Le Silencieux

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Tucked away in a back alley off the Rue St. Denis, Le Silencieux is adequately named. The bar has a musty smell and an eerie silence that hangs over it. The barman is not a friendly spirit, but rather a sallow-skinned and quiet man with watchful eyes. He's seen a lot of riff-raff come in and out of this place. Nothing surprises him anymore, but if you're a naive soul, be prepared to be shell shocked by the characters you're likely to meet here.

[blueeyeddevil]

Wes Harlow

Wes knew this was a bad idea. He knew that he shouldn't be here. Logan would never forgive him if he found out his best friend was using again after promising never to do it again. Amorette would probably want nothing to do with him if she ever found out. But even after several months of living and working in Paris, even finding a girlfriend, Wes kept feeling horribly homesick and the stresses of long rehearsals and angry chorus masters just kept piling up. Wes felt like he was about to snap and the only way he could think of to relax again was to shoot up.

Thus he now found himself at a dodgy bar on the wrong end of town. He'd heard from a few souces that a dealer worked in this part of town and he'd be able to score some standard quality drugs for a reasonable price. So he'd set up a meeting with the man who had told him to meet him here at this bar. Wes had come as requested, anxious to rid himself of the pressure he could feel building up inside of him.

Wes lit a ciagarette as he waited, finally spying the man sitting at the specified table. He carefully approached now, feeling the man's shifty eyes taking him in. He man looked rather amused. "Its you, huh? You sounded older on the phone. I don't sell to kids," he quipped.

Wes's green eyes narrowed as he met the man's gaze. He wasn't unuse to dealing with drug dealers making remarks about his age. "A drug dealer with a conscience...sounds like a bad joke," Wes said around the cigarette in his mouth. "I'm 21 in three days. I'm old enough to make decisions. So are you going to sell or not?"

He could feel the man sizing him up, deciding. "Fine, but you'd best remember that it wasn't me who gave it to you," he hissed dangerously. "And you'd best pay up like the rest of them." Wes sighed, pulling the money from his pocket and slipping it the man, who in turn slipped him the heroine for which he had paid. Wes nodded solemnly before placing the drugs in his pocket as discreetly as possible.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

When Santiago made a place his hang out, he made it his. He walked in a room like he owned the place, all street-swagger and silence. Of course, it took months to reach that level of familiarity with the staff, with the place itself, with the patrons to do that. You walk in like some cocksure kid on your first day and you’ll be dead by morning. Same if you walk in all timid and hunching. People think you’re shadier than they are. He was somewhere in between tonight, walking into Le Silencieux. He was sick of running into people from the opera house at Rein Specieaux. It felt too inauthentic these days. You duck in for a drink and there’s some chorus tart wanting to chat it up and prove how bad she is. bullsh*t. Santiago liked places like this further down the block. There were hardworking immigrants speaking languages even Santiago didn’t understand sitting beside French gangsters who wore ragged Bonnot insignias and colors. Then there were the prostitutes, pandering to both groups of men, hoping to turn a profit. You got your drug dealers, your honest bluecollars, whatever. And it smelled like sweat and beer. Santiago eased into a barstool and placed his order so he could people-watch for a while. The colorful, mixed company was a nice change from the artistic crowd Santiago ran with during the day. When he was trying to play nice and be respectful.

Tonight, he was looking for a break. Maybe a girl to take home, maybe a couple more drinks, maybe a game of cards with some dock workers. It didn’t matter. Anything but Gounod and Wagner.

He took a swig of beer and leaned against the bar. A few feet away, he could hear hushed English. It surprised him to hear English in this place, among the French, Italian, and Turkish of the bar. Santiago didn’t even have to strain to listen. It was all whispers, which caught his ear like an undertow, pulling him in.

“I don't sell to kids,” one man said.

"A drug dealer with a conscience...sounds like a bad joke," the other sapped back. “I'm 21 in three days. I'm old enough to make decisions. So are you going to sell or not?"

