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monaboyd Jun. 27th, 2006 12:04 am)
flybynite29.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Jun. 27th, 2006 12:04 am)Title: Imitation of Life: Prologue/??
Author: flybynite29
Rating: Series R-NC17, this part R for graphic description of murder, language
Pairings: Billy Boyd/Dominic Monaghan (a bit later in the story), brief mentions of Billy/omc, the cast of Lost popping up in various places and positions.
Summary: Billy Boyd's a hard-working, straight-laced, small town detective with a secret. When the course of The Job takes him directly into the path of his daydreams, he has no choice but to follow. Billy's fantasy has become someone else's obsession... and the results could be deadly.
Disclaimer: I do not own Billy Boyd, Dominic Monaghan, or any of the other real-life persons in this work; I'm just playing with them for a bit. I do own Detective Bailey Connor, however, for better or worse. No money is being made off of any of this, and I adore all of these people far too much to intend any disrespect.
Warnings: AU, Work in Progress, Graphic descriptions of serial murder, gore, general squick
Feedback: I live for it. : )
a/n: Dom will show up shortly in the story, promise, but for the prologue it's just Billy. I've taken great liberties with location and timing -amongst other things- for the purpose of this story. I haven't pulled any punches with the gore in this fic, so if you are squeamish about that type of thing, please beware. Although parts are definitely meant to be humorous, this will get quite dark in places because I'm dealing with a very disturbed mind (apart from my own ; )). The filming of Rings took place just as in real-life: with the sole exception of Billy not being cast in the role of Pippin. The details of Lost are all as is.
There's a little black spot on the sun today.
~ The Police
First Detective William Boyd stood a few yards away from the corpse, staring open-mouthed at what was taking place in front of him. The dead man - though certainly gory enough - wasn't the big attention-grabber of the moment. No...that prize went to the police photographer who was currently slogging through the crime scene, splashing around in the muck like an over-enthusiastic toddler at the neighborhood wading pool, trainers re-arranging evidence with abandon as his videocam rolled.
By the look of things, this wasn't the idiotic bugger's first trip around the corpse, either. He actually appeared to be doubling back through his previous set of manky footprints, paying absolutely no heed to anything resembling departmental procedure.
The decedent- a rather large fellow- had somehow managed to get himself done in while holding an economy-sized container of Jiffy smooth peanut butter, and the goopy contents were pooled on and around the body. The photographer's careless movements were swirling the blood, bile and Jiffy together, turning that stretch of the abandoned car park into a festive Jackson Pollack-style street-painting.
In fifteen years of police work, this was hands-down the most amazing thing Billy had ever witnessed.
"'m not fecking seeing this.", he muttered to himself in complete wonder, glancing around, expecting to see the same look of shock and outrage on the faces of his fellow officers. There were better than a dozen of them milling about the scene, holding take-away cups of coffee, sharing out fags, cracking the usual dark, tasteless jokes to ward off the horror of sudden, gruesome death. But no one seemed to be paying an iota of attention to the psycho stomper besides Billy himself.
Perhaps he was dreaming this absurdity. It was entirely possible, considering he'd been pretty much walking in his bloody sleep for a week now. He closed his eyes, rubbed them, then re-opened them warily.
Nope...the mad bastard was still at it.
"Un-cunting-believable." Billy's tone was still awe-filled, though now it was also tinged with anger. "Donnae tell m' no one else is seeing this shite!"
A uniformed cop hurried by Billy, trying to make it past before he was spotted, not liking the furious, addled flush that was spreading over the detective's face. Detective Boyd looked to be in a bit of a mood today. No, check that... Detective Boyd looked to be on the verge of a motherfucking nuclear meltdown.
The uniform halted reluctantly as Billy spoke. Though he'd much rather face Vlad the Impaler than the pissed-off detective, he didn't quite have the balls to blow a superior officer off completely.
"Did you say something, sir?", he asked cautiously, then brightened slightly as he realized the source of Boyd's anger: the meat wagon hadn't shown up to claim the body yet, though it had been called a good ninety minutes before. At least this he had some information about, could maybe put a damper on Boyd's foul mood. "Ah! I can explain about the morgue guys, Detective. They called and said they'd be a little late, that they had a few pressing things to take care of first..."
