Eaton Centre - Northern Wing(#579RJ)

Upon entering Eaton Center you are struck numb by the awesome size of the
place. Bright light shines from the glass domed ceiling, casting dazzling
reflections off the tiled floor. It is four stories of commerce, complete with
the dominant mall subculture, White Trash. You can't turn your head without
seeing kid leashes, mile high bangs (you estimate that the hairspray it would
take to make hair defy gravity like that would create a substantial hole in
the ozone layer), and prepubescent boys and girls waiting to be picked up by
their mothers.
A rent-a-cop sleeps on a chair directly next to the information booth
where an old lady reads a copy of the latest Danielle Steele romance novel,
looking anything but helpful. Directly behind that is an island of payphones,
all with gummed receivers and bathroom poetry etched on the plastic surfaces.
Many stores bespeckle the mall landscape, but all are under the
impressive wing of Eaton's department store. Eaton's stands as a direct
contrast to your first impression of the mall. The patrons are all well
dressed, the sales people amiable, and the wares are exquisite.

This is a DAYZONE

It's midmorning, and the Centre is /packed/ with last minute holiday shoppers. Poor husbands too busy normally to do any shopping, are now zipping around trying to find the 'perfect' gift for tomorrow morning. There are some frantic women, and teens and people of all ages. Politeness and courtesy, have melted away because of the last minute hysteria. Ah ... the holidays.

Penny wouldn't normally be in a mall but she's a woman on a Mission (from God, totally another story). She's one of those people that hates the holidays but loves the presents and has come to this nexus of Hell & Beyond prepared. In one hand is a list and the other a fist (pocketed of course). She walks with purpose through the burgeoning crowds and carries a look that moves gravity as
a force away from her. She's here to shop, don't mess with her.

That seems to be the attitude a lot of people have. There is a tension in the air, that seems only aggrivated by the stupid piped musical version of 'White Christmas' that is sung, poorly, by the Toronto City Chorus. Or maybe it's just the recording that sucks. And yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. His fat ass is sitting right over there, with a line of kids two miles long waiting for the $25 a pop opportunity to sit on his sore lap and beg for presents. Some are lucky enough to be able to afford the photograph too.

Penny's got skills. And the advantage of looking like she'll punch people in the mouth for that tie or those cufflinks. In one of the normally tastefully appointed men's stores she's elbowed her way into, the holiday-temps have festooned the mannequins with santa hats, pierced the suits with ornament-hooks and lined the walls with blinking lights. This wouldn't be a problem but for the simple fact that the lights have started to strobe and blink out of sync with the timer - and it's started to look more like the inside of a club than the local version of Brooks Brothers.

There is constant background noise as well, of registers, ringing in purchases, spitting out receipts, the dialing of credit card machines ... ah ... you have to love capitalism. Some of the stores have gone above and beyond, and are circulating, giving out free sweets of sorts, but mainly, most are just too busy. Shelves are left unstocked, and the cases containing the merchandise sit nearby, since the help is just too busy to unpack it. That doesn't stop customers from helping themselves to the materials inside however.

//.etro: Penny rolls "arete" at diff 5
For a total of 2 success(es).

//.etro: Penny rolls "dex" at diff 5
For a botch!

Boxes and boxes. And so many people. Penny starts perusing quietly and with limited movement. Any casual observer would say she's a little stiff and tense, even for a last-minute shopper. A clerk with a straightrazor comes around toward a mess of sweaters and oxfords half-ripped out of the cardboard and she stands aside with a woman clearly harried and ready to get out of the stores already. Penny's hand moves to the small of the woman's back and gets tangled in the cord of her purse when they get shoved by another group of rabid customers.

About thirty seconds later Penny goes "..shit" under her breath and tugs her hand away, gets more stuck and hey, isn't this awkward.

The woman who's purse your hand is caught in turns around, and yanks on her purse, hard, "ExCUSE me," she says, loudly. Loud enough for the clerk to hear. And you know, most stores these days have electronic survalliance. How much do you want to bet, security saw your bangled up attempt too?

All at once and without pausing, she hunches her shoulder inward and gasps "Oh my god, I think he cut me" and looks at the woman with wide, frightened eyes. Look over there? The clerk with the box cutter looks terrified and confused. Her posture screams 'lawsuit' and he immediately positions himself with the straightrazor in the Other Hand, trying to nonchalantly go back to his job. But there's so many people, like so many trapped animals circling and diving for the kill. "Help," quietly to anyone. It's building, this hysteria.

Christmas eve, the perfect time to get all those last minute presents. Or, in some cases, all those presents. Snow glinting on his furry coverings, the unlikely christmasophile saunters happily into the shopping center, rosy cheeks and serene smile in hand. Sidestepping casually he avoids being bowled over by happy happy children, screaming at each other in their endless joy. Reaching into a pocket, he draws out a handfull of change to drop into the carol singers basket while he scans the shops for likely candidates.

Follow the strobing lights and the generalized distraction and you'll find Penny.
Maybe.
The locals are getting hostile, jabbing items with senso-tags at security guards; waving receipts like white flags in front of them "I paid for this! I paid!" Little children screaming and crying because that's what little children do. Mothers and fathers with more bags of wrapping paper than actual gifts, with boxes, with ribbons and bows. Colors block out the patterns of the mood swing - gargantuan red bows there signal overwhelming feelings of helpless frustration, flashing gold lights in their centers. Gigantic wreaths and streamers of green keep the consumers moving into the stores and buying buying buying. Green goes in, green comes out.