Drugs. Ugh. Santiago took another gulp from his beer. He hated drug dealers. Greasy, lying little bastards who’d kill their own mothers for a fix. Santiago had worked with them—for them, sometimes. He’d also killed a handful, back in the day. For stealing clients or not making good on promises. Whatever the contractor said. Santiago wasn’t interested in their sob stories. He wouldn’t be interested in this one either, except that the younger of the two had a familiar voice. Santiago couldn’t place him. He ran through a mental list of people he’d crossed since being in Paris. No one that young came to mind.

"Fine, but you'd best remember that it wasn't me who gave it to you," said the dealer. "And you'd best pay up like the rest of them."

Santiago caught a murky reflection of the transaction in his bottle. If the distortion wasn’t so bad, he would have sworn the buyer was one of his choristers.

Ay Dios, he thought. I try to get away from them for one night…

He looked over his shoulder once the dealer was gone. And sure enough, there was this kid—Harlow or Harlot or something—sitting there at a table by his lonesome. He was one of the British imports. Talented little thing. Had some amount of fame back home, brought good publicity to the Garnier or something. And here was opera’s little rockstar sitting in a seedy bar mere feet away from his boss. Santiago didn’t care what the kid did on his own time. It didn’t bug him. But he wanted to see him panic, see if he’d squirm. Entertainment had many forms; Santiago’s usually came to someone else’s discomfort. He rose from his barstool and walked over.

“This taken?” he asked, gesturing to the now-empty seat of the dealer.

[blueeyeddevil]

Wes Harlow

Bottle green eyes watched the man get up and leave. Wes couldn't help but feel relieved that the transaction was over and done with. It was always the hardest part. Though guilt kept him pinned to the chair he'd been sitting in. This was going to set him back nearly a year of being clean. This was going make him break his promise to his best friend. This was going to make him have to straight out lie to the girl he cared about. Was the high really going to be worth it. He kept going over it in his head as he sat there with his hand in his pocket, fingering the drugs.

His train of thought was broken though as felt another presence approach the table he was sitting at. He glanced up, taking a second to place where he knew the man. “This taken?” he asked, gesturing to the empty chair and suddenly Wes knew...the stage manager. This man worked with him and was basically his boss...and had possibly just seen him buying illegal drugs. This situation was getting worse by the second.

A brief flash of panic in his eyes was really the only indication Wes gave that there was anything wrong. He was adept at keeping his cool from years of being questioned about his various addictions. In school he had managed to convince the principal that he honestly had no idea how the pot in his locker had ended up there.

"Monsieur Ortiz," he said with a smile of friendly recognition. "No, its free." Wes casually motioned for him to sit down. Wes leaned back in his own chair, folding his arms across his chestas he met the older man's gaze steadily. "So what brings you to this side town?" Wes knew the only way he was going to get out of here with his job intact was to convince the man in front of him that he had nothing to hide.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

There was a primal spark of fear; a mere flash and then it was gone. Santiago had at least startled Harlow. Which was something, but not enough. Santiago didn’t have MaCarthy around to antagonize anymore and since, he’d found himself bored by the subtle, simple reactions of everyday people. Tonight had promise to be interesting. Harlow was not off the hook.

"Monsieur Ortiz," he said. Santiago thought it sounded rather ingratiating—the kind of friendly juvenile delinquents were with the cops or their school’s principal. It was the kind of calm, cavelier, “I-got-this-man” attitude a younger Santiago was used to wearing. Now older, he understood why it set people’s teeth on edge. Santiago dragged the chair backwards at the slightest gesture Harlow made. Even if the kid had said he couldn’t, Santiago would have sat down. "No, it’s free."

Santiago pulled the chair out and sank into it, angling for comfort and advantageous positioning. He set his beer on the table in front of him and smiled at Harlow.

"So what brings you to this side town?"

“Cheap drinks,” Santiago said simply. It was true, for once. Le Silencieux was inexpensive; water probably cost more. “Could ask you the same thing. I thought the drinking age was—what?—eighteen in Paris.”

He grinned and lifted his beer.

“Te bromeo, chico,,” said Santiago before Harlow could get his hackles up. “Just f*cking with you. You got a birthday coming up; I saw it on that d*mn chart backstage. Twenty one. I say that earns you a round.”

