To those asking around, it's not too uncommon to find Damian here, particularly when there's new art up. He's here now with Lori and Jerome - and of the three, the seven foot Jerome really tends to be the one that draws the eye at first. Damian's currently eyeballing a painting of a shipwreck with a critical expression, and Jerome's looking fairly bored but well-behaved.
The door opens, admit one Pobble. Or half admit. A second taken to hastily suck the last from a cigarette including a small burn of the filter before he flicks it out past the dirty fella he has in tow. Stepping fully inside the gallery, he lightly adjusts the sit of his top hat as he holds the door for Cash, peering across with a sharp and determined expression. His thin lips are set in a crooked line, silver tipped fingers tapping against the door as he scans the room.
In comes those that don't belong. Unless perhaps, this gallery's patrons tend to be low end. Damian and company prove this theory false. And so Cash and Pobble's entrance goes noticed. Cash, the more sluggish of the two, follows in tow with denim collars propped up against the relentless foul weather of Erin's Valley. Relaxed, slumped and stumbling in alcohol steps. He's concealing a bottle in that jacket of his, no doubt moonshine of grandpa's ripest variety. Hard to follow his gaze behind the drapery of hair that covers. But he's behind Pobble in a purely heterosexual fashion. Eyes fix on the array of free beverages, but he stays the course lain before him by his contemporary. Into the gallery proper.
Lori is actually interested in the art. Her arms are folded across her chest, a bag slung over her head so that the strap lays across her body, boots planted firmly on the ground. "...and nobody does those really great huge, big fucking sea ship scenes anymore where the waves are like 30 feet tall and there's some poor motherfucker hanging from the rigging on the mast and the ship's like hanging in mid air at the top of a wave at a seventy-degree angle n' shit? Man, I love those. They're not ART, but I love them."
Must be that time of day, when people stop by the Gallery for either a looksee of new art, or perhaps a triple espresso from the cafe. For the redhead that soon steps inside, it's for the latter. Kirra is needing her caffeine fix, seriously. Graceful steps take her from the front door towards the cafe where she smiles at the guy behind the counter, "Hey there, Billy. The usual, please?" In hand, she's already got the correct change laid on the counter for him, sliding it across when he hands over the paper cup, "Thanks, Billy. Don't let 'em stress ya too hard today." As she turns away, words are over-heard, and peering into the gallery proper, she sees the trio before the ship picture. "Hey there. " That's directed it Lori with a brief smile before she takes a sip of the strong brew from her cup.
Damian glances down at Lori for a moment, then looks back up at the painting, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "They have movies about that these days, so no one needs it in art anymore. Attention spans like guinea pigs. In ten years, we won't have galleries at all, more's the pity." Though not directed at him he glances Kirra's way, then looks at Lori questioningly.
Lori says, "Géricault? Fuck Géricault, man. Romanticism is a waste of my goddamned time..." The rest of her thought is cut off, and she turns to look where Damian's looking. Monkey see, monkey do. "Oh," she says, "Kirra." This for Damian's elucidation. Lori lifts a hand to wave at her."
Pobble continues to hang near the door, side stepping to stand next to Cash, inclining his head towards the man as his gaze lights on the trio with the obvious bodyguard affliction. "Intrestin'. You know, I asked that old guy about buying that entropic peice. He never got back to me though, the fucker." His attention flicks briefly over Lori and Jerome before settling on Damian, lips pursed in consideration. "Think that might be him?" he murmers to his comrade.
A solemn nod, that's the answer Pobble gets as Cash reveals the libations he's been hiding badly under his coat. Lazy eyes follow a passing gallery goes before his worn sneakers get side tracked by the crackers with the brie. Cheese is good. Cash's spidery grasp scoops up a few appetizers as he passes the server. One is hidden in his pocket, presumably for the never ending winter. And when the chewing's done, he pulls from his dingy and unlabeled bottle. A few small rivers of one million proof run down into his bearded chin.
Kirra's smiles is a bit brighter as Lori speaks her name, a nod given as if to signal the other got it right, "How's your friend? Everything turn up ok with him?" She questions, seriously concerned before she looks to Damian, her head nodding in greet, "Nice to see you again, sir. I hope your day has been pleasant?" Polite is the redhead as she stands there gripping the cup of caffeine, sipping from it at times. Hand lifts, a brush of fingers to tuck away a dark lock, the light shimmering against the few studs in her ear. Cash and Pobble are spared a glance, shadowed green eyes skimming over them both before she turns back to Damian and group.
Damian regards Kirra for a moment, then nods with a small smile. "Pleasant enough," he agrees. "And yourself?" The rest of the room is given what was intended to be a quick glance, but his attention is caught by the rather odd pair that's just arrived. Pobble is merely studied for a moment with a curious look, but then Cash is given a mild but still fairly plain look of disgust. "Lovely," he murmurs to the two standing near him.
Lori shrugs at Kirra, "He's as fine as he's going to get." And that doesn't necessarily answer her question. Lori lets Kirra have at Damian, the pleasantries being exchanged and all. She turns to eye the wall of dark meat behind her and is about to say something but is distracted by Pobble and his hat and his coat. She lifts a hand, waves limply, but glances at Cash. She lifts her arm and glances at her watch. "Whatcha say, huh? Five minutes to the cops get here? Pick a number..."
l
The blue haired Pobble raises a brow at the implication, whispering loudly to his companion. "I think she's talking about us mate." He doesn't look away from Damien though, a mildly amused smile forming. With a somewhat glacial pace he begins to head across towards the man, hands sliding down into the oversized pockets of his yeti-like coat. Although eyes are slightly glossy, there is a definate clarity to his expression.
And backing the skinned Polar-Bear, the drunk, having lost his shyness at being less than sober. Though it's only notable by the criss crossing path his sneakers march him. Cash, wiping the remains of munched cracker crumbs clinging to the mop of hair that grows with a will it's own. Bottle now corked, and stuffed back under his coat. Worn like a shoulder holster, complete with form fitting strap. A quick draw on the Bushmills. Fastest drunkard on the west coat. Somewhere behind Pobs, Cash stands. Looking extra casual about their approach.
Kirra nods once to Lori at her answer, no words given to try and say sorry or give condolences. To Damian, the redhead chuckles lightly, her voice an easy alto, "Pleasant enough, yes, even with the weather." Shoulders are given a slight shrug before Lori's words call attention back towards the other two strange men. A quick study, and she asides back, "Ten if they're lucky and the cops are busy."
Damian lifts an eyebrow as he sees the two coming his way, turning to face them, expression going neutral but still slightly curious. Jerome's showing more interest; the man can't really help but loom, gaze fixing as well on the approaching men with more of a warning glare. "Suddenly I appreciate Drew that little bit more," Damian notes idly to Lori. "I suspect I know where this might be heading."
"Well you're the only fucking one," Lori tells Damian, her brow drawing into a delicate scowl. "What gives, Pobs?" Lori asks of her acquaintance. To Damian she says, "This is Pobble." The other . . . gentleman . . . is ignored. Her hands move to adjust the strap of her bag.
Paying no heed to the imposing figure of Jerome, Pobble's smile grows just a small ammount. "Right. I forgot you all had a dress code. I was hoping to find Artus and negociate a deal." he offers, a dry and transparent guise in response to Lori's query. Given the casual hostility, he remains calm and confident, hand removed from pocket to scratch lazily at his chin. Smile becomes a mild smirk as he comes to a halt a short distance from Damian. "I don't suppose you happen to be Griffin?"
Large man, that Jerome. Small man, that Cash. They're now in close proximity, the smaller of the two looking upwards. Though unimposing, he shows no sign of being intimidated by his counterpart. On the contrary. He pulls one of the cracker he pocketed, offering it up between long nicotine stained fingernails. "You wan' a cracker, man?"
A sip, a look, and the redhead sighs, curiously watching the proceedings, yet slipping to the side out of the way. From a painting on the wall, to the gathering group, Kirra looks, brows furrowed slightly as she studies both Cash and Pobble, then the better outfitted ones of Lori, Damian, and Jerome. Hmm.
The name 'Pobble' gets Lori another glance from Damian, and a look of some recognition; precisely how much isn't particularly clear. He looks back at the man, then past him at Cash for a lingering moment. Distaste registers briefly again in the form of a faint sigh. "I am -a- Griffin," he agrees, looking back at Pobble with a small, amused smile. "I'm sure I am not the only one, even in this city. And no, I don't have any spare change. Or cigarettes. Or drugs."