There is chaos, and there is the furry island of calm, standing next to singers who gradually become more and more distraught as their small fence barrier is jostled. Flicking in and out of tune. Pobble begins to drift through the crowds, patient and zen. He stops, waits for openings and slips forward. Eyes scan for the least populated shops. Even masters have their limits on patience. He chuckles at something, shaking his head with a last glance towards the singers before they're lost in the heaving sea of frantic proles. He makes his way towards a flight of stairs, and stops next to it in a
small lull in the shifting tides. Reaching into a pocket, he pulls out a bright blue flip phone and idly taps in a number. Days like these, one needs a shopping partner. Or a mainline injection of coffee.
Of all the shopping malls in all the cities, Pobble had to pick this one to walk into. There's madness here; a fever pitch brought on hour-to-hour and minute-to-minute. Walking, talking holiday memes: Santa Claus is coming to town - anticipation, he knows when you're awake - paranoia, jingle bells - cashier noises. You Must Buy. Spend money, appease the seasonal gods. Spend money, everyone will thank you. Spend money, there's love for sale.

Penny is carefully extracting herself from a difficult situation down the doomed corridor. Burdened with bags, the flashing christmas lights in the men's store have become too much holiday for her. Doubled over, she sinks to the marble floor outside and pokes around her tied-on bag to make the ringtone stop. "What, I'm losing the fight. Oh god it's awful," she says into the phone.

"Most unlike you dear." states Senior Pobble into his phone. Nearby someone blurts out, "A blue phone! Where'd you get it. I want it. Hey, this guy has a blue phone."

At first ignoring the lanky shrill toned man, Pobble interjects as the creature-of-impulse reaches for his phone. Pobble puts a hand out, and pushes his bloody palm towards the monster. The sight of the wounded and oozing hand coming for his face is too much for the shattered mind of the last minute shopper, and the man looks about frantically while backing off. A new thing takes him, clutching at straws and he begins crying out again, "A coat, that man has a green coat! Hey, look!" and he runs off, to paw at random man's old green coat. A must have this christmas.
"Why are you so calm," Penny stays seated underfoot and out of sight with the phone pressed to her ear "Did someone just try to rip you off?" She sniffs and there's a rustle of paper-and-plastic bags "Everyone here's going crazy. I think I just got slashed" says this thing casually "I don't wanna look."

"You're here?"

In the background are the sounds of the Salvation Army Band. A group of four players and one nun with a bell. It's unending noise jangles nerves and keeps everyone far away, not tossing coins into the metal bucket. Find them and you'll find her.

"Of course." Pobble smirks, "God wishes he could be everywhere else but here. I think he's starting to forgive you." His voice is calm, controlled and continuing the pattern of the past week. The sounds of the chaos through the reciever attest to the fact that yes, he is in the same hell as you. "I'm at the bottom of some big stairs." Turning slowly, he looks about for a better landmark. "Think you can make it to the information booth?" That sounds like a plan, everyone is too busy to ask for information. Information erodes shopping time. Everyone knows that if they stop to ask for direction, the bargain that had their name on it will be bagged and taken.

"I can't. Go left and you'll see a dancing banana," a landmark if ever there was one. "I'm afraid."

Penny seems to not have moved an inch since putting the phone to her ear. People are walking around her now in and out of the store with the strobing lights.

"There's a guy in a bearsuit, fu.. Pobs?"

Pobble stops and twirls gracefully. Spotting said Bananna he smiles beautifically. "I see.. I'm not far away." Waiting for a space, in a manner not unlike a game of Frogger, he moves towards the victim. "Never fear, Dr. Steve is here."

Surely enough, he isn't far away. The connection goes dead, phone slipped back into pocket, and the furry chemist eclipses the strobes over the prone woman as he crouches down behind you and puts an arm over your shoulder.

Whispering into your ear he says quietly, "Be not afraid." A slight smear of blood graces the purple leather where his hand sets down before it moves, so that his fingers touch your cheek. Another hand reaches into his pocket once more.

But Pobble your hands,..." she cautions and fails to mention what big eyes he has (the better to see you with), what strange things in his hair (the better to hear you) and those things marks, those marks on his forehead (and never you mind about that). This is something that no shopper wants any part of, that no shopper wants to see. Perhaps they confused the color combinations - that red wasn't on her coat, it was on the wall behind her. It was in a poster, an advert on the wall. It wasn't in his hands. Penny must've mis-spoken, she must've seen wrong. She must be on drugs.

The hand emerges from pocket, holding something. What it is, lost in the shadows and blocked perspectives to any that would be watching the couple out of sight huddling at foot level.

"Shh.. You trust me right Pens?" he says looking into the woman's eyes with that zen smile. The hand fidgets at Penny's side, before gently pulling up her top just a minute ammount. Shielded in the crevase between them, and still with his fingers touching her face, Pobble eases a syringe into Penny's side. Silver serum out, syringe vanishes.

The chemist closes his eyes for a second, twitching almost imperceptibly before leaning in further to kiss Penny's forehead. "Happy christmas."

Penny looks upward past the Judas kiss; consider the ecstatic having a visions, collapsed then into a fit. The woman weeps; she must be crazy. The cellphone tumbles from her hand and gets kicked away by a thousand pairs of feet. A child notices but so, too, does his mother and tugs him away from them; from the trouble she knows them to be. The little boy still reaches for the phone, its color and size toy-like and attractive. A lost cause.

The security guard that was looking for Penny might find her now, bleeding from the side as she'd suspected when she slipped past him. Her blood moves quickly and spreads across the tiles.

The serenity has cracked on the furry man, and with a weary face he moves to stand, attempting to bring Penny up as he does so. A tear runs down his face as he begins the ardurous task of leading Penny towards the exits and out of (in to?) hell. He moves slower, his expression a Frappe of sorrow and a McFlurry of wearyness. Opening his coat he wraps it around Penny, big enough as it is. Glancing to her as he waits for an opening, he smiles. A very old, very tired smile. There are no words. Just a break in movement before they continue on out. The phone lost in the forest of feet, and the blood just another pitfall in the Temple of Doom, waiting for an unwary hurried automaton to come crashing down on its slick surface.

