09-25-2018, 08:28 PM
His stay here had gone on for practically two months now. And when he reflected on his early days, Leroy smiled, glad that he chose a different road on his route through life.
Initially, judging alone by the absolute state of the swamplands, which were tormented by depressed ghosts and concealed gators, he believed that it was possible to take total control of Tanglewood, as he had with his previous dwelling. Up until that one hotshot came along and messed him up physically and mentally, life was fucking child’s play. By blackmailing, hassling, and extortion, he could bend people’s wills like plastic on a summer day, and with that hold on people like a vice, he got what he want when he wanted. Recreational drugs? Right away. A beautiful broad with a bod to keep you up all night? She’d be here in no sooner than an instant. Yet, in his world of all the narcotics and floozies, a powerful force that he could not control happened to exist. A force that a younger Leroy had become quite addicted to. Gambling. Dice, cards, you name it, he played it all for it all. The mutt rarely lost, but if he did, nothing of his would have been given to the rightful winner.
Everyone from around 42nd Street knew not to mess with him. Yet, one night, he had taken a gamble that he shouldn’t have.
He was an Aussie (or from Austria, one of the two), a feline with a knack for justice. The snazzy gems he wore, the shiny objects he was in possession of, the mutt wanted them. Badly. So much so, that he took a chance, and confronted the daring cat head-on, instead of with one of those poor fools he had under his service. ”There’sa tax ‘round these parts”, he can recount explaining in a threatening manner, ”it requires fatheads like you ta hand over their wares”. To Leroy’s surprise, the fleabag meekly shrugged. All he’d remember after that was the stranger haughtily explaining that he’d then give away his things, beginning with a razor.
That razor Leroy continues to carry with him today. The mongrel discovered it once awake, and found that every surface of his body - barring his pads - were covered in scratches from claws, bite marks from fangs, and slash marks from a sharp weapon, each wound evidence that Leroy was not the winning figure in the scuffle. The tool lay beside him, in a mixed puddle of oozed blood and rainwater, drenched in the mutt’s own life source.
When was his defining moment? What caused the hound to turn away from those methods? Who was it that changed him, why did they change him, and how?
His defining moment may have been as recent as that gator incident, where a handful of his fellow clanmates rushed to his rescue. It may have been when he received assistance while transporting the boxes to his house. Or, it could have all started when Beck allowed him to join this place.
-
Okay, that was where they were. His gray paws were rummaging through the levels of items in his home, fishing for a minnow in a sea of tuna - his deck. Each card still intact and inside. And, for the prize pot, he’d pluck a bottle of champagne. Most of the bottles of alcohol he had for this reason, contrary to pastime use. Champagne was an alright choice, better than a vodka or scotch. And, as long as the winner was conservative, their prize could last a while.
He was going to gamble, for old times sake. The shaggy canine even promised to himself that he’d actually give up the winnings. "Who wants ta play?" the hound asked, setting up at an empty spot in the mess hall. Blackjack would be the game of choice - or Go Fish, basing the selection on who knew how to play what.
Initially, judging alone by the absolute state of the swamplands, which were tormented by depressed ghosts and concealed gators, he believed that it was possible to take total control of Tanglewood, as he had with his previous dwelling. Up until that one hotshot came along and messed him up physically and mentally, life was fucking child’s play. By blackmailing, hassling, and extortion, he could bend people’s wills like plastic on a summer day, and with that hold on people like a vice, he got what he want when he wanted. Recreational drugs? Right away. A beautiful broad with a bod to keep you up all night? She’d be here in no sooner than an instant. Yet, in his world of all the narcotics and floozies, a powerful force that he could not control happened to exist. A force that a younger Leroy had become quite addicted to. Gambling. Dice, cards, you name it, he played it all for it all. The mutt rarely lost, but if he did, nothing of his would have been given to the rightful winner.
Everyone from around 42nd Street knew not to mess with him. Yet, one night, he had taken a gamble that he shouldn’t have.
He was an Aussie (or from Austria, one of the two), a feline with a knack for justice. The snazzy gems he wore, the shiny objects he was in possession of, the mutt wanted them. Badly. So much so, that he took a chance, and confronted the daring cat head-on, instead of with one of those poor fools he had under his service. ”There’sa tax ‘round these parts”, he can recount explaining in a threatening manner, ”it requires fatheads like you ta hand over their wares”. To Leroy’s surprise, the fleabag meekly shrugged. All he’d remember after that was the stranger haughtily explaining that he’d then give away his things, beginning with a razor.
That razor Leroy continues to carry with him today. The mongrel discovered it once awake, and found that every surface of his body - barring his pads - were covered in scratches from claws, bite marks from fangs, and slash marks from a sharp weapon, each wound evidence that Leroy was not the winning figure in the scuffle. The tool lay beside him, in a mixed puddle of oozed blood and rainwater, drenched in the mutt’s own life source.
When was his defining moment? What caused the hound to turn away from those methods? Who was it that changed him, why did they change him, and how?
His defining moment may have been as recent as that gator incident, where a handful of his fellow clanmates rushed to his rescue. It may have been when he received assistance while transporting the boxes to his house. Or, it could have all started when Beck allowed him to join this place.
-
Okay, that was where they were. His gray paws were rummaging through the levels of items in his home, fishing for a minnow in a sea of tuna - his deck. Each card still intact and inside. And, for the prize pot, he’d pluck a bottle of champagne. Most of the bottles of alcohol he had for this reason, contrary to pastime use. Champagne was an alright choice, better than a vodka or scotch. And, as long as the winner was conservative, their prize could last a while.
He was going to gamble, for old times sake. The shaggy canine even promised to himself that he’d actually give up the winnings. "Who wants ta play?" the hound asked, setting up at an empty spot in the mess hall. Blackjack would be the game of choice - or Go Fish, basing the selection on who knew how to play what.
