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[corroded-crown.livejournal.com]

Date: June 25, 2000
Setting: London
Status: Public
Summary: Pollution sets up shop.

It was a propertly dark and stormy night, as one would expect. Rain lashed at closed and boarded up windows, thunder crashed and echoed against the decrepate buildings. In between two of these buildings, was a wide ally way in which whores of both sexes, desperate for a bit of money, gathered without any real hope for work. Not on a night like this.A man sat huddled over himself to try and keep warm as he sat on the ground. The only one on the street who didn't seem to be bothered by the cold was a young man in a dirty white jacket. Any passerby and all the inhabitents of the ally would assume the boy was high, from the way, though his eyes watched the street, was unfocused, as though he was not all there.

Either he was high or insane, they thought. And gave it no other thought. The boy was well know in this seedy part of London. The drugs he sold were cheep and of a good quality. And, though perhaps it was just rumors, but no one who bought from him had ever gotten busted. With his drugs, that is.

The boy was known as White, because of his jacket. White liked selling these pollutants. Humans were so eager for them.

Comments

[corroded-crown.livejournal.com]

Pollution wasn't bothered by John's distaste. It was nothing new, even many of his customers hated him on a subconscious level. Humans were a lot more animal then they would like to admit and most could tell that this man was not good for them, or their world. He was dangerous. Pollution rather liked that, to be honest. He wasn't what you would call a people person.

When John told him all he wanted was "a little pot", White could not help being very dissapointed. He had honestly expected more from this man. Oh well, it wasn't like this little drug couldn't kill you just as dead as the next one, couldn't slowly rot and stain your insides the way oil stains cloth, and nuclear pollution stains everything. Pollution tossed a small bag at John and told him the (very reasonable) price.

No, he was not the only drug dealer in London, but he was The Drug Dealer. The best. It was one thing Pollution did not mind being known for.

[dangeroushabits.livejournal.com]

John caught the bag and paid the Horseman, feeling vaguely dirty in a way that had nothing to do with either the illicit nature of the exchange or, really, with Pollution himself, when you came right down to it. He wasn't quite sure why. Shady dealings of various sorts had been part of his life for damn near as long as he could remember, and indulging his own vices had never particularly bothered him either. Even when they'd come close to killing him.

Maybe it was the pathetic souls scattered around the alley, fellow human beings who lacked the knowledge, the good luck or the sheer ornery stubborness that had kept him more or less in one piece all these years. If there was one thing John hated, it was being reminded how many perfectly decent people had fallen by the wayside while he'd somehow managed to carry on. It wasn't fair, and fuck if he had any idea what to do about it.

"I'd wish you a good night," he muttered, looking around at the miserable huddled wretches with no particular expression, "but it looks like that'd be redundant. See you around the Manor."

He turned on his heel and left, hoping he was wrong about that. The irony of lighting another cigarette as he exited the alley was hardly lost on him, but what could you do? He could leave Pollution standing there, but like everybody else on this mudball, he'd never really be rid of him. Born of humanity's most visceral fears and self-perpetuated plagues, there was a little bit of each Horseman in everyone.