"Red hair, wacki chica." Chase responds between sips. "Dress all D.R." Sitting with his thick shoulders to the door, he's propped on a stool and talking to Vulture behind a wall of cancerous nicotine. Brooding over a mostly finished drink, his weathered hands go about the mundane process of describing a height. "You know... wacki." That settles it.

"Wacky, huh?" Vulture is kind of half seated on his stool, one hand on his drink, the other moving to rummage around in his pocket for... ah, there it is... a Chupa Chup. A red sucker. He begins unravelling it slowly, "Fuck, Chase... wacky chicks are all I fuck'n know... s'th'way th'world works.." Once unwrapped he pops the sucker in his mouth, and then takes another swig of beer. A grimace. Yuck. Oh well.

[Enter: Penny, speaking of wacky.]

She goes hey at Chuck and beelines for the bathroom. Twitchy girl with a sneer trekks her bad attitude off to make it better, wet footprints in her wake, one hand pushing open the buttons of her coat. Slipping to the inside left, she disappears shouldering open the swinging door at the back. Bright yellow light shafts through the haze of smoke, sharp sound of a face being slapped (corner of the phone/restroom area - a man and woman) then the thudding sound of the wooden door slapping back on rusty springs.

Chase missed the passing spectral train that was the copper girl. Though he did catch the 'hey', and for a beat his red gaze peels from Vulture. But there's a cigarette to finish, and the last drink of this round. "If we depended on wacki broads ta keep 'r runnin' round, she woulda stopped first bloody day of the month."

Still grimacing from the nasty mix of Stout and Candy, Vulture just nods. He picks up a napkin and wipes his tongue off a couple of times to get that fucking AWFUL taste out of his mouth. A moment later he's succeeded, and makes a decision... he pops the sucker back into his mouth and pushes the brew away, "I s'pose... still... can't live with'm, can't kill'm, can't even gett'm n'th'sack..." Wow, that was cryptic. As it was, he too missed the beeline. He'll catch it on the way back.

The fight between the pimp and his bitch is still going on; it's getting louder and making less sense. Penny's propped open the door with her foot - some precarious and strange leaning between the two doors; everyone can see the arguement's moving into the ladies' - well, everyone that's not busy racking up, stacking up, pushing the cue. Not a lot, actually. She squeezes through the door, jacket catching on that shitty iron handle ripping open the buttons of her coat again. Before she can catch it a little black case skids out under a high stool. Opting for a cool and smoove approach, Penny tries not to look pale and frozen, feigns an interest in the gameplay where the stool's positioned.

And slowly she sinks down behind big men with their backs turned; sharks circling the tables shouldn't have time to see her reach between the rickety legs, grab the little thing. Shouldn't see her edge carefully around that stick-holding post.

There's more sitting going on, Chase slowly raises one shoulder to adjust it. Like a forklift, his actions are mechanical. *Sniffle* Nostril wipe, he throws back the last bit of whiskey bitting into the ice cube that accompanies it. He speaks again, muffled through a mouthful of frozen water. "I rrrr 'aaaat," there's some crunching, "That yer woman with the stuff in 'r face?" Vague gestures of piercings about the lips when the scuffle pulls his attention. A look, "P-Diddy" under his breath. And to those beyond, a 100 yard stare. His eyes could be crosshairs.

Charice comes into the pool hall slowly and takes a look around at the new look. A smile graces her face as she sees something in here she likes, which isn't that rare for the woman.

Hopping down off his stool for a minute, Vulture holds up a single finger to indicate to Chase that he'll be right back. BRB. With that he strides into the ladies room and one can hear his voice a moment later shouting something along the lines of 'SHUT THE FUCK UP!'. Several bone jarring thuds are heard, and the pimp goes silent. The prostitute, she can be heard giving her thanks until another couple of thuds resound. Now she's quiet, too. The birdman steps back out of the bathroom and heads back over to sit on the still nearby his comrade, "Uh..... what th'fuck were y'sayin'?" His fingers wrap around his glass again - but this time he takes the sucker out of his mouth before having a swallow of his drink.

Moss is following behind Charice with a smug looking expression on his face. He stops a few feet inside the main pool hall and gives the place the once over. He pulls out a pack of smokes and a zippo while he's doing this and lights up. He turns to Charice and nods his approval.

Jarrod follows Moss and Charice in. His eyes gleam and he appears to be in an excellent mood. He moves smoothly, looking over at the pool table and cocks his head to the side curiously, looking like he's trying to remmeber something.

Ya, there's Penny. And a crowd of people enter as a scuffle is ended near the bathroom by the birdman. He returns to a seat next to Chase, who seems momentarily blinded by the extra purpleness of the girl's jacket. But he managed to watch Vulture go about breaking up the ruckus, in a somewhat muted, yet amused state. "I was talkin' wacki broads, cabrone." It's a response to the man as he snuffs out the cherry of a spent smoke when he returns. The last wisps leaking from his detached smirk. There's more people to spot, but the thick 7-11 mascot waves Penny towards the counter. "Oi, Becka."


Beating down a pimp? Probably not the brightest thing Vulture ever did in his life; this part of town, this sort of estabishment brooks no smugly grinning fools. But he did leave a stool free there beside Chase and Penny, reassessing her situation what with the retucking of case to inside pocket, friendless and alone, misses the opportunity to stroll over casual-like. Instead she makes some vague hand-gesture at Chase. It's almost like a wave but also almost exactly like someone curling their fingers into a hang-loose pantomime, then looking to her left she swipes two fingers from right to left across her jacket sleeve. Lazy bastards flinging butts. Maybe she's checking for burns when he calls out to her. Cutting a profiled glance back toward the bar, her blue lips render a crooked half smile.