Lori glances around very briefly, satisfied that noone is approaching the extraordinarily odd group of people. Her hands absently adjust the strap on her bag once more while she peers up at Pobble. When Damian speaks, her luminous green eyes flick up at him but soon return to 'Pobs'. Amazingly, she doesn't speak. One may note the position of her stance. That is, she is a step back and to the side of Damian, having given sufficient room for him to maintain his personal space yet remains near enough to touch.
Ooh. Burn. Pobble develops a wan and almost hurt expression that quickly dissapates. "Tres dole, mon ami." murmers the cockney, in a badly affected accent. A silver nail taps his chin before the hand returns to the pocket whence it came. "Damian Griffin?" he asks in clarification, a small glance given to Jerome, perhaps to see if he does in fact want a cracker.
Jerome doesn't seem to want a cracker. The man folds his arms across his chest, dipping his chin and looking down at Cash with a frown. Maybe he doesn't talk.
"Suit yerself, man." And so ends Cash's generosity. The cracker finds its grave in the drunkard's maw. The folding of arms is a distinct gesture of intolerance, impatience, or anger. Take your pick, Cash isn't phased. His callused hands dig into dingy denim caves as he munches up the cheesy snack. And he slouches, dull brown eyes drifting to the art hanging for its life.
"I'm partial to movies, kinda.." His artistic commentary, though it's unlikely to make the latest version of Art Speak. Cash, there's an economy of energy to his movements. Perhaps he stores it in some internal vat, ready for the tapping should a fitting situation arrive.
Glancing up at Jerome nearby, Kirra spares a momentary grin at a thought, head shaking a bit as she holds back a hint of laughter for some reason as she studies the tall guy. Dropping her gaze, she turns back to the two who question Damian, studying them further, listening to the conersation that comes. Espresso is sipped upon, slowly savored by th redhead who doesn't deem words from her important at this moment.
Damian looks back at Cash as the man speaks, and the distaste shifts for a moment into something more ponderous. But not too long, not long enough to be rude or dismissive, before he's looking back at Pobble. "Yes. Damian Griffin."
Lori watches Pobble, waiting. A thumb is stuck under the strap of her bag, potentially ready to pull it over her head. Kirra is forgotten, alas, in favor of the more compelling pair in front of her.
"Interestin'" murmers Pobble quietly. His expression becomes neutral as he slowly slides a hand into his coat, the motion similar to the one he might take pulling a gun. A crooked smile snaps back to his lips, "Been wanting to talk to you, we have."
Lori purses her lips and stares up at Pobs. One hand is extended to the side toward Kirra, a 'come hither' crook of her finger motioning her over. Lori's eyes never leave Pobble.
Inch by inch, attention shifts. Cash is used to glares, though he's the aura of a man accustomed to his lot in life. Kirra, Lori, Jerome, Damian, he's been given those looks one thousand times over, and they've lost their weight. From the mediocre art to the beefcake that stands sentry near him. A lazy transition and he takes his time about.
"You like Kung Fu movies, man?" This, more than anything is disappointing. "You ever seen Enter the Dragon? I've seen that movie four thousand eight hundred times...." Fingers come out from their hidey hole to wiggle in demonstration. Cash caught, fishing for a reaction deeper than arms crossed.
Kirra narrows eyes as Pobbles moves, his hand reaching into his coat. The motion of the finger crooked her way by Lori does gain her attention, the redhead moving behind Jerome and over towards the other female with a quiet step, keeping out of the way of the others as she does so. The look that's given to Lori is of a questioning nature, gaze divided by the other girl, and the guys.
Damian merely continues to regard Pobble evenly, although Jerome slides a hand into his jacket in a mirroring gesture of Pobble's own. The large man is splitting his attention between both Pobble and Cash, though with slightly heavier focus on the former. "So," Damian replies smoothly, "You've found me. Not exactly a huge achievement, but go you all the same. Bear in mind that attempting to shoot, stab or otherwise fuck with me in here would be really quite stupid. Or anywhere else, actually. If you have something to say to me then by all means, you have my full attention."
Lori moves her arm back by about half a foot, extends her index finger and holds it there in a 'wait' sign. Her head is turned to the side just enough so she can watch Pobble and keep an ear canted toward Kirra.
Pobble rolls his eyes, the needle point pupils loosing their fix on the man for the briefest second. "You think I'm some sort of fucking retard?" A terribly oversized boot taps at the floor. "The appearance of a crackhead does not a crackhead make." That's deep philosophy for you, spoken in tones that mock the underestimating statement. He snaps his hand from his coat, fingertips glinting around a crisp eggshell white business card. He twists his wrist, offering the card to Damian face down. In contrast to the sharp style hinted at by the glimpse of its front, the once plain back has been marked with a red sharpee in a ragged X. The smile that accompanies the movement is precise and professional, "We need to talk. Not here. Do call and we can do lunch or somesuch."
"Hey man" Lazy words from chapped lips concealed by overgrown hair. "Like, take 'r easy. 'N I won't snap that elbow out..." Cash obviously now looking a few clicks south of Jerome's face. Mainly towards that hand that so obviously tucked under his jacket. Though he looks anything but threatening, with eyes fluttering on the verge of a drunken black out. Still, his callused hands remove from their denim pockets to dangle on either side of his form loosely.
Kirra strangely obeys the silent command from Lori, her steps paused to the side where she might keep both the other and the men in her sights. Too curious is this whole scene, and Gods know the redhead is the curious sort.
Damian gives a rather disparaging laugh, though it doesn't seem aimed directly at Pobble so much as the conversation. "I don't know you from any other man on the street, and frankly, the majority of them -are- fucking retards. I like to err on the side of caution. So much easier for everyone involved. Lori." There's a command in that, his intention made relatively clear when he inclines his head towards the card the other man is offering. Paranoid, or just an arrogant jackass? Probably both. Jerome curls his lip in an aggressive leer at Cash; the hand doesn't slide back out of his jacket, but he doesn't look like he's right about to whip anything out and start firing wildly, either. Still doesn't say a damn word. Damian's gaze continues to linger on Pobble, then he nods. "A question for you and your companion, since we move in similar circles. Does the name Harbringers Inc ring a bell?" His attention shifts to include Cash as well as he waits for an answer.
Lori leans forward and reaches out to take the card from Pobble quite easily. Damian's command goes into her head, through her nervous system, and into her spinal cord, it seems, so that his will appears to move her slender body rather than her own. The ugly thing is that it's so natural, kind of graceful in a way.
The card relinquished, Pobble's hand returns to his pocket. He goes slip a glance at Jerome, seeming almost dissapointed at the lack of action from the bodyguard, lip pushing out slightly as if he's willing the big man to do something. As he turns back to Damian, his gaze lingers on Lori, a thin peirced brow heading up towards his hat in what could be amusement. Still, he doesn't question, attention fixing once more on Damian. "Harbringers Inc." he repeats pensively, "No immediate tingling of bellage. I can pry perhaps."
"You don' like... talk much, eh? Farrr out." Cash observes, returning the scowl he receives by Jerome with a needy expression. That need, another pull from the bottle stung under his jacket. And so it's uncorked again for a pull. Cheeks filled with whiskey make for a funny smile. One that's wiped by a dingy denim sleeve, tugging with it a few errand strands that are nearly trapped in his lips along with the gulp. His mouth smacks at the sensation. He enjoys it.
Relaxing a touch once the card is offered over, Kirra continues to nurse the cup of espresso, careful sips taken of the still steaming brew. Quiet she remains, at least for now, yet she does straighten, her gaze turned to study Damian's profile from where she stands as he mentions Harbringers. From him to Pobble she trains her gaze, that curiosity growing now as she listens in on the conversation.
Damian nods once to Pobble, though he waits for Cash's reply - or rather, lack of one in regards to his question - before his attention resettles fully on the top-hatted man. "Ahh, well. It's nothing of import, really. I was merely curious." He glances to Lori, hand lifting for a moment to absent-mindedly brush some loose strands of her hair back behind one of her ears, then the hand slides down to take the card from her so he can have a better look at it himself. "I'm sure I will be in touch," he tells Pobble in a more off-hand fashion.
Lori's head tilts about ten degrees to the other side as Damian touches her so he can better access to touch her. She doesn't look at him but looks at Pobble instead, her luminous green eyes affixed on him, trying to see past his third eye and into the contents of his skull, no doubt.
