Cousin Eddie 

Grade :

Général d'armée

Trophées :

1012TOP 907

Meilleur temps :

2 24 90

Efficacité :

167% 144% 127%

Expérience :

39 064 039   47 948   

Équipement :

L2

L3

L1

L1

L2

L9

Ressources :

40K   7.3K   3.5K   562   83

Maîtrise :

99 78 40

Série de victoires :

77 24 7

Points d'arène :

50

Difficulté maximale :

 9 275

Endurance :

22h 57m

Victoires :

80 504

Ligue :

Platine (470)TOP 628

Saison S120 :

786  5975

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Information :

The Emerald Horses was the kind of joint that tried too hard to look classy and just ended up looking expensive. The green neon dripping down the walls made everyone inside look like they were trapped in a bottle of cheap absinthe. Music thumped somewhere beyond the curtains—a lazy jazz number that sounded like it had given up halfway through its own melody. Eddie pushed past a pair of bouncers who were too busy arguing over whose girlfriend hated them more to notice him slip through. He followed a hallway that smelled like perfume, cigarette smoke, and secrets that someone Febrezed but never dealt with. The makeup room door was cracked open, a slice of white light cutting through the green haze. Vanessa Vornetti sat in her throne—because that’s what it was, the plush velvet chair with brass studs shaped like a crown. Her reflection glowed in the mirror bordered by ring lights, each bulb screaming for mercy. She leaned in close, lining her lips with surgeon-level precision. She didn’t look up when Eddie entered. She didn’t need to. Her voice floated out like cold champagne poured into a dirty glass. “You’re dripping on my shoes,” she said. Eddie glanced down. Her heels were pointed gold with tiny rhinestones—shoes that had never met a puddle in their life. “I’ll send ‘em my condolences,” he said. She clicked her eyeliner pencil shut with a snap. “If you’re here for an autograph, try being less… moist.” Eddie stepped farther in, hat still shedding rain on the expensive rug. The place looked like a mirror murdered an antique shop. Trinkets everywhere: lipstick tubes, powder compacts, a broken fan, several playbills featuring her face front and center. She finally gave him a sideways look—sharp, appraising, already bored. “I’m busy,” she said flatly. “And you smell like whiskey and mold.” Then her tone softened—mock sympathy wrapped in silk. “You look like a sad, weak man who hasn’t satisfied anything in years.” Eddie smirked. “Good nose. But save the poetry—I’m not here for compliments.” He peeled off his soaked, sagging sock and wrung it over her polished shoes. “That there’s racetrack juice. Consider it a gift.” She whipped around in her chair. Her hair was pinned high, dark curls cascading in dramatic arcs. Everything about her was theatrical, like she woke up in character and never left. “Listen,” she said, crossing one long leg over the other, “if Louie sent you—” “He did.” Her eyes narrowed. “That man barely has two brain cells rubbing together. Why would I care what he wants?” “He cares what you owe.” Vanessa scoffed, tossing a makeup brush onto the counter. “Please. If I owed that little troll anything, it's a swift kick back to whatever gutter tunnel he crawled out of.” “You took his coins.” She froze. Half a second. Barely noticeable. But Eddie caught it. “They weren’t his,” she said quickly, waving her hand like she could fan the truth away. “He found them in some abandoned trunk backstage years ago. They were practically trash.” “Collectors wouldn’t agree.” “Collectors are idiots.” “So is anyone who thinks Louie won’t talk.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice dropping low and razor-sharp. “Listen to me very carefully, trench coat. I do not take orders. From Louie. From street thugs. From you. I am performing here in twenty minutes, and I am not going to let some damp stray dog barge into my dressing room and demand I dig through my personal effects.” Eddie raised a brow. “Stray dog? That the best you got?” “Oh, I have better,” she said sweetly. “But I’d hate to waste good insults on someone who couldn’t spell half of them.” He laughed once. “Cute. Real cute. Where are the coins Baby V?” She stood abruptly, towering in her heels, jabbing a perfectly manicured finger at his chest. “My name,” she said with precise fury, “is Vanessa. Not Baby V. Not ever. And I’m not giving you a damn thing.” Before Eddie could reply, the door swung open. Her bodyguard stepped in—six and a half feet of resentment stuffed into a suit. “You heard the lady,” he rumbled. “She’s done.” Vanessa smirked at Eddie like she’d already won. “Run along. Or he’ll break something important.” Eddie sighed. “All right.” Then he shot the bodyguard in the shoulder. The man stumbled backward into a rack of feather boas, collapsing under an avalanche of glitter and sequins. Eddie stood over him and shot three more times into his chest. Vanessa shrieked. “OH MY GOD! What is wrong with you?!” Eddie grabbed her wrist. “Congrats, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re comin’ with me.” “LET GO OF ME, YOU NEANDERTHAL!” “You wanna walk or be dragged? I’m flexible.” Her kicking nearly took out two more costume racks. Someone backstage screamed. A stage manager fainted. Eddie hauled her through the back exit as she shouted every insult known to man and invented five new ones on the spot. The cold night air hit them like a slap. Vanessa dug her nails into his coat. “Where are you taking me?!” “Storage yard.” “For what?!” “To pay your tab.” “My tab is none of your concern—” “It is now.” “You are the WORST man alive!” Eddie shoved her into the passenger seat of her own luxury coupe. “Honey,” he said, sliding behind the wheel, “you ain’t seen the half of it.”    

