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Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings	By : MelThorn Category: 1 through F > Boondock Saints Views: 1228 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints or the characters within, and make no profit from the film or characters

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Rot and decay. Those were the two words Murphy would have found apt to describe the series of lofts he and Connor found. The building itself, which was five floors high, reeked of cat piss and mildew, and the halls were filled with the squeals of children and bickering adults. For the entire elevator ride up, Murphy made no comment on his discontent, knowing how at ease his brother was at the mere thought of them being off of the street. He dreaded what they would find when they would eventually meet what would be their new home, and already surmised and expected the very worst. Perhaps a dead body was stored there, or the previous owner had an abnormal fetish. Sure, their shoes would stay dry off of the wet sidewalk, but Murphy had to question the cost of positive change.
The front door was cracked, chipped near the handle, and a splinter ran down the rim of the frame as though it had been kicked in on multiple occasions and repaired with the weakest of glue. Murphy ran a finger over it, only to widen the crack further with what little pressure he put on it. He cursed under his breath, shaking his head, and looked to Connor for assurance. Connor seemed a lot less troubled than he was, in fact, appeared relieved. It was rare that Murphy saw such a potent smile on his face, though he was the gentler of the two of them.
Connor opened the creaking door, more flakes of wood dusting to the ground. Murphy kicked some off of his shoe as he followed his twin into the loft, and right away, was kicked back by a wafting scent of must. It could have been coming from the rusty showerheads on the wall ahead of them, or perhaps from the cracked, filth-encrusted toilet, which might have once been white, but Murphy would hardly call it such with the dark stains coating every inch of it. The floor was carpeted, but it too was speckled with blotches of all shapes and, to Murphy’s horror, colors. The most surprising find of all was the two twin-sized mattresses dressing the floor, which were bare of any sheets or blankets, and the ripped, broken sofa next to the doorway, where a gaping hole showed the wooden skeleton and hunks of fabric and cotton beneath.
This… was the ultimate shit hole.
Murphy dropped his jaw, unable to comprehend the sight. He had never seen anything quite so efficient of labeling them as “poor,” other than the fact that they had empty pockets and holes in their T-shirts. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, because no insult, no spew of derision would be good enough. Connor, on the other hand, held his hands out to the sides and sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils.
“Ya smell dat?” He asked Murphy, who replied with a curl of his nose. “Dat’s freedom my dear bro’ter!”
Murphy wouldn’t call it that. He would call it shit if he had a mind to. “Glad ya like it.” He pointed at the toilet, or what was left of it. “Da fuck?” he indicated.
Connor glanced in the direction he was pointing. “What?”
“Dere’s no wall!”
“So?”
“So… I have to watch ya shit?”
Connor’s tongue traced the inside of his cheek, his eyes lifting, then falling again. When he placed his hands on his hips, Murphy already knew there was no arguing to be had. “S’not dat big o’deal, is it?”
“Depends on how long I have to suffer t’rough it.”
“Fer fuck’s sake, Murph. Ya don’ have to watch. I ne’er asked ya to!”
Murphy snuffed at him, dropping the matter. He collapsed down onto one of the mattresses, which groaned under what little weight he had. The springs sank down toward the floor, and some of them pinched his ass. He grunted in discomfort. “Connor,” he sighed. Connor’s face fell when he saw how upset he looked. He too sat down, facing him on the adjacent bed. “Do ya t’ink maybeh… we ne’er should have left Ireland?”
This hadn’t been the first time they had this discussion, but Murphy might have forgotten it with how much he drank. He softened his voice, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward toward him. “Sometimes.”
“I miss our home. A lot.”
“I do, too.”
“Fuckin’ A. Den what are we doin’ here?!”
“Ya know we can’t burden ma anymore.”
“Aw, for fuck’s sake! Da woman begged us to stay! She fuckin’ cried.”
