“Why, there’s hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!”
6 months ago
It’s raining, pouring really, one of these abrupt late afternoon downpours when the sky suddenly opens and all colour fades into grey. Steam rises from the wet asphalt that has been baking in the heat for hours, bringing along the very specific and hard to describe smell of summer rain. This must be how it feels to stand beneath a waterfall, Vegas ponders for one crazy second.
Water runs down his face in rivulets, like a flood of uncried tears. His shirt and his uniform pants are soaked through and through, clinging to his skin; he is kneeling in a dirty alley in an ever-growing puddle of rainwater, but he couldn’t care less. See, Detective Vegas Theerapanyakul is currently too busy slamming his fists into face of the person he is kneeling over, and loving every second of it.
“Violence isn’t always evil. What’s evil is the infatuation with violence. You get that quote, right?” Whatever.
There is nothing quite as satisfying as the feeling of cartilage bending and giving way beneath his finger bones. At least this is what Vegas firmly believes and he doesn’t give shit how anyone else might feel about it. That nose will never look the same unless a certain someone invests in extensive plastic surgery. Just for good measure, he slams his fist into it again and again, breathing heavily
All around him there is total chaos. He is vaguely aware of it, but he kneels in an invisible bubble of white noise that bleeds away everything else, removes all distractions so that he can fully concentrate on what he is doing.
Hands reach out, grabbing for his arms, trying to hold on, to restrain and pull him backwards, and so he growls, shakes them off violently, and then his fist connects once more with flesh, the mouth this time. Like a water ballon that bursts, the lips pop—so damn satisfying—releasing a spray of red that is promptly washed away by the torrential downpour.
Maybe then, I’ll fade away
And not have to face the facts
It’s not easy facing up
When your whole world is black red
Red.
Vegas is literally seeing RED everywhere, giving colour to the vast ocean of sheer, unbridled rage that courses through him at this very moment. He is done reining it in, he is so done with it! It’s fucking exhausting to hold it all inside, it’s driving him insane, he feels like he has ants crawling through his veins and he is so done with it!
“Let it go, let it go. Can’t hold it back anymore.” Ugh, no way… where did that come from?! Fuck you, Macau!
Vegas’ hands are moving on his own, he doesn’t even need to think, it’s such a glorious moment altogether. Full autopilot. He’s a weapon come to life. He’s a vessel, channeling divine rage at this sorry excuse of a human being beneath him.
“Shit! …Vegas!!! …Stop it! You’re killing him!”
Again someone tries to grab his arms, he can feel fingers desperately digging into his muscles to drag him backwards. Something rips—not his muscles, but his shirt gives way, one of the sleeves partially coming off.
Vegas snarls. Loudly. Showing his teeth.
“I told you not to try to take his bone away. Why did you not listen? You never listen to me, child. Hold still. Does it hurt? It looks bad, we better take you to the doctor or your father will have my head.” And the moral of the story—be a badass dog and bite!
…RedRedRed…
He sinks his teeth into something and immediately his mouth fills with the hot taste of copper.
Someone screams. Loudly. Right next to his ear. It startles him for a moment, and that is all that it takes. His head is jerked to the side as whatever is in his mouth is forcefully removed—tear… rip… oh no, the prey is gone—but at the same time Vegas is free once more, no more hands holding him back.
“What the actual fuck, Vegas?!” someone yells at him with a panic-stricken voice and then calls for help.
Whatever.
The thing beneath him is still moving, making pitiful noises, a mixture between crying and screaming. How irritating. Mouth and nose ruined, it’s time to go for the eyes. Vegas does not like how those eyes look at him. As if he is a nightmare incarnate…
“The monsters were never under my bed. Because the monsters were inside my head. I fear no monsters, for no monsters I see. Because all this time the monster has been me.” … but surely that cannot be true? …
“What the hell are you looking at?!” Vegas yells and lurches forward, his thumbs slipping on the blood-stained flesh as they glide towards the eyes. He needs put a stop to it. Close those accusing eyes for good. Perhaps then the sudden knots in his roiling stomach will disappear once more. More fumbling, then his thumbs slide and slot into place and he squeezes.