The Emerald Horses was the kind of joint that tried too hard to look classy and just ended up looking expensive. The green neon dripping down the walls made everyone inside look like they were trapped in a bottle of cheap absinthe. Music thumped somewhere beyond the curtains—a lazy jazz number that sounded like it had given up halfway through its own melody. Eddie pushed past a pair of bouncers who were too busy arguing over whose girlfriend hated them more to notice him slip through. He followed a hallway that smelled like perfume, cigarette smoke, and secrets that someone Febrezed but never dealt with. The makeup room door was cracked open, a slice of white light cutting through the green haze. Vanessa Vornetti sat in her throne—because that’s what it was, the plush velvet chair with brass studs shaped like a crown. Her reflection glowed in the mirror bordered by ring lights, each bulb screaming for mercy. She leaned in close, lining her lips with surgeon-level precision. She didn’t look up when Eddie entered. She didn’t need to. Her voice floated out like cold champagne poured into a dirty glass. “You’re dripping on my shoes,” she said. Eddie glanced down. Her heels were pointed gold with tiny rhinestones—shoes that had never met a puddle in their life. “I’ll send ‘em my condolences,” he said. She clicked her eyeliner pencil shut with a snap. “If you’re here for an autograph, try being less… moist.” Eddie stepped farther in, hat still shedding rain on the expensive rug. The place looked like a mirror murdered an antique shop. Trinkets everywhere: lipstick tubes, powder compacts, a broken fan, several playbills featuring her face front and center. She finally gave him a sideways look—sharp, appraising, already bored. “I’m busy,” she said flatly. “And you smell like whiskey and mold.” Then her tone softened—mock sympathy wrapped in silk. “You look like a sad, weak man who hasn’t satisfied anything in years.” Eddie smirked. “Good nose. But save the poetry—I’m not here for compliments.” He peeled off his soaked, sagging sock and wrung it over her polished shoes. “That there’s racetrack juice. Consider it a gift.” She whipped around in her chair. Her hair was pinned high, dark curls cascading in dramatic arcs. Everything about her was theatrical, like she woke up in character and never left. “Listen,” she said, crossing one long leg over the other, “if Louie sent you—” “He did.” Her eyes narrowed. “That man barely has two brain cells rubbing together. Why would I care what he wants?” “He cares what you owe.” Vanessa scoffed, tossing a makeup brush onto the counter. “Please. If I owed that little troll anything, it's a swift kick back to whatever gutter tunnel he crawled out of.” “You took his coins.” She froze. Half a second. Barely noticeable. But Eddie caught it. “They weren’t his,” she said quickly, waving her hand like she could fan the truth away. “He found them in some abandoned trunk backstage years ago. They were practically trash.” “Collectors wouldn’t agree.” “Collectors are idiots.” “So is anyone who thinks Louie won’t talk.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice dropping low and razor-sharp. “Listen to me very carefully, trench coat. I do not take orders. From Louie. From street thugs. From you. I am performing here in twenty minutes, and I am not going to let some damp stray dog barge into my dressing room and demand I dig through my personal effects.” Eddie raised a brow. “Stray dog? That the best you got?” “Oh, I have better,” she said sweetly. “But I’d hate to waste good insults on someone who couldn’t spell half of them.” He laughed once. “Cute. Real cute. Where are the coins Baby V?” She stood abruptly, towering in her heels, jabbing a perfectly manicured finger at his chest. “My name,” she said with precise fury, “is Vanessa. Not Baby V. Not ever. And I’m not giving you a damn thing.” Before Eddie could reply, the door swung open. Her bodyguard stepped in—six and a half feet of resentment stuffed into a suit. “You heard the lady,” he rumbled. “She’s done.” Vanessa smirked at Eddie like she’d already won. “Run along. Or he’ll break something important.” Eddie sighed. “All right.” Then he shot the bodyguard in the shoulder. The man stumbled backward into a rack of feather boas, collapsing under an avalanche of glitter and sequins. Eddie stood over him and shot three more times into his chest. Vanessa shrieked. “OH MY GOD! What is wrong with you?!” Eddie grabbed her wrist. “Congrats, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re comin’ with me.” “LET GO OF ME, YOU NEANDERTHAL!” “You wanna walk or be dragged? I’m flexible.” Her kicking nearly took out two more costume racks. Someone backstage screamed. A stage manager fainted. Eddie hauled her through the back exit as she shouted every insult known to man and invented five new ones on the spot. The cold night air hit them like a slap. Vanessa dug her nails into his coat. “Where are you taking me?!” “Storage yard.” “For what?!” “To pay your tab.” “My tab is none of your concern—” “It is now.” “You are the WORST man alive!” Eddie shoved her into the passenger seat of her own luxury coupe. “Honey,” he said, sliding behind the wheel, “you ain’t seen the half of it.”