Canon Characters:
Brock Rumlow
Jack Rollins

“No fucking twinks and bitches tonight,” Rumlow spoke to himself, as he flipped the sun visor down and examined himself in the mirror. His fingers stroked his scruffy beard which was sprinkled with sprouts of gray.

Rumlow was getting old, but he didn’t care, although it could make it harder for him to get some ass. Most of the bitches in the bar were young, in their twenties, and college students. He’d be pressed to find someone older. Running his fingers through his inky black hair, he finger-combed the thick tuft of hair that stuck up in the front.

Cynthia Rodriguez always said Rumlow’s hair made him look like a damn rooster, nicknaming him Rooster and sometimes shortening it to Roo. She was also Alpha Squad and she got on his fucking nerves like a little sister he didn’t wish for. However, she was good at her job, so he let it slide.

“All right, you old bastard. Let’s get fucked.” After punching the visor up, Rumlow exited the SUV and made his way inside. He thrust past a couple of guys muttering excuse me. Reaching a cozy booth by the front window, he slid in and waited for a waiter.

“What can I get you, hun?” a high-pitch-lisping voice reached his ears.

Turning his eyes from the glistening street outside, Rumlow regarded the waiter. He was cute and built with massive biceps on display thanks to his white tank top, and his blue jeans hugged and caressed every curve of his lower body. However, his hair was dyed an obnoxiously bright yellow and had been gelled up into a curl on top of his head making him look like a fucked-up Oompa Loompa on steroids, and was that eyeliner he was wearing?

“Just Jack, straight, make it a double,” Rumlow placed his order.

“All right, doll.” The waiter smiled and sauntered off.

Rumlow surveyed the crowd finding some handsome men that were his type. Masculine, jeans, and tee-shirts, but most were with someone or not looking his way.

“Gonna be you and your hand tonight, Brock ol’ boy,” Rumlow muttered to himself.

Turning back around, Rumlow eased his pack of Marlboros and a steel Zippo from the inside pocket of his black canvas jacket. Slipping a smoke from the pack, he tucked it between his lips and lit it. He always enjoyed smoking while drinking. Other than that, he never smoked. Sucking on the cigarette, he relaxed as he returned to gazing out the window. Maybe he’d just get a burger and go home. He could watch some internet porn or Big Chel-C’s videos on YouTube.

“Here you go, hun,” the lisp twanged in Rumlow’s ears as his drink was set in front of him. “Anything else you want, just call, handsome.” The guy winked and practically skipped away.

Rumlow pulled a face. The guy probably had a lisp while groaning when getting fucked. That was the worst. However, he might be the only guy available for the night. Truth was, Rumlow would fuck anything. He’d fuck an eighty-year-old with a shit bag hanging on the side of his wheelchair if he were the last person on Earth. A hole was a hole.

Rumlow sipped his drink and puffed his cigarette. He never understood the whole lisping thing that some gay men did and the whole sticking their chest out like they had tits. Yeah, he referred to pectorals as tits, boobs, titties, and man boobs, but damn, they weren’t actual breasts.

There was one asshole on Zulu Squad who had the nerve to make a joke about Rumlow’s accent. What was the fucker’s name? Gary, Gray, Jerry…Gerry…Grady! Grady Fucking Little Slack Dick Compton, as Alpha Squad called him. He was a loud-mouthed tool who was trying his best to get into Alpha Squad, but he would never make it because HYDRA didn’t take loudmouths. Sitwell hired him because according to him, STRIKE needed some inefficient members to fend off suspicion. Rumlow couldn’t stand the punk and wanted to shiv him every time he saw him. It didn’t help that the fucker always thought he had to go out of his way to talk to him.

One day, Compton called himself trying to break the ice with Rumlow with a joke and said, “Hey Rumlow, you must work in a fudge factory as a fudge packer with a lisp like that. Haha!” No one was laughing.

