(1944-03-07) The Night Roderick Boyd Broke
The Night Roderick Boyd Broke
Summary: Vignette scene: What made Roddy snap.. and most likely give up the few f'ks he had remaining.
Date: 1944-03-07
Related: Precedes various.
Players:
roddy..

Boyd Residence, Higsi
Thurs Mar 7th, 1944


Located off of Cooper and Butler. Opulent, longstanding family home.

Weather:
It is winter. The weather is cool and drizzling.

(OOC: Mood music - "The Tall Man" © Lucas King)

(NOTE: Trigger warning.. there's talk of addiction and repercussions (alcoholism) in this log. If you're sensitive, don't read on.)

===

No amount of scrubbing with Pepsodent or baking soda could do away with the smell that seems to constantly hang around Roderick Boyd these days. There he stands in the perfect bathroom of his perfect family home, near-pickled with the remnants of last night's boozer. So far he's been able to skirt his father in hopes of the stink not being noticed. But it seems, as he ages, Rufus Boyd's senses hone themselves to the scents of his son's shortcomings. Be it the perfume of one of his latest conquests down at the Gallows; the reek of cigarette tar and.. more often than not, the sour-sweet smell of hard liquor easing it's way out of his pores.

Roddy knows well the song and dance in getting his ne'r-do-goodery around his father. Or so he thinks.

It's been a couple of weeks now since his return from Nashville, where he was sent after the 'altercation' that left his left arm and wrist lame and his mind addled. There it was thought, as he healed, that Roddy would find God and straighten out after that big 'scare'. All Roddy found were darker associations, good painkillers and plenty of time to plot vengeance and progression. As his bad arm healed and it became known to him that it would never work 'properly' again, it only enraged him further.

But always, always.. Roddy knew he would go home eventually and with a few choice, remorseful actions — along with a full deck of 'victim cards' — he would remain in his father's good graces. Because in the retirement (or unfortunate death) of that blowhard Rufus, all of the family business and fortune would fall to Roderick. The solitary male heir in the family. His stance as the eventual retainer of the accounting business was what kept him from being drafted. The smooth, honeyed, gold-plated tongue and talk of his father — wanting so profoundly to keep his hard work sound — prevented Roddy from dying and bleeding out in a trench somewhere in blood-soaked Europe.

So at present, this in mind, Roddy scrubs his teeth once more with the baking soda for good measure. Scrapes his tongue. Does all he can to get the smell of sour beer from his mouth. He shaves; miraculously does not nick himself. He's still handsome, even for a functioning alcoholic. If you look just close enough at the corners of his eyes and in the creases of his dimples, you just might see the yellowing of skin. Sure signs of a liver being pushed to a limit. It's unwise to be that close to Roderick for long.

But he has to be straight this evening, because his father wishes to have a 'chat'. In his study. All pivotal things happen in that study; all decisions which have been beneficial for Roddy thus far. He's been so careful, even when he stinks like this. Why would it be any different?

Rinsing the razor blade, he sets the bathroom to rights and peers sidewards to the eye of the setting sun, through the window panes. He feels lucky. He goes to see his father.

Rufus Boyd is a straight-laced man who was raised strictly but fairly. The man himself has abstained from alcohol for much of his adult life, having been the product of a tosspot father who drank himself into an early grave. It was his mother Loretta, the grandmother of Roddy, who raised Rufus alone with barely a pittance of social assistance and handouts from her late husband's family. Rufus, the second-oldest of five children, helped raise the children who came after him along with his one older brother Lorell.

Two out of the three younger siblings also passed away from the drink, be it through accidents or overindulgence. So nowadays in this early March of 1944, Rufus Boyd does not suffer alcoholics. Never in his hardest days to date will he have ever expected his only son to carry such a curse, for he always figured he raised Roddy well. But now he knows some things.

It is Rufus' thunderous brow that greets Roderick as he lopes into the older man's study. If you look at Rufus and Roddy, you can see the resemblance… though nowadays Rufus looks healthier than Roddy if you're still brave enough to peer real close-like. Black hair given to steel gray at the temples, a body as long and rangy as a timber wolf's, and a very powerful mind. Same chin as his son, same ears and same teeth. Roderick has his mother's eyes and nose.

"Sit down, Rod." Rufus bids, no pleasantries in his tone.

Roddy does.

"You would do me the service of not reeking of the drink when you come in here." Rufus says loftily, though deep down: aggrieved.

Roddy startles, gaze hardens, and shifts.

"Don't think I don't know what you've been doing. Even if you're not darkening the doorstep of the Gallows quite so much, there are plenty more places to tip a bottle in this town." The older man presses on, steely, his tone simultaneously angry and pained. "I've given you so many chances, Roddy… I'm getting older. I'm nearly 65. I want to be shut of this work soon and I'm not quite sure that I can trust you with what I leave behind."

Roddy blinks, wets his lips.

"You had done well for a time… but you screwed it all up, you did. First the fights with the mountain trash, then the hustling the womenfolk. At first I thought you were getting it out of your system." Rufus' eyes flash. "Then you went and blew your chances of settling down with a Styne woman. I had hopes. I had such hopes of you doing it right. Now she is gone, and you're-" A heavy pause.

Roddy feels his guts churn. He could care less now about his lost chances with Leona Styne, the most golden opportunity of all. Or his misfires with Elizabeth Higgins and Lucietta O'Clery. To hell with all of them. He stares hard at his father, hoping he's not building up to the worst insult of all.

"What am I going to do if you take over here and drink it all into debt? All that I worked hard for?" Rufus grates out, eyes hardened.. this is the worst thing that he's ever had to do. "I can't risk it. Not just for me, but for your poor mother-"

Roddy stops listening briefly… fuck his mother. Cold, unloving, stoic bitch. She's probably waiting for this old fucker to kick off, too, so she can gain.

"The will has been changed-"

What.

"-going into trust-…"

WHAT.

"Will be bequeathed to Butler Academy, for the upstanding youth who will use it for scholarships, for furthering TRUE goals-" The bastard rambles on and on and on…

"The rest will keep your mother safe for the remainder of her days. Until you shape up, you're not getting a red cent. You're going into the service, get the liquor demon pounded out of you. It's for your own good Roderick. I can't risk anymore." Rufus says quietly, an unyielding whipcord of a man behind a dark Cadillac of a desk. Where all of his magic happens, in settling and maintaining the accounts of many of Higsi's gentry.

Roderick can't say much else now. He simply smiles at his father, docile at a glance but seething. His heart a basket of snakes. His broken arm lying in his lap, the other good hand clutching the arm of the chair. He will not join the war. He will NOT lose his inheritance. He will get his money.

He'll damned well get his revenge on these assholes in Higsi who have wronged him, broken him, set him up to fail. Him. Not booze. Not arrogance. Their fault.

Then he will take his money and run, even if it means shutting Rufus up for good, too.

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