First Come, First Serve

[The Honeless Beard]

((BB3 - Matthew Weiss, start))

A whole new world.

It was as if a switch had been flipped, lights on to off, pool open and then closed. Fundamental change that happened in a near instant - one minute Matt was thinking about practice and how his cleats were too tight and wondering about the next big game. The next, he’s sitting at the smooth black finish of the Yamaha piano, his hands clenched into fists, a camera in the top right corner of the room, training on him slowly.

He had tested it out by shifting around the room, watching as it had followed him with a barely present hum. He’d durability-checked the chairs in the room, the hawaiian decorations, the sturdy welcome desk. With the butt of the rifle he’d found lying beside him, he’d thumped the door leading into the resort building, satisfied that it had held.

Now, he sat and tried to process, his fingers tinkering with the keys on the gleaming black piano, the ivory smooth and familiar to his touch. The Ruger Carbine - or that’s what the ID tag had said, at least - leaned against his left leg as he tested the sustain pedals, his right foot pumping against them as he laid his left hand against the keys, a solid bass chord ringing out.

It was a stage. A stage he’d read about, watched quietly, wondered and measured and examined. Everything was polished, gleaming, re-built and sturdy, perfect for little smatterings of blood and the strewn bodies that were sure to come.

At the piano, he hit three high notes with his right hand, index index middle, like his instructor had taught him.

Don’t tense up, Matthew. Let your limbs be loose. You’re not playing with your hands, but with your body. Limber up and let it flow.

He was here, with a bronze bandana tied around his upper arm, sunglasses perched on his nose, and he wished he had worn something less flashy - something not white and green. Camouflage, maybe. They had given him a costume, too, but he’d left that on the floor in the other room, where it belonged. He wouldn’t be a spectacle.

Another four notes, kept in time with quick stabs on the bass, the chords loud and strong. Matt tapped out the melody - an older song, not one that he consciously decided on - but one that seemed somewhat fitting for the stage. After all, didn’t most acts start with a song - something catchy, to get the audience in the mood? Something to remind them that they were in a performance, of sorts?

That they were here to be entertained?

Stabbing at the keys, now, getting into it, faster and faster until his hands were a blur on the keys. He may have made mistakes, he wasn’t sure - all that mattered was that he was making noise and evicting stress and avoiding the shambling, tilted mess that waking up on this fucking floor had made of his carefully planned and meticulously crafted life. It was supposed to go championship game, graduate top of the class, go to Harvard, get a degree, be a partner at 30 and live happy.

It was not supposed to be a curtain call at seventeen years old. It was not supposed to ned here of all places.

Behind the sunglasses, Matt stared at the camera, his mouth curling in a grimace as he began to sing, at first just humming the lyrical part, in time with his stabbing right hand.

And then suddenly.

“You see our hea-ar-arts beat to the sound of the guns. Oh, what a shame, since they were loved by some oooone, and while you’re watching us die…

“Let’s make the most of this life, because we’re going to die young!”

He stabbed out the improvised lyrics like he stabbed at the keys; short, staccato sounds that vibrated his teeth and left a bitter taste in his mouth. His body was flowing, moving into the words and the sound that his fingers made on the ivory.

“Yes indeed, we’re going to die young.”

Pounding keys. Rhythmic tapping. Index index middle.

“We’re gonna fucking die young.”

Slam. Slap. Pound. Punch.

His knuckles hurt from the impact of flesh on ivory, his neck cramped from craning at the camera throughout his own little musical meltdown. He didn’t give the lens the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, of seeing anything other than his own snarling visage and sunglasses, glaring into it.

And then, he straightened, grabbing the carbine with both hands, striding around the piano with purpose. Keeping it between him and the entrance to the reception area, Matt cocked the gun, propped it against the gleaming black, put his eye to the sight.

“Come out,” he called, experimentally, listening to his voice echo faintly.

And he waited.

[Latin For Dragula]

((CS1: Vahka Basayev Start))

Pause. Clap. Wait.

He ran through the actions in his head like so many afternoon routines. It was all measured. All planned. Everything had a purpose. All that was missing was practice.