There is a lot of yelling all around him. Several voices now. He cannot make out what they are saying, and he honestly does not give a shit. He is so focused on what he is doing that they manage to surprise him. So many hands this time. Too many. Grabbing. Pulling. Squeezing his throat so he cannot breathe. Breathing is essential so he withdraws his hands from the bloody mess that used to be a face—unrecognisable now—and instead claws at whatever is constricting his throat. And that is all it takes, he is finally separated from his prey and dragged several meters away.
Someone slams him on his back with full force, knocking the breath out of him, making him see stars as the back of his head connects to the asphalt with a sharp crack—ouch—and this is all it takes to snap him out of it, back into reality.
Everything drifts back into focus as Vegas looks up slowly, blinking
repeatedly, rain cascading down on his face, trying to drown him on this warm summer day right in the middle of the busy city. He doesn’t move, just continues to lie there. Stunned, he takes note that he is breathing too fast, gulping after oxygen like a fish on land. His heart is beating so hard it hurts. But the physical discomfort is nothing compared to his growing mental anguish. He simply cannot comprehend what just happened. He can’t. This cannot have happened. Vegas has fucked up big time. What a fucking nightmare.
Rain washes the blood off his face and no one will ever notice if perhaps there are tears mixed with the rain. This must be how it feels to stand beneath a waterfall, Vegas once again thinks in a daze. Please let me drown already.
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The ride back to the police station is awkward, to say the least. Some unknown police officer is driving and Tem has taken the passenger seat in front, leaving Vegas to sit on his own in the back.
No one is talking. And what is worse, Tem is ignoring him. This is bad. This is so bad. Fuck.
Tem avoids even looking at him. He stares straight ahead into the traffic, a haunted look on his pale face, cradling his injured hand to his chest. At some point someone has tried to protectively wrap the gruesome bite wound in bandages from a first-aid kit, but the rain has soaked right through—the rain and the blood.
Tem… They have been friends since the days at the Royal Thai Police Cadet Academy, which they attended together. They are partners now, and once again, Vegas has managed to fuck it up royally. Why is he even surprised? He should be more surprised that it worked as long as it did. This is just following the usual pattern, he reminds himself tiredly. People befriend him —he is a Theerapanyakul after all, a fucking celebrity—but eventually, when they get to know the real him, they cannot get away from him fast enough.
Vegas usually doesn’t care when someone walks away. Tem though… why does this hurt so much? He knows he has messed up big time and he is aching all over inside. Vegas does not have many people he would consider friends. Coming to think of it, there are only two who stubbornly refuse to walk away from him—that is, until now. Tem and Porsche. But it looks as if Tem is walking. He has finally seen the light, this incident has been the last drop, this is it.
FuckFuckFuck. Vegas swallows hard and instantly feels nauseous because he can still taste the blood in his mouth. Tem’s blood. He has rinsed his mouth repeatedly already but the taste lingers, just to haunt him. He leans his aching head against the cool glass of the car window, staring outside without actually taking anything in. Everything is a kaleidoscope of colours and shapes that the car is moving past swiftly during this late afternoon rush hour, and that is fine because he does not need to concentrate, he can allow his thoughts to drift.
Drifting away from what just happened. What he did—to his friend… and… that thing… fuck no… a man, another human being—and it’s suddenly hard to breathe.