"I hope so. I'd hate to have to track you down again." Pobble replies, as if the tracking was something he'd considered unnescessary to begin with, the tone carrying a subtle implication. He stares in silence for a moment, finally nodding and as his lips once more comform to the proffessional and curt smile template. He steps back, boots heavy on the floor of the gallery. "We'll be seeing you Griffin. Do take care." he states, nudging Cash in the universal Time-To-Go manner.
This signals more wiggling of Cash's callused fingers. To Jerome and Damian mainly, the females of the royal court neglected. A messy spin of his rubber heels and Cash follows in tow. Not as an underling. More of a silent partner. And of course, his path out the gallery passes those tasty cheesy crackers again. One for the road.
Make that two.
Slightly distanced, yet seemingly a part of Damian's group, Kirra remains there behind him, shadowed green eyes watching still. As it appears this little meeting is coming to an end, she relaxes further as she moves another step to the side to now stand at Lori's other side, her gaze attracted by the painting there.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Garou fun at The Pulse
The Pulse - Main Room
The Pulse seems rather aptly named, for as soon as one enters it becomes obvious that the name was given to the establishment for the resounding rhythms that echo across the club. Even from the outside, the vibrations can be felt if one places a hand against the wall - a pastime that is quite popular among the younger crowd that isn't allowed entrance yet.
The entryway to The Pulse is well guarded by two bouncers that check ID of those entering the establishment, a stamp being placed on the hands of those that are actually old enough to drink while those between the ages of sixteen and twenty get in without.
To the left of the club is the bar, although small it holds the basic stock standards. The prettier bottles are pressed up front although occasionally Jell-O Shots and other drinks are set up for the young crowd to sweep up in festive joy. On the counter side of the club, lays the dance floor that bears the amazing resemblance to a mosh pit more than anything else, a sea of bodies twisting and turning to the hard-handed music. Towards the rear of the club, a few tables and boots are set up, for those that actually come here for the conversation.
Contents:
Lori
Alabaster Smith
Kirra
Drake
Andrea
Obvious exits:
Out O
Alabaster Smith sits down at Large Table.
Lori is looking at you.
Andrea starts to pick up her drink for a swallow, pausing with it in half tilt towards her mouth as she looks to the man across from her in the booth, "Need?" The word carrying with it a tone that half says she's not sure she actually wants to get an answer.
Small Table (#1) has 3 empty places.
Large Table (#2) has 4 empty places.
Present is: Alabaster Smith.
Dark Booth (#3) has 4 empty places.
Long Bar (#4) has 7 empty places.
Dance Floor (#5) has 15 empty places.
Alabaster Smith steeples his fingers, and nods. "Oh yes. Ah tend to peoples' spiritual needs, and crises of conscience."
Pobble enters with a small crowd, waiting his turn to flash ID and get his hand stamped. He scratches absently around the mark with a glinting nail as he steps out of the influx of clubbers, fishing in an oversized pocket of his yeti like coat for cigarettes as he's caught in the unfailing gravity of the bar and drawn towards its promises of hard liqour.
At the bar, Kirra listens to whatever Drake tells, her, and then shakes her head, turning to slip from the stool she'd been sitting on. Another comment is made, words lost under the beat of music to any but the man they're told too before the redhead turns and heads for the door, weaving her way through the crowd that's entering, disappearing outside.
Kirra makes her way out of the club.
Kirra has left.
Andrea doesn't move the glass from its halfway journey towards her mouth, the contents teetering on almost dribbling out the top. "Ah. Well. Thats very nice of you." She gives Alabastar another smile, "You must be very busy."
Alabaster Smith beams at Andrea, apparently quite sincere. "Ah'll admit it keeps me on my toes. Even though many people don't think they need it, everyone sooner or later needs help."
Lori is on the sidelines sucking soda through a straw, evidently, since there are no stamps on her hands. Her body is bouncing gently to the beat of the music while she enjoys the cold liquid. As soon as she finishes the soda, though, she abandons it and plunges back onto the dance floor to learn some more kewl movez. She certainly is an energetic little thing.
Drake listens to whatever it is Kirra has to say, then shakes his head. Runing fingers through his hair, he sighs and follows her out, absently pushing his way past anyone who gets in his way. The bulk's good for something at least.
Drake makes his way out of the club.
Drake has left.
Pobble slides sideways onto a stool, easing his coat out behind him. Despite the warmth of the club, he almost appears cold as a slightly shaking hand lifts a smoke to his thin lips. A request is mumbled to the bartender, and repeated a little louder before it's understood. Once the glass of clear liquid arrives, he rotates slowly on the stool top, leaning his furry bulk back against the bar to survey the crowd, one giant boot tapping against the footrest.
Andrea is quiet for a long, drawn moment, a glance given as Drake makes his way out after the girl, the corner of her mouth quirking back up into another half grin. Looking back to her table mate she nods slowly, "I bet. Never hurts to have someone watching out for ya."
Lori gets run over by Drake and winds up on her ass. She's hollering something out there on the dance floor as she tries to pick herself up, and the words "dickhead" and "fuckwad" are prominent during the tirade to those close enough to hear it.
Alabaster Smith nods solemnly. "Ah can be a very good friend," he says profoundly, regarding Andrea.
Lori stomps back toward the bar. Stomp, stomp, stomp! "Goddamnit!"
Andrea watches him carefully, even the most stoic would likely get the bit of edginess to them that the topic of conversation is clearly starting to work into her. "Well...ah, thats good. Great even. I'm sure there's just bunches out there that could use, ah, that kinda help."
Pobble swills his liqour around the glass as he digs for a lighter, body twisting to search the other pocket and comming up trumps. A tiny neon pink number is sparked and a deep breath taken as he tries to focus on the tables and floor, his attention finally managing some form of clarity as it comes to rest upon the stomping girl heading towards him. He seems to tense up, as if convinced she's comming for him.
Alabaster Smith grins toothily at Andrea. "Oh relax, Sister. Ah wouldn't force my beliefs on you. Just remember Ah'm here if you ever need me, or the help Ah can give."
Lori is coming for Pobble... in a way. Or at least near him. "Hey, did you kill that polar bear all by yourself?" Lori asks as she gets to the bar. She sits on a chair and flumps, dropping her chin in the palm of her hand.
Pobble narrows his one eye, while the brow raises above the other. "It's dead? Fuckin' awesome." He leans a little towards the girl, to whisper conspiratorially just loud enough to hear. "It tried to eat my monkey." A silver nail taps the glass harshly before he lifts it to knock back half of the noxious liquid, eyeing Lori sidelong. "Something the matter then is it?"
Andrea clears her throat slightly, "Thats cool. So, um." She pauses again for a second, taking a drink before continuing. "You been, ah, helping people around here long?"
Alabaster Smith nods. "Ah've been here for a few months now, ever since Ah decided to make this city my new home. It's been an interesting time."
Lori looks at Pobble equally sidelong. "What? With the coat? Fuck all if I care," she says loudly enough to be heard over the music and shrugs. "I bet somebody spraypaints it, though!"
Andrea can't help but grin at that, scooting in her seat to cross her legs, "Good interesting or bad interesting, because I've learned there can be a vast difference."
Pobble frowns, confusion apparent on his face. "Why would someone spraypaint a dead polar bear?" He shakes his head before knocking back the remainder of the drink and plonking the empty down on the bar. He waves a hand in a circular motion, trying to wind his thoughts back on track. "I meant the stomping and Goddammit."
Alabaster Smith smiles at that. "Ah fear it's actually been quite a mixture of both."
Andrea shrugs, "Thats how its supposed to be though right? Too much good and the good doesn't seem so good anymore." It must make sense to her at least. "Keeps you from getting biased."
"Oh that!" Lori says, "Some dickhead pushed me down on the dance floor, that's all. I didn't see him coming, and he just brushed me off like a mosquito. Somebody's always got to ruin it."
Alabaster Smith chuckles, nodding. "Oh yes. It keeps us busy, at the very least."
Pobble nods glumly, peering across at the writhing mass of bodies. "Bastards." he agrees, "Seems alright in here though, I guess." His foot is still caught in the infectious tapping cycle, much to the chagrin of his leg which he tries to push down to stop it from jiggling.
Lori puts her other elbow on the bar so she can set her chin in both hands and watch people or something. "Yeah, it's all right. I can't drink, though, and I don't have any friends... so I guess all I can do is dance or something. Mleh. Hey, you got an extra cigarette? Can I have one of those?"
