Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 12 - Your Choice

He is today years old when he found out crowbars serve multiple purposes.

String throws the rusty crowbar down at the footwell compartment of the car. He knows better than to leave the murder weapon, fingerprint and all, at the scene of the crime.

He steps into the car himself, huffing after he's closed the door. He forgot how this felt. Adrenaline-pumping, but in some way harrowing, the amount of power both exhilerating and horrendous, like pairing a good beer with poison.

Something soft makes contact with his cheek. He jerks away, turning his head. Paper has a napkin offered to him, unusual to see, when you're used seeing him offer a blade instead.

"Is it somethin' on my face?" String asks, though he knows there is.

His smile fades lightly when he's come to realize why that line seems so familiar, and he recalls the night he'd spent with Paper, getting high off his ass to the point he can't differentiate imagination and reality.

Then, Paper says, "Yeah, you've got a little something."

String's eyes widen for a second before softening again. It can't be a coincidence Paper had said word for word exactly what String had said that night in response to the same question.

And that cunning smile on his face only enhances that claim.

Paper brings the now bloodied napkin away from String's face, stuffing it in the pocket of his blazer. "I'll have to clean up later."

"Seems like I gotta too," String replies, not thinking much about his words, for something else occupied his mind.

The car starts revving up again. Were they to stay here a moment longer, things will escalate in ways they wouldn't want. Nothing is more suspicious than an expensive-looking foreign car parked in the middle of the countryside's woods, next to a shed that reeked of a coverless graveyard. Though, if the cops don't get here before they do tomorrow, they're gonna have to take precautions and clean up.

Why not do it now? Well, the sun is peeking in the horizon, and the underworld shines the brightest at night, in the dark, like a full moon. And String is sure Paper is just as spent as he is.

"Do you want to know why I stole Kif's supply?" Paper starts, breaking the silence after almost half an hour of it, which is somewhat unlike him, for he's not usually one for small talk.

"Oh, you actually did?" String picks his head up from resting it on the window. "Thought he was just bullshittin'."

"Well, you're not wrong. I didn't steal, per se." Paper shakes his head. "I just poked a hole in his bag of supplies as he was planning to go forth with a deal."

String raises a brow, a laugh coming up. "You're tellin' me you sabotaged his supply? What good would that do us?"

"Let me finish," Paper lifts a finger before returning it to the steering wheel. "The buyer is on our blacklist. Were he to have gone with the deal, Hemlock would been surrounded by guns and boys in blue by now."

"The cops?" String inquired, straightening himself, intrigued. "He was in cahoots with the cops?"

Paper nods. "Now that wouldn't do us good, would it?"

"Nu-uh," String scoffs.

"You don't feel bad?"

"Why would I?" String shrugs. "It was his choice to have done what he did. His choices, his circumstances, his outcome."

Paper smiles. "I knew I could count on you to handle it, String. You are not the public face of Hemlock for nothing." His grin grows wider. "So quick to take action, the epitome of an ideal leader, and an ideal man."