… He turns the ring on purpose, of course. Father always does. Every single time. It hurts more this way. It appears as if this is a good day for Vegas. Father is in a good mood and there is a business meeting planned in an hour, which means this will be over sooner rather than later. Vegas just holds still, endures, keeps quiet and soon knows that he will not be able to walk out of this room and back to his bedroom on his own. He will once again have to accept the help of the guards to steady him because his brain is temporarily turning into mush due to the force of the strikes that rain down on him. He is already so dizzy he can hardly stand without swaying like a reed in the wind, let alone walk in a straight line later on…
… like father, like son
“I–I’m going to be sick…” Vegas croaks hoarsely, barely managing to warn them, and the car instantly swerves to make an emergency stop at the sidewalk. Vegas fumbles blindly for the door handle and as soon as the door opens he leans out and violently empties his stomach until there is nothing left and still he dry heaves… and heaves… and heaves…
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
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A framed photograph gathers dust on the otherwise absurdly organised desktop. A family of five, all dressed expensively; he recognises a few rather obvious brands. Isn’t this dress from that famous English designer whose name he has already forgotten again? Vegas isn’t interested in fashion per se but he has a cousin who is a walking-talking style icon. Guess some things must have rubbed off on him after all. The photo’s location is clearly recognisable as a popular beachfront resort well over three hours from here. Posed to perfection in front of the luxury bungalow, mom and dad smile indulgently at their adorable offspring. It’s such a disgustingly homey scene that he wants to puke. Such a wholesome family—what a big fat joke.
With an inner sigh, Vegas pulls his attention back to reality, as unpleasant as it is, and to his clearly irked superior, who is currently pacing back and forth in front of him, the perfectly ironed dress uniform stretching a bit too tightly over his ever-growing girth. The same man as the one in the photo. Rambling on and on about proper arrest procedures and police violence— blah blah blah… same old, same old—all that Vegas has conveniently blocked out until now, but he does notice the increasing volume, his boss is such a drama queen.
“…and I am telling you, this will have consequences! This time you’ve really gone too far!”
Vegas’ agitated, middle-aged boss suddenly stops in front of him and takes a deep, wheezing breath to steady himself. It’s clear that whatever he sees when he looks at his employee only serves to increase his irritation.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, are you even listening, Detective Theerapanyakul?! You think I’m having this conversation just for the sheer fun of it?!”
“That is a rhetorical question, right?” Vegas cannot help himself, the words slip past his lips before he knows it. Oh well, whatever.
The boss grinds his teeth and growls with sheer frustration. Hands on his hips, he glowers at Vegas. If it were any other officer but Vegas standing here they would be terrified. This is the boss after all—this man is as close to God as you can come in this police precinct. He has the final say in everything and he gives and takes, all according to his whims. The whole department is in constant fear of this man and his temper tantrums—everyone except Vegas. He’s a Theerapanyakul after all, next to untouchable; in this case he’s pretty much above God, come to think of it.
With a sigh, Vegas takes a step backward, trying to look contrite as he crosses his arms in front of him and leans back against the desk, doing his best to de-escalate the situation.
Then he catches a glimpse of his reflection in one of the glass doors of the display cabinet holding the captain’s medals of honour. Oh dear. A quick glance down at himself confirms it—Vegas looks like hell. His uniform pants are wrinkled, still damp and partially torn around the knee area. The shirt of his uniform is probably beyond saving; one sleeve is heroically hanging on, but those frayed stitches could snap at any moment. The fabric itself looks as if it has fallen victim to the very first batik attempts of a sleep-deprived toddler; it’s smudged with blood and dirt. Some of the buttons are gone, ripped off when someone tried to forcefully pull him off his prey—no, victim—earlier on. Through a variety of rips and tears, a bit too much pale skin is on display. Oh dear indeed.
And not only that, he most certainly doesn’t look as if he’s regretting anything at all. Quite the contrary, his body language is all wrong. Well, shit.
The captain seems to have the very same thoughts. He raises a bushy eyebrow and snorts with weary disbelief, then takes another calming breath. “You look like a walking Rorschach Test sample, Detective Theerapanyakul.” Then he shoos Vegas away from his desk before he goes to sit down behind it. Looking official again. “All right, let’s try this again.”
As Vegas makes a move to take a seat himself in the chair facing the desk, he receives a death glare and quickly reconsiders. Instead, he resumes a proper ‘at ease’ position, just like they taught him at the academy. He can behave properly when he wants. And this seems like a very good time to show off his good side.