Connor dragged a sweating palm down his face, over his reddish-oak hair and stubble-coated neck. “Murph… I know how ya feel. I do. Sometimes… we have to do what we t’ink is right, even if we don’ t’ink it’ll work out fer us. Ma loves us, I know she does, and misses us. But ya know she can’t afford us.” Murphy dropped his head, presenting the top of his short, dark hair to him, rubbing the stress from his eyes. “Besides. Dis is da land of opportunity.”
“Fer fat, rich, white folk maybeh,” Murphy scowled, his eyebrows folding. “Dat ain’t us.”
“It can be. Yer jus’ not lookin’ at it da righ’ way.”
With a growl, Murphy dragged his hand over his clipped locks. “I’ll look at it da righ’ way when we actually have clot’es to change into.”
“We’ll see how da new job works out. Ya ne’er know. It migh’ be our firs’ break in a long time. Ma would be proud of us.” He was glad to see this made Murphy smile. He patted his shoulder, swiping at least a gram of sweat onto his hide, but Murphy didn’t seem to mind. He grinned even wider at it. For once, they’d be able to relax on their own place, sleep without being woken by arguing, and soon they might be able to afford more than just a few shots at McGinty’s every Friday night. Connor lied down on the old bed, staring up at the cracked, broken ceiling, his mind brewing and stirring with thoughts on their possible futures. One thing he couldn’t wait to get above all else after a paycheck was a television. He missed TV, possibly more than he missed Ireland.
Murphy, on the other hand, could give a shit less about TV. That was Connor’s thing, and he could have it all he wanted. What he missed was the target practice he and his brother shared in the backyard. He wouldn’t say so to Connor, but it was one of the reasons he wanted to go back. Whenever the weather was right, they’d head out to the field, set up some long-range targets, and blast the hell out of them. Sure, the pistols were shoddy, but he didn’t care. It was the steam he was able to let off when doing it that mattered, as well as the bonding time he had with Connor. It was Connor that taught him how to shoot well. It was Connor that taught him how to line up his aim. It was Connor that praised him when he got even better at shooting than he did. They’d eventually have competitions to see who could shoot the best and the quickest, and it took him a while, but he eventually beat Connor in some of their more recent matches. Connor was good about it. He always complimented him.
He supposed that if he did want a gun, it was pretty easy to snag one in the US. Money might not even need to factor into the equation. They didn’t need the best firepower money could by, but just a couple of toys to play with. He wanted to rejoin his brother at the range, to shoot some stress off of his shoulders, to get tackled by him depending on the winner of the game. That was what life was all about. It’d be even better with a few beers in them.
Murphy sighed with longing, and Connor looked his way. “Ya all ‘ight?”
“Aye,” Murphy muttered, the corner of his lips easing up for a moment. “I jus’ hope t’ings go back to semi-normal between us.”
“We’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
Murphy didn’t want them to be “okay.” He wanted things to be “good,” perhaps even better than that. In Connor’s view, their situation might not have been the best, but it was something they could work with Though Connor was with him every day, and they did everything together, he missed him, and the things they used to do. There would come a time for them to return to doing what they loved best. They just needed a wad of dough to get it done.
========
Connor wasn’t as fond of the smell of blood as Murphy was, and couldn’t imagine getting used to it. Even in the autumns when they would hunt together, it was Murphy who would do the field dressing, and he was good with a knife. Knives were hardly Connor’s specialty. No matter how good of a grip he got on one, he couldn’t get comfortable with the feel of it in his hand. The handle of a gun always felt better; smoother. However, he couldn’t cut meat with a gun, and he couldn’t go to the range with a knife. One way or the other, he’d have to get used to it.
Murphy took to the job right away. Not only could he cut meat well, but he could do so in the blink of an eye. It took all of Connor’s strength to keep up with him, and the poorly-ventilated building poured forth buckets of sweat from every orifice. Blazing gusts of summer heat combining with steam and long, white overcoats was a recipe for the worst kind of dehydration, which by now, Connor suffered from.
Since their early teens, they had been competitive with one another, and he liked that about their relationship, but in this instance it only overworked him. Murphy was faster at everything these days. If he wanted to be ahead of the game, he had to put a little elbow grease into his daily work. He hadn’t been aware of just how far behind he would fall.
