Cats in the Cradle-(Jesse Fforde)

[Balthazar]

“Yeah. Seattle was and is what you can call home for me if that really applies in the grand scheme of things.” The sound of the ink gun in the gloved hand next to his ear did little to drown out the truth of his thoughts spilling out of his own lips. “Once upon a time a salesman named Christopher dropped in and knocked up a prison guard answering to the call of Kita. They shacked up, made vows they could never keep and she gave birth there alone nine months later. What every super hero starts out like, right?”

Christopher could be any other loser asshole with the same name and Kita, well granted that was a little more unique. Still it was not like the dude was going to find it was enough to put two and two together. He seemed pretty clueless to more than simple coincidence going on between their common last name they both sported. No sleight of hand tricks or hidden rabbits pulled out of thin cool air as he stayed still for the artist working on him.

“But that has **** all to do with your talent which speaks for itself. You wouldn’t be getting paid to sink your ink to my skin if it wasn’t there beforehand. I never paid a couple days work to talk to someone out of boredom. Nice *** or not I work harder than that.” The twitch of two sharp well waxed curls of meticulously tended facial hair over his lip said as much. While he let that all sink in he decided not to dwell on anything too concrete in case the ink man was looking to get his work done instead of playing ‘Who is your Daddy?’ “I have been practicing on my balls.” Realizing that needed a little more information for it not to sound so fucked up he decided to expand on it. “I pulled off a not too shabby Lichtenstein on a Titleist Pro V1 Golf Ball while killing time on the ride from Miami to Tokyo. Not sure where the talent comes from because neither one of my parents can't even draw an simple X to map out a much needed spot to disappear from the planet.”

[Jesse Fforde]

The name ‘Christopher’ was dropped into the middle of conversation, and it could have been inane. It could have been random and inconsequential if it weren’t paired with the insinuation that Christopher was Balthazar’s father. Balthazar Fforde, father Christopher Fforde. Everything else Balthazar said afterwards was muffled, even unheard. The machine stopped its incessant buzz, stray ink and blood wiped very slowly from reddened skin.

Jesse took no notice of the compliments, nor did he even realise that the man was talking about painting golf balls as a hobby – something that Jesse might have made fun of if his brain wasn’t whirring at a million miles an hour. He remembered that one picture of his father that he had, all others thrown out or burned. This one picture had been salvaged and shared between himself and Jordan like a precious gem. The creases from where they’d folded it obscured the image a little, but the face was still visible. Jesse had looked at that picture so much in his childhood that it was ingrained in his memory, never to be forgotten; it had gone to the grave with Jordan. Or so he had to assume. He couldn’t remember ever looking at it after his brother’s death, and would have no idea where to find it now, if he were to look.

He sat back in his chair, assessing Balthazar. Jesse was young, by anyone’s standard. And Balthazar looked older, even if not by that much. Christopher was dead, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have sired another son before Jesse was… well, how old would he have been? Jesse had to admit he didn’t know much about his father; the guy had died when he was six years old, and his mother refused to talk about him.

”Who the **** are you?” he said, finally. ”Is this some kind of ******* joke? Did my mother put you up to this?” he asked, the tattoo machine hanging limp in his grasp.

[Balthazar]

“No, man. I’m clueless on who your mother is. Wouldn’t know her if I saw her.” The cessation of the ink gun wasn’t disturbing Balthazar any. He didn’t make any moves to appear as if he was prepared for any specific reaction out of the one holding it either. “You can thank Chris for this visit.”

Finally the bold stare down taking place was cut short as he looked down at the casual flexing of his shoulder to take in the work so far completed. He needed more done to make it worth what he was being charged. The slow blooming of fresh rich crimson appeared at the surface of his skin. Pink was lacing the edges of the lines that were in need of connection to the rest of what eventually would form the design he expected. Balthazar was known to be many things and patient was always at the top. Direct as a flying brick to the face came in a tight second.

“As for who the **** I am…” The spans of heavily inked and bare to the air shoulders rolled back. “Balthazar Fforde. Thought we got that established already.”

With a slow swipe of the pad of his thumb the peppering of blood was smeared away from the recent work that brought it to the surface. A brief brush of the same digit over the pink surface of his human lips had it disappearing only the length of time that it would take for it to be cleared of any signs of his own blood on the glistening tip.