The routine had come to him as he listened to the brief musical interlude provided by whatever other poor fucker had woken up inside the hotel with him. It actually didn't sound half bad. Maybe this guy had wanted to be a musician on the outside.

They'd all wanted something. Most of them weren't getting it. Vahka intended to be one of the lucky few who did. So he planned ahead. He worked out his performance. And he waited for an opportunity to get ahead.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Pause.

He waited out of sight around a corner. Whoever was in there sounded like they had heat, and they were waiting to use it. He wasn't about to head in there while they were keyed up with it. If they decided to come around here for him, though...

Well hey. Free upgrade. Had to be better than a goddamn camera.

As the last echoes from his applause died down, he spoke. "Good pipes. I'd give it a 7. Gun's outta key, though."

[The Honeless Beard]

Matt grit his teeth, nestling the rifle closer to his shoulder, pressing his cheek harder into the cold metal. When he heard the voice, his only thought was big.

Deep voice, loud clapping, a creak of floorboards.

"Everybody's a critic," Matt fired back, adjusting the gun again.

"What colour's your bandanna, big guy? Answer correctly and you might win the right to continue this conversation."

[Latin For Dragula]

Vahka chuckled. "Now, now. That ain't no way to treat a fan."

Knuckles cracked loudly to accent his point. "Tell you what. How about you come around backstage and I'll show ya."

Come on, birdie. Let's see how smart you are.

[The Honeless Beard]

"Tempting offer," Matt said, tightening his grip on his gun, "but my manager couldn't allow it. What would the tabloids say?"

This wasn't getting him anywhere. He needed to think, use that big boy brain of his. What was the play? What was the call?

Burning daylight, the coaches used to say. We're burnin' daylight, boys. Let's get to work.

"Come now, big fella. You're not scared of meeting a star, are you?"

[Latin For Dragula]

Hmm. Birdie's got a brain.

Vahka shifted slightly, trying to gauge how close the other boy was. Could he rush him? Was he getting closer while they talked? Should he just cut his losses and rush out, hoping he didn't get followed or mowed down?

Not a damn clue. So he kept waiting.

"Well now you've caught me," he drawled out, "turns out I'm just a big ol' blushin' violet and you've got me all worked up, 'specially about all that talk about colors. 'fraid I might disappoint ya."

[The Honeless Beard]

Advance? Retreat? Hold still? Where the fuck was he?

"I do have that effect," Matt said, straightening from his perch, reaching slowly with one hand towards his bag. With two fingers, he snagged the strap, lifted it slowly to his person, shrugged into it with one arm flailing as the other kept his grip on the rifle.

The bag made slight jingling noises as the zippers tapped against the fabric, and he winced with each small noise, talking to cover it up.

"It's both a blessing and a curse, really. Bitches can't get enough of what I got, you know?"

Okay, bag's on, Weiss. Now boogie.

"Unfortunately, all stars have to make an exit sometime, big guy," he said, strafing towards the front doors, rifle pointed to the origin of the bigger boy's voice, "and my time is about up."

As his voice finished ringing out, there was a creak as his chuck pressed against floorboard, a cacophony amidst the silence of their voices.

[Latin For Dragula]

The creak from the floorboards signaled that the small-talk was over.

You're mine, Birdie.

He sprung from his position, ducking low almost immediately as he rounded the corner to try and avoid fire and roared as loud as he could, a wild grin soaking across his face into his eyes, daring the smaller boy in his sights to try and stop his charge.

[The Honeless Beard]

And try to stop him, he did.

Without a second thought, he dropped to a combat position, pulling the trigger on the rifle once - twice - bracing for the explosion, the kick against shoulder, the scent of sulfur - whatever the fuck you felt when you shot a gun.

When it didn't happen, he didn't try to fix the problem. He did what he did best.

Matt improvised.

Vahka was big, but he'd played against bigger. He was fast, but Matt had been hit by faster. He timed the step to Vahka's stampede, putting his hip into Vahka's shoulder and pivoting hard, spinning like the gun was the ball and Vahka was a defensive tackle, breaking out of the hold as the big boy's arms nearly closed the circle.

Hip bruised, he backpedaled quickly, taking the time to glance down at his gun, flip the safety off, and then shoulder it again as his back hit the opposing wall, breathing heavily.

