Sexy Rexy Spills His Beans

May 10, 2015:

Kingpin's main man, Wesley, confronts the mutant pimp known as Rex.

The Rock Snail - District X, NYC


NPCs: Rex (emitted by Shift), Rex's bodyguards, and the Enforcers


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

The Rock Snail is a divey place in one of the less pleasing corners of District X; the kind of bar that doesn't have a sign upon the door so as not to become a damn tourist trap. A single window upon the door has been blacked out. Only the glow of fluorescent beer signs creeps through onto the street when someone comes or goes.

Inside, the Jukebox is blaring out Motorhead while the patrons sit hunched over their drinks. Business has been down, thanks to the rise in petty violence across the neighborhood. However, Rex always works the Rock Snail on Sunday nights. He has a reputation to uphold.

"I'm telling you," he's grousing at the bartender, "this is all bullshit. You got any idea how this is affecting my livelihood, Bart? I mean… you know. I'm not a fan of the shit, by any means, but now people start to think all mutants are a bunch of smoothies, gonna snatch their purses or smash in their car windows and… ah, fuck it. Pour me another Jack, huh?"


A limo pulls up in front of the Rock Snail and lets a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit and thin-framed glasses out as it's put into park. He takes a couple seconds to carefully adjust himself and work on keeping the distasteful lipcurl that wants to break his mask of neutrality at bay before striding towards the bar. He's carrying a briefcasein one hand; it costs more than most of the Snail's regulars make in a month.

Some time after Scalphunter, Arclight, and Malice's raid was broken up by vigilantes, Arclight got in touch to give him her version of events, and no small part of it focused on the guy with a death wish who tried to shoot her up with— something. Something purple; she didn't get a great look before 'Ghost Bitch' ruined everything. The Kingpin's people did some digging using the information she provided and eventually came up with a list of some of his regular haunts and corners; unlike the vigilantes, his reasons for being there - and being so bold as to assault a woman who'd just crashed through a brick wall with a needle - were a mystery.

And the Kingpin abhors mysteries, unless he's the one spinning them.

"This drink," Wesley says after bee-lining through the Snail's patrons and coming to rest beside Rex, "and the next are on me." He draws a bill from his wallet - more than enough to cover a couple of Jacks - sets it on the bar, then slides onto the nearest stool and sets the briefcase down in front of himself.


Rex's beady little human eyes turn slowly toward Wesley, a distasteful lip curl of his own rising without shame. The motion, however, is stalled when he sees that bull. "Jesus, brother," he quips. "Just buy the whole damn bottle, we'll make this a party."
The unassuming pimp raises the glass of Jack Daniels and knocks it back with practiced ease, wincing a bit at the burn, before putting the glass down and presenting Wesley with a sidelong glance. Rex's attire rests firmly somewhere between hipster, gutter punk and scumbag; a vintage blazer over a Misfits shirt, baggy jeans and a beanie over his short hair. It's… an interesting juxtaposition. He turns toward Bart with a sneer, saying, "You done fucked up, Bartie, you're gettin' audited."


"I'd really prefer not to be here that long."

Wesley glances towards Bart and holds up a hand to let him know that he is, in fact, not being audited. He might be in the right hand man of the biggest gangster on the East Coast, but he's not a monster.

"Mostly," he continues while turning his attention back to Rex, "I'm here because my employer is curious about the particulars of your business. He has done what research he can, and has expressed his appreciation for your tenacity in expanding it; we would, of course, need to discuss the particulars somewhere…"

His eyes visibly flick between the slumped patrons, booming jukebox, and generally lackluster decor before returning to Rex.

"… quieter, but he is always seeking new investment opportunities, and prefers not to limit his options."


Money talks. Rex's irritated and humored leering mellows out into something more captivated. He also frowns; in part because this unfamiliar suit knows more about his business than he's comfortable with. A look is given to Bart, who nods his head and slides a key across the countertop.

Rex looks toward Wesley's briefcase, then toward the man himself. Reaching out, he curls his hand around the key and rises, taking a fresh glass of whiskey in hand. It's a short distance toward a locked door back near two doors marked 'M' and 'F'. A closer inspection reveals smaller letters that spell out 'Mother' and 'Fucker' upon each of the restroom doors. The key unlocks this third door, and as Rex walks in, he hisses at the men hunched over an illegal game of poker. "Clear out, dicks."

One by one, the bearded and tattooed men slip out into the alley, leaving Rex and Wesley alone. "Alright, then. Quieter. Discreet." Indeed, the muted bassline from 'Ace of Spades' is the only bit that can be heard back here. Ironic, considering. "I don't talk particulars, just generalizations. How else am I gonna protect my assets? So, you tell me what you wanna know, and I'll… filter out the shit I don't want you to know. Cool?"


Wesley's eyes flick between the poker players and his watch as they leave. Each time one of them goes through the door, he gently taps the watch's crown; if any of them look like they're armed, he mixes some long presses in there too.

