BORYA "THE BUTCHER" BEZUHOV aka: HEAVYARMS

[jacemachine]

THEN...

Borya found himself standing in a dark and damp basement. The smell of decay hung in the air along with the ever present stench of mildew. Water could be heard dripping by the echoes heard.

In front of Borya was a wooden table with a leather doctors bag. He had just placed it there with a satisfying thunk. His "tools" were heavy.

Behind him, tied to a chair with duct tape over his mouth, was a very bloody man some in the Russian underworld called Viktor Turov.

It seemed you were called in to get the location of a briefcase out of him.

He looked at Borya with fear and indignation in his eyes.

[Flay Crimsonwind]

[spoiler][Oh deary, I hope you're ready for this...]

Also, shit man, took me forever to find these damn cigs. Do you have any names in your campaign already used as a cigarette brand? Cause I'd like to change it to something not so recently defunct.[/spoiler]

Borya had taken his time getting there, and was very calm. The bag was not for this man, but the man never needed to know that; the bag was for everyone that was where the briefcase was that happened to be part of this poor man's petty assortment of criminal cohorts and lowlifes. Borya put down these "tools" and immediately turned around, lightning a cigarette. Good stuff, not Russian; he was patriotic, but he needed good cigarettes, and so they had to be Fatima, strongest running for the past 20 years. "Ashes to ashes..." he muttered, remembering the old song as he lit it.

He walked over to the man, sitting down in a chair directly in front of the man. He seemed calm, did not appear friendly or unfriendly, did nothing to intimidate the man whatsoever. Taking two puffs, taking note of the specific injuries on the mans body, he finally sighed as if tired, leaned over, and pulled the tape off the man's mouth. He took another puff, and sighed out the smoke; it had been a long day, and he'd only been up for two hours. "Hello." That was all he said, and he seemed to be waiting for a response. As none came, he rolled his eyes, put the cigarette between his teeth, and started to massage his shoulders; again, nothing done to intimidate, it seemed. He continued, in slow, humming and crunchy Russian, the sound as if fed through an old speaker left on with a barely audible amount of static coming through, "I am here to get out of you the location of a briefcase. So, starting at the beginning, I'll ask directly. Where is it?"

[jacemachine]

<"Go to HELL. I do not know what it is you are speaking about. What briefcase?"> The man tells you. Despite his unwillingness, he nervously steals a glance towards the satchel.


Sense Motive check please?

Feel free to incorporate any skills that you have that you think could help you through out this sequence!


LOVE the cigarette brand BTW!

[Flay Crimsonwind]

[spoiler]HAHA! Thanks, took me forever to find it! Surprise, surprise, not a lot of cig companies have gone out of business...
Sense Motive: 18 (Wow, IC likes me! For now...) I'll rp that as a pass...
Also, Borya's just unnervingly creepy, so there will be intimidate rolls, bwahaha! I just dunno if being unnervingly creepy constitutes one yet.
Diplomacy: 4 HAHAHAHAHA
[/spoiler]Borya gives him a funny sideways glance as the man looks away. He follows the path of the man's eyes to the satchel, looks back at the man in the chair... 'This is going to be a long day, isn't it?' was all he could think. Sighing as if it really put him out to do so, Borya stood slowly, pushing himself up from his knees - from this proximity, he looked to have combed back his hair but not washed after a night of drinks and a morning hangover - and gently grabbed the man's head, bringing him forehead to forehead with Borya. The smell of smoke and vodka reinforced his haggard appearance. "Please, don't make this any longer, for either of us, than it has to be, understand?" he said in that same, drawling Russian, but the softness suddenly taken out of it. He sounded irritated and bored, and the ashes from the tip of his cigarette, neglected for long enough to command a bit of length on their own, fell onto the man's neck as Borya brushed his shoulder taking his hand away. He moved over to the satchel, rummaging through it, eventually muttering "Do you know where you are?" He waited for an answer, looking straight at the man.

