*ೃ༄ 18+ mature!
[ RESERVOIR DOGS/PULP FICTION/MR PINK x OC ] Somewhere in LA, a diamond heist goes wrong. A robber is shot, innocent customers, cops, and civilians are injured or gunned down, and someone from the group is an undercover cop. But befo...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
TAGS - PARTYING, DRINKING, DRUGS/SUBSTANCE USE // CHAPTER IS A BIT LONG.
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : ❝Love Hurts❞ - Nazareth
༺═──────────────═༻
THE CAR needed an oil change, and someone Mr. Pink was in good connections with was going to get that fixed in a couple of days. He had only driven a few miles before reaching his apartment complex.
Mr. Pink walks in. After he plops himself on the couch, he immediately catches a strong whiff of cigarette smoke coming from the next-door neighbors lounging on their balcony. He couldn't complain about it, Mr. Pink had recently quit smoking cigarettes, as if he wasn't already moderately unhealthy with the amount of cannabis, caffeine, and whatever meals he puts in his body. Plus, he hated cooking. He'd rather just order takeout if the job he did earned him the rent. He'd create an aroma of Chinese takeout or leftover gourmet meals his past freelance jobs would reward him with when he worked under a rich crime boss's wing.
He harshly propped his feet up on the coffee table that shook the Playboy magazine, his folded sunglasses in desperate need of cleaning, the TV remote, and a half-empty can of his energy drink used as an ashtray for his weed. As he switched the TV on, it flickered to the life of Three's Company.
He didn't feel motivated enough to make himself dinner. Pizza felt appetizing for tonight. He shut his eyes for a bit, hoping the pizzeria that was open 24 hours would unintentionally put extra pepperoni and olives to compliment the comfortable quality mozzarella and sharp, aged cheddar with a thin crust that had crunchy edges like last time Pink ever─
Mr. Pink's eyes shot open when the telephone rang. He hunches over the couch in annoyance at the shrill ring that shattered peace and silence, like an alarm clock at 5:30 AM. If he hadn't chosen the life of crime, Mr. Pink would have ignored it, taking it for a prank caller or a telemarketer. However, his instincts told him to pick up, as he knew all too well that a single phone call could change the course of his night, for better or worse.
"Yeah?" Mr. Pink answered, the giant brick of the wireless phone pressed against his ear.
"I need you down here, man." Nice Guy Eddie. Joe Cabot's son.
Mr. Pink could hear the loud music on the other end, but not Eddie. "What?!"
"I said!" Eddie's voice grew louder to overpower the chaos of the club in the background. "Come down here! Daddy's club is packed! You gotta come down here, man."
"Which one?" Mr. Pink asks, frustration lacing his tone. "The old one or the cult one?"
"The one near Sunset Blvd.," Nice Guy responded, his enthusiasm palpable. "The bouncer will let you in."