Charice watches Moss move out of the bar and then shrugs, turning to Jarrod now. "Let's get us a table or something so we can talk, alright?" She moves over to him and puts her hand on his arm lightly, "Been here before, have ya?" tugging on his arm a bit as she looks around for an empty table for the two to sit at.

Vulture has never been accused of being the brightest guy around. That's for certain. He wipes the drying blood off of his knuckles with a nearby napkin. It's the violence. The violence inspires lesser men to do lesser things. With a yawn the birdman looks around himself before replying to Chase, "Uh...yeah... wacky bitches." That's about it. Having started his adrenaline flow it's time to go find someone else to turf. Or get turfed by. He slides off his stool and throws a couple of bucks on the bar to pay for his drinks. "Yo,Chase... take'r easy... we'll seeya later."

Jarrod is tugged along by Charice. "I'm not sure. Seems familiar though. But I think the place I remmeber had a different name."

"Buenos suertes, Vulch." For the departing bird, flying off. The narcotic haze is obvious, Chase holds up the metal sign and hand nods in the air. 7-11 orders another whiskey keeping an eye on his back. Always on his back. He doesn't miss the crowd, not a person, but it's time to shoot the shit with a pal. Lazy towards Penny, there's pretzels that come under attack. "Thanks for the thing at the place with the guy." His greeting to her.

Jarrod read your description.

Charice looks around at the tables and nods to Jarrod, "Yeah...Crazy 8's. That was it's name." She frowns at something, turning too look over at the door like a caged up bird now. "Jarrod...let's..umm..haul, okay?" Tugging on his arm so he will follow her once more.

Jarrod seems a bit surprised to be getting tugged a different way but nods. "OK." He glances at Charice curiously and smoothly follows her toward the door.

Penny always turns up. Penny always gets in the way. It could be formulaic; someone oughta do a study, finance a survey on just how badly Penny does this. She totters briefly on her stacked heels and shuttles to the right giving the guy with the mo' wide berth. She stares at him, eyes like pinpoints, before going "..oh" fairly quietly and without much ado. Half aware of the bartender, she holds up her fingers - two fingers, the index and the middle waiting for him to notice. Yes? Have we seen? Yes. "Good," unaware that she herself is speaking, Penny's bloodless smile eases into another de-nada expression "Any time, any place," scooting in toward the pretzel-shaped mess on the bar.

Right out the door. That's the way the punk travels. Vulture is at one with the street a moment later, his hands stuffing themselves into the depths of his pockets. Have feet will travel.

Vulture opens the door and walks out onto the stoop.
Vulture has left.

Charice grins at Jarrod, "I got an itch to ride is all. Come on.." she makes her way though the bar quickly as she can, with Jarrod at her side.

"Right now..." Chase looks back at the door as people enter then scoot off like trepid animals. "You scared off the lot of 'm, eh?" Back to Penny, a few bits of dead pretzels fall from his lips as he speaks. "You see that one? With the hair?" Again, he makes the extremely inaccurate portrayal of someone's height with his palm. "The chica? With the red...? That there, 'n the mohawk." Some scratching under his chin, he says it all secret like. "They ain't right."

Penny does that thing where she swipes two fingers across her breastbone again, right to left. And she lets you see it, giving it some weight, some impact. "It's the drugs. Amps my latent ability to spook the spooks.. " stepping up on the low rung, Penny leans her body-from-the-hip across the bar and grabs a handful of ice and a handful of olives, sits back down "That kid? Yeah he's a little.. fuck, *I'm* a little.. "

Her slouch just now isn't an affectation; she just absolutely can not readjust. Like her muscles have given out for a few, taking five. "How'dja meet'im?"

"Be careful 'a them lot. I pulled some bloody bastard from her jaws one night in the middle a the street." Chase reached for another pretzel. His stained make it a point to bite down on the salty treat in a crunching fashion. "More fuckin' whiskey." He says that to himself, then aloud in real time to the tender. "Bushmills." And back to P-Diddy. "Fixin' on lunchin' his soul, the fucker was."

Figuring you don't mean literally, Penny goes on with her olives and ice; popping one and the other melting in the usual fashion. She reasons "Snack's a snack, oi?" Snickering at her own inherent humor, Penny explains in her further unconcerned, fixed-and-dilated way "Piggy'n the old man'a pulled me outta some shit I never thought I'd get away from.. but they're just guys .." rambling on "they're just guys and get trained from diapers they get to be on top, s'not their fault really. All that bullshit social programming.." Some sympathy edges out but not much else; bent as she is.

Drink arrives with inconsequential timing, Chase welcomes the whiskey to it's new home. "You don't like 'm on top?" He swats the ball back into her court, picking up a few broken pieces of snack from the counter that threated to fall under foot. "I mean... whatever." *Crunch* and sip, this could sustain him through the apocalypse possibly. "What kinda shit does Penny get into, where she plays damsel?"

Penny gets an itch. Not the kind of itch you can see, it's something lingering behind her eyes and she drops the ice, knuckles touching deep temple tissue for a few. "It's not like that, fuck that. Fuck bait. Fucking no fucking way." All this take an extremely long time for her to say, can't quite seem to get the blood to boil in its usual manner; the invective lacks truth. Disinterested in the olives, she drops them, too, underfoot and picks up a drink that may or may not be hers. Just to hold it, wrap her fingers around it. "That's not me. But y'know sometimes you gotta get outta the house man. Livin'with all those guys makes a girl ..whatever. Whatever I can say it, I made some bad fucken choices man but they got my back is all. Is all I'm tryin'a say."

"So you think they all rolled together?"