The silence stretches itself out.
The captain studies him as if he is trying to peek directly into Vegas’ soul, searching for something, but not finding any satisfactory answers. And strangely enough he no longer seems frustrated and angry; instead he looks sad, which makes Vegas feel very uncomfortable indeed.
Angry he can deal with.
Angry he is used to.
Angry he has grown up with.
Angry he can ignore.
Sadness and …worry? Oh no. This conversation is not going to go in a good direction.
“What were you even doing there, eh?”
And here we go…
“I checked with your direct superior—you were given explicit orders not to get involved in this operation. Not to go anywhere near that area. Not to approach the suspect. What on earth were you thinking?”
Vegas swallows nervously and decides it might be better not to answer this right now. He would rather not have to admit that there wasn’t much rational thinking involved in this decision, just a lot of anger.
“What the devil were you thinking?” Another sigh. The captain pinches his eyebrows as if he is in pain. Maybe he is. Vegas tends to give people headaches, the story of his life.
“You ignored a direct order. Again. How many times have we had the exact same problem in the last three months? No, don’t bother answering. You also ignored your own active cases, even though they are important to the people involved, who fully depend on you to do your job to help them.”
Vegas winces. He’s aware of his dereliction of duty. He does not like having it thrown in his face like this, though.
“You went to a well-known trouble spot in an off-limits area without informing anyone. And you took your partner along with you, but no other back-up.” Another pause, to let that sink in. “Thankfully your partner was smart enough to inform the dispatch about where you were heading.”
… the partner who now no longer speaks or looks at Vegas… because he is smart… he learned his lesson the hard way… fuck…
“With total disregard for your own safety and the safety of your partner, you went to the suspect’s hideout, kicked in the door and then held a gun to his head. In front of his children! And then you dragged him out into the alleyway.”
Fuck… There had been children present? Oh shit. Vegas hadn’t noticed, at that point he was incandescent with rage. He can no longer meet the eyes of his boss and looks down instead. The nausea is coming back with a vengeance.
“In the alleyway you then directly proceeded to assault the suspect. You did not even ask any questions. Or tried to arrest him. According to your colleague, you just started hitting him. You refused to disengage repeatedly.”
Another pause, and this time the silence feels uncomfortably heavy.
“It took three men to pull you off the suspect.”
Vegas swallows again, his mouth painfully dry. He stares at his dirt-specked shoes. Anything is better than meeting those disappointed eyes.
“You hit your partner when he was trying to stop the assault.” Another pause to let that sink in and yeah, Vegas already knows he’s messed up, and he feels like shit.
“You bit your partner. He had to get stitches.”
If only the ground would open to engulf Vegas.
“You put a man in the ICU. They cannot even operate on him yet to try and fix what is left of his face because first they have to stabilise him. They had to put him in a medically induced coma. This is the seventh person you physically assaulted in the past half year. ”
Vegas clenches his hands into tight fists—this hurts but right now he deserves pain—and closes his eyes.
“Detective Theerapanyakul…”
And again the silence stretches and stretches until it becomes nearly unbearable.
“Vegas… do you have a death wish?” the captain asks him softly.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
His eyes open and snap up again and he stares at his superior, clearly stunned speechless. He does not have a death wish. Why on earth would the captain think that? So what if he took a calculated risk and went into the slums without the proper backup? That doesn’t mean he’s suicidal. And at the same time he can’t help but feel a spark of warmth igniting in his heart. Someone cares. The captain cares about his wellbeing even though he is just his boss. It feels… good?
“I see you disagree. That is something, I suppose. Your father would have my head if I were to let anything happen to you on my watch.”
Oh. Oh. And the tiny spark is snuffed out immediately. He should have known better.
“Very well… Let’s wrap this up, shall we? Damn, I have headache. As I said before, you went too far this time and there will be consequences. You are suspended.”
