chair fall back forward, the legs clapping hard on the ground as he props his elbows on the table, leaning his chin on the handcuff cable, finishing his song (Mack the Knife).
As the last note fades, he sneers at Sho for a few more moments, before launching, "It all happened when my momma died, ossifer. Detroit is a rough place for a kid with a drunk, no-account father, and I had to learn to scrap it up to stay alive, earning my daily bread on my own back. Well, golly, these downright /unsavory/ people just started noticing me, and I got caught up in gangs and oh so much worse."
He tilts his head the other way, blinking hugely. "I'm a victim of society, you gotta believe me! Have mercy on this poor young boy!" The boxer's eyes search Sho for a moment after, and he asks, "That blonde chick out there single? Because I mean, damn." He licks his finger, and sets it on the table.
"Tsssssssssss."
The performance is like water off a duck's back. Sho just stares impassively at the former prize fighter, right on through to the finger against the table. "Funny," he states, although he's not about to let the man use that as a chance to launch into another tirade. "We've got your mother down as being alive and well, right down to the last time she called in a domestic dispute against one of their neighbors. Something about hoarding in a trailer park, I don't know," and since he doesn't, he reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a series of folders.
"You also realize that that blonde chick is in fact Gary, in the middle of a long series of operations to become Gertrude, right?"
That's delivered with the former Agent's head down in the folder. It might be true, it might be false; it's delivered with absolute deadpan certainty either way. "Back to the topic at hand. It wasn't your mother that died, but your fiancee. "
He looks up then, the look on his face still the same. "That's rough, not going to bullshit you with that. That's not why we're here. It's part of why you're here right now, but again, that's not why we're here. You have information. I have ways of getting you a smaller jail term. It's pretty simple."
The jig is up! Alan attempts to throw his arms behind his head, but the handcuffs make it difficult, so he settles for resting his head lazily on the table. "Man, they're /still/ doing that country-hopping thing? Dad could run a small army with the money he can scrape on odd jobs, it's nuts."
Alan snaps his fingers in response to the other aside. "Medical science, man. Tell him to call me up when he's a she."
The third bit makes his constant little motions stop for a second. His body tenses, and the electricity stops momentarily. He draws in a breath, forces himself to relax, and it's like it never happened. There was a time that Alan would've reacted to someone even mentioning it like a mad dog, but now... he waits until Sho gets to information, and groans, striking the table with his handcuffs. "Oh, for Christ's sake, you people do not /get/ the pace that Rugal works at. The moment I jumped, he cut any operations I knew about and moved on to other shit, anything I know is useless. He's on a boat in the water somewhere, petting his fucking cat and eating some fucking, I don't know, whale ass lavitesse or some other French goddamn thing." He flicks his hands. "Maybe staring at his statues with his hand in his pants, or naked pictures of his daughter while crying. I don't know. Don't really care, I'm done with him." He sits back heavily, looking annoyed.
The talk of the shemale is gone, dusted. Sho's forearms bulge beneath the shirt, straining for release as he listens to what the prisoner has to say, especially when the prisoner slams the chains into the table. He weighs it all in, thoughtful for a moment, before deciding he doesn't like the taste that's in his mouth.
"Are you trying to tell me then, that you acted completely independently when you opted to walk into that casino and systematically dropped every man, woman and child in the building into unconsciousness? You didn't take one too many blows to the skull during your glory days, that much I know. This doesn't add up."
Leaning back in his chair, Sho spreads his arms, as if shrugging to the heavens. "Your information may well be out of date, and I imagine most of what you give us will be false despite your claims of cutting ties. I'm also thinking that that organization is not the type who simply lets a person up and leave at a time of their own choosing."
His burn scars tingle. Yes, he knows about leaving an organization such as 'R' alright. "In all honesty, what information you may have is the only thing standing between a long ride up to a max-sec prison for people like you and me. If it's truly useless, then tell me now, and we can get you back down to your cell to wait on transit."
A smug half-grin splits Alan's mouth as Sho starts talking about him acting independently, and he cuts in, "Whoaaa now, squints. Don't get ahead of yourself. Check your shit again, the only people I put down were people involved in the mob money flowing through that place. I'll tell you what I told rawhide - money is dogshit. World's tearin' itself apart over it. You could say I had something of a, whattyacallem, epiphany."
"As to 'R' letting me up and leave..." Alan reaches up to the nasty scar on the side of his neck, leaning forward so he can reach it, rubbing it, feeling the nasty bumps and whorls.
Lightning striking. Rain falling. Vice's teeth sinking into his neck. Pain. Power. Sealing the wound in an instant. Walking away alive.