“I will break it down for you. I know I was ******* stunned when I had him telling me about this a week or so ago.” Balthazar eyed Jesse. He would cut him some slack. He figured the dude was feeling a little close to what he did when he sat across the table from Christopher while he tried to purge his last secrets so that he could die with some sense of peace. “He bailed on my mom and whether she fully knew why or not is no sweat off my *** anymore. I give a **** less really. They deserved each other...still do. Well, for as long as he has left which isn’t much. Probably will be gone by the time I get back to Seattle.” Finally Balthazar sat up straight so that the length of his spine went north and south visibly. “Plain and simple he came and then he went. More than I bothered keeping count of. Supposedly he was always on the road selling **** no one wanted to buy. When he got tired of the deal with Kita he made tracks and hooked up with your mom. When that was too much to handle he more than likely left your mom hanging with a couple mouths to feed like he did Kita. Well, sort of. I made it easy on both of them and ditched their dysfunctional scene in grade school and shacked up across my backyard.”

Now that all that was in the space between them it seemed as good as time as any for him to check out what he was sporting so far. The soles of his boots dropped from the foot rest bar beneath the chair he was sitting in and connected to the floor. Feeling solid and comfortable in his own skin despite the creepy vibe returning in the air he slid his hips forward and rose to his full height without any concern whatsoever. A man like Balthazar held the weight of the world on his shoulders all his life. It took a hell of a lot to shake him. So far he saw none of what it would take to break him down or bring him to his knees. Not in Seattle and not in the boondocks of Canada.

“I’m going to check out what you got going on so far. Sit tight. Got any questions when I get back I will see if I can give you some answers.” With that said Balthazar headed back to where he had been checking out the outline on his shoulder before Jesse started to make it permanent.

[Jesse Fforde]

It wasn’t as if Jesse really believed his mother would have been behind this. It was only after he’d asked the question that he realised how silly it was. Would she really have gone this far to find Jesse, to get his attention? Probably not. What would he know? He hadn’t seen her in years. Maybe she’d gone to great lengths to get clean. But why not come herself, then? No, this was something different.

Jesse didn’t take his eyes from Balthazar’s face, even as the other broke the stare to press a finger to the unfinished tattoo. Jesse didn’t have to look to know that the blood was blossoming upon the skin. With barely any ink there to thin the blood, he could smell it. Clear as day, fresh as a daisy. He had to remind himself not to breathe, but it was hard to keep control of his senses when confronted with such a revelation. Truths from his past that he finding it a little hard to believe.

Not only was Balthazar trying to tell Jesse that his father was still alive, he was single-handedly dashing every single imagined vision Jesse had had of Christopher Fforde. Jesse vaguely remembered a life that was better, where they were one of those catalogue families. Over the years he might have enhanced the memories, made them out to be better than what they were. It didn’t matter; he’d imagined a father he could have respected and admired, in order to make everything else worth it. Now, all of that was being taken away from him.

While Balthazar had got up to go and review his ink in the mirror, Jesse had sat unmoving; the tattoo machine had been put aside, his fingers digging into the denim of his jeans over his thighs. A few long seconds had him shaking his head and standing, soundless. Questions? No, maybe not questions. But he had a lot of rage. He didn’t make a sound as he approached the man at the mirror standing behind him. He shouldn’t have. He knew a lack of a reflection would give him away. At this point, he didn’t care. He’d lost his wits.

”My father is dead,” he said. ”My father is dead and his death drove my mother to alcoholism. His brother took advantage of her weakness, and murdered my twin. I grew up no better than an orphan. If you’re trying to tell me my father is still alive, then yes. He will be gone by the time you get back because I’m going to go find him. And I’m going to slit his throat,” Jesse growled.

[Balthazar]

Balthazar stood facing the mirror and eyed the reflection of the work done so far on his shoulder. The mirror revealed it was coming along nicely and was heading for success. Just as he turned on the heels of his boots still facing the mirror he felt a heavy dose of the creeps coming for him. He nearly jumped out of his own skin when he turned to find the totally unexpected solid frame of Jesse looming closer than anyone should get without being noticed.

“Fuckin’ A!” He could swear his heart lost it’s rhythm then and there. His hand slapped the surface of his open palm to the left side of his chest as if that was all it took to get it working. “You are one creepy *** mother ******. You know that?” Balthazar’s top lip twitched just enough the sharp curls balancing on each end of his mouth visibly danced. The space they now shared was tight quarters but the topic of their conversation was intense enough it was going to continue right where they were. Balthazar felt like his system was being hijacked by something totally out of his control but no shits were to be had on his end. “Shitty role to get handed. Before you climb up on the stage of life and take any ******* awards better wait for them to announce the winner. This Fforde lived in the backyard at the neighbor’s place because otherwise I didn’t exist.The closest thing I had to a family was stinking up the very same room I was crashing in, suffocating slower than anyone should ever have to. Outside him I didn’t have **** that I cared about enough to even be butt hurt over losing. Try being a ghost.”

