We'll call this a coming attraction to a crazy post in a livejournal near you (*cough* mine) but, y'all, Dark Shadows Revival is on DVD. There are no words.
The Big V sits all alone at his kitchen table, drinking another shot, smoking another Cuban cigar, and aren’t those illegal, Jack? Oh, boyo, not if you know the right people, and the Big V knows all the right people, the right ones to know if you’re breaking the law and the right ones to know if you’re enforcing it; the lines between the two get hard to see in afternoon glare, when sun comes down thick and bright.
Blows out a ring of smoke, watches it drift -- hazy, falling apart toward the cold glass of the sliding doors, the oh so glamorous two foot deep balcony over the skinny black road below. The neighborhood’s just this side of respectable, just close enough to dangerous to make the women who follow him home sometimes gasp, red finger nails into his coat jacket, red lips against his ear, “Oh, Jack, you’re so brave,” and “All part of the job, kiddo,” he tells them, and they love it. Each and every goddamned one of ‘em. Just like they love the piece strapped to his ankle, the red leather of his shoulder holster, the gleam of his handcuffs when he tosses them onto the desk, the clink and jingle of the cuffs opening and closing around their wrists as The Big V, Sgt. Jack Vincennes, shows them how a cop really does a pat down, and if they close their eyes and squint, maybe they can almost see Brett Chase.
Maybe Jack hasn’t spent enough time drinking if he’s still thinking about Badge of Honor. A cabinet of half empty bottles watches him balefully from the carpet as he knocks back another whiskey, mouth pinching with it as his eyes fall closed, his head falls back. He touches the skin of his throat, right over the Adam’s apple, runs his thumb along the long lateral line from ear to ear, and takes another shot so he can feel the shit go down from the outside, too, swallows hard so he can feel his throat working under the scarless skin there, and ladies and gentleman The Big V is not fucking drunk enough for THIS. Last time he got – sentimental about a case, he was still working a beat, wearing a uniform.
The Big V is not a bleeding heart. No way, no how, and the long hot, bitter pull he takes off the bottle next leaves him wet eyed and blinking at his own reflection in the sliding glass door. And he thinks, here it is folks, Jack Vincennes! White male, nearly forty years old, black silk bathrobe, white cotton pajamas, expensive booze and cigar, cheap slippers. Thinning hair, thickening gut. Alone on a Saturday night with a manila case file at his elbow. So exciting, Jack, such a thrill.
Yeah, darlin’. You bet.