Santiago signaled to a passing waitress with tattoos up her bare, toned arms. She clicked her pen once and slapped a dusty menu onto the table.

“Pick your poison,” he said to Harlow, half-smiling now. He pushed the menu Harlow’s way. “And don’t tell anybody at the opera, but I’m buying.”

Just f*cking with you, boy, Santiago thought again. Seeing how long it takes before you crack.

[blueeyeddevil]

Wes Harlow

Wes knew that this wasn't exactly the kind of place where you wanted to run into your boss. It was shady and dank and home to so much illegal activity that it was a wonder the cops hadn't shut it down by now. It was the kind of place that if you happened to turn up there, it was practically guaranteed that you were doing something that was going to get you in to trouble. You wouldn't want your boss to find you here, but it he happened to do so, didn't that mean he was here doing something wrong as well? Wes asked Ortiz curiously what he was doing there before Ortiz had a chance to ask him first.

“Cheap drinks,” the older man said quite matter-of-factly. “Could ask you the same thing. I thought the drinking age was—what?—eighteen in Paris.” Wes felt his eyes narrow and his previous smile slip just a bit. He knew all too well how young he looked. Hadn't the dealer just said something along the same lines? He seriously couldn't catch a break tonight, could he?

“Te bromeo, chico,” Ortiz said. “Just f*cking with you. You got a birthday coming up; I saw it on that d*mn chart backstage. Twenty one. I say that earns you a round.” He waved over a tough looking waitress who slapped down a menu. Wes was on guard and more than a little suspicious about this encounter. “Pick your poison,” Ortiz said with a small smile, pushing the menu at him. “And don’t tell anybody at the opera, but I’m buying.”

Wes looked Ortiz for a moment before breifly glancing at the menu. He didn't know what half of the stuff on here was, mainly because it was French. His basic high school Frnech class hadn't exaclty covered how to read a liquor menu. Wes played it safe. "I'll take the best beer you've got." The waitress grunted in reply before taking the menu and the order back to the kitchens.

"Nice of you to buy...thanks," Wes said with a cordial nod. "Though somehow you don't seem the type to make a habit out of buying drinks for your performers." Wes coaxed his head and raised an eyebrow. "If you're trying to get me drunk, you should know up front, I don't swing that way mate," he said. A brief momen later Wes allowed his lips to turn up at the corners in a joking way.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Wes ordered a beer. Santiago half-smiled. Man after his own heart. Pity, though, that Wes seemed to be running headlong towards the wrong side of the law. Santiago had been doing all he could to get away from his less-than-reputable roots. It took a hell of a lot more willpower to leave the streets behind. More than they both had, it seemed.

They were both here, after all.

But Santiago wasn’t going to let himself feel any kinship with the kid. Hell no. He was better, stronger, than some jailbait drug addict. If anything, Santiago almost felt sorry for Wes; he probably didn’t have a gang syndicate to look out for him. He might be in jail by his next birthday. He would have been, if Santiago were a law abiding citizen.

"Nice of you to buy...thanks," Wes said with a cordial nod. "Though somehow you don't seem the type to make a habit out of buying drinks for your performers." Wes coaxed his head and raised an eyebrow. "If you're trying to get me drunk, you should know up front, I don't swing that way mate."

“Not my type, chico,” Santiago said flatly. “You don’t have the right parts. … If you did, I’d stick you with the sopranos in a heartbeat. You’d fit right in.”

He tapped his own scruffy jawline, indicating Wes’ bare, baby-face jokingly. Tossing back insults felt good; natural. Santiago missed this without MaCarthy around. Being insulted, insulting back. It was war for the thinking man. And Santiago wasn’t allowed to do much more than think these days.

[blueeyeddevil]

Wes Harlow

Wes was quite use to throwing around the teasing, good natured insults. Growing up, he and Ian had joked around like that all the time. Part of what had made him be such good friends with Logan had been how easily the banter passed between them. The insults were something familiar and almost comforting for Wes. They put him at ease for a reason only a psychologist could explain, but needless to say, he was enjoying the current company.

