[ The device has fallen out of someone's pocket--most likely Ray or Pig's--and is broadcasting a rather gruesome scene: among the shouts and the cries of all three involved and the chaos that ensues, it's fairly obvious.

Stephen Stills is on the pavement of an alley way, curled up and bleeding, and a teenage Raymond Leon is currently using all of his strength to keep Pig from landing another kick to the older man's ribs. It's not exactly a pretty sight--especially since Pig manages to get free and land the heel of his boot directly onto Stephen's elbow, smashing him as hard as he could and spitting.

You realize Pig, Pig be King o' this fucking place and you be get what you want, eh? Less you want more, foxy?!

[ The question doesn't have to be answered--Pig's going in for Stephen once more, laughter spilling from his lips. He's enjoying this. ]
07 March 2012 @ 11:50 pm
[ It's evident on Pig's face--rather how he doesn't look up--that he's in his own world. Distant. A tongue darts out to lick dried lips and blue eyes focus on the screen--he's got a definite Irish accent, certainly from Cork, but the way he's dropping words and rearranging sentences is still a little jarring. ]

There we be. Pig and Runt. Warm like. Drinky drinky and I says "Happy Birthday, Runt!" And she? She smiles. [ There's a bit of a laugh but there's absolutely no humour in it. ]

But now where Pig, eh? Where Pig? No club, no fucking Runt. No Runt--No Runt.

Just.... Pig.

Where he be, yeah?