Finally, he brought it back to his chair and dumped the contents gently onto the cold floor for examination. The whole process involved crazed mutterings, unintelligible, from Borya's mouth, as soon as his last sentence finished.

[jacemachine]

<"In a freaking chair, comrade. In a basement. And you need a breath mint."> the tied up man spat in reply.

Still, he looked nervously towards the upended contents, trying to identify what might be coming.

[Flay Crimsonwind]

Borya held out both hands, like a man displaying toys to children in a sidealley of Moscow; his tools were not what one would expect. Someone sent in to torture someone might have carried a set of knives, acids, fake fingers as if presents from past torture sessions. But that was not what Borya was. He was a hitman, a "Cleaner," and he was not used to being addressed like he was a thug intimidating another thug.

His "tools" were too Heavy for torture; a sort of doctors strip, a rolled up cloth usually containing a number of forceps or scalpels, but this was much longer. Unrolled, it contained two long pieces, which gave the satchel-esque duffel it's shape. One piece was a PP90-M1 submachine gun, a good compact weapon. The larger was an RM-93 shotgun, not a compact weapon by any means. Assorted boxes of shells and three magazines of ammunition for the sub fell out onto the floor, as well as a silver lighter with what might have been a bloody fingerprint on it. Borya picked this up, lit himself another cigarette with it, and placed it in his left pants pocket. A large meat cleaver was held near that pocket in a leather sheathe*, seemingly custom cut for it. Breathmint, please. He needed another cigarette. "Yes, you are in a basement. You are tied to a chair. And if you give me what I want, they will let you go, because you know and I know that you are a nobody, and the people who hired me do not care about you. If you were something, they would have hired me to shoot you, not beat you.

I will walk you out the door and kick you in the ass myself, but not without a case to hand in for my pay. I am, as you see, not a man who 'delights in torture'** or who 'does this for a living,' because my living is made in killing people. I hate these jobs, but they pay, and they give me something to do. Now, you see I cannot torture you slowly, as I have only guns and a cleaver... you know my name, yes? I know you are Viktor Turov, a pissant little nothing, but do you know me? Here..." He casually whipped out his cleaver and swung it down between the man's legs. It was slow, the man knew it was coming and tried to scoot, which just made it easier for Borya to not hit him. He didn't take his hand away after burying the blade in the chair. He stood there for a moment***, then pried it out while grabbing the shotgun and bringing it back to the table, where he let both of his tools rest. "...That is your one hint, Viktor. Do you know my name now?"
[spoiler]
*Intimidate: 7
**Diplomacy: 14
***Intimidate: 6

DAMNIT! No IC... I'll roll them in a bit... HAHA! Ironic rolls!
[/spoiler]

[jacemachine]

<"I don't give a rats ass who you are. I am not talking. You don't scare me."> The man sneered from his chair.

[Flay Crimsonwind]

His eyebrows raised in a sort of surprise. "Oh." He said as if he hadn't considered the possibility. Now, he was not exactly a master interrogator, so he went back to what he was good at; being odd and violent. "Alright, well, most people call me 'The Butcher' just to tell you. Not because of the knife, ironically." He'd walked away, pulling his chair back towards the wall, come back and taken the cleaver out of Victor's chair. He knelt down and held the knife next to his head lightly. "Alright, now, I told you I'm not an intimidation professional, so I'm going to give up on it. You'll tell me where this pack is, or I'll cut off your fingers. I can't guarantee which, because a cleaver doesn't provide for a great amount of finesse. Now, where is this case, or the left go first?" All the while, he was trying to think about other things he'd heard had happened to people in the underground, trying to think about other things he could do to his unfortunate prisoner.

[spoiler]Intimidate: 19
Knowledge, Streetwise: 21
Knowledge, Popular Culture: 4
[/spoiler]

[jacemachine]

The man clamps his mouth shut. He doesn't offer you any more sass, but he doesn't tell you what you want to hear either.

Perhaps his loss of fingers is preferable to what may happen to him later if he tells what he knows. You've seen this scenario before a thousand times.