“Don’ even try it, Connor,” Murphy advised. “Ya can’t beat meh.”
“Ya know how much I love a challenge,” he laughed.
“Hope yer hungreh fer dust. Yer goin’ to be eatin’ it.” Murphy’s wrist movements only picked up in speed, and Connor thought it probably would have been best to end it there, but he couldn’t resist his taunts. They always managed to stir up his wild side.
“Is dat before or after yer kissin’ mah ass?”
Murphy’s eyes narrowed, but his smirk hinted at his playfulness. For every three haunches Murphy sliced, Connor cut one, but as the minutes ticked by, his speed dropped even further as an ache coursed down his left wrist, and as he was a southpaw, this meant for less functionality. He stopped his work to give the twinge a rub, and Murphy snickered at his slowing tempo.
“I told ya,” he mocked.
“I don’ feel so good.” He snapped his rubber glove off of his hand and wiped his brow.
Murphy’s eyes danced toward the ceiling. “Fuck you. Ya always do dis when yer losin’ to meh.”
“Shut da fuck up, m’serious. Me head’s spinnin’.”
Murphy put his taunting on hold for a moment and lowered his hands to the counter and studied his brother’s rocking legs and swaying shoulders. “Stop fuckin’ wit’ meh, I know ya are.”
“M’not. I feel like m’goin’ to…” With a short gasp, his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor with a smacking thud. The knife that was once in Murphy’s hand clanged against the counter as he released it, and after slipping his gloves off, he dove to the ground beside him, tapping his palm against his cheek.
“Connor,” he stammered with loose breath. His many taps to the face didn’t manage to rouse him. He lied limp upon the floor, unmoving, like the many slabs of meat hanging on the belt. “Connor!” There was nothing, not even at the sound of Murphy’s voice. Murphy turned to the many onlookers standing at the counters. “Don’ jus’ fuckin’ stand dere! Get ‘im some water!”
Another employee, one Murphy didn’t know the name of, rushed off to a room that was out of view while he tended to his brother. “Tá súil agam go bhfuil tú ceart go leor,” he told him, whether or not he could hear it. His co-worker, an older woman with dark hair, a full body, and biceps built for handiwork, returned, handing him a plastic cup filled with cold water.
“What happened?” she asked Murphy.
“Dunno,” he answered. “He said he wasn’t feelin’ well.” Once he managed to pry Connor’s mouth open, he poured some of the water into it, leaning his head up so that it would leak down his throat. Then, he waited before doing it a second time, until the cup was empty. For a moment, nothing happened, and Murphy considered telling the other workers to phone a hospital.
Then, before he could even assimilate the chain of events, Murphy felt a spray of lukewarm mist soaking his face, and following the assault of spittle, he heard the amused cackles of his twin. Murphy didn’t have it in him to wipe the waterfall from his cheeks, nor did he want to argue with his brother about the joke he had just played on him. He could only stare at the spectacle before him, wounded.
“Ah, man!” Connor giggled, his face scrunched up as an impish grin filled his mouth. “Ya should’a heard yer voice, Murph! ‘Connor, Connor’!” He burst into an all new fit of laughter, stronger than the last, enough to cause his sides to ache.
Murphy, burning with a fury so deep that he could say he hated his twin in that moment, slammed a balled-up fist into Connor’s shoulder, making him cry out, exchanging his joy for pain. “Fuckin’ piece a’shit!” he screamed, then leapt to his feet and stormed off, knocking back a plastic curtain.
Connor stalled his explanation to his observers, feeling a bit ashamed of himself. He didn’t think Murphy would get angry enough to punch him, especially in an area he knew he was sensitive in. When he staggered back to a standing position, he waved a pathetic apology to those who witnessed the scene. What was with their glares? Couldn’t they take a joke?
Before they could castrate him with one of those hulking filet knives they brandished, he rushed past the plastic curtain Murphy darted through, finding him sitting upon a stack of boxes near the cold storage. When he approached him, he did so with caution, rubbing his throbbing, boney shoulder. “Ay,” he muttered. Murphy glowered up at him. “M’sorry. I didn’ t’ink ya’d take it dis bad.”