Out front, a little red light on the limo's dash flickers off and on in time with Wesley's tapping; tinted windows keep it from filtering into the street, but the driver and the three other men who accompanied Wesley can see it just fine.

The consigliere gestures towards the table, leaving Rex to pick his own seat; whenever he does, Wesley will take one opposite him. As positions are negotiated, he asks, "This is your territory, correct? District X?" in calm, conversational tones. "In terms of customer base and headquartering, more than outright control; this is where you do your recruiting, meet your clientele." His head turns just so towards the door they came in through, and he adds, "Drown your sorrows," with a slight tip of his chin before turning his eyes back to Rex. "I can only imagine that the last several months have been— interesting for you: it got easier to find new talent, didn't it? Here, of all places. Easier to keep them beholden to you and focused on earning… until their primary motivator went up in flames."


Claiming his seat, Rex kicks back and relaxes, one hand lazily setting down the glass while another pulls a pack of smokes. He peers at Rex with a cigarette perched between his lips, looking on with wary hesitation as the suit goes on and on.

"Mruh," he grunts, and raises a zippo to light the square. "Not all of my assets use that shit," he muffles out through pressed lips, until freeing a hand to claim the cigarette and exhale a first plume from his nostrils. "Fact is? I don't want 'em using. I got this guy, he got two fucking mouths, so he can, you know." The cigarette whirls around a bit. "Suck two dicks at once. 'Nother girl, she's got this weird psychic thing, guess she knows what the Johns want and makes it happen. Got girls with spikes, guys with insanely massive muscles, one girl has fucking tentacles. So, you get the idea. There's lots of freaks out there, and they come down here, to the bad part of town, paying lots cause they know they can't get the kind of shit they get from Rexie."

Another drag is taken. "That smooth shit fucks with my people's 'unique' abilities. Doesn't make for a solid business plan. But? These kids are desperate fucks, so, couple of 'em get a problem, it's my job to 'fix' it. Now, some assholes go off and cut off my supply? That's a real problem. So, why bring it up? You got some kind of connection you're willing to share? You got a price you want to name, or you gonna sit there and smug my ass 'til I throw up?"


"'Fix' it indeed. You're a very conscientious employer, aren't you?"


Wesley opens the briefcase and withdraws a clipping from the paper about the commotion in the Bronx.He sets it on the table between them and nudges it towards Rex.

"Given a problem with your work force, you do what it takes to smooth it over - pun unintended, of course - so that your business can continue unabated. No matter what it might cost you, or whose anger you might arouse in the process." He seems entirely unfazed by Rex's vivid descriptions of his stable. Maybe he's familiar; maybe he's just seen too much to be particularly affected by the thought of tentacles and double blowjobs.

"My employer wonders: were you visiting your connection that night, or were you simply trying to be a good boss by putting your employees' needs ahead of your own?" He has some theories of his own by this point, even if Rex pressing him for a connection isn't actually the most helpful tidbit for clearing things up.

Outside, the limo begins moving again, circling the block so that it can eventually come to rest a few feet away from the Snail's alley.


With a shrug at the compliment, Rex leans back a bit further, grinning. Anything he night have said, however, goes unspoken when the briefcase is unmatched. He sits back up a bit, curiosity entering his face.

The newspaper clipping, when spotted, brings a visible change to his demeanor. His body stiffens, the chatty demeanor dropping away entirely. All of the signs are there; his anxiety is palpable.

"Look," he answers. "That… that place ain't my connection. I hear things. But you gotta be smart in this business, can't go poking around places where you shouldn't. But when the bombs started going off in there? I saw an opportunity. Didn't work out for me -" He points the cigarette toward Wesley. "- and I'm pretty fucking cheesed off about that - but I'm drying up, and that's bad. Extremely bad. We're talking 'going out of business' bad."

Rex takes another drag of his cigarette, then reaches for his whiskey. "You come here to throw your nuts in my face? Cause I really don't have time for that shit." The glass is lifted. "If you're telling me there's a supply…? Well, that's a different story."

The amber liquid is knocked back. This time, Rex doesn't cringe.


"I'm actually more interested in what was in the syringe, that you thought delivering it to a mutant strongwoman was more important than your - or your employees' - survival."

The limousine's doors open. Three men - one the size of an ox, another wearing a pencil moustache along with his obnoxiously purple suit, and a third donning a white cowboy hat and a stoic frown - step out, and as soon as their doors close, the limo drives off.

"Alright, boys," Fancy Dan lowly says, grinning as he adjusts his violently violet lapels. "Whaddya say we go an' do a little work for a change, eh?"

"My employer and I, we hear things too," Wesley continues. "The sickness that you and your workers are grappling with… it may not be as permanent as it feels. Something like smooth, it's a can of worms: wriggling endlessly out of reach and defying any attempts at containment, all while drawing those who simply can't help themselves inexorably to it, regardless of the risks involved in claiming them. It will return; this is, after all, the second epidemic you've had to steer your way through, isn't it?"

