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Jul. 9th, 2017 08:39 amHe should've fucking known this was going to happen.
Laura Moon, dead goddamn bitch that she is, has him by the balls. Literally by the balls. Halfway up a wall in Ostara's home, squeezing every last bit of feeling out of them and he's not convinced she's not about to rip them right off his body.
"Which. Fucking. God."
"Me fucking god," he answers with a groan of pain. "I ran you off the road."
"See, here I thought I hit the gearshift with my shoulder. All this time I've been blaming myself. I guess now I have somebody else to blame, right?" She twists her hand to punctuate the question and Mad Sweeney feels a scream rising in him before he can stop it.
"That's right," he manages to grind out. "I killed you. I killed you fuckin' dead."
"No," Laura answers and he should have fucking known. Should've seen this coming a mile off. She's a right cunt, but she sure as fuck isn't stupid. "You are not a god. She said I was killed by a god. You are a lot of things, but you are not a god. Which fucking god? I will squeeze 'em straight out of the sack. It'll be like shucking peas. I swear to Jesus. He's right outside."
There's no avoiding it. Hell, he's not even sure why he would want to. It's not as if Wednesday has done him any favours recently.
"You know which god," he says.
"Of course I know which god. I wanna hear you fucking say it, so say it."
She squeezes again and Sweeney groans and he knows if he wants to keep his balls, he'll have to say it. And he very much wants to keep his testicles exactly where they are, so he grits out, "Wednesday."
And, blessedly, she lets him go. He'd like to collapse with some measure of grace, but instead he crumples to the floor, grabbing at his crotch and coughing as she paces the length of the hallway.
"Fuck that guy," she says. "Why? Why me? Why murder me?"
"You weren't murdered," he answers as he drags himself into a sitting position against the wall. "You were sacrificed."
It's all about Shadow. She knows it, he knows it, the only one who doesn't know it is old brown eyes out there, thick as he is. He hasn't had a goddamn clue from the start and Sweeney knows he hadn't tried that hard to warn him, but he'd fucking said it. He'd told him not to trust Wednesday and now here he is, in over his bloody stupid head, his dead wife about to shit a brick because her whole life has been torn to shreds by a god. For Shadow.
"Act of god?" she asks. "Just fucking with us to fuck with us?"
He almost laughs, but it's too fucking sad, and he tilts his head against the wall to look at her. Dead wife, her eyes all milky, skin as grey as the stone of her grave marker. She would've been pretty once, with that pale skin and full lips, but there's a hard, dark place in the pit of her and Mad Sweeney wonders what the fuck it is Shadow saw in her. What he wanted. If all he ever wanted was to save her from herself. He's sure as shit doing a pisspoor job of it now, if that's what it is.
"What do you think gods do?" he asks. "They do what they've always done. They fuck with us. They fuck with all of us. Don't take it personally." His mouth flickers into a faint smirk. "I don't. He needed your man. Needed him to be in a place where he had nothin' left in the world. Nothin' to lose 'cause he'd already lost everything."
It's what gods do. Wednesday would say it's a give and take, that someone has to give a little in order to get a little, but the truth is that mortals give everything they have, every last bit of themselves to these fucking gods, and get nearly nothing in return. Hell, Sweeney might not be a god, but at least all he asks for is some fucking cream and a bit of bread, and his return, when it comes, is like a bloody windfall.
He closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, waiting for the pain to fade, and then he climbs to the feet, sliding up the wall bit by bit. There's no question what she'll want to do now and he's none too pleased about it, but it's not as if he has a choice. Wednesday will know. He probably already knows and so Sweeney opens his eyes and is about to tell Laura they ought to head out for her inevitable confrontation, but he finds himself alone.
In fact, he finds himself somewhere else entirely.
"What the fuck."
It's dark and he fumbles around for the wall, looking for a light switch of some kind. There's nothing that he can feel and so he walks, fingertips of one hand trailing against the wall, keeping him steady until he comes to a door that he pushes open and when light floods in, he steps out into an alley, a beer bottle spinning away from him when he knocks it with the toe of his boot.
"What the fuck," he says again, squinting into the sun. It smells like Dead Wife is somewhere nearby, but he thinks that might just be the level of piss and shit in this alley, corners of it populated by huddled bundles of rags he assumes must be people. It's like a fucking homeless camp he's wandered into and Sweeney's luck might be for shit right now, but this is not going to be his last fucking stop.
It's not Kentucky, wherever he is now. It's not any city he's seen before, but he looks for a familiar landmark regardless, stepping out into the street and glancing around. It's as he's looking, still shielding his eyes from the sun, that a cyclist races by him on one side, making the tail of his jacket flap in their wake and he hears a curse called back at him. What he wants to think is he's damned lucky he didn't get hit, but he knows it's just the opposite. It's his bad fucking luck that he stepped out of the alley into the cyclist's path in the first place.
What he needs to do now is steal a car. Drive to Wisconsin, meet them all at the House on the Rock. Whatever the fuck just happened to him now, he'll blame Wednesday and go from there. It doesn't matter. What matters is getting where he needs to be and fuck the rest.
It's a shit area of the city by the looks of it and as he walks toward a rusted blue car, he figures no one's even going to notice him stealing it. And if they do, he'll just have to fight them for it. Might do him some good, after all, relieving some of this tension.