"The bird's owner, she got crap in her face." Accurate. "Ya know, studs 'n whatever. Buncha piercings. Dunno. I don't get that one. I mean, can't ya get pretzels stuck in there 'r some shit? I knew this chic had her neck pierced..." Hands barely fit round his horse neck in description. "Like this. Like a necklace. All round. Grossed me out, 'specially when it got infected." He -totally- makes a grody face. "Fuckin things were drippin' clear liquid. Fuckin gross!" Chase almost yells that last bit, and remembers what he was asked. "I mean, yeah. The bird's owner's pals with the redhead. Gonna munch away, she was. On some poor cabrone the bird beat down." A shrug."Ya know, i couldn't just stand there 'n let 'r have at some beat down puto. I'm tellin' ya, that one..." Fingers point at the door, "that one was 'bout ta lunch."

"Shoulda let the monkey have him," her comment mostly under a breath, half spitting whatever she sipped. What IS she drinking? She takes a good look at the glass, tries to focus. "I hate Jameson," taking it personally though really it's no one's fault but her own. "Should give'em som'what Pobs foiled up for me. Set'm right on their asses is what. Won't be no one's problem." She bites down hard on her lip, shoves the glass back to the bar. "So what, you go all vigilante now?"

"Naww...." Chase waves that off. "Me? Comeon." A dubious look. "But ya know, they were bein' sloppy. Fishin' in the public pool, front 'a all sorts a eyes? You do someone like that, give a Colobian neck tie, you don't do it next the local internet cafe. That just tells me they're dumb, and deserved the fucking with I dished out."

You say, "..IS kinda stupid, innit."

Penny swings around on the stool and observes "So maybe it wasn't me what scared'em off, hey?" She punches you in the shoulder "Fucko, should let a girl in on the down low." Losing her balance, Penny starts to slide and catches long enough to get right briefly "..fuck," murmurs "cab me, get me home okay?"

"Lightweight, i'll take ya home." And he stands, slamming his untouched whiskey. He does that kinds thing not to impress, but to -suppress-. Lips smack in a yummy sound, "Smooth." Mr. Furly! There's some head shaking goin on, Chase is jarring loose his driving skills from their mental self. Some bills are placed on the table, he looks back towards the bathroom as the pimp starts to regain his senses. "This place is dead anyways."

[ed Note: Penny sucks at magic, blames God-in-Pobble's-head]

You step into the bar.
Overdrives Alley - Main Bar(#6632RlJM)

This is the large, open main room of a rowdy biker bar. Near the entrance
is a single bouncer who casually looks everyone over as they enter. On the far
side of the room is a long, wooden bar with old, leather-covered bar stools in
front of it. Behind the bar is a long mural of a naked woman, sprawled out on
her side. The liquor selection here is fairly limited, but there's a wide
selection of beers to choose from.
Around the room are wooden tables of varying sizes, surrounded by wooden
bar chairs. Along the wall across from the bar are a few booths. In one
corner, next to the bar, is a door marked 'Staff Only'. Opposite it, on the
other side of the room, is a staircase leading up to a more private room.
There are two old, battered pool tables to the right of the front door. They
charge a loonie per play and have a limited selection of pool cues, none of
which are in good condition. A juke-box sits next to a small dance floor that
is rarely ever used for dancing.

Places available
NIGHTZONE

The street out front is visible through the only window in this room.

Contents:
Pobble
Antigone
Seth

Seth read your description.
Seth read your description.

Long wooden bar (#1) has 10 empty places.
Large wooden table (#2) has 6 empty places.
Small booth (#3) has 1 empty place.
Present: Pobble
Round wooden table (#4) has 3 empty places.
Present: Seth - Antigone
Large booth (#5) has 6 empty places.
Battered old pool table (#6) has 4 empty places.
Pobble read your description.

Pobble sits alone at a booth. Two beers sit, one for his invisible friend perhaps. His attention is focused on a journal which he scribbles in..

Seth is seated with Antigone as they talk quietly and relax. Antigone has a beer infront of her and Seth has a glass of Tequilla and a bottle of it infront of him.
Antigone read your description.

Antigone settles back a bit from Seth, shrugging her shoulders. "Left her, then left me - go figah," she murmurs, perhaps a bit louder than she intended too. Her eyes shift to tak in the new arrival of Penny, eyes narrowing slightly at the signs of abuse on the other woman.

Someone was holding the door open letting in the frozen north winds. Not many people are walking in with it. There IS Penny, though ignoring the bouncer and the comments, shaking snow from the mantle of her jacket and dusting off the brim of her cap. She flashes open a wallet for him; probably picture id of some kind and moves further into the bar, a stiff-legged trek toward the back.

Seth shakes his head and sips his drink. He seems slightly amused at something. He turns and watches Penny walk in and head past them.

Penny moves away from the door, and Pobble glances up towards it. The lines of vision and motion fail to cross in the brief second that the man leaves his writing and he looks back down and continues the scrawl. A hand reaches absently towards the beer. As he grasps it, he lets go and twists his book about, writing something quickly across the top line. A small red stain is left on the cool condensing caraffe.

//.etro: Penny rolls "arete" privately to Pobble at diff 6.
For a total of 0 success(es).
Antigone arches a brow at Seth, leaning slightly back in her chair as the pair contiunes to speak. She gestures absently toward him with her empty beer, and then looks about for the bartender.

//.etro: Penny rolls "arete" privately to Pobble at diff 6.
For a total of 0 success(es).

Penny changes direction suddenly, this not being such a crowded place, for the jukebox next to the dancefloor. One hand in her backpocket, one to lean on into the machine. Its lights make her a glow of red, a wash of yellow then green. She presses the button to make the options change, keeps pressing the button. After the third time she finds something appealing, the green glow glinting off her white teeth - her smile displayed just to the selections there. She pulls coins from her pocket, punches in numbers and turns away. Her song comes out of the machine, Lou Reed doing his thing while she stands there looking pointedly at the booths. "I'm waiting for my man, twenty-six dollars
in my hand" he sings and the band plays behind him "Up to Lexington, 125 feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive.. I'm waiting for my man."

