ArchivedLogs:(Not So) Peaceful Sunday

(Not So) Peaceful Sunday
Dramatis Personae Brent, Trib
In Absentia	2013-06-16 '
Location <NYC> Midtown East
A dense, skyscraper packed neighborhood, Midtown is the busiest commercial district in the United States, and one of the busiest pieces of land in the world. Day and night, Midtown is filled with people going to and from work, enjoying the nightlife, and walking quickly through the streets. Very few live in Midtown proper - only the most wealthy and work-obsessed - but many who live in and around the City work here. In many ways, Midtown is the heart that beats in the city that never sleeps. The end of the stormy weather has brought in its wake some truly wonderful sunshine to create what has been a rather pleasant weekend. If you're not watching the news or living in the city, that is. Here in Midtown, it's not as busy as it might be on a weekday, but there are still a good number of people who wander along the sidewalks. Possibly window-shopping or actually going into some businesses that are open. If there were songbirds around, they'd probably be singing; it's /that/ kind of day. Heroes for Hire is /not/ open for business, on a Sunday. At least, those are not the hours that are listed on their sign, or on the cards that are liberally handed out by the detective agency's proprietor. And it looks fairly closed up. The only odd thing about it (or maybe not /that/ odd) is the large man sitting on the steps in front. Dressed in jeans and a white tank top that shows off his powerful and scarred shoulders, the boxer might be homeless, the way he's casually sprawled across the steps as if he might take a nap at any moment. He doesn't seem to be doing anything other than reading, his right forearm braced against his knee with a pugilist magazine wedged into the trio of his thumb and fingers. By his side, laid out in full sight in a way that's clearly meant to intimidate, is an aluminum baseball bat that looks, oddly, a bit chewed-on. Some people can't afford to take sundays off. Brent is normally not one of them, but Sunday morning was the only time an important meeting involving several people, each of whom quite rich and busy, could meet. And so he just finished his meeting and now he's walking towards a nearby restaurant to buy himself lunch before going home. All in all, while not a typical Sunday afternoon, not an unusual one either. Until he notices someone passed out on the street, he grabs his cellphone and does the responsible thing. "Hello, am I talking to the NYPD? Yes? Okay, there's a guy passed out here in front of a company labelled as 'Heroes for Hire.'" Address data added in. "He's armed with a baseball bat, no I'd rather not tell you my name, sir. I prefer my anonymous tips to remain anonymous." Trib's attention snaps to the man in the suit when he begins talking, and he FROWNS at the man, even as he pushes to his feet. His expression quickly shifts to one of 'oh shit' as the man continues speaking. "I ain't passed out," he rumbles, his Jersey accent somehow thicker with the sudden shifting to his feet. "I fuckin' /work/ here. There's no need to call the fuckin' /cops/." He's picking up the bat, though, and moving to throw it down the alley as far as he can manage. "Jesus /Christ/." Brent is apparently somewhat deaf, "Have a good day sir. Thank you." He swipes something on his expensive looking phone and it closes up, then he turns around and notices an angry Trib. "Woah. I'm sorry, mister. I didn't realize you were awake." Or didn't care. He definitely doesn't seem to be too afraid, "I was merely worried for your health and that of others, I'm sure you know how some drunk people can be if you try to wake them up. It's something I'd rather leave to professionals, especially when they have one of those..." Trib makes a distressed noise when Brent concludes his phone call, and he begins looking up and down the street with more than a little trepidation. "Aw, fuck that," he snaps at the explanation. "Do you fuckin' /see/ any booze? Did you /smell/ any?" He flaps the magazine at the well-dressed man like some sort of deranged fan boy, his voice rising. "How many people you know fuckin' pass out holdin' a magazine fuckin' /upright/?" He rolls up the periodical, and for a moment it looks like he's considering smacking Brent around with it for an hour or two. "You fuckin' suits are all alike. Just fuck up the lives of the little guy without a fuckin' /thought/." The magazine gets jammed in his back pocket, and he looks up the street again, at the entrance to the subway. Brent lowers his voice a little, "I made a mistake, I apologized, and I don't want to hear any more shit from you about it unless you want the place you're employed at in quite a heap of trouble. You understand?" He then goes back to his normal levels of loudness, "Anyway. I hope this has all been settled properly, and if the police take the call seriously I'm sure you'll be able to prove to them that you're not drunk and that it as all a big misunderstanding, right?" "Apologized." Trib snorts as he runs his hands through his hair in frustration. "Yeah, okay. /That/ will totally make up for the cops bein' up my ass. Jesus /Christ/." He doesn't seem to be aiming that anger at the businessman, instead kvetching to himself as he begins to pace, muttering to himself as he looks up the street again. "Fuckin' /hell/. Cage is gonna /shit/." Only then does he seem to realize what's being said to him, and the look he turns on the man is incredulous. "Mister, I ain't goin' to be within four blocks of this place by the time the cops get here," he says frankly. "Do I look like a fuckin' idiot?" Which is hopefully a rhetorical question. Brent's response is both swift, and harsh. "Yes, you do. Have a nice day." And that said, Brent starts walking off. He certainly doesn't seem to be particularly afraid of Trib, but that's probably because Brent doesn't know Trib is a mutant. Probably. Trib's lip curls in an almost-snarl, revealing a flash of straight, white teeth. "Fuckin' flatscan fat cat bastard. I'll fuckin' remember /you/, pal," he calls at Brent's retreating back. "You have a nice fuckin' day, asshole. I'll fuckin' remember /your/ ass." Then he's turning to move the other direction. So much for a peaceful Sunday.