Billy tuned out the officer's babble. The perpetually-late coroner crew had stopped irritating Billy long before; in five years, and death scenes beyond numbering, he had never once seen the medical examiner's office show up within three hours of a call-out. With an average of two body pick-ups per month in this quiet little Florida burg, Billy was left to wonder just what in the bloody hell could be going on around the morgue that kept the staff so preoccupied. Yahtzee tournaments, perhaps? Karaoke? Quincy marathons?
But the mysterious doings at the M.E.'s office paled in comparison to The Performance-Art of the Prancing Photographer. He had left off for a moment, moved away from the corpse, sparking a wild hope in Billy that he might be finished with his dance of destruction, but, alas- he had only been swapping video for still-life. As Billy gawped, struck nearly dumb, he moved in yet again, this time cheerfully snapping Polaroids while he mucked about in the offal. Apparently, he'd not thought he'd done enough damage the first two times round, and had decided to have a go at a third.
Billy blinked, then turned back to the officer, who was still merrily prattling on about the missing meat wagon. Billy cut him off mid-sentence, voice deceptively calm, even friendly at first, but rising in pitch with every word until he was practically bellowing at the poor chap. "Aye, brilliant, thank you for that font of lovely information. And... as long as you're explaining things, lad... would y' mind explaining why in th' flying Jaysus that monstrously moronic wanker's doing th' Bristol Stomp all over m' crime scene, eh?!" He gestured helplessly at the still-circling photographer, then shook his head, feathering his fingers through thinning blonde hair in exasperation. "I think ye missed a spot, mate!", he called out shrilly across the lot, finally giving up and burying his face in his hands. "Bloody arsehole."
An amused voice came from beside Billy and a warm, comforting hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing companionably.
"Having fun, Billy-boy?"
Bailey Connor was a study in contradiction. Hearing only his name and deep baritone voice, one would expect a giant, burly, jovial Irishman. The jovial part was the only thing remotely on target. Bailey was 5'6" in boots, svelte nearly to the point of emaciation, and giant only in the presence of hobbits. Born and bred in the bayous of Louisiana, he was about as far from Ireland as one could possibly get. Deep cafe au lait skin and a mop of unruly dreadlocks framed a boyishly handsome face. He had been Billy's partner in crime-fighting for five years and the only man on the force he trusted completely. Connor had saved Billy's life twice during that time. Some days, Billy even felt like thanking him for it.
Today, however, was not one of them.
He glared up at his partner. "Oh, aye. 'm fairly pissing m'self with glee."
Bailey took in the corpse, the huge-ass Jiffy container and the idiot smearing the mess around, raised an eyebrow, and protested in a mock-indignant tone, the entire scene immediately reminding him of an old candy bar ad. 'Hey, man! You got your peanut butter in my blood!"
Billy, as in-sync with his partner as always, finished the line with a grin despite himself. "No...you got your blood in my peanut butter!" He eyed Bailey, surprised his younger partner could even have a recollection of that particular golden oldie. "Ye must've still been in nappies when that advertisement came out, Connor."
"I'm not that far behind you, old man." Bailey smiled, but it faded to a frown as he really got a good look at the murder scene. "It's him again." There wasn't an ounce of doubt in Bailey's voice.
Just like Billy, Connor didn't need to get close to see that this was the work of the same animal they'd been chasing for the last eight days. This one had an indescribable stench about him, left behind a kind of psychic imprint of madness wherever he'd been. There was no mistaking his touch.
"The fuck gutted him, didn't he? Splayed the poor bastard open like a fish." Bailey's voice was tight now with rage.
"Aye." Billy nodded wearily, too exhausted for any more anger.
Connor sensed it and moved his hand lower on Billy's back, discreetly massaging the tired muscles. "The body's been here awhile." He wrinkled his nose at the ripe, gassy smell drifting across the lot.
"Aye...I'd say at least two days." The multitude of insects swarming over the bloated corpse attested to that fact. The marauding photographer had sent them into a frenzy but they were beginning to settle back in now, contentedly feeding and making cozy nests for their young.
"Another message?"
"Once again... aye.", Billy sighed, handing over the sealed plastic baggie. "t'was clutched in his hand. Just like the others."
Bailey squinted at the paper inside, reading the neatly printed words aloud. "The love of money is the root of all evil. The fear of same is the beginning of salvation." He blew out air in disgust. "Now what the fuck's that supposed to mean? Sounds like some kinda cheap-ass fortune cookie wisdom. We're chasing Charlie-fuckin'-Chan here, Bill."