No no no. Thick lines criss cross the last section of work, and intersecting lines and words are hastily resurrected around it. The new sounds cause the man to again glance towards the door, but it doesn't last. While writing feverishly, he maintains that eerie calmness and again reaches for his beer. A line is drawn, Pobble looks satisfied at something. He takes a moment to sip the swill and survey the surroundings, searching surreptitiously for a smoke.

Antigone begins to laugh at something Seth said - a full bellied, full throated, all amused type of laugh. The laugh causes her emerald eyes to dance with green falmes, and her dimples flash in the light - even if briefly.

"Here he comes, he's all dressed in black .. beat up shoes and a big straw hat."

Penny could be singing along, her mouth moves but nothing audible comes and she does this thing with her hand when Pobble looks up; she's in his sites now - thumb and pinky fingers splayed then she swipes two fingers across her chest. Probably that guy at the bar got a little sloppy with his drink.

"He's never early, he's always late - first thing you learn is you always gotta wait. I'm waiting for my man."

At first, Pobble doesn't recognize the girl staring back at him from the bar and his gaze moves onwards, but then he backtracks. He offers a smile as he finds the cigarette, holding it up before him and flipping it about in his fingers. It comes to a stop pointed at the beer opposite him. Popping the cigarette into his mouth, Pobble shrugs. His now free hand makes a vague motion of hanging loose before he flicks a V finger formation at the girl and takes up his pen. The writing continues.

Antigone shakes her head a bit, a waitress dropping off a beer for the woman. She takes a long pull, then settles back more fimrly in her chair.

A whole verse has come and gone by the time Penny makes her way over to Pobble's booth. The Velvet Underground's churning now, burning out the speakers with "Everybody's pinned you, but nobody cares. He's got the works, gives you the sweet taste.." Music spurs her on and with her other hand she interrupts the flow, drops something in his book. She takes the cigarette from his mouth, fingers close around the filter and drags. "Ah then you gotta split because you got no time to waste. I'm waiting for my man." She also takes the pen from his hand, turns the book to face her and writes something down. Making long, deliberate eye-contact with him while the song winds down, Penny turns the book around and walks out with this cigarette.

Pobble pages: Looks like complex chemical formulae and notes written into shapes of crucifixes and steepled churches.

She wrote: God's fucking with the frequency, Kenneth. Also, come home. We're packing.

Unpreturbed by the apparent violation of his workings Pobble stands, gathers his belongings and leaves. The two practically untouched beers remain on the table as the fellow heads out into the freezing cold.

Given the hour, Penny should be asleep. But there's things afoot in the bathroom. Light under the door and a rustle of paper being shred from a book and torn further.

A muffled, half whispered "Shit." The crystaline sound of breaking glass - thin glass and not much of it.

The entrance door clicks shut, and Senior Pobble steps in cautiously. The sound of glass breaking causes his otherwise serene poise to slip. Bathroom. Glass breaking. Sounds uncomforting to a restroom-chemist. Scanning the shapes in the darkness he begins the ardurous trip to the next door and raps a knuckle against it quietly.

The door pitches off your knock. There's Penny half-crouched over the toilet, her bare foot on the seat. Little leather case tipped off the counter, syringe shattered in the unlucky fall "That you, Pobs?" stage-whispered "Keene's not still here is he? Come in, come in..shh.. hurry. Careful" already tweaked, she throws a damp towel over the glass and gestures to the ice bucket next to the
sink. "Pick."

Pobble slips in, pushing the door quietly behind him. His hand leaves a smudge of semi-congealed blood on the white surface. He looks awfully pale, the usually preternatually wide pupils shrunken to pinpoints. Leaning back against the door he offers a shrug, with a smile of zen calmness. "I don't have one."

"You have to pick," her voice going thin, twisting into a peculiar accent where 'pick' sounds more like 'pay-uck'. The tongue too tied by another pulse,another drive. "Week's up," tipping the lid down, Penny sits indian-style trying to keep her eyes open and haivng a miserable time of it.

And squinting at the wall's new colors "Where'd that come from?"

Spreading open his hands, Dr Steve reveals this winter's fashionable Stigmata look. The holes don't look too fresh but are still oozing. The tranquil smile remains as if stuck to his lips with glue, and he looks up towards the ceiling off to the side for a second. The smile widens and he shakes his head before stepping forward to the ice bucket and looking inside. "I have no idea what you're larking on about."

"Put your hand in the bucket and pick one."

She says this, says "hay-und" and "buh-kit", achieving a kind of lopsided balance with eyes closed. "S'time to switch. We do this every week Pobs, quit fuckin'around and pick."

"Oh. Right." he says, hand reaching in and russling about. "Penny. You look fucked. Did you know that? Fucked." A slip is grabbed but he doesn't look at it, he leans down to stare at your eyes. His lips twitch as if he's thinking something over, and then he nods. "We agree."

Her slivermouth smiles; muscles tighten in her jaw on the left side. Off kilter. "We have not been fucked, have we? Can't help what we pick. It just comes knocking. We can't help it can we. We can but we shouldn't." Things get very still for her then, maybe she stops breathing. "Don't make me talk anymore. Hurts my teeth."

Compton has connected.
The bathroom door is closed but there's a light on. Conversation going on behind it. To early to put a fine point on it, sounds like Penny and Pobble.