“Not my type, chico,” Ortiz responded. “You don’t have the right parts. … If you did, I’d stick you with the sopranos in a heartbeat. You’d fit right in.” Ortiz tapped his scruffy chin and Wes felt his lips pull up in a lopsided grin, a small laugh escaping his lips.

Wes shook his head. “Oh I can grow a beard if I want…I just prefer not looking like a caveman,” he said with a challenging raise to his eyebrow. “Plus those sopranos you mentioned sticking me with seem to prefer it as well.” Wes gave a casual sort of shrug, leaning back in his chair as did. He wasn’t going to tell Ortiz he had a girlfriend who would probably be pretty furious if she heard him saying things like that. Not that he planned on telling her…

The waitress came back with the beer he’d ordered, setting the bottle in front of him. Wes gave a nod which he didn’t think she saw as she turned to go back to the bar. Wes opened the bottle on the side of the table which looked like many people had used it for the same purpose. He raised the bottle, tipping it in salute to Ortiz. “Thanks again…” he said quietly before taking a sip.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

“Oh I can grow a beard if I want…I just prefer not looking like a caveman,” he said with a challenging raise to his eyebrow. “Plus those sopranos you mentioned sticking me with seem to prefer it as well.”

Santiago snorted. If those girls knew what it was Wes Harlow did in his free time, they might not prefer it. Druggies were odious things; weak, hardly men. Even the common, “clean” gangster had more appeal. At least he could fight, protect his own. Druggies would kill to get a fix, but were slaves to el caballo, deadened zombie-men. Wes may have been chipper and feisty now. Santiago would give him no more than five years before he was hollow or worse.

The waitress returned and dropped off Wes’ drink. Santiago looked up at her. Her face had a cragginess to it, but she had a lovely silhouette. Santiago smiled at her—more lopsidedly than was strictly necessary and thanked her. Then, he made a point to watch her walk away. He knew she wouldn’t flatter herself; women in these parts were used to being stared at, leered at even. But Santiago knew that he came off as harmless if he was merely here to scope out waitresses and drink.

“Thanks again…” Wes said.

“Hm? Yeah, sure thing, chico,” Santiago said, turning his attention back to Wes. Then, half-jokingly, “Just filling my good deed quota for the month.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

It was hot and muggy out tonight, and the alcohol tinted air made for a welcome distraction from work. This was an open-close case, really—a deep gash with a blade in the gut and a fatal bullet through the brain—There was no guessing, no clues to place together. It was no surprise that Georgette had been the only one working, and it was no surprise when she slipped into a nearby bar for her one break.

Tucked just steps away from the dead body she was examining, Le Silencieux lured her into its dark recesses for a quick drink. The place was rank with the stale smell of sweat and alcohol and as she entered, the quiet buzz of hushed conversations came to a jarring halt. As she approached the bar, she could feel the hungry eyes of men in shadowy corners watch her as if she was the antelope to their cheetah. But this was no safari, and she was no doe. She was a capable woman who had police colleagues working no more than three feet from the entrance.

Sitting at the bar, she called over the bartender, who approached her. Leaning in, he smiled. “A Bellini for the miss?” he asked slickly.

Georgette could taste his fetid breath on hers and she longed for an air freshener. “Gin, actually,” she corrected tediously. “Sipsmith if you happen to have it. It’s imported.”

“Expensive tastes, miss.” he said, procuring a glass, his eyes slipping down to Georgette’s chest, licking his lips. Georgette could only imagine what he was inventing in his mind. It was a useless and disappointing act, Georgette decided. Imagining what someone looked like beneath their clothes only led to disappointment if you ever found out the truth. “Speaking of costs,” he said, sliding to Georgette a fistful of cash. “How much for…”

“More than you make in a year, I’m afraid,” Georgette said, pushing his fist away, feeling her skin crawl at the physical contact she made. “Like you said yourself, expensive taste. Just get me my drink and I won’t make this hard for you.” She said, thinking about the line of police officials outside, scraping up the remnants of a knife fight from the asphalt. All it would take was one scream and all of them would be in there. It really was quite easy.

The man backed off and got her the drink. Georgette kept a watchful eye on him, and then, taking a sip of the dry drink said, “Well, it’s not Sipsmith, but it’ll do.”

