Nothing stays the same

Chapter nineteen

In such cases, one could say, the business can utterly be boring, with tapping and barking mutts discussing the same matters over and over again, in thirteen similar and highly entertaining conversational manner such not including the obvious motives.
But in this case, business was never boring, couldn't be, never knew when someone would lose a finger or all ten, or—their entire body as a whole.
"Boss Ling." A crisp voice said, "I'm from Pandora, I intend to settle a business here, I desire my daughter, Margret Ann."
Another one? What's with these people always trying to gain a broad or bimbo quicker than bees' mating seasons, sit on it! Bloody hell, this is going to be another roughing shit show, isn't it?
"Which son?" Ling Father replied, "I have five of them."
Four crazy's and highly overprotective and one bumbling bloke, what could possible could he mean? Damn them to hell, pity the arranged marriage, they didn't need the bullshit this early in the afternoon.
"Your youngest, he's the same age as my daughter." The crisp voice explained, "I hope they could get a contract and marry once properly settled and get to know each other properly."
Ha, the underlining tone is too greedy, ironic, and unnecessarily joyful at the same time, ambitions can be good—but always better to stay in the middle, with less chance of someone placing a bounty on the head—to end up on a wooden pike, eaten dead by the crows.
"Peng Peng." Ling Father said, "Would Jiao agree?"
Gently putting the coffee down, with deeper intent.
"Agree? Who knows, he falls for broads all the time, but they always end up being gold diggers, crazies, or trying to end my span on the earth's plane." Zheng Peng commented, "Sanity might bring a bit more—normal into the courting  possible aims."
The whole room became quiet, as the bumbling bloke sat down on the couch, gazing over the shoulder with the newspaper, as Margret Ann entered the room.
Her blushing face showed a deep pink color, matched with her nearly red giant freckle marked around her eye, as her hair was chopped uneasy, her teeth were crooked—let alone the dry and crusty mouth, and her ears were daggers out like an elf in myths. The most disgruntled thing about herself was the mere fact of her wearing a ragged patched skirt, barely surviving by safety pins and hells of duct tape. A mess likely raised sheltered, markings—former wounds, likely chained down—treated like a monster, reeks like one as well.
"Peng Peng." Ling Sung Jiao muttered, "She, is something alright."
Gloves, likely covering the sharper nails dressing upon her hands, like the claws of a wolf.
"Werewolf, half-blood." Zheng Peng muttered.
The idea of a werewolf to most peoples would've utterly barking madness, to one's self, this was merely a searching of the chip blocked, hardly dented—even after the fresh molten lava poured upon it, slowly, slowly, and slower than anything else.
"I don't agree to this." Ling Father replied, "Arranged marriage have been illegal here for over three hundred years."
And children marriages aren't illegal in the same place, how studious indeed, feels like the time was well spent in full swing.
"Really? Why would that be?" Crisp voice inquired.
"Double death, at a wedding of all places, in the chapel, between a priest and a nun." Ling Father explained, "Apparently they were actually informants for each other bosses."
A priest and a nun being together is considered against god's will in the first place, let alone owing guns and informing for mob boss's—beyond unbelievable in normal world, but here, nothing a but a little bit of news, spreads from words quicker then in written form.