The fandom was Deadwood, the words were "chapped, silver, ferocious". I wrote Al and Trixie meeting, and honestly, well. It ain't my finest fuckin' hour, cocksuckers.
The wall was crumbling by the floorboards, wallpaper peeling away with plaster in curls that stank like piss and stuck in Al’s mustache when he woke up. Some cocksucker’d left him face down by the piss pot, well and truly beaten to a fucking pulp. He couldn’t see out his left eye, it was swelled entirely fucking shut, and his mouth filled with blood.
He pushed himself up on one hand, or tried to anyway, except his elbow buckled out and he lurched forward, nearly ending up face to the fucking floor all over again like a drunken hooplehead. By no means could this be considered first time he’d found himself in a mess of this fucking magnitude, but Al couldn’t quite remember a time when he felt so entirely mired in the shit when he woke up, on account of the alcohol and the beating which remembered itself in his body through a series of ferocious fucking pains. Standing up was a necessity of great concern, seeing as his legs had decided it fit to stop working alongside his fucking arms and back, too, so when a small white hand appeared out of nowhere and helped him up, first thing Al did was take it, and then he said, “Who the fuck are you?” to the blonde haired whore standing in front of him in a shawl two shades shy of the rouge smeared across her lips.
“You wanted to lie there in your own filth, then?” the whore asked, mouth twisting snide and too fucking smart for Al’s liking. “You some kind of specialist?”
Al would’ve raised his arm to her excepting only the pain it gave him to move his arm, so instead he settled down comfortably on the rumpled bed and let her tend to his face as she would, saying only, “On no account do I get my pleasures from the fucking likes of pot full of piss and teeth, even they are teeth extracted from my own fucking head, thank you very much.”
“Looks like somebody took some fucking pleasure takin’ ‘em out of you,” she said, dabbing light at the bruised and bloodied patches across the whole of Al’s face, licking at the silver and white flecks on her own chapped lips. “My name’s Trixie. You lose a bet?”
Al didn’t say anything, seeing as he wasn’t planning on becoming conversant with the local cunts, he was only passing through on his way back to Chicago and there wasn’t no use in wasting time flapping your fucking lips to some whore when you didn’t have the coin to pay.
“What, you not talking now, cocksucker?” Trixie asked, half laughing as she tucked the bloodied cloth between her breasts in the sagging fabric of her torn chmeise. “You’d think you were embarrassed to speak on your face, which I’d fucking hope you’re not, as I just had my hands on it.”
“What, you talk about cunt with them as pay you?” Al growled, and Trixie stood up.
“Depends how much they pay me.”