Vegas thought things couldn’t get worse, but this? This is way worse. This is a catastrophe. He loves his job. In fact, this job is the only thing that keeps him functioning, that keeps him going. It’s the only reason why he gets up in the morning. It’s the only thing that truly belongs to him, the one thing that he cares about (well, apart from his brother Macau). He cannot lose this. It’s inconceivable. It won’t do.
Vegas gives his Boss such a feral glare that it surely sends shivers of dread down the man’s spine. “The hell I am!”
If Vegas’ weren’t so worked up—and he is damp and dirty and emotionally drained and his body is aching—he would find the ensuing stare down between them comical. But his emotions are in turmoil, he feels unhinged and so he clenches his hands into tight fists only to flinch as the wounds on his knuckles protest painfully. He wants to hit someone. He wants to hit someone so badly his teeth ache. The red is bleeding back into his vision and this is concerning. He must not lose control again. He must not.
Let’s try this again.
Vegas clears his throat, forces himself to relax and does his best to communicate respectfully with his boss, instead of uttering the snarky reply lying on the tip of his tongue.
“Let’s be reasonable, shall we? A suspension would be unwise.”
And they both know why, but as an act of kindness he has so far refrained from pointing it out directly: he is Vegas fucking Theerapanyakul and it does not matter what he does—his superiors cannot do shit about it. Suspending him? Think again. They cannot even fire him. They did try once. They never tried again.
Vegas is a Theerapanyakul, and even if he hates his family with a passion that borders on madness, even if he has cut himself off from them, even if he has built himself a life of his own and as a crowning achievement and a huge big FUCK YOU to all of them turned himself into a police officer—he is still a Theerapanyakul. There is no walking away from that other than death. And he is not quite ready to go to such an extreme just yet.
Khun Gun Theerapanyakul might despise his son in private, but there is no way in hell he would agree to a suspension. Because that would look bad, and appearances count, and must be upheld at all costs
But one glance at his boss’ flushed, outraged face, and it becomes clear that his superior is hellbent on pushing the issue. Oh well. Time to push back.
“Nice watch,” Vegas points out, smiling darkly. Both drop their gaze to the watch that graces the left wrist of his superior. Nice watch indeed. A Patek Philippe, to be exact. Worth around at least ฿1.5 million, if Vegas were to take an educated guess. Needless to say, it’s something way beyond the captain’s pay grade. And the captain knows it as well, judging by the dull, red flush suffusing his face.
“Lovely house,” Vegas points out mildly, still smiling and nodding towards the family photo showing off the even more expensive luxury bungalow. He can play dirty too—no one survives growing up in the Theerapanyakul family without learning basic manipulation skills.
“Maybe we should get a second opinion on the suspension? Perhaps we should call the commissioner? I heard he is your neighbour at the resort—he has a lovely house too.” That area is so expensive that not even the commissioner can afford to buy real estate there. Not on his normal salary, that is.
That comment appears to settle it. For one moment it seems as if his boss is going to explode with rage, but then he simply deflates, his face losing all colour. He knows when he has lost the game.
“It is true that nobody is above the law, but money can make somebody invisible. Never forget that, Vegas.” … Yes, uncle, I haven’t forgotten…
Vegas has often wondered what he might be able to get away with, but he is a police officer after all, and believe it or not, he takes pride in his job. He does not like to remind people of the invisible power he wields by virtue of his family name. He hates it. He despises his family. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and he simply cannot get suspended. It would break him, he is sure.
He feels like a jerk anyway.
While he’s been momentarily lost in thoughts the captain has pulled himself together once again and is now regarding him calmly, but there is a new distance between them. A barrier that wasn’t there before. Shit.
“Fine. No suspension. Anger management therapy it is. Compulsory attendance.” He glares at Vegas who is about to open his mouth to protest this ridiculous idea. “Don’t even think about it! I don’t want to hear it! Now get out of my fucking sight!”
Asshole! With a glare of his own, Vegas salutes the boss and spins around, striding out of the office, righteous indignation written all over his stance.
Anger management therapy?! My ass! We’ll see about that!