"The love of money...something like th' deadly sins?", Billy mused as they walked towards the body. He noted with great relief that the photographer had finally gotten the hint and moved away for good. Billy didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"What- this guy's making Seven: Part Deux?", Connor asked from beside him, tone thoughtful. "That could work...this is number seven, you know. In as many days. Maybe this..." Bailey waved his hand at the gore, "was his swan song. Maybe it's over."
Billy shook his head. "No. Too simple. This git's an original, he's got some other game. One we're just not clued into yet."
He squatted by the corpse, taking in the destruction. Up close, it was almost unfathomable; abdomen slashed, gaping wide, guts pulled from their moorings and strewn about. There was even peanut butter shoved into the poor bloke's mouth, oozing out the sides. Billy should've known that the Jiffy hadn't been something the victim had been holding when he was attacked. It was part of the killer's tableau, a prop. Just like with the rest. The nail polish, the book, the tiny airplane liquor bottle- now the peanut butter. All parts of a greater design, the artwork of a warped, deranged, but frightfully intelligent mind. "Besides...he's nowhere near through." Billy's voice was quiet, very nearly resigned. "This one's just getting started, mate."
In Burton, Florida, serial murder was unknown, except as something to be watched on the big screen or read about at night whilst safely tucked in bed. But Billy had worked L.A., and before that, London and Glasgow. He had seen its face before, far more than he cared to.
Yet, this one was different than all that had come before. This one was closer somehow, more personal. There was something Billy was not seeing, something being dangled right in front of him, so familiar, yet still maddeningly just out of his grasp.
And there was one other thing different about this case... something far more disturbing.
For the first time ever, Billy Boyd felt fear.
to be continued......
Author: flybynite29
Rating: Series R-NC17, this part R for graphic description of murder, language
Pairings: Billy Boyd/Dominic Monaghan (a bit later in the story), brief mentions of Billy/omc, the cast of Lost popping up in various places and positions.
Summary: Billy Boyd's a hard-working, straight-laced, small town detective with a secret. When the course of The Job takes him directly into the path of his daydreams, he has no choice but to follow. Billy's fantasy has become someone else's obsession... and the results could be deadly.
Disclaimer: I do not own Billy Boyd, Dominic Monaghan, or any of the other real-life persons in this work; I'm just playing with them for a bit. I do own Detective Bailey Connor, however, for better or worse. No money is being made off of any of this, and I adore all of these people far too much to intend any disrespect.
Warnings: AU, Work in Progress, Graphic descriptions of serial murder, gore, general squick
Feedback: I live for it. : )
a/n: Dom will show up shortly in the story, promise, but for the prologue it's just Billy. I've taken great liberties with location and timing -amongst other things- for the purpose of this story. I haven't pulled any punches with the gore in this fic, so if you are squeamish about that type of thing, please beware. Although parts are definitely meant to be humorous, this will get quite dark in places because I'm dealing with a very disturbed mind (apart from my own ; )). The filming of Rings took place just as in real-life: with the sole exception of Billy not being cast in the role of Pippin. The details of Lost are all as is.
There's a little black spot on the sun today.
~ The Police
First Detective William Boyd stood a few yards away from the corpse, staring open-mouthed at what was taking place in front of him. The dead man - though certainly gory enough - wasn't the big attention-grabber of the moment. No...that prize went to the police photographer who was currently slogging through the crime scene, splashing around in the muck like an over-enthusiastic toddler at the neighborhood wading pool, trainers re-arranging evidence with abandon as his videocam rolled.
By the look of things, this wasn't the idiotic bugger's first trip around the corpse, either. He actually appeared to be doubling back through his previous set of manky footprints, paying absolutely no heed to anything resembling departmental procedure.
The decedent- a rather large fellow- had somehow managed to get himself done in while holding an economy-sized container of Jiffy smooth peanut butter, and the goopy contents were pooled on and around the body. The photographer's careless movements were swirling the blood, bile and Jiffy together, turning that stretch of the abandoned car park into a festive Jackson Pollack-style street-painting.
In fifteen years of police work, this was hands-down the most amazing thing Billy had ever witnessed.
"'m not fecking seeing this.", he muttered to himself in complete wonder, glancing around, expecting to see the same look of shock and outrage on the faces of his fellow officers. There were better than a dozen of them milling about the scene, holding take-away cups of coffee, sharing out fags, cracking the usual dark, tasteless jokes to ward off the horror of sudden, gruesome death. But no one seemed to be paying an iota of attention to the psycho stomper besides Billy himself.