Andrea grins a bit more at that, "Well, you know what they say about idle hands." She stretches a bit, looking over at the belongings stuffed into the seat next to her then back to Alabaster, "If you'll 'xcuse me I think I'm gonna jet out, migrate around and find myself a place to crash."
Dennis comes into the club from the streets outside.
Dennis has arrived.
Pobble pulls out the mysterious extra cigarette that happened to come free with his regular pack, offering it over with a lopsided smile that fades as he considers. "Don't have any friends? How comes?"
Alabaster Smith grins at Andrea. "By all means. It's been a pleasure chatting with you. Ah hope we'll meet again soon."
Lori explains to Pobble, "I just got here. Hey, can I have a light too?"
Andrea reaches over to grab her backpack, sliding out of her seat as she slings it over her shoulder, settling it into place before reaching for the guitar that was nestled closest to the wall to keep it safe. "Yeah, I suffer from bad penny syndrome, it's bound to happen." She grins at Alabaster. "Have a good one." Turning to make her way towards the door.
Andrea makes her way out of the club.
Andrea has left.
Pobble hands across the pink neon flame. He flashes a grin, swivelling slightly on his stool to face the girl. "Well, Welcome I guess. Dr. Steve is me, pleasure t'meetcha."
Lori dips her head down with the cigarette jutting from her pink lips so she can suck on the flame. She takes a big ol' lungful of smoke as she rises back up again. "Lori," she counters. "What the hell is that doctor thing all about?"
People don't see Dennis enter so much as they perceive a shift in the air. Whether it's directly attributable to him or not is up for debate, but there's a distinct feeling of unease in the room, as if something had changed in a way both subtle and difficult to pin down. It's the air of change, radical and swift and random, and perhaps that's what's so frightening: because most people, their protestations to the contrary, want nothing so much as some social guarantee that tomorrow will be a lot like today was, even if today was miserable. There are no guarantees anymore except change, and that might perhaps account for the unease which seems to follow Dennis around. Grizzly Adams, Mountain Man of Washington, Agent of Fortune, Butler of Chaos. Or, then again, maybe the uneasiness has nothing to do with metaphor and everything to do with the nigh-homicidal scowl on his face. Different philosophers, different ideas, all that.
Zoe comes into the club from the streets outside.
Zoe has arrived.
Zoe is looking at you.
Pobble shrugs just a touch, raising a hand at a passing bartender to indicate he's in need of service. "If y'earn it you may as well use it right?" Uncertainty flickers across his features as he pulls the last from his cigarette and stubs it into a nearby ashtray, blowing the smoke upwards away from Lori.
In the beginning, people didn't go to Washington State; they wound up in Washington as a way of getting away from other things. It led to the state's original population being self-reliant outdoorsy types who have become increasingly more rare as the state has become overrun with Starbucks and Microsoft. Most of the Lumberjack Brigade has already left Erin's Vale for Alaska, but there are still some holdouts, people who still seek self-reliance amidst the espresso and traffic jams. Dennis Larson is one of them. He may not be dressed like one right now, but his mien, his build, his air of self-confident self-reliance, give him away as clearly as day.
He's not a large man, being of average height with an average build. Yet for all that, his average build is solidly built, his torso a gymnast's wedge shape and his muscles lean and well-defined. He's quite fit, fit in a way which is rarely seen nowadays; it's the fitness that comes from exertion and work, not time on Nautilus equipment. Scars on his hands and forearms attest to a life of manual labor, and his thirty-year-old face alternates between tanned and sunburnt depending on whether or not he remembered to pack sunblock. That, too, is rare nowadays; in an economy where most people work indoors, Dennis clearly works under the Wenatchee sun.
His hair is cut in a short low-maintenance style, the Nordic yellowness bleached to white-blonde by the sun, with eyes so pale a gray they evoke nothing so much as bleach. Dennis is dressed differently than he usually is; his flannels and jeans have been traded for a suit and tie. It's not Giancarlo Ferre or Giorgio Armani, certainly, instead just some cheap off-the-rack thing that's barely had any tailoring done to his form. In some sense, the unassuming dark suit makes him all the creepier. If he wore designer threads he'd be less unnerving, because after all, who'd want to start a fight while wearing a five thousand dollar suit?
A two hundred dollar suit, on the other hand...
Dennis says, "As an FYI, if you're a mortal or a mage with a WP < 6, you're going to feel distinctly uncomfortable around Dennis. If you're Fae, you're probably wondering what all the hubbub is about. :)"
"Yes, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but what /kind/ of doctor? Or are you the ooh-spooky-mysterious type? Like, what gives?" That's from Lori. She's gazing up at Pobble nicely enough, but the words coming out of her mouth are pretty unpleasant in contrast.
Into the club slips yet another figure looking to enjoy dancing the night away. After having her ID checked at the door, Zoe moves further inside, steps slow and graceful as she begins to make her way towards the bar. Lips hold a smile, and there's more than a few she stops to greet and speak with at times before continuing on, the skirt of her dress swaying with each step she makes.
Pobble delays the explanation to request another drink, and as he does so a mild shiver takes him, causing him to tense briefly inside the warm expanse of his yeti covering. He turns back to Lori, "Chemical engineering." Not so spooky or mysterious. Not even terribly interesting. A sheepish little smile is offered, as he glances to the side, needle point eyes scanning for something.
Lori looks all excited by that. "Chemical engineering? Rock!" She sucks on the cigarette again, licking the taste of nicotine from her pink lips. "I oughta do that, but life is too short to spend it in a classroom all the time, don't you think? I don't even have my high school diploma. Hah!" This amuses her greatly.
Pobble nods agreement distractedly, seeming unsatisfied in his search and turning back to his conversational partner. "Yeah, seven years is a long fucking time. Still." he trails off, lips curling back into a crooked little smile. "It was an interesting time."
Dennis heads over to the counter for a drink, albeit not without incident; some people are eager to get out of his way and some people are eager to get into it, usually college fratboys who've substituted liquor for courage and want to show the world they're not afraid. Dennis walks by them in stone-faced silence, taking contemptuously no notice of either those who edge away or those who remain. He finally comes up to the counter and growls out an order to the barkeep, one which does not carry over the din of the room.
Lori tilts her head away from Pobble to look at Dennis. It's just a big flop of her head, pigtails and green tubes bouncing with the sudden motion. Her big green eyes look at him pretty openly, sizing up the guy that makes everybody skuttle out of the way like cockroaches.
Who would think the tomboy could clean up so well? Surely no one that knows her and has seen her in her usual jeans and boots, grubby from digging in the garden. And yet, tonight Zoe seems to have taken special care with her dress. If she notices the path Dennis has made towards the bar, it's not obvious as she waves her own way through people, laughing at times before nodding to the bar before continuing onwards. Once there, she tiptoes, leaning against the bar, and making her order, giving the bartender a smile before he moves off to fix her drink.
Pobble faces away from Dennis, but his arrival at the bar definately unsettles the man. Silver nails tap together with a quiet clacking lost in the overwhelming beat of the music. He turtles down in the high collar of his enormous coat, pausing the tapping to toss a bill on the bar and take up his drink, clutching it with both hands.
Well, someone fits in here like a Preakness winner in a glue factory. Dennis's total lack of fitting-in is almost painful: he's wearing a suit and tie, not fashionably goth attire. He's wincing at what he'd call the 'noise', apparently enough of a cultural philistine that he doesn't grok the magnificence of Einsturzende Neubauten especially when played at high volume. He just remains silent and mute as the barkeep hands him an iced tea (what, no trendy booze and forty-dollar quintuple-distilled vodkas?) and--why, is that the sound of teeth grinding, barely audible over the noise? Yep. He turns to give Zoe a faint nod of recognition, and then turns to give Lori a scowl. "What the f--" He stops, shakes his head, starts over again in a concerted attempt at remaining civilized. "What're you looking at?"
Alabaster Smith has staked out his table like a little independent fiefdom in the middle of the chaos, and from it, he watches the drama of the other people with vague interest and amusement.
"I knew you were going to say that," Lori says. "Goddamnit, they always say that." She shakes her head in disappointment and looks away to have a drag off of her smoke, flicking ash on the floor absently.
Pobble indulges in a mix of ostritch and snake avoidance behaviour, keeping his back to the imposing figure while remaining still. Teeth pull in the corner of his lower lip, finger tapping uneasily against his glass still, being the only movement besides breathing. He almost looks like he's not exactly sure why he's entered this strange mood, but given his glossy pinpoint pupiled eyes it's not unreasonable to blame it on an acid flashback.