Rumlow’s response was, “I’m from fucking New York, you asshole. I don’t fucking lisp.” After giving Compton his piercing, “I’ll see you in the shower with my chiseled toothbrush blade” stare, he walked away.

Rumlow didn’t feel a need to reveal to everyone that he fucked men though a lot of SHIELD agents knew he did. He neither hid it nor advertised it. If it came up in a conversation or if someone asked, he’d admit to it. Either way, he didn’t have a lisp and most people said that sometimes he sounded like he was hissing like a snake. He had been told many times that his gruff voice and accent were sexy as hell. Shit, women had told him that he made them wet just by saying hi.

“Come on, sugar. Let me ride you. A big boy like you gotta be looking for something tonight. I’ll treat you right as long as you want.”

The voice trickled to Rumlow’s ears from a few booths down and drew his attention. It was sensual and feminine, not exactly lisping but annoying, nonetheless. His eyes fell on the…thing that was standing beside the booth, leaning close to a guy who appeared to have used an entire jar of gel to plaster his hair back.

“Slick fucking Rick,” Rumlow muttered to himself, then regretted it. That was just as bad as assholes calling him an Italian Stallion in the nineties. Shit was fucking annoying.

As Rumlow looked at the back of the guy’s head, intrigue stirred in him. His hair was black and curled a bit at the ends that touched his neck. Rumlow felt a thrill of need surge as he imagined the smell of leather, smoke, and sweat wafting from the worn black cruiser jacket he wore.

“I’ll do anything you want, sugar. Wherever you want,” the person continued to pressure.

Rumlow’s eyes moved to the needy fuck bothering Gel-O Head and pulled a face. The person was a crossdressing male that was as tall as a tree and emaciated. The complete bag of bones was wearing what would have been cut-off mini shorts on someone with an ass and hips. The shorts hung low on him with the crotch dangling between his legs. The band of a hot pink sequin jockstrap was showing. It gaped around the pencil-thin waist and showed the top of what could hardly be thought of as an ass. The top that the person wore was nothing more than a repurposed pair of neon yellow fishnet stockings with tears in them. On the person’s head was a rat’s nest that might have once been a synthetic wig. It had frizzy pieces and strands missing to show the netting beneath. On their face was smeared electric blue eyeshadow against paper-white skin making their face look skeletal. On their lips was baby doll pink lipstick that was also on their teeth. Was the fucker eating the lipstick?

Why the fuck would you come out looking like that? Rumlow thought to himself until he saw the track lines on their arms and legs.

“A crack whore,” Rumlow muttered. “Time for operation deter hoe.” He drained his glass, stamped out his cigarette in an ashtray, and stood. “Here’s to hoping to get laid tonight.” After tossing some bills on the table for his drink, he ran his hand over the back of his head with its smooth tapered hair and started toward the booth.

Let’s hope this fucker is cute. Rumlow’s mind buzzed with wishful thinking. Not that it fucking matters.

“No, I’m all right,” the guy was saying when Rumlow reached his booth. His deep and powerful voice made a tremor course through Rumlow’s loins.

“Look, baby, I will suck your dick dry. Look at these fucking lips. That dick will be so happy,” the cross-dressing druggy continued to press.

When the disaster started to slide their hand adorned with the busted cheap press on nails across the table toward Gel-O-Matic, Rumlow smoothly removed his tactical knife from where it was sheathed in the back of his pants and stabbed it into the table a few inches away from the creeping fingers.

The train-wrecked Jezebel looked up at Rumlow with wide eyes and that horrid mouth in an O like a half-deflated blow-up doll. Standing so close to the thing, Rumlow saw that some teeth were chipped and missing. So fucked up were the teeth that the fucking Wicked Witch of the West would be jealous. Worst of all was the stench of cheap perfume coming off them. It smelled like something an old woman pissed out on her funeral flowers.

“I think you’re done here,” Rumlow dictated.