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“Fuckin’ cocksuckers…fuckin’…fucks.”
Franco muttered under his breath, who knows how many times he’d been hit in the head today, was it even day still? He didn’t know and frankly he couldn’t give a rats ass what time it was.
He stumbled back into his bar, his head pounding and his eyes sore, he stifled a pathetic whimper but it still slipped from him mouth regardless, he slumped upstairs and placed his Lupara gently down on a nearby table, despite how he felt he was very gentle with his beloved shotgun.
He sniffled and gritted his teeth, silence filled the bar aside from the shifting of mechanical gears of the moving mannequin’s darted around the place he hated their judgemental faces, he hated them all but at the same time they were the only things there that he could cling to when he cried, the only ones who even saw him cry in the first place.
He moved toward the bar and hopped over the counter, rummaging through mainly empty bottles of what were once filled with alcohol. He was running out of the good shit, hell he was running out of everything, he’d even be happy with cheap booze at this point, just something to ignore the pounding in his head before he focused on it too much.
“Fffuck…”
He cursed mumbling to himself before raising his voice and yelling again and throwing an empty bottle at the ground, having it shatter on impact.
“Can’t a guy get somethin’ good to drink around here!? What the fuck is this!?”
He opened his arms looking around and yelled like someone would actually hear him and respond.
After a moment of silence he gritted his teeth and continued looking around the bar now being less careful with his hands and just ended up tossing anything that was empty to the side creating a quickly growing mess and pile of broken glass shards, but he didn’t care. It was his bar he could do what he wanted.
Eventually he found something, reaching for it at the far back, because of course it’d be right at the back and just held it firm in his hands, he didn’t care what he was he just wanted something to drink.
He hopped back over the counter and sat down on one of the couches and swiftly opened the bottle, he took a small albeit hesitant sip.
Sour.
It tasted sour, certainly not what he expected and not what he wanted. He didn’t even know a drink could somehow taste sour. He grimaced and pulled the bottle away from his face without giving it a second glance he tossed it across the bar, another smash being heard not too long after.
Franco let out an annoyed, frustrated groan and laid his head on the table now, the pain in his head only seemed to get worse, he didn’t know if it was all in his head or if the pain was actually getting worse. He was used to headaches, migraines, or just a constant heavy aching feeling in his head no matter what he did, but this felt worse, probably due to all the damn reagents he had to deal with today, they certainly didn’t help.
He gripped his head hard with both hands, sitting back up and eventually leaned back in his seat groaning and tearing up, no painkillers helped him no amount of whatever the fuck Murkoff offered him ever helped him it only made him more sluggish or did nothing at all and that pissed him off even more.
He quickly wiped the tears from his eyes with one hand and with his free one it idly reached down to grab his pacifier, he felt around where it should be, where it usually always was but he couldn’t feel it. He panicked looking down now, sitting up right in his chair suddenly more awake than he once was a moment ago.
It wasn’t there.
“Sssshit! Shit! Fuck!”
He stood up and instantly rummaged around in and under the cushions, under the couch he was sitting on, he hurried back over to the bar and looked around there, but found nothing.
Frustration grew and his body started feeling more tense and his eyes began to grow wetter, he panted heavily as he kept looking around the bar, he pushed over mannequins now, looking under everything, turning over every chair and table on the top floor and even searched the entirety of the bottom floor too.
He continued, brushing his hair back every couple of seconds anxiously, almost pulling at it occasionally out of pure frustration.
He couldn’t find it.
Could he have lost it? Not that’s not possible, surely not. He always kept it on him. When could it have got loose? When could it have disappeared? Where was he supposed to look? Better yet where the hell was it?
Franco was tearing the place up now if he wasn’t beforehand, soft and relaxing jazz from the jukebox was practically nonexistent over the slamming of chairs hitting the walls and the throwing of tables that hit the floor and knocked over nearby mannequins.
He felt sick, he needed his pacifier, he couldn’t deal to be without it. He needed comfort, he needed it.
He kept looking, frustration and stress growing, the pain from his head increasing and becoming harder to ignore his own worries and stress not helping, tears creeping at the corners of his eyes that soon ran down his cheeks, he was too busy to even notice he was crying at first.
He soon gave up and just stopped panting heavily and brushing his hair back again rather firmly, his chest heaving in and out at a decently fast pace, tears rolling down his already stained cheeks. He glanced around his trashed bar and that only made the man-child cry more, completely breaking out in tears now.
Franco clung onto a nearby female mannequin as he sobbed pathetically into its shoulder, begging for any sort of small amount of comfort it could bring him.
He stayed like that for a while, whimpering, sniffling and crying, making a mess of himself and of his suit sleeves as he desperately wiped his eyes and nose against the fabric. He slowly slumped to the floor still clinging to the mannequin but now holding on tightly to its leg as if he would die if he let go.
He stayed like that for a while, until he tired himself out and eventually fell asleep on the floor, alone, with tears down his cheeks that would soon dry up and make his face feel itchy and uncomfortable once he woke up.