Wine delivered, the tomboy passes the money to the bartender before lifting the glass for a sip. It's then that Zoe sees Dennis standing off to the side in his suit and tie, a brow raised as she looks at him from over the rim of her wineglass. His snap at the girl seems to amuse her for some reason, lips quirking into a smile before she turns her gaze towards the dancefloor. Unconsciously, she sways to the music, the silk of her dress following each move she makes.
Dennis bites down an acerbic response to Lori and downs a rather large fraction of his iced tea in one long gulp. Mmmm, cold and bitter, just like his heart. A few of the bouncers are beginning to gather closeby, as if anticipating trouble brewing, but Dennis pays them no heed. Apparently he gets that reaction enough that he's become inured to it.
Lori stabs out her cigarette. Stabby, stabby, stabby! "What's the matter with you?" she asks Pobble without a drop of apparent empathy.
"Oh, nothing." replies Pobble in a tone that lacks anything that even vaguely resembles conviction. He knocks back his liqour sharply, smacking the glass back down on the counter. "Cold." he murmers as an afterthought, sliding hands into pockets and pulling the furry mass tighter about his body.
Zoe glances around, watching people, taking note of those reactions around her, and the bouncers that seem to be edging closer. Pushing away from the bar, she actually moves closer to the suited Dennis, and pausing near him, she lets her glance travel over him before returning to his face. Chuckling, she says lightly, "What's got your undies in a twist tonight?" Ok, so she might be dressed all fancy, hardly looking like herself, but the tomboy is still there and forthright as ever.
Lori reaches out to fluff Pobble up. "You should eat more! Put some meat on those bones... no wonder you're cold--wait, now I'm beginning to sound like... nevermind." She yanks at Pobble's coat, as if he's not warm enough in it.
Pobble should be warm, it is after all sweltering in the packed club. The close proximity of the bouncers seems to make him all the more edgy, pressing his side up against the counter top as he scratches his forehead just under the rim of his hat. "I shouldn't wear my coat inside, else I'll be cold when I go out." he murmers, mantra-like.
Dennis's scowl is the sort of thing which would be legendary if he didn't make it look so easy. "Same thing it ever is," he answers as he drains the rest of his iced tea. He looks around for the barkeep, getting visibly annoyed when it's clear the barkeep's trying very hard to pretend he doesn't exist. A bellowed order consisting of more vulgarities than prepositions later, the barkeep hurriedly comes over with a refill. Dennis doesn't pause to watch the scurrying: he returns his attention to Zoe. "People are idiots. That's what it always is."
Zoe cradles the glass of wine in her hand as she watches Dennis go bellowing for the refill, shaking her head at him quietly. When his attention returns, she replies lightly, "Some are, but you know, if you didn't doom and gloom glare at everyone, they might not be such idiots." A shoulder lifts in a shrug, a sip taken from the wine in her glass before her gaze slips towards the dance floor again, the music gaining another roll of hips before she shoots the angry man a look and grin.
Lori pauses in her conversation with Pobble to turn her head and grin sharply at Dennis. Something he said must have pleased her because she just has that kind of look on her face. "Hah!" Soon her gaze is back on Pobble and she chucks him a few times on the shoulder. "You don't look so good. Maybe you should come outside and get some fresh air. That's a good idea. Come on, get your narrow ass out of the chair already," she says, hopping off of her own chair. Sproing!
Pobble considers for the briefest of moments before nodding, sliding off the stool in a way that only moves him further from Dennis, oversized boots thudding down onto the floor. Hands push immediately into pockets and with a stooped pose he makes for the door in a roundabout path, almost scuttling through the crowds with only a quick glance back to check to see wether Lori is following.
"This ain't my Doom Glare," Dennis announces. Note that he doesn't protest. Protests indicate that one party is in the weaker position. The majority never protests the minority. The large do not protest the small. An oak does not protest a sapling. Dennis /announces/. "If it was my fuckin' Doom Glare, some poor sumbitch woulda already experienced what we like t' call an embarassin' loss of voluntary bladder control." He's not shouting, per se, but people are definitely doing the back-away-slowly thing and the bouncers are doing the creep-ahead-while-thinking-they-aren't-getting-paid-enough thing. "No, people are stupid, that's all, an' I'm fuckin' tired of it." Ah, at last, proof that he is human: is he not echoing a universal human feeling?
Lori is laughing at whatever Dennis is saying as she walks away from him. Yes, indeed, she is following Pobble but at a leisurely pace. What, like she's going to miss the big white coat in the crowd? She'd have to be retarded /and/ blinde.
Or even blind.
Pobble wastes no time in making his exit, a wan smile given to the door men at their half hearted comments regarding the enjoyment of the rest of the evening.
You leave The Pulse for the streets outside.
Downtown - New Town District(#433RJs)
-= Erin and Pike =-
Hip dance clubs and upper scale restaurants line the streets of New Town, everything from the newest teenage fad to old style swing dancing being seen easily on these streets. The young to middle aged crowd seems to frequent this area, a culturally diverse area with everything from the preppy high school jock to the pierced stoner hang out on the strip to find the new coolest spot to go on the weekends. The billboards seem to have taken notice of the party society in the area as well, various ads for entertainment places and items showing up more frequently than in other sections of the city.
To the side of the area a rather pleasant mini-park has formed, a statue of Zeus standing proud. At various times during the day and night, automated sprinklers go off to make sure that every plant receives the nourishment it requires for perfect blooming. Speckles of colors ranging from a deep violet to a cottony soft baby blue line the edge of the statue for a quaint place to stop and indeed, smell the flowers.
Obvious exits:
The Pulse TP North on Pike N South on Pike S West on Erin W East on Erin E
Lori comes out from The Pulse's doors.
Lori has arrived.
Lori comes wandering out of the club after you, not looking at all like she's fleeing or otherwise upset.
Pobble is waiting just next to the door, already having lit a pair of cigarettes, one between thin lips and the other dangling precariously between his fingers. He glances across as a clubber exits, catching Lori as she follows and his brow creases into a frown. "Hey.. sommatter?"
Lori reaches out to snatch the cigarette from his fingers. "Huh? Speak up. You don't look so good." She resists patting his face, though, but only just.
Pobble shuffles back against the wall, still huddling in his behemothic coat as he draws a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the fumes drift out from his mouth to coil around his hat. "You look miffed is all, something the matter?"
Lori takes a deep drag from the cigarette he gave her and shakes her head. "Nope. Yes. Maybe. I always look miffed. Usually." She frowns at him, but not unkindly--if such a thing is possible. "Fuggediboudit." The girl looks him over very carefully, not missing much of anything. "So, Doc, what do you do with this PhD of yours?"
"Oh, stuff and things. You know how it is. The life of the freelance chemist is a dull and boring one." Pobble smirks at that, sharing a private joke with himself as he ashes the cigarette onto the pavement. "Fuggediboudit." he adds, mimicing your tones with a lopsided grin.
"Ohhhhhhhh, so you're a dealer!" Lori shows him a sharp grin. "No, you're not a dealer; you're too much of a pussy to be a dealer." Ow. She has another drag off her smoke, flicking ash negligently aside on the sidewalk.
Pobble smirks, "Right. I studied chemistry so I could better explain to customers how their shit worked." Glossy eyes roll as he pulls on the smoke. "Yes, I'm a pussy and a dealer." A laugh escapes him as he shifts against the wall.
"Better explain to customers how their shit worked?" Lori looks confused. She shrugs, however, and steps closer to Pobble, turning at the last second to lean up against the wall next to him. "A pussy -and- a dealer. You know, pussy dealers don't last long."
Pobble stares across the street, fingering the filter of his smoke. "I noticed." he murmers absently, "Fuckers." His reverie ends with a start, almost twitching as he glances back to the girl at his side. "I'd say I'm neither, but the former is possibly subjective given recent incidents."
Lori tilts her head so she can gaze at Pobble. Her hand lifts, putting the cigarette to her lips briefly. "Oh yeah? Interesting. You know sometimes I get it right. Anyway, what about recent events? Someone try to shake you down or something?" Lori reaches out and plunges her fingers into the fur of the coat. Oooooh... soft and plush! Okay, even if it's not real, it's still like a big teddy bear.