"Want a bullet? Try again."

[Latin For Dragula]

The ground wasn't particularly soft to land on, but after he did it seemed a hell of a lot more welcoming. Getting up wasn't a prospect he was looking forward to, but he held his hands up and started to rise slowly, keeping his movements measured and his eyes on Birdie.

"Goddamn, not only can ya sing, but you can dance." he said with a laugh. "You really are a fuckin' super-star. And you're right, another stunt and I'll probably will catch a bullet or two."

He kept grinning as he looked over, first at the gun and then at Mister Super-Star himself. "If you're lucky, that'll stop me. If I'm lucky, you'll come up dry again and have to think of a new trick before beat I your ass in. If we're both lucky, though? We'll call it a draw, and you can dance your way right out of here, super-star."

He tensed up just in case Birdie was a betting man.

[The Honeless Beard]

It was then that Matt realized that this wasn't some posturing that the other kid was going through. It wasn't an act, something to put him off of his game or shake up the foundation of Matt's core. It wasn't a psychological assault on him, or some ego boost.

The guy was literally fucking insane. Totally bonkers. Completely psychotic.

A rabid goddamn dog.

Matt considered his words very seriously, weighing them delicately. It took him about a second to make up his mind.

Matt pulled the trigger.

This time, there was an explosion.

[Latin For Dragula]

Back home, there was pact among the performers in his group. The way they worked had a decent chance of someone getting hurt. It didn't happen often, but when it did, they had to deal with it. If it was just too much, the show stopped, that's it, game over. But nine times out of 10, you gritted your teeth and worked through the pain with whatever emotion the routine called for.

So even as Vahka's attempted juke failed and the bullet tore across his shoulder, he kept grinning.

As the blood ran down over his arm, he kept grinning.

And in his mind, as he pictured his charge finally catching up to Birdie and wrapping his fingers around his neck, he was sure as hell grinning, and that one wasn't fake. So he surged forward with the craziest laugh he could manage, arm outstretched and meaty fingers poised to hook into whatever they could catch.

[The Honeless Beard]

Matt's eyes widened as the bullet sunk into flesh, and widened further when it did literally nothing to stop the giant. All at once, he was David with a slingshot and Goliath was apparently wearing armor made entirely from batshit insanity.

The bullet hit his shoulder, and he still continued forwards, moving for a high hit - arms aiming for Matt's upper chest or face, couldn't tell which. Matt swung his torso lower, then juke-stepped to the side, spinning away from the giant's grasp.

He recognized a losing battle when he saw one, and so tore down the hallway of the hotel lobby, throwing chairs and the piano bench in his path to hopefully slow the crazy motherfucker down.

He just hoped it was enough.

((Matthew Weiss, You Snooze, You Lose))

[Latin For Dragula]

He missed. Goddamn this birdie was a slippery fucker.

Before he could rebound and go for a follow-up charge, his gun-toting dance partner was already hauling ass out of the building. That suited him just fine, as long as he didn't get shot up anymore.

He relaxed, and on cue the burning pain in his shoulder welled up.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuck..."he swore through clenched lips as he rolled around the corner to retrieve his discarded bag. It could have been worse. Birdie coulda caught him in his dominant arm. What would have been a lot better was not getting shot in the first place, though.

He tensed and seethed and growled as he cleaned off the wound and whipped out his first aid kit. Luckily, it was only a surface graze along the side of his shoulder. He didn't want to think about how bad it would have hurt to take it right in the shoulder, or how much of a bitch it would have been to try and get the bullet out.

In character, he did crazy shit all the time. He'd been beaten, concussed, stabbed, shot, and worse in scenes over the years, and he'd taken it all with a grin. In character, this was only a minor setback and he wouldn't think about it anymore.

Back in reality though, the wheels were turning in his mind. Charging fuckers with guns really wasn't gonna work out for him if all of them knew how to dance like that. He needed to plan his attacks better, and keep away from fights with unknown quantities. He'd gotten greedy, and it coulda cost him if Birdie hadn't ran off on him. He should probably be dead.

Still, he kept smiling. The public was watching.

They wanted a goddamn show, and he was gonna give it to them.

((Vahka Basayev continued in Tales To Tell))