[The Exodus]

Carmen Vega

Carmen didn’t know if she wanted to murder Andreas or if she owed him one. The dumb kid was a new recruit to Las Gardunas and he’d gotten into a barfight only a week after his initiation. And he’d been dumb enough to do it in a place they already called theirs, with one of the local dealers they worked with. It was like a cop shooting his informant between the eyes. Biting the hand that fed you. It was a rookie mistake that made blood rush up into Carmen’s eyes until she couldn’t see. How could he be so stupid? It was one thing to defend their turf; another to kill your own. Diego would probably beat Andreas in front of the rest of the gang, but as far as Carmen could see, she was on damage control duty, smooth-talking with the bar’s owner in the back, and offering reparations to the dealer’s family for their loss.

That was why she wanted to murder Andreas. If he was going to be a f*cking liability, Carmen didn’t want him around. She had enough to do without fixing his mistakes. But she owed him one because he’d given her the first real occasion to talk to Diego’s new girl.

She’d known for a while now that her cousin was seeing a girl. At first, she’d suspected it was his secretary, for cliché convenience. When Carmen had accused, Diego stiffened for a second before laughing.

“You’d make a sh*t detective,” he told her. “Stick to your guns, chiquita.”

A tapped phone line later, Carmen knew the name of Santiago’s new girl. Medical Examiner Georgette Duguay.

A college-educated French girl, with a 9-to-5 on the right side of town didn’t seem like Diego’s type. But after mulling it over a bit, Carmen decided it made sense. The girl dealt in death. It wasn’t hard to imagine how they met. Carmen had to hand it to him: Diego’s taste was improving. No more air-head artists. Finally, a girl that would be useful to them.

Well, Carmen thought. Maybe.

Carmen planned to do a little more snooping and figure out just what Georgette Duguay knew about Las Gardunas and whether she’d be an asset to their enterprise. Carmen sat at the opposite end of the bar, watching Georgette while nursing a whisky. She’d found the police radio frequency and followed it here; the hospital’s employee page gave her positive identification on Georgette. And she had to say that the internet picture hadn’t done her justice.

She was a tall, pretty brunette in a red blazer and almost translucent white cotton top. Her dark hair was pulled back out of her face in a no-nonsense ‘do. She looked so out of place in the bar. Men who didn’t pay Carmen any mind whined like puppies as they salivated after Georgette. Diego was going to have his hands full if he wanted to keep this one.

It was why girlfriends didn’t keep. Renewable resources, they were. There were thousands of broken girls across the continent who would gladly take a gangster to bed. Girls who were broken enough not to care when you said “Adios” and moved onto the next. Girls from Carmen’s side of town were survivors. They got on no matter who used ‘em or they figured out how to use others for their own ends. What did a girl like Georgette know about any of that? Carmen pitied her naivety.

Carmen drained her whisky and ordered a second before swaggering to the stool beside Georgette.

“This seat taken?” she asked, gesturing with the new glass. “Us girls gotta stick together in places like this.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

Georgette was almost finished with her glass of gin when a heavily accented voice from her side reached her ears. “This seat taken?” Without looking, Georgette motioned to the seat beside her, inviting the other woman to sit down. Georgette wasn’t going to be here much longer anyway. “Us girls gotta stick together in places like this.”

Georgette topped off her gin. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” To the bartender, “another, please.” It would be her last one before she returned to work. She had fifteen more minutes, tops, and she hadn’t exactly planned on making any new acquaintances today, especially not in a place like this.

[blueeyeddevil]

Nikolai Tarasova

Nikolai stood behind the bar, working at finishing drying the last of the glasses that he'd just cleaned. Usually he was only required to pour a beer into one of them, which was probably for the best. He hadn't exactly been to bar-tending school. Thankfully their usual patron weren't usually looking for a Cosmo. Truthfully, he found he was quite happy here. He actually enjoyed his job in this crappy excuse for a bar. Then again he did have a rather screwed up sense about what kind of job he enjoyed.