Pobble doesn't seem to mind the wandering fingers, "You could say that." He nods slowly, flicking away the half smoked cigarette into the gutter, gaze following its arc. His lips open as if to elaborate further then decide against it. "Well.." he says finally, turning back towards Lori with a bright but apologetic smile. "Would love to stay and chat but I need to get back, feed the monkey and lie down." A card is pulled from somewhere inside his coat and handed over. It's a crisp number, eggshell white. The name Dr. Steve and the address of an alley way in the Tackett Slums, completed with a cell number. Nudging your arm with his elbow he pushes off from the wall. "Call if you get bored, no-friends girl."
"Hah, cool," Lori says. "Hey, I might just do that. Thanks for the number. You take care now, okay? Don't get into any trouble..." She babbles on, waving at you with your own 'business' card.
The Pulse seems rather aptly named, for as soon as one enters it becomes obvious that the name was given to the establishment for the resounding rhythms that echo across the club. Even from the outside, the vibrations can be felt if one places a hand against the wall - a pastime that is quite popular among the younger crowd that isn't allowed entrance yet.
The entryway to The Pulse is well guarded by two bouncers that check ID of those entering the establishment, a stamp being placed on the hands of those that are actually old enough to drink while those between the ages of sixteen and twenty get in without.
To the left of the club is the bar, although small it holds the basic stock standards. The prettier bottles are pressed up front although occasionally Jell-O Shots and other drinks are set up for the young crowd to sweep up in festive joy. On the counter side of the club, lays the dance floor that bears the amazing resemblance to a mosh pit more than anything else, a sea of bodies twisting and turning to the hard-handed music. Towards the rear of the club, a few tables and boots are set up, for those that actually come here for the conversation.
Contents:
Lori
Alabaster Smith
Kirra
Drake
Andrea
Obvious exits:
Out O
Alabaster Smith sits down at Large Table.
Lori is looking at you.
Andrea starts to pick up her drink for a swallow, pausing with it in half tilt towards her mouth as she looks to the man across from her in the booth, "Need?" The word carrying with it a tone that half says she's not sure she actually wants to get an answer.
Small Table (#1) has 3 empty places.
Large Table (#2) has 4 empty places.
Present is: Alabaster Smith.
Dark Booth (#3) has 4 empty places.
Long Bar (#4) has 7 empty places.
Dance Floor (#5) has 15 empty places.
Alabaster Smith steeples his fingers, and nods. "Oh yes. Ah tend to peoples' spiritual needs, and crises of conscience."
Pobble enters with a small crowd, waiting his turn to flash ID and get his hand stamped. He scratches absently around the mark with a glinting nail as he steps out of the influx of clubbers, fishing in an oversized pocket of his yeti like coat for cigarettes as he's caught in the unfailing gravity of the bar and drawn towards its promises of hard liqour.
At the bar, Kirra listens to whatever Drake tells, her, and then shakes her head, turning to slip from the stool she'd been sitting on. Another comment is made, words lost under the beat of music to any but the man they're told too before the redhead turns and heads for the door, weaving her way through the crowd that's entering, disappearing outside.
Kirra makes her way out of the club.
Kirra has left.
Andrea doesn't move the glass from its halfway journey towards her mouth, the contents teetering on almost dribbling out the top. "Ah. Well. Thats very nice of you." She gives Alabastar another smile, "You must be very busy."
Alabaster Smith beams at Andrea, apparently quite sincere. "Ah'll admit it keeps me on my toes. Even though many people don't think they need it, everyone sooner or later needs help."
Lori is on the sidelines sucking soda through a straw, evidently, since there are no stamps on her hands. Her body is bouncing gently to the beat of the music while she enjoys the cold liquid. As soon as she finishes the soda, though, she abandons it and plunges back onto the dance floor to learn some more kewl movez. She certainly is an energetic little thing.
Drake listens to whatever it is Kirra has to say, then shakes his head. Runing fingers through his hair, he sighs and follows her out, absently pushing his way past anyone who gets in his way. The bulk's good for something at least.
Drake makes his way out of the club.
Drake has left.
Pobble slides sideways onto a stool, easing his coat out behind him. Despite the warmth of the club, he almost appears cold as a slightly shaking hand lifts a smoke to his thin lips. A request is mumbled to the bartender, and repeated a little louder before it's understood. Once the glass of clear liquid arrives, he rotates slowly on the stool top, leaning his furry bulk back against the bar to survey the crowd, one giant boot tapping against the footrest.
Andrea is quiet for a long, drawn moment, a glance given as Drake makes his way out after the girl, the corner of her mouth quirking back up into another half grin. Looking back to her table mate she nods slowly, "I bet. Never hurts to have someone watching out for ya."
Lori gets run over by Drake and winds up on her ass. She's hollering something out there on the dance floor as she tries to pick herself up, and the words "dickhead" and "fuckwad" are prominent during the tirade to those close enough to hear it.
Alabaster Smith nods solemnly. "Ah can be a very good friend," he says profoundly, regarding Andrea.
Lori stomps back toward the bar. Stomp, stomp, stomp! "Goddamnit!"
Andrea watches him carefully, even the most stoic would likely get the bit of edginess to them that the topic of conversation is clearly starting to work into her. "Well...ah, thats good. Great even. I'm sure there's just bunches out there that could use, ah, that kinda help."
Pobble swills his liqour around the glass as he digs for a lighter, body twisting to search the other pocket and comming up trumps. A tiny neon pink number is sparked and a deep breath taken as he tries to focus on the tables and floor, his attention finally managing some form of clarity as it comes to rest upon the stomping girl heading towards him. He seems to tense up, as if convinced she's comming for him.
Alabaster Smith grins toothily at Andrea. "Oh relax, Sister. Ah wouldn't force my beliefs on you. Just remember Ah'm here if you ever need me, or the help Ah can give."
Lori is coming for Pobble... in a way. Or at least near him. "Hey, did you kill that polar bear all by yourself?" Lori asks as she gets to the bar. She sits on a chair and flumps, dropping her chin in the palm of her hand.
Pobble narrows his one eye, while the brow raises above the other. "It's dead? Fuckin' awesome." He leans a little towards the girl, to whisper conspiratorially just loud enough to hear. "It tried to eat my monkey." A silver nail taps the glass harshly before he lifts it to knock back half of the noxious liquid, eyeing Lori sidelong. "Something the matter then is it?"
Andrea clears her throat slightly, "Thats cool. So, um." She pauses again for a second, taking a drink before continuing. "You been, ah, helping people around here long?"
Alabaster Smith nods. "Ah've been here for a few months now, ever since Ah decided to make this city my new home. It's been an interesting time."
Lori looks at Pobble equally sidelong. "What? With the coat? Fuck all if I care," she says loudly enough to be heard over the music and shrugs. "I bet somebody spraypaints it, though!"
Andrea can't help but grin at that, scooting in her seat to cross her legs, "Good interesting or bad interesting, because I've learned there can be a vast difference."
Pobble frowns, confusion apparent on his face. "Why would someone spraypaint a dead polar bear?" He shakes his head before knocking back the remainder of the drink and plonking the empty down on the bar. He waves a hand in a circular motion, trying to wind his thoughts back on track. "I meant the stomping and Goddammit."
Alabaster Smith smiles at that. "Ah fear it's actually been quite a mixture of both."
Andrea shrugs, "Thats how its supposed to be though right? Too much good and the good doesn't seem so good anymore." It must make sense to her at least. "Keeps you from getting biased."
"Oh that!" Lori says, "Some dickhead pushed me down on the dance floor, that's all. I didn't see him coming, and he just brushed me off like a mosquito. Somebody's always got to ruin it."
Alabaster Smith chuckles, nodding. "Oh yes. It keeps us busy, at the very least."
Pobble nods glumly, peering across at the writhing mass of bodies. "Bastards." he agrees, "Seems alright in here though, I guess." His foot is still caught in the infectious tapping cycle, much to the chagrin of his leg which he tries to push down to stop it from jiggling.
Lori puts her other elbow on the bar so she can set her chin in both hands and watch people or something. "Yeah, it's all right. I can't drink, though, and I don't have any friends... so I guess all I can do is dance or something. Mleh. Hey, you got an extra cigarette? Can I have one of those?"
Andrea grins a bit more at that, "Well, you know what they say about idle hands." She stretches a bit, looking over at the belongings stuffed into the seat next to her then back to Alabaster, "If you'll 'xcuse me I think I'm gonna jet out, migrate around and find myself a place to crash."
Dennis comes into the club from the streets outside.
Dennis has arrived.
Pobble pulls out the mysterious extra cigarette that happened to come free with his regular pack, offering it over with a lopsided smile that fades as he considers. "Don't have any friends? How comes?"
