ArchivedLogs:Bartalk
| Bartalk | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-07-26 The Juggernaut's coming. (He's coming! He's coming!) |
| Location
Somewhere in New York... | |
This is a hole in the wall -- a dive that's on the outskirts of New York City. The sort of place where you don't go looking for trouble, because trouble's /already here/ and it knows where you fucking live, so sit down and drink your shitty beer. The bartender's a grizzled sod who would sooner knife you than fulfill your request for a clean glass and some sweet, fruity drink; half the patrons have records longer than the bar's debt book, and there's a shotgun stashed under the counter that's got enough kick to it to make even Logan Howlett think twice. In short? This is a rough place, with rough customers, and you'd better think twice before starting some shit here. ...so exactly why is everyone in the bar currently locked in dead quiet, assholes puckered up, looking ready to /shit their pants/ and run? Maybe it has something to do with the 7 foot tall man who is currently sitting on top of a barstool (the stool occasionally creaks, shifting beneath his weight -- threatening to bend), working on his fifth slug of beer. Cain Marko is not the sort of man who's intimidated by surly bartenders, rough customers, or big shotguns. Rather, he's the sort of man who walks into a bar like this, slaps down a fistful of twenties on the bar (hard enough to splinter wood), and just starts drinking. The man's currently dressed in blue denim overalls and a flannel shirt. He looks something like a /lumberjack/. Or maybe Canadian. But when he growls at the bartender for another glass of beer, the accent is distinctly /southern/ -- Alabama, maybe? The faint sound of a motorcycle comes into the air, over the sound of the jukebox and the deafining silence. Not some suped up Harley, this is a bike, judging by the engine noise, designed for speed. Lots of speed. It comes to a stop outside the bar, and a tall...present company accepted... man comes in, still wearing his sunglasses despite the hour and the smokey atmosphere. He 5is also wearing jeans, an old t-shirt and a dusty trench that flicks at his ankles with every step. He glances arround at the silent patrons of the Stacked Deck (The name drew the man to the place) and smirks a bit. "Hate ta t'ink Ah interupted a party," he mutters as he settles at the bar a few seats away from the man-mountain and orders a beer of his own. Nobody says much. There's a couple of good ol' boys playing pool in the back, but they're nervously throwing glances toward the 7 foot tall GIANT currently slurping beers at the bar. Remy's arrival gets all the fanfare of -- well, it doesn't seem to get any. A few agitated glances, a quiet murmur, then -- faces back to drinks. There's currently a game of SPORTSBALL on the TV; Cain Marko is eyeing it very intently. The bartender /may/ have tried to change the channel a while ago; he /may/ have also had the remote from the TV gingerly plucked from him by one massive mitt, then promptly /crushed/ into a fine, dust-like powder -- before being sprinkled back behind the bar. As Remy steps deeper into the interior, the SPORTSBALL team scores another point; Marko lifts his mug of beer up -- his gargantuan hand nearly /enclosing/ the whole thing -- and finishes it with a single pull. Grimacing. Before throwing a glance back toward the new arrival: "S'fuckin' afternoon," Marko rumbles -- his voice has a way of /shaking/ through the entire joint, making glasses tremble. "Th'fuck you wearin' /shades/ for, Elwood?" Remy raises an eyebrow, apparently more amused at the man's foul language then intimidated by his massive size. "Makes me look mysterious non, Ah use dat an' mah accent ta pick up chicks an' basically cover up foh a lack of self esteme an' basic inferiority complex." He takes a drink of his own beer and smirks a little bit, "Five bucks says Nawlins makes dis next point." "Th'fuck," Cain comments, "are you saying? Th'fuck is he saying," Cain asks the /bartender/, then, glaring at him. The bartender proceeds to /wilt/. Cain swings his gaze back to Remy: "Your accent is stupid." He scowls. But then: "...aw, hell. I'm sorry for cussin'. I was raised better'n that." He turns back to the TV; the glass is shoved toward the bartender. Who, very nervously, snatches it and proceeds to refill. "M'just nervous. Nawl--New /Orleans/? Fine, you're on." Cain sniffs, nostrils flaring, one massive hand lifting to wipe at his nose. Scccccrape! And then, suddenly, as if he's just decided Remy is is NEW BEST BUD, he starts talking: "Meetin' somebody. Haven't seen 'em in a long while. Might not go well." Remy sets five for his beer and five between him and the massive man to cover their bet. "Not go well huh? Lemme guess, if yah need ta get yah drinbk on 'fore yah go see 'em, den it's eit'er a woman, or it family." He glances at the TV and growns "Aww come on Kincade, 'ow about a lil defence 'ere!" he shakes his head disgusted, "Storm Riders gonbe ta 'ell evah since dey traded Sparx.." "Somethin' like that," Cain responds to Remy's accusation regarding the /identity/ of this person. He continues to stare at the game; perhaps unusually, he doesn't /comment/ on it. He does /watch/ it, though. "Just, made a lot of mistakes. Screwed stuff up. Not even sure if -- they'll remember me." The glass lifts up again; this time, he just chugs half of it. His other massive hand descends to a nearby bowl of peanuts, and. KRRRKT. A handful is scooped up; it constitutes more than 2/3rds the contents. CRUNCH, right into his mouth. A few shells tumbling. "They got this thing. Called the internet, now," Marko tells Remy, as if this was an incredibly /novel/ idea to him. "You can look people up on it. Even put -- stuff up there. For people to listen to, or look at." Remy raises his eyebrow but doesn't comment on /that/ statement either. He's not the most tech savvy of people either and he is constantly amazed at the internet. Heck Emillia just set up his Mybook page last week. He glances at the screen shaking his head. "Family will remember mon ami. And Women, oh dey nevah fohget." he says amused, taking another long pull of his beer and wincing as New Orleans misses an easy point. Remy smiles a bit, giving the man's massive shoulder a pat and shrugging, "Well if dat what yah gonna do, Ah wish yah luck, dough if dis is a lady friend yah lookin' ta see again, Might wanna do somet'ing about de beer breat' non? Women link t'ings ta scent, yah don' wan' 'er first recollection of seein' yah again bein'..." He glances arround and says "Dis fine establishment.." Cain /snorts/. Loud and sudden. "I don't think /that's/ gonna matter. Not for this reunion." And then, as if on cue -- NEW ORLEANS scores a POINT. For SPORTSBALL. Cain squints at the screen -- but suddenly grins. Reaching toward the mess of bills he's slapped on the bar, yanking out a twenty, and just kind of nudging it with one massive index finger toward Remy. "Keep the change. Thanks." And then his hand /descends/, swooping forward to give Remy a back-pat of his own. Except /his/ backpats are hard enough to make men spill their drinks. "I got places to be," he says, standing up -- the stool creaking under him. "Stay cool, Elwood." THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Every step makes the bar shake, the glasses rattle, and the other patrons wince. Remy manages to hold the cough in until Cain is well out of sight then shakes with it, though he pockets the twenty and shakes his head. "Seem like a nice guy, non?" he says casually to the bartender, rolling his neck to get the impact out of his system. "Whoevah she is likely delighted ta see 'im again." | |
