![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
[Spades Slick has a thing for dogs.
They're good animals, dogs; one of the extremely few creatures that he's kind of actually somewhat come a tiny bit close to not completely hating. They're smelly and loud and pee on the carpet, but hey, so does Boxcars and Slick still keeps him around.
Not unlike his loutish minion, dogs are loyal and, more importantly, stupid. A dog isn't constantly scheming up new ways to fuck with you, like a cat or certain psychotic Dersite hellbitches. Dogs just obey you and bite your enemies and fetch the newspaper, asking only a bit of attention and the occasional belly rub in return. In short, they are Slick's ideal pet.
Up until now, of course, he's never had the chance to actually see one outside of pictures, Midnight City not possessing any life save for carapaces and certain green assholes not to be named. He did have those dalmatians at the fire station, but Slick had a nasty falling out with them after losing to them at poker.
No, what he needed were some pups that he could raise fromscratch the beginning and train to be bloodthirsty killers. So when the words "pet store" hit Slick's ears, he knew he was going to have to be careful not to go overboard.
He's pretty proud of himself when he manages to leave the pet store having only bought 15 Scottish Terrier puppies.
Slick can be found:]
[A. At the park, having decided that leashes are for chumps, and the best thing you can do with a pack of newly-purchased puppies is to turn them loose on an unsuspecting populace. He is busy throwing tennis balls up and down the park and cackling when the entire pack of puppies go chasing after them.]
Nice hustle, boys! Remember, we start with tennis balls, then we move on to kidneys. Pick it up, Slick Jr, I want to see some sweat!
[B. Outside the bar, in the middle of a heated argument with a drone standing in front of the door. The puppies are sitting behind him, wagging their tails obliviously.] "No dogs allowed"!? The hell do you think you're talking to!? I'm gonna give you one chance to get the fuck outta our way before I sic these little monsters on ya. Better get moving mac or you're gonna end up Kibbles, capiche?
Still not gonna move, eh? This fuckin' guy. Give 'em hell, boys.
[Silence. The puppies do not appear to be willing to give 'em hell.]
Goddammit, boys, we talked about this! Just- one second, pal, don't go anywhere. You're gonna get the mauling of your life in a second, that's a promise.
[C. At home in his front yard, where Slick appears to have rigged up a bizarre scarecrow. In place of a head, he's taped up a white paper plate, and he has covered the figure with barbeque sauce. The puppies are, naturally, going at it with gusto, while Slick cheers them on with devilish glee.]
That's it! Rip 'im a new one, boys! Don't let him distract you with his stupid bullshit rambling, just focus on tearing him to pieces. I'll make you runts into Crew dogs if it kills me! Or you. Preferably someone else entirely.
They're good animals, dogs; one of the extremely few creatures that he's kind of actually somewhat come a tiny bit close to not completely hating. They're smelly and loud and pee on the carpet, but hey, so does Boxcars and Slick still keeps him around.
Not unlike his loutish minion, dogs are loyal and, more importantly, stupid. A dog isn't constantly scheming up new ways to fuck with you, like a cat or certain psychotic Dersite hellbitches. Dogs just obey you and bite your enemies and fetch the newspaper, asking only a bit of attention and the occasional belly rub in return. In short, they are Slick's ideal pet.
Up until now, of course, he's never had the chance to actually see one outside of pictures, Midnight City not possessing any life save for carapaces and certain green assholes not to be named. He did have those dalmatians at the fire station, but Slick had a nasty falling out with them after losing to them at poker.
No, what he needed were some pups that he could raise from
He's pretty proud of himself when he manages to leave the pet store having only bought 15 Scottish Terrier puppies.
Slick can be found:]
[A. At the park, having decided that leashes are for chumps, and the best thing you can do with a pack of newly-purchased puppies is to turn them loose on an unsuspecting populace. He is busy throwing tennis balls up and down the park and cackling when the entire pack of puppies go chasing after them.]
Nice hustle, boys! Remember, we start with tennis balls, then we move on to kidneys. Pick it up, Slick Jr, I want to see some sweat!
[B. Outside the bar, in the middle of a heated argument with a drone standing in front of the door. The puppies are sitting behind him, wagging their tails obliviously.] "No dogs allowed"!? The hell do you think you're talking to!? I'm gonna give you one chance to get the fuck outta our way before I sic these little monsters on ya. Better get moving mac or you're gonna end up Kibbles, capiche?
Still not gonna move, eh? This fuckin' guy. Give 'em hell, boys.
[Silence. The puppies do not appear to be willing to give 'em hell.]
Goddammit, boys, we talked about this! Just- one second, pal, don't go anywhere. You're gonna get the mauling of your life in a second, that's a promise.
[C. At home in his front yard, where Slick appears to have rigged up a bizarre scarecrow. In place of a head, he's taped up a white paper plate, and he has covered the figure with barbeque sauce. The puppies are, naturally, going at it with gusto, while Slick cheers them on with devilish glee.]
That's it! Rip 'im a new one, boys! Don't let him distract you with his stupid bullshit rambling, just focus on tearing him to pieces. I'll make you runts into Crew dogs if it kills me! Or you. Preferably someone else entirely.
88 comments | Leave a comment