Alabaster Smith grins at Andrea. "By all means. It's been a pleasure chatting with you. Ah hope we'll meet again soon."
Lori explains to Pobble, "I just got here. Hey, can I have a light too?"
Andrea reaches over to grab her backpack, sliding out of her seat as she slings it over her shoulder, settling it into place before reaching for the guitar that was nestled closest to the wall to keep it safe. "Yeah, I suffer from bad penny syndrome, it's bound to happen." She grins at Alabaster. "Have a good one." Turning to make her way towards the door.
Andrea makes her way out of the club.
Andrea has left.
Pobble hands across the pink neon flame. He flashes a grin, swivelling slightly on his stool to face the girl. "Well, Welcome I guess. Dr. Steve is me, pleasure t'meetcha."
Lori dips her head down with the cigarette jutting from her pink lips so she can suck on the flame. She takes a big ol' lungful of smoke as she rises back up again. "Lori," she counters. "What the hell is that doctor thing all about?"
People don't see Dennis enter so much as they perceive a shift in the air. Whether it's directly attributable to him or not is up for debate, but there's a distinct feeling of unease in the room, as if something had changed in a way both subtle and difficult to pin down. It's the air of change, radical and swift and random, and perhaps that's what's so frightening: because most people, their protestations to the contrary, want nothing so much as some social guarantee that tomorrow will be a lot like today was, even if today was miserable. There are no guarantees anymore except change, and that might perhaps account for the unease which seems to follow Dennis around. Grizzly Adams, Mountain Man of Washington, Agent of Fortune, Butler of Chaos. Or, then again, maybe the uneasiness has nothing to do with metaphor and everything to do with the nigh-homicidal scowl on his face. Different philosophers, different ideas, all that.
Zoe comes into the club from the streets outside.
Zoe has arrived.
Zoe is looking at you.
Pobble shrugs just a touch, raising a hand at a passing bartender to indicate he's in need of service. "If y'earn it you may as well use it right?" Uncertainty flickers across his features as he pulls the last from his cigarette and stubs it into a nearby ashtray, blowing the smoke upwards away from Lori.
In the beginning, people didn't go to Washington State; they wound up in Washington as a way of getting away from other things. It led to the state's original population being self-reliant outdoorsy types who have become increasingly more rare as the state has become overrun with Starbucks and Microsoft. Most of the Lumberjack Brigade has already left Erin's Vale for Alaska, but there are still some holdouts, people who still seek self-reliance amidst the espresso and traffic jams. Dennis Larson is one of them. He may not be dressed like one right now, but his mien, his build, his air of self-confident self-reliance, give him away as clearly as day.
He's not a large man, being of average height with an average build. Yet for all that, his average build is solidly built, his torso a gymnast's wedge shape and his muscles lean and well-defined. He's quite fit, fit in a way which is rarely seen nowadays; it's the fitness that comes from exertion and work, not time on Nautilus equipment. Scars on his hands and forearms attest to a life of manual labor, and his thirty-year-old face alternates between tanned and sunburnt depending on whether or not he remembered to pack sunblock. That, too, is rare nowadays; in an economy where most people work indoors, Dennis clearly works under the Wenatchee sun.
His hair is cut in a short low-maintenance style, the Nordic yellowness bleached to white-blonde by the sun, with eyes so pale a gray they evoke nothing so much as bleach. Dennis is dressed differently than he usually is; his flannels and jeans have been traded for a suit and tie. It's not Giancarlo Ferre or Giorgio Armani, certainly, instead just some cheap off-the-rack thing that's barely had any tailoring done to his form. In some sense, the unassuming dark suit makes him all the creepier. If he wore designer threads he'd be less unnerving, because after all, who'd want to start a fight while wearing a five thousand dollar suit?
A two hundred dollar suit, on the other hand...
"Yes, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but what /kind/ of doctor? Or are you the ooh-spooky-mysterious type? Like, what gives?" That's from Lori. She's gazing up at Pobble nicely enough, but the words coming out of her mouth are pretty unpleasant in contrast.
Into the club slips yet another figure looking to enjoy dancing the night away. After having her ID checked at the door, Zoe moves further inside, steps slow and graceful as she begins to make her way towards the bar. Lips hold a smile, and there's more than a few she stops to greet and speak with at times before continuing on, the skirt of her dress swaying with each step she makes.
Pobble delays the explanation to request another drink, and as he does so a mild shiver takes him, causing him to tense briefly inside the warm expanse of his yeti covering. He turns back to Lori, "Chemical engineering." Not so spooky or mysterious. Not even terribly interesting. A sheepish little smile is offered, as he glances to the side, needle point eyes scanning for something.
Lori looks all excited by that. "Chemical engineering? Rock!" She sucks on the cigarette again, licking the taste of nicotine from her pink lips. "I oughta do that, but life is too short to spend it in a classroom all the time, don't you think? I don't even have my high school diploma. Hah!" This amuses her greatly.
Pobble nods agreement distractedly, seeming unsatisfied in his search and turning back to his conversational partner. "Yeah, seven years is a long fucking time. Still." he trails off, lips curling back into a crooked little smile. "It was an interesting time."
Dennis heads over to the counter for a drink, albeit not without incident; some people are eager to get out of his way and some people are eager to get into it, usually college fratboys who've substituted liquor for courage and want to show the world they're not afraid. Dennis walks by them in stone-faced silence, taking contemptuously no notice of either those who edge away or those who remain. He finally comes up to the counter and growls out an order to the barkeep, one which does not carry over the din of the room.
Lori tilts her head away from Pobble to look at Dennis. It's just a big flop of her head, pigtails and green tubes bouncing with the sudden motion. Her big green eyes look at him pretty openly, sizing up the guy that makes everybody skuttle out of the way like cockroaches.
Who would think the tomboy could clean up so well? Surely no one that knows her and has seen her in her usual jeans and boots, grubby from digging in the garden. And yet, tonight Zoe seems to have taken special care with her dress. If she notices the path Dennis has made towards the bar, it's not obvious as she waves her own way through people, laughing at times before nodding to the bar before continuing onwards. Once there, she tiptoes, leaning against the bar, and making her order, giving the bartender a smile before he moves off to fix her drink.
Pobble faces away from Dennis, but his arrival at the bar definately unsettles the man. Silver nails tap together with a quiet clacking lost in the overwhelming beat of the music. He turtles down in the high collar of his enormous coat, pausing the tapping to toss a bill on the bar and take up his drink, clutching it with both hands.
Well, someone fits in here like a Preakness winner in a glue factory. Dennis's total lack of fitting-in is almost painful: he's wearing a suit and tie, not fashionably goth attire. He's wincing at what he'd call the 'noise', apparently enough of a cultural philistine that he doesn't grok the magnificence of Einsturzende Neubauten especially when played at high volume. He just remains silent and mute as the barkeep hands him an iced tea (what, no trendy booze and forty-dollar quintuple-distilled vodkas?) and--why, is that the sound of teeth grinding, barely audible over the noise? Yep. He turns to give Zoe a faint nod of recognition, and then turns to give Lori a scowl. "What the f--" He stops, shakes his head, starts over again in a concerted attempt at remaining civilized. "What're you looking at?"
Alabaster Smith has staked out his table like a little independent fiefdom in the middle of the chaos, and from it, he watches the drama of the other people with vague interest and amusement.
"I knew you were going to say that," Lori says. "Goddamnit, they always say that." She shakes her head in disappointment and looks away to have a drag off of her smoke, flicking ash on the floor absently.
Pobble indulges in a mix of ostritch and snake avoidance behaviour, keeping his back to the imposing figure while remaining still. Teeth pull in the corner of his lower lip, finger tapping uneasily against his glass still, being the only movement besides breathing. He almost looks like he's not exactly sure why he's entered this strange mood, but given his glossy pinpoint pupiled eyes it's not unreasonable to blame it on an acid flashback.
Wine delivered, the tomboy passes the money to the bartender before lifting the glass for a sip. It's then that Zoe sees Dennis standing off to the side in his suit and tie, a brow raised as she looks at him from over the rim of her wineglass. His snap at the girl seems to amuse her for some reason, lips quirking into a smile before she turns her gaze towards the dancefloor. Unconsciously, she sways to the music, the silk of her dress following each move she makes.