“Yer an asshole. D’ya know dat?”
Connor lowered his eyes to the cement floor, which was scraped to hell and back from the tracks of moving equipment. “Murph, it was jus’ a joke.”
“I can fuckin’ see dat, ya prick! Da fuck is da matter wit’ ya?! Ná joke faoi bhás!”
“I wasn’t jokin’ abou’ death! I really fainted! I was jus’…” He ran a dirty hand across his auburn hair. “Jus’ makin’ light of da sit’iation.”
Growling to himself, Murphy clasped his head in his hands. When he lifted his eyes again, they were pinched and burning. “Fine. Yer fer’given.”
“Don’ be angry.”
“Can we jus’ ferget it e’er happened?”
Connor raised his palms in defeat. With that signal, Murphy rose off of his seat on the boxes and made for the processing station. Before he got too far, Connor stopped him. “Ya sounded really worried for meh.”
Murphy didn’t look at him, but Connor could sense his rage. “Why don’ ya fuckin’ mock meh abou’ it again, eh?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Like hell ya aren’t. Go on, laugh it up. It’s so damn funneh. I t’ought you were gonna die.”
“M’sorry,” Connor repeated. “I won’ do it again. Promise.”
Murphy softened at his oath, and his tone of voice. “All ‘ight.”
“I’m glad ya care so much.”
Murphy huffed, lifting his shoulders. “Yeh, well. Get da fuck back to work.” Without another word, he walked off, but at a calmer pace this time. Though Connor felt it might take a little while for him to forgive him, he had a smile on his face when he returned to the station.
At the final whistle of the day, they both headed back for the loft, or the “shit hole” as Murphy liked to call it, and retired for the evening, though there was very little to do otherwise, anyway. Connor passed out almost immediately, but Murphy wasn’t exhausted enough to do so yet. While lying on the creaking, dusty mattress that had yet to be comfortable enough to sleep on, Murphy gazed at his resting brother, thinking of the earlier events. What would he have done if Connor had died, not only in the method he joked about, but in any way? Would he have bothered continuing with his life, the very life that had little-to-no meaning in it? Without Connor there, there wouldn’t be a reason. They didn’t have much to live for but each other. If one was removed from the equation, there would be nothing left but a miserable life.
Dwelling on it, Murphy managed to stress himself out, worrying if and when it could happen. He stirred upon the mattress’s springs, which jabbed and poked his back, and punching them didn’t help any. When he got up and paced the room, he drew the attention of Connor, who turned to face him.
Not able to look at any sort of clock, Connor asked him, “Murph, what time is it?”
Murphy paused, his back to him, his head down. “Dunno.”
Sensing tension in his voice, he sat up and stared him down. “What’s wrong?”
“Not’in. Go back to sleep.”
“Have you…” He paused, thinking Murphy might retaliate, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Have you been cryin’?”
“Fuck you,” Murphy snapped, thinking he was mocking him again, then made a brisk run for the door, yanking it open, almost pulling it off of the hinges. Connor got off the bed and chased after him, watching him get into the elevator. “Goin’ fer a walk,” he grunted.
“Is dis about what happened at da plant?”
“Go back to sleep,” Murphy repeated, and slammed the elevator door shut, riding it down. As Connor stood in the doorway to their place, he watched the lift descend until it was out of view. When he returned to the loft without Murphy, he couldn’t get back to sleep as he asked him to.
Instead of getting back into bed, Connor climbed out to the fire escape and jogged down the metallic steps until he reached the bottom, finding Murphy already transcending the alley, puffing at a cigarette. When Connor dropped in front of him like a moonlighting vigilante swooping onto a victim, he staggered back in shock.
“Let me walk wit’ ya,” Connor offered. Murphy was silent for a moment. “I… need de air.”
Murphy hesitated, but then nodded, continuing on his journey, this time with his brother beside him. Now, he was a lot more comfortable.
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Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings