View source for ArchivedLogs:Sportsball and (Un)Sobriety

{{ Logs
| cast = [[Hive]], [[Jim]]
| summary = 
| gamedate = 2013-01-21
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = 
| location = <NYC> [[Down Under]] - Morningside Heights
| categories = Citizens, Mutants, Hive, Jim, Down Under
| log = 
Gritty, grimy, with food of questionable origin and unquestionable greasiness, Down Under is nevertheless a place to drink. That is about all that can be said for it -- that and it is a place to drink if you are short on cash. As such, it is frequently frequented by college students and those looking simply to get Very Drunk. For those none too concerned about the quality of their booze, this is the place to go.

There's booze. A lot of booze! This seems the night for it but then, in here every night seems the night for it. On the televisions some game of SPORTSBALL is playing, for which a drunken group of Columbia students is Loudly Cheering. Sometimes. Louding shouting in disappointment, other times. Hive is paying the sportsball no mind. At a table at the side of the bar he is eating a very greasy burger, and stretching across the table to pluck equally greasy fries off the plate of his companion -- a young dark-haired man who /is/ watching the sportsball, intently. Occasionally he bats at Hive's hand, but mostly he focuses on the game, exhaling a sharp sound of disappointment at something. Sportslike. On the screen. There's been a pitcher of beer on the table, but it's half empty already; the mug in front of Hive is half empty, too. When the game ends his friend grimaces, nabbing the pickle off the side of Hive's plate, and gets up with a rough scrape of knuckles against Hive's hair. His friend eyes the pitcher. "You gonna be okay to --" "-- /psh/ I can finish this just /fine/," Hive answers, which miiiight not have been the original question, judging from the roll of eyes it elicits before he heads off.

"Oh, good." Whump, says a beaten up corduroy jacket in an empty chair across from Hive. In the chair beside it, Jim lands heavily, head turned to stare at the sportsball. "I thought I was gonna go a whole day without running into your ass." A volume of cheering goes up; Jim apes a goodnatured grin at a passing bro that jostles his shoulder. Someone, apparently, scored a point. He's brought his own drink with him - ginger ale. I admit that I am powerless.

"Pfff," Hive says like he is entirely unsurprised to see Jim, "that would be a /sad/ day for you but thankfully that day isn't today. Thank /god/," he's reaching for the pitcher already, and for his friend's mug which looks clean and never filled, "fucking /Mormon/ asshole I gotta finish this whole thing on my -- /ffffffffff/." He sets the mug down with a /thump/, glaring at Jim's ginger ale. "Maaan fuck you." He tops off his own mug, instead. And shoves the plate of fries that he's commandeered over towards Jim.

"I got plenty enough ways to kill myself," case in point, Jim doesn't hesitate to help himself to some fries, as though he'd been expecting them all night, chewing with his mouth open. "Five years ago I'd have drunk you under the table and had enough left to karaoke. Go on." He gestures at the pitcher with a fry, "Don't hold back on my account."

"You still karaoke?" Hive wants to know, eyebrows raising. "There's a place just across the street. Love to see you belt some Spice Girls." He takes another grease-dripping bite of burger, washing it down after with some beer. "Good way to kill yourself tonight," he waggles his mug towards the sportsmogame, "tell 'em you're rooting for the other team."

"If you paid me." Jim would wear a sequin G-string and go go boots while he was at it, for the right price. Hope you like that mental image, asshole. "Hah," he itches an eyebrow with a thumbnail, glancing up at the screens, "this city's got some kind of hardon for this shit, don't it. The fuck is with this side of the country and celebrating regional pride by lighting the region on /fire/?" In Colorado, folks just smoke pot and take their clothes off if they're feeling it.

"Pah, this side of the country has nothing on the rest of the world. Try Europe, some time. Or back home. People across the water /really/ know how to riot when it comes to -- balls. Barely anyone ever dies in sports riots over here. Lame." Hive slumps back in his seat, an arm hooked over the back of the chair and his eyes focused down on his beer. "I would pay you," he tells his beer, "/not/ to think about that again."

"Christ alive, I'm /trying/," which means he's thinking about it more than EVER. Jim has belly hair. It would be prominent. He scrubs his face, "Where's back home to /you/?" Insert you-all-look-alike race joke here, huh?

In answer to this mental image, Hive drains half his beer stein. Guuuuulp. He reaches across the table for a fry, sucking oil and salt from his fingertips afterwards. "Asia," he says, /so/ helpfully, tapping a forefinger to one side of his SLANTY eyes. "You all look the same to me, too. Round eyes. Belly hair. Leaves. Were you always from Colorado?"

"That's 'cause we /are/ all alike," Jim says this with his brows sorrowfully shaped, as though imparting some terribly grieving news. "Western Europeans full of inbreeding. Maybe you get a little pastier the farther north you --," he gets mostly drowned out by a deeply pained series of sympathetic howls by the crowd at the bar. "Nah, I've bounced around a lot." If by a lot, he means Ohi- oh, fuck you, you know what? My ass is hairier. Know what it looks like in a mirror?

"Got an ass of my own, thanks. I know what they look like." Hive gulps at his beer again, and grimaces; perhaps at Jim's hairy ass or perhaps at the shitty cheap beer he is consuming. It's probably Miller. "I was in Colorado once," he muses, quieter, and follows this statement with finishing off his burger. It drips burgerjuice down his hand. He licks it off with one long swipe of tongue up the side of his hand and then wipes his fingers on an already-greasy napkin. "It was shitty. You liking New York? Nice people? Good bullets?"

"Grade A, top notch lead, free at every street corner." Jim's ginger ale isn't exactly top shelf fare either; why is it sour. It's like a lime has pissed in it. It's like drinking punishment. "Guess they got guys on stand by to dig 'em out for you, even. I got mine in my pocket." Maybe I'll get the other ones dug out to join it. Start a collection. "You were probably on the wrong half of the mountains; halfway between here and the Rockies, you may as well be driving through Kansas."

"My neighbor gets that," Hive waves his beer towards Jim's ginger ale, a little of his drink sloshing down over his fingers, "delivered in a crate, except it's this /fresh/ shit made with real grated ginger? /Gourmet/ ginger ale, for real." His lips twitch up at one side, eyes lazily drooping as he drains his glass. Refills it. "That collection would be a conversation starter. I've never kept any of mine."

"I don't think I'd know what a shaved ginger looks like." Except that Jim is thinking about one right now. It's the opposite of hairy. Just a few freckles. This is where G-strings /belong/. "Psh, it's not like I'm keeping them on purpose. People just keep handing them to me." Some vision of trees rushing by at a sprint, four loud reports and a sledge hammer impact to the back are rudely interposed with a dry: Why am I not surprised /you've/ had people taking potshots at you before. "It's a real pain in the neck, the way you keep doin' that." Can't fucking tell which conversation I'm supposed to be having.

This pulls Hive's smile wider, a touch, clearly better pleased with /this/ mental image than the last ones. "To /you/, can't imagine why," he answers, just as dry. He nabs a fry, pokes it around in the leftover burger grease and ketchup-mayo-slop on his plate. "You seem to weather 'em okay, though. And I don't," here he frowns, though he's doing this more at the floppy sad excuse for a fry in his hand than at Jim, "do it on purpose. Usually. /I/ don't always remember which --" He waves the fry towards Jim. "It's all just talk. Takes some thinking to sort it out."

"Or some talking to think it out," Jim taps a mental finger on whether he is considering being annoyed, or if it's too much effort. Though he's already decided before he even gets to the end of the ponderance, snort-laughing as he watches a ball sail across a screen against a snowy sky. A handful of men are gaping in frozen gasp until it hits the ground. This is a moment when he would be grim-faced and silent, even if it's full of acknowledging it'd be more of a weaselish thing to do if the bastard was pretending /not/ to pick up other people's radiowaves. He swipes a fry and reaches across the table to dip into Hive's reserve of grease. "I can weather a lot," he agrees bluntly.

"Is it better if I don't? I'm still hearing it. I don't like people to /forget/ I'm still hearing it. Feels like hiding in their bushes. Peeking in. I can't turn it off, they might as well know I'm still here." Hive is answering this while the ball sails, even before the silent acknowledgment of the same; his eyes swivel over towards the television while Jim swipes a fry, watching the ball fall with attention considerably keener than it has been before. He gulps at his beer. "Handy, these days. Throws a lot at people. I imagine lots more's coming up, too."

Jim hides in bushes. Peeks in, too. Only he takes pictures. And isn't nearly so forthcoming of his presence. His cornerwise grin isn't particularly joyful in considering this, "I didn't like shit thrown at me, I'd be in the wrong line of work." He'd had a woman's high heel thrown at him last month. It was leopard print. Faded blue eyes are watching Hive's attention sharpen, "What is it you do, anyway."

"Drink beer. Read minds. The fuck are you talking about?" Hive asks for clarification blandly despite the cursing, still focused -- not on the game, it seems, but one of the disgruntled brodudes watching it. He is slow to turn back to the table, propping an elbow against it and setting his beer down with a heavy thunk. "What got you into that job? Just like abuse?"

"If that's how people make cash in New York, sign me up." Jim is fairly confident he can /guess/ what people are thinking most times anymore. Fake the rest. Good times. "It's about the only thing I seem to be good at, long term," this is said distractedly - distracted, because he's focused his eyes on Hive's face. Something going on? /This/, is much more purposely inquired, tense but not /alarmed/.

"Hngh, yeah, you probably could. People think all kinds of shit. Fucked up shit. Really not fucked up shit. Most of what's not sex is banal. Groceries. Feeding the cat. People are tedious. I'm an architect." Hive delivers all this in the same distracted tone of voice, scrunching his eyes shut as he lifts his glass again (near as soon as he's set it down) and drains it. "Dude's drunk. Losing money on the game. To a guy who might be banging his girlfriend. Looking to deck someone." Hive doesn't sound particularly concerned. It's a bar. Sometimes. People get punched. "No guns," he tells Jim wryly. "What does it take to be good at it? Skulking? Eating a lot of lead?"

"Think the leads more a symptom." Jim goes about a pragmatic reorganization, transitioning beer, food and glasses to the side of the table least likely to get jostled if the room gets /festive/. "Skulking helps. Good pair of eyes, maybe a little more so. Patience and instinct. Nice camera work. Balls." Not a bad idea to carry a gun yourself. Jim has his. He's got a couple. "Lost my hat, though. Feel naked detectoring without that hat. What kind of shit have you done." Though if Hive names architecture in /Asia/ Jim is throwing a fry at him.

"If movies have taught me anything, it's that you can't be a proper dick without a fedora," Hive tells Jim solemnly. The building he names next has a name distinctly not in English. This is just as deadpan. 

Jim throws a fry at him. Deadpan for deadpan. But only AFTER cramming one into his face.

Hive swats it out of the air, ignoring it as it falls to the table. It's not like he didn't see that /coming/. "I haven't even been back to Thailand since getting my degree. Studied here in New York. Helped design a science and art building for some boarding school upstate. A lab for Marist College. You gonna get a new hat?"

"Once I get some money," which Jim isn't inclined to make much of by /busking/, karaoke skills or not. "I got some pics I'm sittin' on from a few inauguration soirres. You can always count on someone getting drunk and doing something stupid." A red darkroom light illuminates developing photographs of New York's Secretary of Housing and Urban Development sloppily helping a woman from the back of a cab - a women with far too much leg and not nearly enough years to be his wife, and unless incest laws have changed recently, the placement of his hands is anything but familial. "But some of this shit appreciates with time. And something to be said about finding the right rag to sell to."

"Mmm. You sell to private citizens?" Hive asks this almost offhand, his shoulders preemptively bracing as he takes a slow drink. By the bar there is sudden yelling, /angrier/ mixed in with the general raucous SportsCheer. A meaty thud of fist on face. Hive doesn't look over. "Fucking inauguration," is a darker murmur.

"My favorite fucking clients," Jim pauses in biting his fry when Hive braces himself, closing fingers around his ginger ale bottle lightly in case the table goes out from under it. Hah. You're like a weathercock. "Why, you lookin'?"

"That dude was from HUD?" Hive smirks. Into his beer. Which he is holding somewhat wobbily...ly as he carries it back to his mouth. "Fff." There's a clatterbang of glass on floor from the bar which does not seem to have actually /shattered/. A hoarser annoyed yelling from the bartender. Hive jerks his head -- over, c'mon, it is signalling, as he slides out the other side of the table, draining his beer in a gulp and getting unsteadily to his feet just as two hundred pounds of Bro comes stumble-fall-crashing over towards the side of the table he's just vacated. "Could be looking."

"Maybe it was." Damn right it was - Shit! "You sure cock up a good game of playing coy." Jim sweeps up his ginger ale and a final fry, slipping out of the table nearly in tandem with Hive, casual-easy as a man with a lifetime's experience in Just Going With It. He /does/ jump a little when the table is crashed into, glancing over his shoulder while stuffing the last bite in his mouth. "Guess I owe you one, huh? Cut you a deal." Where Hive is a touch unsteady on his feet, Jim may as well be planted (har har). He bumps a heavy shoulder up against the younger man's side, elbowing off a pair of men that are /either/ hugging, /or/ fighting sloppily.

"Be honest with you, I don't even know how much juicy blackmail fodder goes for." Hive is /leaning/ into that heavy shoulder-bump like maybe it is a solid pillar, scrunching his eyes shut again but then opening them to watch the men wrasslin'. He makes a quiet strangled noise, waving towards the exit, and, "-- fucking loud in here," muttered might not be referring to the yelling. "I cock up a lot of games. Wouldn't advise taking me in poker. Hey, I'm actually getting a money soon." Just one. He pulls away from Jim to start towards the door; it might be a casual saunter if it were less weavy. "Make me a deal."

Jim doesn't stay plastered to Hive, but he has a professional proximity-maintenance of a longtime barfly keeping track of his current company in a rowdy environment. He's got the shoulders, elbows, hunker and /weight/ distribution to keep it that way. "I'll go through what I got, see what'll get you best bang for the buck." God knows this world's full of men with fat wallets doing the same. "You want to start pulling a blackmail, though, you might want to cut me in on it. It's an art. For tonight, though," he's glancing around, jaw pushed forward into an underbite - loud. Yeah, alright. Ah, damn. Must have been a regular mental moshpit at the park when that gun went off. "You should let me get you in a cab. Jacko said you lived in his building, yeah?"

"Wasn't fun. Hear the panic. Feel your bullet. 'least it goes away. No surgery required. You get shot around me in a crowd again, though, and I'll --" Hive frowns. "Shoot -- you -- again." The threat kind of fizzles into frowning at the door, and then heading /through/ it to the frigid street outside. "Yeah. I live right above him. I can cab. My freaking ride teleported home. Man, you /would/ know that art, wouldn't you? It'll be a first for me. Need practice."

"Lot harder to shoot someone if you tip 'em off first," Jim opines idly, around a cost benefit analysis about the blow his already flagging morals would take, bringing a mindreader to a client consultation. "If you're set to do it," he eventually exhales, "you give me a cut, I'll help you out. But that kind of work's got a real /thin/ margin of error." His face doesn't change from scruffy-easy. But four reports of a gun echo through the trees, somewhere. As soon as they're outside, he's diving for his cigarettes, offering the first one he taps out of the box to Hive.

Hive waves the offer away, already moving to the curb to lift a hand and hail a cab. "Tweakers don't give a lot of warning. He was actually reasonably chill till that chick -- mmngh." There is a cab. He frowns at it like he can't quite remember what to /do/ until it honks at him. "Shit. Call you. You need in? To go somewhere?" He's opening the door already. To get in.

Jim snorts, lighting his own cigarette, "No, man. I live on a slightly different block than you." He does accompany Hive /to/ the cab, but only to lean over and make a good, sharp-eyed eye contact with the cabbie and then a long look at the facecard exhibiting his driver ID. You don't need to read minds to understand the narrow smile he then offers the driver, stepping back. "Yeah, call me. We'll work a thing." And god save me, we could make some cash from it. He gives the cap a nice thump on the hood with his fist, and then turns to cram fists into pockets and amble off into the night. Full of free fries, too. Mmm.
}}