Jeego slams his fist down, grimace-grin wide and teeth flashing. At the wet smack of flesh-on-flesh he lets out a hiss, but it's not one of pain. Oh yeah, he's enjoying this alright. And why wouldn't he be? No one's silly enough to choose a career path like this without a little blood thirst. By the time it's all over, he'll probably have a few broken fingers, but it's not a bad price to pay. It's no fun without getting dirty, right?. Roll up your sleeves and dig in, let the blood splatter hit your shirt, but duck the arterial spray, yeah?
Hefting the limp man by a collar that once cost more than Jeego had even been promised for the hit, he arcs his knuckles upward, sharp grin stretching at the sickening crack-crunch that echoes throughout the empty parking garage. The man lets out a faint groan, fingers twitching ineffectively as he tries to reach for the broken, bleeding nose. Jeego snorts. "You have bigger things to worry about. They won't have any plastic surgeons where you're going." He should have known better that to take a job from someone like this. Sure, everything about him oozed money, from the tailored suit, the $500,000 car that purred as it followed him down the street, and growled when they raced down the highway, and the numerous houses he had bounced from, calling Jeego's little burner from a different number every time. It had driven him crazy at the time - one cell per client, one number per cell, and then into the trash it went, but this man had hadn't played ball.
And then, of all things, he'd had the audacity to stiff him. When you've got that much money, it's just rude. It's bad manners, really. Not that manners were something Jeego had much of. Still, what an idiot. The three bodyguards who dumbly trailed him had been easy to dispatch of, slow thuggish things that he left staggering, chest caving inwards, ribs jutting outwards like some sort of grotesque, grabbing fingers. He wasn't about to give this guy the easy way out. Sure, he'd enjoyed the snap-crack recoil of his shotgun butt colliding with the soft skull, but that was enough. Don't want to ruin the fun too quickly. Fists are Jeego's weapon of choice, when he's going to get up close and personal, of course. Not every hit is worth that sort of investment, and not every target is interesting enough for it.
Wiping bloodstained hands on the man's silky shirt, he pulls his palms down the once-milky white fabric, leaving dark, thick stains. His tongue darts out, pulling a salty drop of blood onto his tongue. The red covering his skin doesn't bother him, no he's used to it. But suits are expensive, and despite what you think, black doesn't hide that thick, black blood that only comes from the dying as well as you would think. Fingers a faint purple, he reaches into his jacket. Knives aren't usually his thing, but for tonight, he's made an exception. This one is real beauty, mother of pearl handle, and a long, thin blade just the right size to slip between ribs. He's got a different idea tonight, though. Something a little...messier.
Hoarse screams echo throughout the cold concrete structure, and Jeego lets them go. Who's going to hear them? More importantly, who's going to come down here and investigate? In this part of town gunshots are as common as firecrackers, and the police are nothing but a painted facade that says "Precinct" in faded letters on an abandoned building.
Finally satisfied with his work, Jeego stands back. Not quite dead, but assured not to see the next sunrise, the foolish businessman stares skyward, blood bubbling from his lips, broken nose comically twisted. His fingerless stumps twitch erratically, white bone peeking from the torn flesh. Splayed out around him are the detached digits, surrounding him like some sort of ungodly halo. Yeah, it's old fashioned, but hey, what a way to send a message. With a final kick to the man's side, Jeego slips out a side exit, timing the click of the closing door to a pained groan.
On the other side of the city stands a man who could be his twin. With surgical procedure he dispatches his mark, a bullet through the forehead stops a silhouette mid-sentence, the building descending into panic. It's two means to the same end, two figures connected by the same undercurrent in this dark city.