Who We Were (Who We Have Become)

And Jill Came Tumbling After

30,000 was a lot of anything; it was 30,000 ants infesting a home, or 30,000 civilians dead in Manhattan, or owing 30,000 dollars to a very, very dangerous man.

30,000 was a lot of anything. It was $30,000 8-Ball didn't have more than a nick of, unless he counted the $3.5k stock-piled under his kitchen sink. Only a penny to the dollar. He took a crack at their savings every-so-often to pay for the necessities, drinks and car-repairs. It usually dropped from $3.5k to $2.4k by the end of each month, before bouncing back up around the same, if not a smidge less.

Whatever the case, it wasn't $30,000.

"Well, well, well; you need another extension on your loan?" A grainy, distorted voice fed its way through 8-Ball's rotary phone, causing a chill to ride up his spine.

How the hell did he get himself wrapped up in this?

8-Ball's hands clamped at the young man's tone, clutching tightly the receiver. He'd met Bill Cipher many times before on less formal occasions, back when he'd been more-famously known as only the heir to a crime empire, and son of Mob Boss Ronald (Ronnie) Cipher, who (prior to his death) had been a good friend of 8-Ball's.

Sure, Ronald Cipher was a high-end capitalist in his hay-day and ate off the backs of working-class grime like 8-Ball. Who didn't? They'd made acquaintances at a bar one evening, caught between the dock and an alleyway. Ronald asked for a smoke. 8-Ball talked fishing. They were casual buddies; like old, grey memories of golf trips and threading hooks, coupled by a thumb's worth of whiskey to tolerate the heat.

They were both slow, simple conversationalists. 8-Ball remembered roaming the Cipher's Mansion most-every Friday for a customary cigar, discussions on the paper, talk of finances. He never retained more than a lick of whatever the man said, though it hardly mattered. Ronald only ever monologued to himself and whoever else bothered listening in. 8-Ball supposed he was good company to a man who hated interruptions. For that, he was rewarded handsomely.

Ronald Cipher showed gratitude through his wealth. At first, it was enough to buy 8-Ball a new pair of work boots. Then, enough for truck repairs. After a while, he could've made plans to build a pool the size of a small lake, though he didn't, but accumulated wealth to ponder what he would do with it. He took what he could, but never outright begged for it.

Bill Cipher had been somewhere in his early teens at the time. Thirteen, fourteen; 8-Ball wasn't sure. He was all but disengaged from Bill's life; barely gave a damn what the kid did, or who he did it with.

There were just some things he couldn't tolerate.

8-Ball only tipped Ronnie off on his concerns. Bill had a habit of staring too long at their personal butler, Philip; a slim-wasted, pointy-nosed man with smooth, round nails from France. They all knew what men from France were like. Bill was a conniving young fox, of course. He always made his biggest messes around Philip's shifts, all lingering pats and high cheeks, which he'd thought had gone unnoticed; 8-Ball was always just a room away, peering over his glass, feeling repulsed and disserviced at the longing in the boy's eyes.

The heir to Ronnie's empire couldn't be some fairy.

He informed Ronald Cipher one hushed evening, a sly elbow, with worries over Bill becoming "one of them queers." Ronnie's face had turned white at the proposition; he looked more scandalized to find someone had finally caught on. That'd been the extent of it. 8-Ball assumed he set his son straight, so to speak. Philip was shipped off to some no-name three-star establishment and replaced by Mrs. Needer, who smelled like burnt parchment paper, and Bill was introduced to every young lady around his age during formal events, which often took hours. After that, Bill hardly hung around the mansion while 8-Ball visited, and when he did, glared nastily under the hood of his brow.