Still, it had been nice of Maksim to offer him a job as a bouncer at his place. Nikolai might have actually enjoyed that too. But giving him money to for an apartment was already asking too much of his old friend. Besides, Nikolai felt at home here on the wrong side of the tracks. This was what he was use to from his time in Russia. Maksim had been given everything he could have wanted since the day his father had picked him up from the orphanage when he was 12 years old...he couldn't understand the need for the danger and grit that Nikolai had developed.

A moment later a man sauntered up to the bar. The usual type they got around here, gruff, tough and angry. He gave a sneer that showed off a golden tooth and Nikolai braced himself, already seeing where this was headed.

"Desperados," the man demanded. Just the name of the beer...No please or even an attempt to act like he was being polite. Nikolai gritted his teeth for a moment, but let it pass. This wasn't uncommon and he had to learn to deal with it or wasn't going to be able to keep this job. He had to pay Maks back somehow.

"Yeah, just a second," he told the man as he turned to put the glass up.

"Give me the damn beer," the man fumed. Nikolai's hands curled into fist as he simply repeated "Just a second."

The man was suddenly furious. He leapt to his feet, anger coming off him in droves as he slammed a hand on the counter. "I'm the customer! Who the hell do you think you are telling me to wait you worthless piece of..."

And then Nikolai snapped. Grabbing a large butcher knife from the back counter, he whirled and suddenly slammed it down right between the man's open fingers. A wicked grin suddenly flickered across his face as he kept his hand on the hilt, watching the man's stunned expression. "I missed..." he said wryly. "Now get the hell out before the next finds it's mark. I'm not putting up with you." He jerked the knife out of the wood before turning away, though he heard the man scramble for the door .

This was definitely just like home...

[The Exodus]

OOC: A new character for a new character, Lori! … Just not the characters we discussed. BIC:

Tristan Vidal

It was nice to get out of the embalming room for a little while. Tristan has spent the better part of his day relieving bodies of rigor mortis and restoring color and liveliness into dead tissue. No funerals today, just embalming work to be done. Most of his staff had the day off, except the receptionist, who spent the majority of the day on the phone bickering with local florists. Which had meant that there was no one to talk to all day. Well, no one with which to have a conversation with. Plenty of audience members for a one-man show, though. It was deathly quiet in the embalming room and after Tristan’s fifth joke was met with silence, he knew he had better stick to his day job than try his (bad) puns on a live audience.

Tonight, Tristan needed to go out. The thought of retiring to his apartment, with only Isolde for company seemed kind of lame to him. She was great company, really, when Tristan was feeling particularly anti-human, but it was a Friday night and he wasn’t even thirty yet. He really shouldn’t have been contemplating a night in with only a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach for company. Trouble was, Tristan wasn’t much one for nightclubs or trendy lounges and most of his friends from college and before were settling down, going through some sort of nesting phase that Tristan had yet to reach—and might never hit. His friends’ wives thought of him as the creepy one, which was grossly unfair, since many of his friends were just as odd. The only real difference was that while his pre-college buddies had jobs as clerks and doctors, Tristan ran a funeral home. He was a small business owner and a scientist and a member of the service industry all rolled into one. A lot of people didn’t see that. His friends’ wives and girlfriends sure as hell didn’t. Which meant there were plenty of Friday nights just like this one where Tristan wandered to a bar alone to drink and people watch.

Tonight he settled on Le Silenceaux because it was cheap and because he didn’t live too far away. When he was in college, Tristan and some of his buddies from mortuary school used to go to Le Silenceaux to people watch and place bets on which of the bar’s shadier denizens would be added to the morgue’s freezer next. He was feeling a little nostalgic and so he tried to play the game by himself. But it wasn’t half as much fun as it used to be. Tristan sighed.

Drinking alone was almost as pathetic as performing a stand-up routine for dead people. Almost, but not quite.
Tristan wasn’t even drinking yet and already, the night looked grim. He supposed he could have asked Solange—the receptionist—to come with him, but that just sounded like a bad idea. Especially given the bar he’d chosen. Looking around, Tristan could only see a smattering of women and if he had to guess, they probably had razor blades hidden in their hair.

I’ll never understand why you live out here, Tristan’s uncle Laurence had said the one time he visited Tristan’s apartment.