Pobble pulls a cigarette out of his gogglestraps and places it between his lips, "Sunday." he says, unravelling the folded paper with one hand. A zippo is withdrawn and shkt and puff puff. A hand pats his jacket, leaving damp sticky spots. "You want something to take the edge off there love?"
Little noise, little whinge, little snif. A tightness has overcome the framework, taut like a drum. "Better, yeah" a short nod. Flexed fingers and hand extended out expecting. "Feel stuck, tire stuck." She knows what she's talking about; you might not but sense isn't part of this dialogue. Her eyes
half-open, touching your fingers, the buttonhole of the cuff "You're stuck, too, aren't you."

Pobble shakes his head slightly, keeping his eyes on yours. He looks only mildly perplexed. The unusually with-it Dr Steve is an ocean of calm today. Crouching a little more he replies, "I am not stuck. God is stuck." The words are only mildly mutilated by the keeping of the cigarette between his lips and retriving it after speaking.

She puts two fingers on your wrist and takes the cigarette from you, bones in her elbow popping. "God's gotta go." She says it this way, casually, the kind of thing someone says about the kid at the party freaking out in the corner after someone spiked his drink. "God's definitely gotta go," dragons out the smoke "crashers are so over."

"God can't go. He's not a crasher.." He stands, once more and winks conspiratorially. "You'll see.. in time, you'll see."

A hand reaches into his pocket and he drops a pair of small oval yellow pills onto the counter beside you. Leaning back down he plants a light kiss on your forehead and turns to slip out.

[ed Note: Chase shows Penny how he does bi'niz. And vice versa.]

Holiday Inn - Room 174
The lamp is ringing.

You'd swear it's the lamp ringing. There is nothing else on the nightstand but that's where the sound is coming from. Fiberboard that echoes; carries an antiquated briiiing noise; the Holiday Inn - resting place of all outmoded means of communication. And because the alarm-with-the-flip-digital-clock-and-radio tells us it's around 5am, we also know it to be God on the other end.

Or, according to Penny's half-mumbled tirade from under cover, it better be.
Or else.

Her arm pokes around at the desk, flops mindless and knocks into the nightstand's drawer. Phone in the drawer. The ringing stops and "Hrn.. nafuc..ya. YA," come cottonmouth responses. Phone back in the drawer. A phone so old it makes that half-ringing sound when its hung up. Or knocked into by a half-sleeping Penny. "Offaracesghuysbacklate."

Awful hallway light yellows the floor and ceiling as she leaves.

Air Canada Centre - Lord Stanley's Mug:

The house that Lord Stanley built, the city even. Yes, December, the NHL's in full swing, and out of towners and pilot are tweaking over some coffee and checking out last nights scores on the screen. But not Chase. He could give a fuck. Sitting there in his 7-11 shirt, he looks all too outta place. That's why he called for backup. Gum -and- cigarette going at once, he broods over coffee near the window as airboat land beyond.

It's a sports bar. It's open all hours. It is, if nothing else, accommodating but it's not good enough for Penny. She comes up on the place virulent and shivering bent on a few things; making it quick and making it easy. Anyone can see it if they look; still crusty her eyes have that red-rimmed glaze and her body is closed up, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. Morning-after hair could be the final clue; this just isn't Penny's morning and it's going to be One Of Those Days. So she's taking it personally; Everyone else has that just-washed or just-landed look. Everyone else has an excuse for that little-too-oily/little-too-old-for-this sheen and it pisses her off because they all want to talk to her. Ask her about her hair. Ask about her make-up. Ask her about the foot and a half of snow caked up around her boots. "Fu'off" is all she can get out of that twist of a mouth, quiet up until she gets to the window "..hi."

Could be a greeting but really, it's a cry for help..

From his reflection in the thick glass, red eyes pull and rise to Penny. Chase doesn't look especially tired in comparison. Not anymore than his usual amount of slack. The bloodshot gaze and 10 pound sacks don't excessively heavy this early morn, and he even manages a cheery smile. "Thanks fer comin, chica." Nose rub, *pop*, the smell of coffee and smoke, he shifts to kick out the seat opposite from him. "Cop a squat, 'll buy ya some mud, eh?"


Penny would take off her coat but a misted layer of icy snow keeps her buttoned-up a little longer. Instead she leans into the cheap metal shield covering the radiator - industrial and substandard enough to make that loud/empty noise they all make. Loud enough to disgruntle a snoozer at another table. "Mmng," an affirmative from thin blue lips, nodding up "mu's'goo," teeth belatedly chattering. "s'noprob," she lies "s'up en ee way." Dropping from her coat in larger chunks now, the frost shakable, Penny starts to unfold from its confines slowly. Eyes still half-lidded, coffee *would* be good for her, slide the malaise like the slush from all that wet nylon. She drapes it across another chair and drops into that seat like a ton of bricks.

It so happens that the coffee Chase was gonna buy for her is the one he was sipping on. It's mostly there anyways, seventy four percent of it. And already dosed with enough cream and sugar to make it smell rather pungent. And duly, it nudged forwards. "Don' worry, 's just 'family' coodies, ya know. So then, Becka, how's the hubby's new cat? I hear those hairless fuckers are hell ta raise." The man across from Penny starts in familiar tones, as though speaking to an old friend or relative. Under the coffee that's nudged towards the girl, is a stained napkin. Conspiratorially, he points a callused finger at it. "Got the mud just how you always take it."

Penny hates a ruse. Penny is so straightforward she may as well be an arrow. It's possible she's too tired for this, it's likely that the moment she picks up the cup that coffee will slosh out and burn her fingers and there's no doubt she'll need more. For now, Penny just puts her hands around the mug like a kid with hot cocoa, sinks low in the chair and affects the kind of smile that's not a smile but a crease in her forehead and dimple in one cheek. "Yeah but no hairballs," totally deadpan. She starts to pick up the mug but there's some block; a lack of snapping synapses. Motor skills at zero rpm. Keeps her eyes on the circles vibrating in the mug.