Perhaps he was dreaming this absurdity. It was entirely possible, considering he'd been pretty much walking in his bloody sleep for a week now. He closed his eyes, rubbed them, then re-opened them warily.
Nope...the mad bastard was still at it.
"Un-cunting-believable." Billy's tone was still awe-filled, though now it was also tinged with anger. "Donnae tell m' no one else is seeing this shite!"
A uniformed cop hurried by Billy, trying to make it past before he was spotted, not liking the furious, addled flush that was spreading over the detective's face. Detective Boyd looked to be in a bit of a mood today. No, check that... Detective Boyd looked to be on the verge of a motherfucking nuclear meltdown.
The uniform halted reluctantly as Billy spoke. Though he'd much rather face Vlad the Impaler than the pissed-off detective, he didn't quite have the balls to blow a superior officer off completely.
"Did you say something, sir?", he asked cautiously, then brightened slightly as he realized the source of Boyd's anger: the meat wagon hadn't shown up to claim the body yet, though it had been called a good ninety minutes before. At least this he had some information about, could maybe put a damper on Boyd's foul mood. "Ah! I can explain about the morgue guys, Detective. They called and said they'd be a little late, that they had a few pressing things to take care of first..."
Billy tuned out the officer's babble. The perpetually-late coroner crew had stopped irritating Billy long before; in five years, and death scenes beyond numbering, he had never once seen the medical examiner's office show up within three hours of a call-out. With an average of two body pick-ups per month in this quiet little Florida burg, Billy was left to wonder just what in the bloody hell could be going on around the morgue that kept the staff so preoccupied. Yahtzee tournaments, perhaps? Karaoke? Quincy marathons?
But the mysterious doings at the M.E.'s office paled in comparison to The Performance-Art of the Prancing Photographer. He had left off for a moment, moved away from the corpse, sparking a wild hope in Billy that he might be finished with his dance of destruction, but, alas- he had only been swapping video for still-life. As Billy gawped, struck nearly dumb, he moved in yet again, this time cheerfully snapping Polaroids while he mucked about in the offal. Apparently, he'd not thought he'd done enough damage the first two times round, and had decided to have a go at a third.
Billy blinked, then turned back to the officer, who was still merrily prattling on about the missing meat wagon. Billy cut him off mid-sentence, voice deceptively calm, even friendly at first, but rising in pitch with every word until he was practically bellowing at the poor chap. "Aye, brilliant, thank you for that font of lovely information. And... as long as you're explaining things, lad... would y' mind explaining why in th' flying Jaysus that monstrously moronic wanker's doing th' Bristol Stomp all over m' crime scene, eh?!" He gestured helplessly at the still-circling photographer, then shook his head, feathering his fingers through thinning blonde hair in exasperation. "I think ye missed a spot, mate!", he called out shrilly across the lot, finally giving up and burying his face in his hands. "Bloody arsehole."
An amused voice came from beside Billy and a warm, comforting hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing companionably.
"Having fun, Billy-boy?"
Bailey Connor was a study in contradiction. Hearing only his name and deep baritone voice, one would expect a giant, burly, jovial Irishman. The jovial part was the only thing remotely on target. Bailey was 5'6" in boots, svelte nearly to the point of emaciation, and giant only in the presence of hobbits. Born and bred in the bayous of Louisiana, he was about as far from Ireland as one could possibly get. Deep cafe au lait skin and a mop of unruly dreadlocks framed a boyishly handsome face. He had been Billy's partner in crime-fighting for five years and the only man on the force he trusted completely. Connor had saved Billy's life twice during that time. Some days, Billy even felt like thanking him for it.
Today, however, was not one of them.
He glared up at his partner. "Oh, aye. 'm fairly pissing m'self with glee."
Bailey took in the corpse, the huge-ass Jiffy container and the idiot smearing the mess around, raised an eyebrow, and protested in a mock-indignant tone, the entire scene immediately reminding him of an old candy bar ad. 'Hey, man! You got your peanut butter in my blood!"
Billy, as in-sync with his partner as always, finished the line with a grin despite himself. "No...you got your blood in my peanut butter!" He eyed Bailey, surprised his younger partner could even have a recollection of that particular golden oldie. "Ye must've still been in nappies when that advertisement came out, Connor."
"I'm not that far behind you, old man." Bailey smiled, but it faded to a frown as he really got a good look at the murder scene. "It's him again." There wasn't an ounce of doubt in Bailey's voice.