Laura Moon, dead goddamn bitch that she is, has him by the balls. Literally by the balls. Halfway up a wall in Ostara's home, squeezing every last bit of feeling out of them and he's not convinced she's not about to rip them right off his body.
"Which. Fucking. God."
"Me fucking god," he answers with a groan of pain. "I ran you off the road."
"See, here I thought I hit the gearshift with my shoulder. All this time I've been blaming myself. I guess now I have somebody else to blame, right?" She twists her hand to punctuate the question and Mad Sweeney feels a scream rising in him before he can stop it.
"That's right," he manages to grind out. "I killed you. I killed you fuckin' dead."
"No," Laura answers and he should have fucking known. Should've seen this coming a mile off. She's a right cunt, but she sure as fuck isn't stupid. "You are not a god. She said I was killed by a god. You are a lot of things, but you are not a god. Which fucking god? I will squeeze 'em straight out of the sack. It'll be like shucking peas. I swear to Jesus. He's right outside."
There's no avoiding it. Hell, he's not even sure why he would want to. It's not as if Wednesday has done him any favours recently.
"You know which god," he says.
"Of course I know which god. I wanna hear you fucking say it, so say it."
She squeezes again and Sweeney groans and he knows if he wants to keep his balls, he'll have to say it. And he very much wants to keep his testicles exactly where they are, so he grits out, "Wednesday."
And, blessedly, she lets him go. He'd like to collapse with some measure of grace, but instead he crumples to the floor, grabbing at his crotch and coughing as she paces the length of the hallway.
"Fuck that guy," she says. "Why? Why me? Why murder me?"
"You weren't murdered," he answers as he drags himself into a sitting position against the wall. "You were sacrificed."
It's all about Shadow. She knows it, he knows it, the only one who doesn't know it is old brown eyes out there, thick as he is. He hasn't had a goddamn clue from the start and Sweeney knows he hadn't tried that hard to warn him, but he'd fucking said it. He'd told him not to trust Wednesday and now here he is, in over his bloody stupid head, his dead wife about to shit a brick because her whole life has been torn to shreds by a god. For Shadow.
"Act of god?" she asks. "Just fucking with us to fuck with us?"
He almost laughs, but it's too fucking sad, and he tilts his head against the wall to look at her. Dead wife, her eyes all milky, skin as grey as the stone of her grave marker. She would've been pretty once, with that pale skin and full lips, but there's a hard, dark place in the pit of her and Mad Sweeney wonders what the fuck it is Shadow saw in her. What he wanted. If all he ever wanted was to save her from herself. He's sure as shit doing a pisspoor job of it now, if that's what it is.
"What do you think gods do?" he asks. "They do what they've always done. They fuck with us. They fuck with all of us. Don't take it personally." His mouth flickers into a faint smirk. "I don't. He needed your man. Needed him to be in a place where he had nothin' left in the world. Nothin' to lose 'cause he'd already lost everything."
It's what gods do. Wednesday would say it's a give and take, that someone has to give a little in order to get a little, but the truth is that mortals give everything they have, every last bit of themselves to these fucking gods, and get nearly nothing in return. Hell, Sweeney might not be a god, but at least all he asks for is some fucking cream and a bit of bread, and his return, when it comes, is like a bloody windfall.
He closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, waiting for the pain to fade, and then he climbs to the feet, sliding up the wall bit by bit. There's no question what she'll want to do now and he's none too pleased about it, but it's not as if he has a choice. Wednesday will know. He probably already knows and so Sweeney opens his eyes and is about to tell Laura they ought to head out for her inevitable confrontation, but he finds himself alone.
In fact, he finds himself somewhere else entirely.
"What the fuck."
It's dark and he fumbles around for the wall, looking for a light switch of some kind. There's nothing that he can feel and so he walks, fingertips of one hand trailing against the wall, keeping him steady until he comes to a door that he pushes open and when light floods in, he steps out into an alley, a beer bottle spinning away from him when he knocks it with the toe of his boot.
"What the fuck," he says again, squinting into the sun. It smells like Dead Wife is somewhere nearby, but he thinks that might just be the level of piss and shit in this alley, corners of it populated by huddled bundles of rags he assumes must be people. It's like a fucking homeless camp he's wandered into and Sweeney's luck might be for shit right now, but this is not going to be his last fucking stop.
It's not Kentucky, wherever he is now. It's not any city he's seen before, but he looks for a familiar landmark regardless, stepping out into the street and glancing around. It's as he's looking, still shielding his eyes from the sun, that a cyclist races by him on one side, making the tail of his jacket flap in their wake and he hears a curse called back at him. What he wants to think is he's damned lucky he didn't get hit, but he knows it's just the opposite. It's his bad fucking luck that he stepped out of the alley into the cyclist's path in the first place.
What he needs to do now is steal a car. Drive to Wisconsin, meet them all at the House on the Rock. Whatever the fuck just happened to him now, he'll blame Wednesday and go from there. It doesn't matter. What matters is getting where he needs to be and fuck the rest.
It's a shit area of the city by the looks of it and as he walks toward a rusted blue car, he figures no one's even going to notice him stealing it. And if they do, he'll just have to fight them for it. Might do him some good, after all, relieving some of this tension.