"-JUST- how you like..." Chase repeats through pursed lips. "Right... Becka?" His manner prompting, impatient. Shits always stress with him. Eyes creep to one side, then back. A pilot claps his hands at the bar, Vancouver beat Dallas. Some peanuts are slipped. From across the table, an obvious throat clearing and nudge at the coffee and/or napkin. An attempt to jump start Penny's motor skills.

Her left hand fidgets with the handle of the mug, starts to slide if off the napkin just a few yawns short of making meaningful eye contact "Yeah yeah," a slow, low drawl. A convincing signal-to-noise. No need to coach, she's got it all under control "S'got just the right," going in for the big yawn; full body stretch. "c'sistancy. You always know how to get the color right," no need to adlib or fill-in with something clever. Penny yawns again and sips without hesitating.

If one were to look, from in close, with an eagle eye, they'd find ball-point pen scribbling on the napkin. 'Drink and watch' is what is says. Who knows. Chase squints his eyes a bit as Penny tests the concoctions. There's the distinct taste of oranges, an odd hint for morning java. "I outta, you 'n yer college friends would make me cook vats a this shit when I was on shore leave." He finally continues, nodding his head and looking less pensive. *Pop* Eyes out towards the window, he advises, "But uh...don't drink too much, I putta lotta sugar in there. Enough give ya a nasty buzz from the whole cup." Back to Penny he turns, reaching for his smoke to add some flavor to his gum. A healthy drag, and larger cloud expelled.

It's not healthy, all this stealth so early in the morning. So what's to see? Some geezer tipped over on a stool. Flight attendants congrating by the entrance. Coupla guys reading papers. These things hold no interest for Penny. These things are as mundane as they are plentiful. Maybe she just doesn't see it yet. Clarity of vision has not come; she's not caffeinated enough. This morning is wearing thin on her; she's doing her best not to throw back the whole mug, doing her damnedest not to drum her fingers or rub her eyes, touch the fuzzy parts of her hair or toy with an earring.

Because we are being low fucking key.

"I remember that time you came back from Bora Bora," half her face in the mug, eyelashes, eyelids, eyebrows just above the rim.

The nook between nostril and cheek get's fingered, Chase leans a tad forwards in his seat. his hand drops to his stomach, and a nauseous memory drifts over his features. "Shit girl, that was -before- the surgery. Ugh. Fuckin' Asian Trots. I swear ta fuckin' gawd, that bowl twister was longer than the snake in Anaconda." But his eyes are telling a different story. They're not focused on vague flashbacks of foreign diarrhea, no. They're needle sharp, squinting at a spot three inches above Penny's eyes.

And then she hears him really. Oh his lips keep moving, describing in detail his battle with the toilet upon his return, but in Penny's mind, he's saying something else. And here comes his voice, crisp and drowning out the nonsense his lips are spewing. "Here's the situation..." A flashing image projected in your mind's eye. Of... a man standing in front of Der Weenershnitzle, or something spelled much like that. He dawns the suit of a giant hotdog mascot. Chase's voice again. "There the hotdog's a U.S. custom's agent, he spotted my coyote in J.F.K. He's looking for a solo, not a couple."

Penny doesn't exactly go cross-eyed but hey, give a girl a little warning. She keeps her mouth on the mug to keep from gibbering something stupid or something period. Penny looks like she's experiencing that kind of hung-over disorientation when you wake up in your own bed, still fully dressed but can't quite recall when or how she got there. "What?" suddenly, a jump - a lapse in the conversation maybe. It was her turn and she missed a beat. "Oh, about Lance" it sounds like lay-unce, she goes on and on about the cat and its shots, and how horrible it feels - like a plucked chicken underfoot. Putting down the cup on the table, her hands move slowly out of sync with the conversation, toward your left. Her fingers are rolling a tiny red thread, straying lint from your sleeve, correcting little things about your shirt. And then it's kicked back, that image; recycled into two options with subtitles - the agent handled by a tearful grandmother with lost baggage or the agent with the runs, cursing the danish he's shouldn't have ordered. When she leans back, hands to herself, the afterimages start to fade; color turning inside out - burned off the retina of your mind's eye. "And he refuses to pick a flea collar without asking the stupid vet about four different kinds. Which do you think'll work? He trusts your judgement."

"Fuckin' spiked." He -would- say that. Chase shakes his head though, jaw still flexing on his pulverized chewy treat. "Of course. 'N make sure you keep that thing away from the nino. They steal baby's breath yaknow. Piss of grams if lil' Eubert couldn't show fer his briss because the gato sucked his lungs out." Wives-tale, an old one.

Mental tennis, Chase swats back. There's the man in a hotdog suit, and the image drifts from the mighty unkosher one, now floating through random faces towards the baggage claim. And through the wall. And into a room, fulled up with A.T.F. and uniformed customs agents, 'la migra' in LA. "He's miked to team, waitin' on Guermo." A narrative, and then a shot of someone's face. A grimy looking fellow, short, hispanic, wearing a 'Member's Only jacket and sporting a south american soccer mullet. "He's Guermo. We're gonna be mom 'n pop, hit the mark, and jet to the bathroom. The Hotdog needs to be there, and he needs to report back that an elderly couple came in contact with the mark. That'll give us five minutes to get to the bathroom. Payed off a baggage handler to open the hanger to us, i'm parked out there. You get 2 bills. Sound fair?"

Penny tilts her head down and laughs under her breath "You still read too much Stephen King," she shifts, looks at her coat and maybe at something that's a watch on her left wrist. "You ready?" moving like there's a meter that needs feeding; shuffling things out of the way, tucking chairs aside. "I gotta..." trailing off; some things don't need saying.

"'S do it." And up. Look at 'm go, Penny's a regular junior kingpin in training. Chase leads, it goes off like without a hitch, and the beard gets her geets. Thanks beard.