Dennis bites down an acerbic response to Lori and downs a rather large fraction of his iced tea in one long gulp. Mmmm, cold and bitter, just like his heart. A few of the bouncers are beginning to gather closeby, as if anticipating trouble brewing, but Dennis pays them no heed. Apparently he gets that reaction enough that he's become inured to it.
Lori stabs out her cigarette. Stabby, stabby, stabby! "What's the matter with you?" she asks Pobble without a drop of apparent empathy.
"Oh, nothing." replies Pobble in a tone that lacks anything that even vaguely resembles conviction. He knocks back his liqour sharply, smacking the glass back down on the counter. "Cold." he murmers as an afterthought, sliding hands into pockets and pulling the furry mass tighter about his body.
Zoe glances around, watching people, taking note of those reactions around her, and the bouncers that seem to be edging closer. Pushing away from the bar, she actually moves closer to the suited Dennis, and pausing near him, she lets her glance travel over him before returning to his face. Chuckling, she says lightly, "What's got your undies in a twist tonight?" Ok, so she might be dressed all fancy, hardly looking like herself, but the tomboy is still there and forthright as ever.
Lori reaches out to fluff Pobble up. "You should eat more! Put some meat on those bones... no wonder you're cold--wait, now I'm beginning to sound like... nevermind." She yanks at Pobble's coat, as if he's not warm enough in it.
Pobble should be warm, it is after all sweltering in the packed club. The close proximity of the bouncers seems to make him all the more edgy, pressing his side up against the counter top as he scratches his forehead just under the rim of his hat. "I shouldn't wear my coat inside, else I'll be cold when I go out." he murmers, mantra-like.
Dennis's scowl is the sort of thing which would be legendary if he didn't make it look so easy. "Same thing it ever is," he answers as he drains the rest of his iced tea. He looks around for the barkeep, getting visibly annoyed when it's clear the barkeep's trying very hard to pretend he doesn't exist. A bellowed order consisting of more vulgarities than prepositions later, the barkeep hurriedly comes over with a refill. Dennis doesn't pause to watch the scurrying: he returns his attention to Zoe. "People are idiots. That's what it always is."
Zoe cradles the glass of wine in her hand as she watches Dennis go bellowing for the refill, shaking her head at him quietly. When his attention returns, she replies lightly, "Some are, but you know, if you didn't doom and gloom glare at everyone, they might not be such idiots." A shoulder lifts in a shrug, a sip taken from the wine in her glass before her gaze slips towards the dance floor again, the music gaining another roll of hips before she shoots the angry man a look and grin.
Lori pauses in her conversation with Pobble to turn her head and grin sharply at Dennis. Something he said must have pleased her because she just has that kind of look on her face. "Hah!" Soon her gaze is back on Pobble and she chucks him a few times on the shoulder. "You don't look so good. Maybe you should come outside and get some fresh air. That's a good idea. Come on, get your narrow ass out of the chair already," she says, hopping off of her own chair. Sproing!
Pobble considers for the briefest of moments before nodding, sliding off the stool in a way that only moves him further from Dennis, oversized boots thudding down onto the floor. Hands push immediately into pockets and with a stooped pose he makes for the door in a roundabout path, almost scuttling through the crowds with only a quick glance back to check to see wether Lori is following.
"This ain't my Doom Glare," Dennis announces. Note that he doesn't protest. Protests indicate that one party is in the weaker position. The majority never protests the minority. The large do not protest the small. An oak does not protest a sapling. Dennis /announces/. "If it was my fuckin' Doom Glare, some poor sumbitch woulda already experienced what we like t' call an embarassin' loss of voluntary bladder control." He's not shouting, per se, but people are definitely doing the back-away-slowly thing and the bouncers are doing the creep-ahead-while-thinking-they-aren't-getting-paid-enough thing. "No, people are stupid, that's all, an' I'm fuckin' tired of it." Ah, at last, proof that he is human: is he not echoing a universal human feeling?
Lori is laughing at whatever Dennis is saying as she walks away from him. Yes, indeed, she is following Pobble but at a leisurely pace. What, like she's going to miss the big white coat in the crowd? She'd have to be retarded /and/ blinde.
Or even blind.
Pobble wastes no time in making his exit, a wan smile given to the door men at their half hearted comments regarding the enjoyment of the rest of the evening.
You leave The Pulse for the streets outside.
Downtown - New Town District(#433RJs)
-= Erin and Pike =-
Hip dance clubs and upper scale restaurants line the streets of New Town, everything from the newest teenage fad to old style swing dancing being seen easily on these streets. The young to middle aged crowd seems to frequent this area, a culturally diverse area with everything from the preppy high school jock to the pierced stoner hang out on the strip to find the new coolest spot to go on the weekends. The billboards seem to have taken notice of the party society in the area as well, various ads for entertainment places and items showing up more frequently than in other sections of the city.
To the side of the area a rather pleasant mini-park has formed, a statue of Zeus standing proud. At various times during the day and night, automated sprinklers go off to make sure that every plant receives the nourishment it requires for perfect blooming. Speckles of colors ranging from a deep violet to a cottony soft baby blue line the edge of the statue for a quaint place to stop and indeed, smell the flowers.
Obvious exits:
The Pulse TP North on Pike N South on Pike S West on Erin W East on Erin E
Lori comes out from The Pulse's doors.
Lori has arrived.
Lori comes wandering out of the club after you, not looking at all like she's fleeing or otherwise upset.
Pobble is waiting just next to the door, already having lit a pair of cigarettes, one between thin lips and the other dangling precariously between his fingers. He glances across as a clubber exits, catching Lori as she follows and his brow creases into a frown. "Hey.. sommatter?"
Lori reaches out to snatch the cigarette from his fingers. "Huh? Speak up. You don't look so good." She resists patting his face, though, but only just.
Pobble shuffles back against the wall, still huddling in his behemothic coat as he draws a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the fumes drift out from his mouth to coil around his hat. "You look miffed is all, something the matter?"
Lori takes a deep drag from the cigarette he gave her and shakes her head. "Nope. Yes. Maybe. I always look miffed. Usually." She frowns at him, but not unkindly--if such a thing is possible. "Fuggediboudit." The girl looks him over very carefully, not missing much of anything. "So, Doc, what do you do with this PhD of yours?"
"Oh, stuff and things. You know how it is. The life of the freelance chemist is a dull and boring one." Pobble smirks at that, sharing a private joke with himself as he ashes the cigarette onto the pavement. "Fuggediboudit." he adds, mimicing your tones with a lopsided grin.
"Ohhhhhhhh, so you're a dealer!" Lori shows him a sharp grin. "No, you're not a dealer; you're too much of a pussy to be a dealer." Ow. She has another drag off her smoke, flicking ash negligently aside on the sidewalk.
Pobble smirks, "Right. I studied chemistry so I could better explain to customers how their shit worked." Glossy eyes roll as he pulls on the smoke. "Yes, I'm a pussy and a dealer." A laugh escapes him as he shifts against the wall.
"Better explain to customers how their shit worked?" Lori looks confused. She shrugs, however, and steps closer to Pobble, turning at the last second to lean up against the wall next to him. "A pussy -and- a dealer. You know, pussy dealers don't last long."
Pobble stares across the street, fingering the filter of his smoke. "I noticed." he murmers absently, "Fuckers." His reverie ends with a start, almost twitching as he glances back to the girl at his side. "I'd say I'm neither, but the former is possibly subjective given recent incidents."
Lori tilts her head so she can gaze at Pobble. Her hand lifts, putting the cigarette to her lips briefly. "Oh yeah? Interesting. You know sometimes I get it right. Anyway, what about recent events? Someone try to shake you down or something?" Lori reaches out and plunges her fingers into the fur of the coat. Oooooh... soft and plush! Okay, even if it's not real, it's still like a big teddy bear.
Pobble doesn't seem to mind the wandering fingers, "You could say that." He nods slowly, flicking away the half smoked cigarette into the gutter, gaze following its arc. His lips open as if to elaborate further then decide against it. "Well.." he says finally, turning back towards Lori with a bright but apologetic smile. "Would love to stay and chat but I need to get back, feed the monkey and lie down." A card is pulled from somewhere inside his coat and handed over. It's a crisp number, eggshell white. The name Dr. Steve and the address of an alley way in the Tackett Slums, completed with a cell number. Nudging your arm with his elbow he pushes off from the wall. "Call if you get bored, no-friends girl."
"Hah, cool," Lori says. "Hey, I might just do that. Thanks for the number. You take care now, okay? Don't get into any trouble..." She babbles on, waving at you with your own 'business' card.
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