Marked, Interlude F

Clink. Clink, clink. 'Hear the glass slosh and tink, tilt it back and have a drink. Count to ten and start again, clink so you don't have to think.' 

Danny couldn't remember where he first heard that sarcastic little ditty. College? Later, at the Union? Earlier, from a friend of his father? Yeah. That was the one. Someone not so drunk, all the time, less violent, than his father, less of a temper- but that was a sliding scale, wasn't it? 'The base is up and the neck is down, so guzzle and gulp so you don't drown. The last of the foam is slow to sink, so reach into the case for another clink.' 

The words whirled in his head, kept him from thinking. Kept him from feeling the wants and needs, a refrain louder and more intense with each bitter, fizzy swallow. 'A filling gut and a face red and pink, so belch to make room for one more drink. Because bartender comfort costs less than a shrink, peel open the case for another clink.'

Kept him from filling up on other people. Kept him from feeling that rush, the heady energy that came with taking the will of others, because god knew he hadn't enough willpower, enough fortitude of his own, to run his own life, to care for his daughter. 'The counter is crowded with glass from the clink, and last night's sweat is starting to stink. Kneel and worship the bowl and then rinse in the sink, and don't meet the mirror's bloodshot blink. Let the buzz drown your conscience, the miserable fink, and dig through the fridge for a bottle of clink.' 

Was that even part of the thing that guy had made before? For the life of him, Danny couldn't remember, any more than he could remember how many days it'd been since he'd all but admitted to Taylor that he'd arranged for her school to burn down. And of course she'd run away. Smart of her- but then, she always took after her mother. Too smart to fall for shallow coping mechanisms like the clink. 'Tink tink tink, fall the bottles of clink as they roll and they blur and they wobble and clink while your brain starts to teeter and tilt on the brink.' 

Because it's so damn good. Taking control. Taking their will. Getting stronger, it's like what's his name from Baker street... Michael- or was is Samuel? One of those biblical type names. Like he described his very first hit of heroin and coke. Like ten orgasms rolled into one, that's how powerful it made him feel, but it didn't drain him, it energized him instead. And he took their motivation, and made it his own, and he could feed it back, make them want want he wanted them to. It was sugar, it was a high and it was a triumph, and it felt so god damn good. 'And the clink, ah the clink, like an ocean of ink you could drown in and dive in and flounder and sink. It could swallow you whole as you wallow in drinks and you crawl in the bottle and shut your eyes to your thinks.'

It was better this way. By morning, he was sober enough to get dressed. Shave. An empty house, a silent air, home... no more. No, not a home anymore. Forget it. Just go to work. Improve the city. Lose himself in work. Use his people, and the city, who were also his people, and even members of the gangs, who were also his people. Use them, use their willpower, on each other, on himself. Make the city better, until he didn't need to drink to tolerate the hell his home town had become.Lose himself in his work. Until it was time to go home again, and lose himself in the drink. Because as bad as it was for him, somehow, he knew that if he didn't, he could lose himself completely to his powers. 

Shoes shined. Head pounding and eyedrops dulling the bright red of his bloodshot eyes. The hangover would fade with the first rush of his minions, of his people, and by the time he finished his coffee, he'd be right as rain. Like he always was. Pressed shirt, tie neat but slightly loose, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. Because he was a professional, but he was also a worker, and his people appreciated that gesture to show that he was still one of them, on whatever level of self determination they retained by now that wasn't completely subsumed by his repeated exposure to them. He'd stolen their will, stolen their sovereignty, their agency, and done it so subtly, replaced their desires with his own, layer by layer, until they were his thralls and loved him for it. And all he could do was try to do good with the cards he'd been dealt. Take care of them. Keep them safe, make them happy. 

His shoe brushed up against a stray bottle that had rolled past the couch into the entryway. No time right now; he had to get to work. 

As he closed the door, the bottle slowly rolled until it bounced off the doorframe to the kitchen. Clink.