Because they don’t have a no pet policy, Tristan had said, grinning stupidly.

A no roach policy, you mean, said Laurence. I just want you to be happy in a nice, respectable neighborhood, with nice respectable neighbors.

Oh, please. That would never happen, Tristan said. Nice, respectable neighbors don’t usually like me.

You could try harder to make them like you, said Laurence. Then, shaking his head, he added, I just want you to be safe. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if you get mugged.

Tristan had lived in Le Peripherie for the last eight years. No one had mugged him yet. First time for everything, though. Although he couldn’t imagine anyone would start a fight with him, since he stood a little over six foot tall and weighed just under two hundred pounds. If he ever did get mugged, he’d move to the first apartment in the actual city that let him keep Isolde.

It dawned on Tristan that he’d sat here, lost in his own thoughts, for ten minutes without ordering. Not that the bartender seemed to pay him any mind. It was a new guy, too. Some pretty boy, which surprised Tristan, since the usual bartender was a leathery-skinned and grey-whiskered man in his mid-sixties. And Laurence was worried about the state of the neighborhood. Before you knew it, hipsters would move in into Tristan’s building and the run-down butcher’s shop on the corner would turn into a trendy coffee house.

A man sidled up to the bar beside Tristan. He was big and burly, but already soused thoroughly. Tristan could smell the alcohol and sweat emanating from this guy. Until that moment, Tristan thought years working with death and decay had robbed him of his sense of smell.

The stranger ordered; the bartender told him to wait. Tristan watched silently, mostly because there was not much else to do. People were strange and the drunk guy was definitely an interesting character. When the guy spoke, Tristan could see a flash of gold in the man’s mouth.

"Give me the damn beer," the man said angrily. The bartender told him to wait a second.

And then the man leapt to his feet and smacked the counter with a hammy hand.


“I'm the customer!” he roared. “Who the hell do you think you are telling me to wait you worthless piece of..."

Zing! The sound of metal slicing the air, a flash of silver and then—TWANG. A knife stuck out of the countertop, vibrating from impact. It was in between the strangers open fingers and a mere arms-length away from Tristan. His blood pounded in his ears.

"I missed..." said the bartender. "Now get the hell out before the next finds it's mark. I'm not putting up with you."

The stranger rushed out of the bar; everyone in the place watched him go, Tristan included. Maybe Laurence was onto something about finding respectable neighbors, after all. The suspense was terrible as the entire bar remained silent for a good five or ten seconds after the other guy left. Tristan looked back at the bartender he’d mistaken for a hipster punk. A twitchy smile skittered across Tristan’s lips.

“Since he’s not gonna drink it,” he said, jerking his head towards the door to indicate the guy who’d just run out. “I’ll take that Desperados when you get the chance. No rush, though. I’m kind of attached to my fingers.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Nikolai Tarasova

There was a brief silence in the bar after the annoyingly drunken customer scrambled out. Really, in a place like this, you wouldn't think people would have so much as blinked at a knife coming out, but the interaction had gotten their attention it seemed. Nikolai continued on as if nothing had happened and soon the bar was back to its normal din. What had happened was no skin off his back, and the man's liver would probably thank him in the morning for having one less alcoholic beverage to deal with. Nikolai finished with the glass he'd been about to put when he had been so rudely interrupted and shelved it before turning to the other customer at the bar, a large man his own age, who gave him a wary smile.

“Since he’s not gonna drink it,” indicating with his head the man who had just left. “I’ll take that Desperados when you get the chance. No rush, though. I’m kind of attached to my fingers.”

Amusement flickered to Nikolai's eyes and a small smile curled up the corners of his mouth. "As long as you keep being polite, we won't have a problem," he assured the man. He turned and took a mug from the shelf, pulling out a Desperados and pouring it in. The previous man's attitude had made him rather reluctant to just use to the clean glass he'd been drying, thus starting the standoff. He handed the beer to the second man whose demeanor was much less irritating. "Looks like its your lucky day...your drink is on him," he said with a similar nod to the door, grabbing the money the man had left on the counter in his hurry to leave.