- Joined
- Oct 17, 2024
- Messages
- 35
- Reaction score
- 59
- Points
- 18
Devon Recker
Age: 32
Birthplace: New Orleans, Louisiana, USA
Occupation: Unemployed
Previous Occupations: NOLA DEA Agent (Discharged)
Family: ???
Birthplace: New Orleans, Louisiana, USA
Occupation: Unemployed
Previous Occupations: NOLA DEA Agent (Discharged)
Family: ???
The fan clacked overhead, moving air that smelled like spilled whiskey and damp brick. A man hunched at the bar, his voice a gravel rasp, like every word came with a cough. He leaned close to whoever’d listen.
“Y’ever hear of Devon Recker?” he asked, squinting one bloodshot eye, as if the name alone should stir ghosts. “Don’t matter if you have or not. Man like that, you feel before you know him. Like the hairs on your neck standin’ up, tellin’ you trouble just walked through the door.”
He tipped his drink, amber rolling lazy in the glass.
“Used to be a cop. Not just any cop, nah—narcotics. The real dirty work. Kickin’ down doors in the Ninth Ward, sittin’ with dealers ‘til they thought he was one of ‘em, smilin’ like he ain’t already got the cuffs in his back pocket. Some say he was the best. Others say he was too good, made too many enemies. You don’t crack that many skulls and not have the devil himself come askin’ questions.”
The drunk chuckled, a low, wet sound.
“They say he left the force ‘fore they could push him out. Some claim he killed a cartel lieutenant right in his own damn kitchen, then walked away whistlin’. Some claim he buried more men in the swamp than gators could eat. Hell, maybe both. Maybe neither.” He swirled his drink again. “That’s the trouble with stories, ain’t it?”
The room seemed to lean in with him, even if no one was listening.
He set the glass down heavy, staring at the wet ring left behind.
“Course,” he muttered, voice softening, “Maybe he’s just another bastard with too many notches on his soul. Maybe the world finally caught up with him. Maybe he’s out there right now, drunk as me, tryin’ to forget.”
The drunk pushed his glass forward for a refill, eyes never leaving the dark wood of the bar.
“Or maybe,” he said with a cracked smile, “He’s the only chance we got left.”
“Y’ever hear of Devon Recker?” he asked, squinting one bloodshot eye, as if the name alone should stir ghosts. “Don’t matter if you have or not. Man like that, you feel before you know him. Like the hairs on your neck standin’ up, tellin’ you trouble just walked through the door.”
He tipped his drink, amber rolling lazy in the glass.
“Used to be a cop. Not just any cop, nah—narcotics. The real dirty work. Kickin’ down doors in the Ninth Ward, sittin’ with dealers ‘til they thought he was one of ‘em, smilin’ like he ain’t already got the cuffs in his back pocket. Some say he was the best. Others say he was too good, made too many enemies. You don’t crack that many skulls and not have the devil himself come askin’ questions.”
The drunk chuckled, a low, wet sound.
“They say he left the force ‘fore they could push him out. Some claim he killed a cartel lieutenant right in his own damn kitchen, then walked away whistlin’. Some claim he buried more men in the swamp than gators could eat. Hell, maybe both. Maybe neither.” He swirled his drink again. “That’s the trouble with stories, ain’t it?”
The room seemed to lean in with him, even if no one was listening.
He set the glass down heavy, staring at the wet ring left behind.
“Course,” he muttered, voice softening, “Maybe he’s just another bastard with too many notches on his soul. Maybe the world finally caught up with him. Maybe he’s out there right now, drunk as me, tryin’ to forget.”
The drunk pushed his glass forward for a refill, eyes never leaving the dark wood of the bar.
“Or maybe,” he said with a cracked smile, “He’s the only chance we got left.”
COMING SOON