Just like Billy, Connor didn't need to get close to see that this was the work of the same animal they'd been chasing for the last eight days. This one had an indescribable stench about him, left behind a kind of psychic imprint of madness wherever he'd been. There was no mistaking his touch.
"The fuck gutted him, didn't he? Splayed the poor bastard open like a fish." Bailey's voice was tight now with rage.
"Aye." Billy nodded wearily, too exhausted for any more anger.
Connor sensed it and moved his hand lower on Billy's back, discreetly massaging the tired muscles. "The body's been here awhile." He wrinkled his nose at the ripe, gassy smell drifting across the lot.
"Aye...I'd say at least two days." The multitude of insects swarming over the bloated corpse attested to that fact. The marauding photographer had sent them into a frenzy but they were beginning to settle back in now, contentedly feeding and making cozy nests for their young.
"Another message?"
"Once again... aye.", Billy sighed, handing over the sealed plastic baggie. "t'was clutched in his hand. Just like the others."
Bailey squinted at the paper inside, reading the neatly printed words aloud. "The love of money is the root of all evil. The fear of same is the beginning of salvation." He blew out air in disgust. "Now what the fuck's that supposed to mean? Sounds like some kinda cheap-ass fortune cookie wisdom. We're chasing Charlie-fuckin'-Chan here, Bill."
"The love of money...something like th' deadly sins?", Billy mused as they walked towards the body. He noted with great relief that the photographer had finally gotten the hint and moved away for good. Billy didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"What- this guy's making Seven: Part Deux?", Connor asked from beside him, tone thoughtful. "That could work...this is number seven, you know. In as many days. Maybe this..." Bailey waved his hand at the gore, "was his swan song. Maybe it's over."
Billy shook his head. "No. Too simple. This git's an original, he's got some other game. One we're just not clued into yet."
He squatted by the corpse, taking in the destruction. Up close, it was almost unfathomable; abdomen slashed, gaping wide, guts pulled from their moorings and strewn about. There was even peanut butter shoved into the poor bloke's mouth, oozing out the sides. Billy should've known that the Jiffy hadn't been something the victim had been holding when he was attacked. It was part of the killer's tableau, a prop. Just like with the rest. The nail polish, the book, the tiny airplane liquor bottle- now the peanut butter. All parts of a greater design, the artwork of a warped, deranged, but frightfully intelligent mind. "Besides...he's nowhere near through." Billy's voice was quiet, very nearly resigned. "This one's just getting started, mate."
In Burton, Florida, serial murder was unknown, except as something to be watched on the big screen or read about at night whilst safely tucked in bed. But Billy had worked L.A., and before that, London and Glasgow. He had seen its face before, far more than he cared to.
Yet, this one was different than all that had come before. This one was closer somehow, more personal. There was something Billy was not seeing, something being dangled right in front of him, so familiar, yet still maddeningly just out of his grasp.
And there was one other thing different about this case... something far more disturbing.
For the first time ever, Billy Boyd felt fear.
to be continued......
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From:
no subject
+
Monaboyd (my favorite kind of slash)
=
*squee!* (waits VERY impatiently for the next bit)
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
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no subject
From:
no subject
Loved these lines:
"Un-cunting-believable." Billy's tone was still awe-filled, though now it was also tinged with anger. "Donnae tell m' no one else is seeing this shite!"
Quincy marathons?! (*L*!!!)
'Hey, man! You got your peanut butter in my blood!"
Yes... I'm afraid I'm old enough for BOTH of those references. *G*
From:
no subject
Hmmm... why do I feel that Billy is part of the serial murderer's motive? Might be!
You might just be onto something there. ; )
Quincy marathons?! (*L*!!!)
'Hey, man! You got your peanut butter in my blood!"
Yes... I'm afraid I'm old enough for BOTH of those references. *G*
I'm more than old enough for 'em- Quincy used to be my favorite show! *g*
Thanks again, so much, for reading! : )
From:
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From: (Anonymous)
no subject
*thud* I don't know what you do for a living, but I know what you should be doing, writing detective books! PLEASE keep on with this, I am way hooked!
From:
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From:
Delicious Detective Boyd
From:
Re: Delicious Detective Boyd
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(Have you read all five parts so far, Prologue - Chap. 4? I only ask because you commented here in the Prologue. Wanted to make sure you had a chance to read all of them if you wanted to. : ) )