Balthazar wasn’t without some empathy for Jesse. He nodded slowly, his eyes clearly scanning the space beyond Jesse as if to make a point he was doing pretty damn good despite all the crap he went through.He certainly didn’t think the guy was being overly dramatic for effect either. Christopher Fforde left a shitstorm no matter where he went and it appears in his end of life he was finally putting out the truth about the collateral damage he was leaving behind. His time grew shorter by the seconds as Balthazar ignored the tingle on the surface of his skin. The unfinished work would be just that. He was not about to tell the guy to grab his ink gun and get back at his hide. Obviously he needed a little time for the Ballad of the Fucked up Ffordes to stop ringing through his ears.

“You wanna find him then open up the glove box.” Balthazar’s hand produced the keys to Christopher’s pride and joy that was taking up two parking spaces in the parking lot outside. He tossed them to Jesse and shrugged. “The address is good on the title to the car. There is a switchblade in there. Help yourself. It may need sharpening. The drive is long enough you should be able to get it where you want it before you hit Seattle.”

[Jesse Fforde]

The keys jangled in front of Jesse and the offer should have jolted him to his senses. Instead, the anger had only mounted, growing like a fast-spreading spore from the controlled centre of his being out to the furthest reaches of his fingertips. Thirst was something that Jesse Fforde was never without, and his reaction to blood was always violent and psychotic. To keep working like he did he had to control himself; he had to focus more on the scent of the ink than that of the blood, had to pretend that the blood itself was only pigment. He had become good at it.

This, however, was a different situation entirely. Not only were Jesse’s emotions being toyed with, but this ****** tried to compete with Jesse’s sad tale of woe. As if Jesse’s story was worthless, nothing compared to the suffering Balthazar had been subject to. Jesse, who would so often pretend that he was not sensitive could, in fact, be set off with only the slightest spark. It felt like an attack, regardless of whether it was intended as one or not.

Where Balthazar suggested a switchblade could be sharpened, Jesse’s upper lip curled back to reveal the scalpel-sharp incisors that could rip through any neck better than a switchblade ever could. And suddenly, it was not Balthazar standing in front of Jesse but a vision of a smiling father whom he had imagined all his life, suddenly letting him down in the worst way possible. It was a vision of Uncle Tommy, who’d taken what his father had left behind and pummelled it into the earth. It was a vision of Micah, a cousin who was no better. Balthazar had suddenly become all those stronger people in Jesse’s life who could have been role models and who had failed in spectacular ways. The frenzy could not be stopped, the thirst could not be denied.

It took only a second, and Jesse was no longer the semi-amiable tattoo artist, but a creepy *** motherfucking monster, its fingers curled into Balthazar’s hair only to wrench his head to the side so that eager incisors could tear into stubbled flesh. Denial mixed with rage, and Jesse Fforde consumed the blood of his brother – who had unwittingly poked the beast.

[Balthazar]

Balthazar had no clue what he was up against. He thought he did. Enough so that he was making the biggest mistake a warm blooded man could do. Think and act like the human he was with a sure as **** vampire hooked to his neck. The flame hot yank of his hair and the wildfire of burn spreading across the scalp beneath was too quick for him to react. Every warning sign, every nerve shocking fight or flight message trying to stake claim to his warm body was sending his inked up meathooks to grab the cool skin of the one stuck to his neck. The very one who was sporting an amazing grip on his locks.

“Get the **** off me!” Balthazar roared with protest while he tugged only to feel how painfully deep their physical connection was. His neck was on fire. Like Jesse somehow shifted into some fanged beast and blindsided him. “I said…”

He couldn’t finish his words. The younger lanky guy he seriously underestimated was not only the one who left his ink unfinished and who shared the same father. He was a ******* vampire! All the strength that surged through Balthazar’s horror stricken body did nothing to change what was happening. The hiss of his worn boots scraping at the flooring beneath him and his grunts as he did all he could to gain purchase was nothing more than noise in the end. The sharp lethal points penetrating his neck had him held in place like he was wee wiggling salmon in a ravenous grizzly’s jaws. All that was needed to complete the scene in his mind was someone hitting the lights and announcing that his show was over.

“His wallet is in my pocket. Take it.” His voice was more like a strangled croak than what he expected to hear in his own ears.

Balthazar oddly was distracted briefly in the moment he believed his life was ending. He couldn’t help but notice how the visually sharp curls at each end of his mustache were appearing to go limp. This reminded him of how his top of the line wax was running low when he was packing to leave Seattle. His choice to pick up any old wax on the way to Canada proved to be a bad one after all. The fang induced muscle cramp in his neck swelled to the point it hurt to move his eyeballs. Enough was enough. He was feeling like he was supposed to knock on heaven’s door but it was still down the hall from where he was standing.

