[center][color=indianred][h1]Hector Cavala[/h1][/color][/center]

Hector's smile flickered. He really didn't expect the revived spirit of a violent criminal to be such a [i]jerk[/i] about it. This working relationship had already gone off to a bad start, and Hector was going to have to do something to mend it.

Back when Hector was a simple enforcer for [i]el jefe[/i], if a thug had decided he was too big to kiss up to the man controlling him, Hector would have to do something creatively drastic with their fingers and a hammer. Now that Hector had all the power, he had [i]options[/i].

 Hector's grandfather told him about how Servants worked. How, if they didn't get their rations of blood, souls, or semen, they'd jolly well piss off to wherever they went. How their time on this earth would drastically shorten if they didn't have a Master to give them their rations of souls and bloody semen. How a surprising majority of them were women, and how a surprising majority of the rest of them were hunky men. Hector was rather disappointed to have discovered that this folkloric hero wasn't a buxom woman, but he was at least glad he wasn't a freak with eyes so lazy they were separated by at least half a foot on the face. Solovei was being a bit cheeky, but he probably enjoyed the finer things in life. Hector could work with that.
 
 "[color=indianred]Can't fault a guy for trying.[/color]" Hector shrugged. "[color=indianred]Guess you boys don't like doing grunt's work, huh? I'm sorry for treating you like a goon, yeah? Let me make it up for you. I got [i]just[/i] the sorta thing someone like you'd like.[/color]"
 
Hector snatched a tin from the bathroom counter, and gingerly opened it away from his face. A small wisp of evil-smelling smoke rose up from the innards of the tin, defiling the air around it. Three small white pieces of rolling paper, surrounded by velvet and filled with iridescent crushed herbs, sat ominously in the tin. Hector slowly and delicately plucked one of the papers and carefully pinched it into a long, thin joint. With nearly reverent deliberateness, Hector pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the joint as far away from his face as possible. A corona of light gently flowed from the joint's lit end, bathing the room in a rainbow of colors. Hector took a deep hit from his precious cargo, and blew out a cloud of octarine smoke.

"[color=indianred]Brisby's Sublimated Elixir of Psilocybin-- the dankest shit in the universe. This'll make it [i]allll[/i] better, man. C'mon, take a hit.[/color]" Hector proferred the joint with a strange amount of ceremony. The smoke coming off it gently wormed its way into Solovei's nostrils, tickling at his hindbrain like an alluring siren, singing a song solely composed of the word [b][h3]SMOKE[/h3][/b]

[@Flamelord]