"...yeah, they weren't too happy." Alan lets his hands fall. "Look, way I see it, I did you kids a favor. Pounded a lot of people makin' money off others' pain, dumped that limp-armed guy you sent after me first in the lap of some seriously primo trim - did he get her number? Dumbshit better have - and sure, some property damage, but that was all part of the fuckin' /game/ for them! You should be giving me a medal and a goddamn steak dinner! Now I'll tell whatever pencilneck stenographer dweeb you got up in this bitch all you need to know about how 'R' works, no skin off my back. C'mon, get 'em in here. Get that big-ass 18fuck you typewriter, get those coke-bottle glasses on, get me a glass of water. C'mon, boots, jet out there, round it up, I can talk for hours /believe me./"
"What you did was create a headache for us, and a mountain of paper work. You think we didn't know what was going on in there? You think there weren't about eight different operations, all aimed at dismantling that organization?" The look on Sho's face almost, almost seems annoyed. Even the call on his ethnicity didn't faze him; this seems to have. "Now, thanks to your decision to take the law into your own hands, they all walk. They get to start again somewhere else. Months, years of work, all gone, because you decided to become an anarchist over night."
And then and there, the SWAT Officer takes a breath, a slight shake of his head following it. He's annoyed; he knows it. That isn't the kind of control he needs over this situation. Instead, he breaks out into a Sho Easten grin. "But I'm getting away from the point, now aren't I? If your information proves good, you might just get that steak."
Standing , Sho looks down at the prisoner. "You're not just blowing smoke, right?"
Alan's face lights up in a grin. "You're not the only person who lost work. Those guys have been at it for a /while/, and now maybe they ain't so confident about staying in Metro." He rests his hand on the table - it's a horrible conductor of electricity, but his arm relaxes, chi blooming around it and spiralling down. The voltage crackles across the table in slow, pulsing waves, not making it far before dissipating. "I put the fear of God into those motherfuckers because the law just simply does not. Think about it, holmes." He doesn't rise to the 'anarchist' bait. It's something so much better, he knows that.
"Anyway. Look. I will have you swimming in so much information about Rugal and his shit that you'll have to get it in a little paperback book and carry it around with you. You one of those tools that folds it over? Can't stand that, fucks up the spines." Alan tries to put his feet up and fold his hands behind his head, forgetting yet again about the handcuffs - his chair slips out from under him, and he almost lands on ass. "Fuck!" He rights the chair with his feet. "I'm erasing that footage," he remarks, casually.
"What you did was scatter them into another jurisdiction. Those that aren't going to be spending the rest of their lives eating out of a straw, anyway." But again, Sho doesn't want to angle the conversation this way again, right, RIGHT? With another of those shakes of his head, he puts the files back into his tingling briefcase (thanks to Alan's handiwork with the table), and shuts it.
"I'm sure they're laughing at the footage from the recording room right now. I'm going to send in one of the recruits that you took the liberty of dispatching on your little escapade. Play a little nicer this time, won't you?"
Carmine, the sensitive officer. It should be interesting to watch, maybe even comical; not that Sho ever laughs, unless it's part of a cover.
"And no, I have respect for property. I hold a book with care."
And with that, he lifts his briefcase, heading for the door. His work here is done for now, as far as he's concerned.
Alan waves Sho off dismissively, because Alan's idea of playing nice is what he /just did./ "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Tell Gertrude I said hi when she stops having a dick." Alan closes his eyes and tilts his chair back again, putting on the appearance of rest, electricity still crackling around him. He has no parting shots or dramatic escape attempts right now, certain that, sooner or later, something'll happen.
They wouldn't go through so much trouble for him to just let him go to /jail/, that'd be silly.
[OOC] Sho says, "twenty years later"
[OOC] Ålân R.B.-with-a-beard says, "THIS IS DOGSHIT"
[OOC] Sho says, "hahaha"
[OOC] Sho says, "but yeah now you can rp with fuchi"
[OOC] Sho says, "and maximize your jail time"
[OOC] Sho says, "then shihong can visit as the weeping girlfriend"
[OOC] Sho says, "'put your boobs on the glass' 'what no' 'cmon' 'no' 'cmon'"
[OOC] Ålân R.B. says, "well i got three days of work so probably it will be time for The Thing by then"
[OOC] Ålân R.B. says, "but i can always delay for shihong's boobs on the glass"
[OOC] Ålân R.B. says, "and scene"
Log created on 23:16:38 01/07/2011 by Alan, and last modified on 02:05:26 01/08/2011.