“You are killing the ******* messenger, man!” He growled as tried his best to land his fist into Jesse’s skull with the last of his strength centered in his surprisingly pale hand. Even his lips were going numb. Leave it to Christopher and the piece of ****'s fuckery to get Balthazar's well intending *** killed before the father of the century died back home. “STOP!”

Roller's Name Opponent Type Difficulty Task type Opponent's Name Reason for roll Result
Balthazar Another PC Very difficult Physically demanding Jesse Fforde Get free from his bite Failed

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse Fforde lived for the struggle. He was the python constricting its prey the more that it squirmed, the more that it tried to get free. Once upon a time he’d only wanted to feed from the virgins, from those that lacked fear and who felt only a fiery, unsated lust. It was true that emotion changed the blood, fuelled its flow with a different kind of dopamine. His recent and lasting addiction was fear. Of course, he couldn’t have it any other way, given the human reaction to his very presence. Not unless he were to somehow convince his prey that there was nothing to be afraid of. But that was far too much work, and these days he was far too impatient.

Luck was on Balthazar’s side, however; despite the tearing of flesh as Jesse’s canine’s dug deeper with each struggle and blow, and despite how very much the vampire wanted to finish off this large bag of hot blood – like he always did – something stopped him. Whether it was something in the blood itself that tasted too familiar, or something in the words Balthazar bellowed so close to Jesse’s own ear – words that snaked their way into his brain to scream obscenities, a voice in his own head telling him to stop. Even if he’d completely ruined any chance to get to know this brother, he was still a brother. Even if he knew exactly how to find his father and slit his throat for failing to live up to boy Jesse’s expectations, how would he feel, moving on with his life? Would he eternally loathe himself for killing the last vestige of human family he had left?

It was as if he were fighting a demon within himself, something that had possessed him and dictated his actions. It was a demon he did not try to control once he had let it lose, and thus it was harder now to uncurl his fingers from their deathly grip, to shove the heels of his palms against Balthazar’s chest more in an attempt to push himself away from the man rather than the other way around. Blood dripped over his lips, smeared over his chin.

”Go,” he croaked, holding out a hand as he took another two steps backward, clearing the exit. His body was tense, his eyes rabid even as his nostrils flared.

”Leave!” he barked. Balthazar was probably feeling a little woozy, but he would remember the bite, unlike the victims of most other vampires. And there was a large chance that he’d be back in twenty-four hours, his body slowly shutting down. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe nothing would happen and he’d run as far and as fast as he could; maybe he wouldn’t know what was happening, and wouldn’t come back for help. He’d die. And regardless, Jesse would have killed his own brother. He hadn’t the willpower to explain, however; the frenzy had a hold of him and all he wanted to do was launch himself at the hot-blooded male he’d let go of. He couldn’t look at the blood-stained neck, couldn’t breathe for fear he would lost control.

[Balthazar]

With the push delivered from the heels of Jesse's hands he stumbled back with his arms winding back to grab anything within reach to hold on. In that moment Balthazar would be not be more shocked if a comet came through the sky above, singling out his exact location, slamming into the roof looming over him and ramming his body through the crust of the earth directly below his feet. Of course he would be nothing but a skid mark of difficult to trace particles fifty feet below the entry point. Maybe not even that. So he wouldn't remember anything. Scientists wouldn't care, his life wouldn't matter and he would be erased.

However, while his eyes fixed on Jesse, he was finding the odds of a comet finding his *** and taking him down was a far more likely possibility than what just took place. It came out of nowhere and blindsided him. Any possible signs of it coming he missed completely. The steel armor of confidence he had been wearing suddenly was about as reliable as a set of tinfoil shorts. He felt bare, defenseless and vulnerable. It was what he hated to feel. Only Hugh Jass had him in the same condition when the childhood friend fought for his last breaths. Balthazar Fforde thought he was prepared for anything. He was mistaken.

The haze of the pain in his neck worked on his brain causing his hands to fumble at the nearest surface that his shaking fingers came into contact with. The temperature of the air dropped considerably as his feet finally anchored into place making the warmth of his own blood trailing down his neck that much more noticeable. Jesse stepped back and revealed a clear path to get out which he verbally suggested with the tone of a drill sergeant. It was an offer he couldn't and wouldn't refuse.

Balthazar was no track star but for that instance he was channeling the spirit of a cheetah and cutting through the space like the world was about to explode behind him. His feet never moved so fluid or fast. It was as if he was unstoppable. Given the fact his neck had a couple holes in it courtesy of a vampire he pretty much was. It would take that comet overhead to stop his long legs and break his stride. In his life saving exit he managed to snag and hook his jacket as he passed through the shop. The doors rattled with the force of his body plowing through. And just like that he was gone.