littlepriest: (★ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ)
Detective Rustin Cohle ([personal profile] littlepriest) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden 2017-02-27 07:44 pm (UTC)

"This is fucked up, man," Toad whines, straining around his secured wrists behind his back. "I bet Tito sold us out, this was his idea."

"Quiet, Toad." Crash's words grind like a threat, a stone sharpening a blade.

"It's all fucked, the whole thing--" The larger man stops in a clipped sound of pain as the car bumps aggressively against a hole in the dirt road. Something tells Crash that the officer in the driver's seat didn't bother avoiding it for a reason. Can't blame him.

"Could y'all maybe pipe down back there?" From the view of the back of the African-American officer's head, there is barely any movement when he speaks, aside from the gentle rocking of the car on unfinished road. "You really don't want me to pull this car over."

Crash, eyes on the officer in the passenger seat, leans over sideways to his fellow criminal. "Now Toad, since you're a retard and all, I'll translate what this nice cop here's trying to say: shut your smelly goddamn trap."

"Yanno what, fuck off, Crash, I'm sick'a you bossin' me around like you own the fuckin--! AAH!!"

Broussard visibly jumps to attention, car jerking toward the shoulder on the highway they just joined. "The hell's going on back there?"

Crash, while leaned a little uncomfortably, looks forcibly stoic as he's hunched over while the larger man cries and wriggles into the car door and away from him. What isn't visible to anyone in the front seat is the heel of Crash's boot pressed and digging into the top of Toad's simple cowboy boot, into a spot where his gun misfired a week ago. Sometimes the universe aligns itself just right for situations such as these.

"Toad, I'm gonna make you a promise," Crash murmurs almost too softly, lids heavy over dark, sunken eyes that see nothing in particular. "If you make one more godawful sound, I'm gonna break your arm off and raw you with your own fist in the holding cell. Got it?"

Broussard, eyes wide on the road, digs a sideways glance hard into Graham. "Oookay, I'm done. You handle this."

Not that there will be much more commotion: Crash relinquishes Toad's injured foot, leaving him with nothing more to possibly do than heave his labored, wordless breaths to himself. His chest rises high as he bends back into his own seat, gaze wandering back out his own passenger window.

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