An electric whine from outside pierces the door; it is closely followed by screams, crashes, and thumping noises.

"There is no more supply, but there will be," Wesley continues over the building sounds of violence. Now, his eyes are trained on Rex's, trying to hold his attention despite what's going on outside. What's outside is outside; the only thing that Wesley wants the pimp to focus on is him. "Some things are inevitable; there is a demand that no amount of destruction will curb. The real question, the one that you should be asking yourself is: what can you do, what can you offer to guarantee that you're on the ground floor of whatever operation replaces the one that's crumbling?"

Someone hits the door so hard that his head leaves a deep indentation. Without looking away, Wesley finally offers, "Forgive me, but I thought it best if we were a little more alone for this particular conversation," as an explanation.



Rex frowns. He eyes the glass in his hand, rolling around what little is left of the whiskey inside, before turning up to glare at Wesley in defiance. "My own little personal supply. 'Exgenta-diacetylmorphine'. Wouldn't have been a strongwoman for long with that shit in her veins."

With that out, Rex begins to smirk. He's no idea just who he's dealing with, after all, and the muscle outside can handle anything this prick can throw at him. Right?

The noise from outside has the effect of promptly modifying Rex's demeanor. He's not a tough guy, he just surrounds himself with tough guys. Gives them a little discount with tentacle girl. When it becomes clear that his people are getting mowed down? The tough guy motif falls.

Wesley's eye contact does the trick. He does try to look away a few times, flinching at the noises from outside and jumping in his seat at the last, but the offer being made is enough to hold his attention.

"Anything!" he answers. "Look, I'm… I'm not a drug dealer, I just, well you fucking know what I do? But if you - if you want - I got connections, I know people. I know there's dealers who been cut off and if you - if you're gonna get into smooth - I can get you pushers. I just - Jesus Christ, man, I just gotta know who the hell you work for!"


"Is that so?"

Wesley reaches into his briefcase again, taking a dumbphone stashed next to a pistol. Now that the floodgates have opened, he turns his eyes to the screen long enough to tap out a message.

"Starving dealers? It is a start, I'll grant - no good enterprise can succeed for long without experienced manpower, as you well know - but with your uniquely gifted roster… surely, you must have opened more doors than those. Come, now: think of what you're being offered; if you want to meet him, you'll need my recommendation, after all."

The faint sound of a cracking bullwhip manages to make it through the door, followed by the not-so-faint sounds of someone screaming, then gurgling.


Another flinch, at the sounds coming from outside. "Nnn-n-no. No. Not like that. But, my… my assets know people. All kinds of people. Most of 'em lowlifes, but… Wall Street pricks, city council, cops, fucking pussy-eating one percenters…" Rex clearly feels backed into a corner if he's willing to out the proverbial Johns.

"They ain't gonna like it if I start naming names, man! This shit's for real. And I care about my people, alright? Why do you think I hired muscle? The muscle you're mowing down out there right now??"

His hand curls tightly around the glass. One good throw and he might be able to weasel his way out of this without selling his soul to Wesley's mysterious employer.

But, he hesitates. Fear, perhaps greed, but he doesn't make a move.



The door swings open while Wesley texts. Fancy Dan - still grinning, albeit rather more maniacally - is standing in it, bloodied and panting heavily. Huge gouges have been torn out of his suit. The gigantic Ox is slumped against a wall a few feet behind him, barely breathing. The Stetson-wearing Montana's whip is clutched tightly in his one good arm as he proceeds with choking the last bits of fight out of a mutant with liquid metal hair.

Most of the thugs are breathing, but some of them may wish they weren't come tomorrow.

"Everything… copacetic… in here?" Dan asks between gasps, a knife dangling from his right hand.

"Just so," Wesley replies, turning his head as he puts the phone back in the briefcase and snaps it shut. His eyes turn down to briskly scan what he can see of the carnage, and then they're back on Dan. "Fine work as always. I'll take it from here; you three can go home and rest."

Once that's out, Wesley's attention returns to Rex. His hands fold atop the briefcase. A black towncar rolls up outside.

"The Kingpin will see you, Rex. Are you ready?"


To be fair, Rex has never seen this level of bloodiness. He blanches, face growing pale as he tries very hard not to get sick.

He manages.

Rising from his seat, hands in the air, he nods. "Okay. Cool. Just, everyone take it easy, okay?"

Hands still up, he edges his way across the room. "Just… stay fucking cool. Like the Fonz. We gonna be cool." When he reaches a cabinet, he slowly reaches out and opens the door.

Out comes a bottle of Jack Daniels. Off comes the cap, and down goes a swig.

The bottle gets tucked beneath his jacket, pulled tightly around his frame.

"Okay. I'm ready."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License