Seedy Bar(Who'd'a guessed?)

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Seedy Bar(Who'd'a guessed?)

Postby Charred » Fri Oct 06, 2006 4:22 am

The dim lighting of the after-hours bar does little to hide the rank stench of urine and stale sex that permeates the heavy smog of cigarette smoke which forms rolling clouds and mist. A narrow, brief hallway leads past the two, rotting wooden doors to the male/female bathrooms; old wood, darkening with age and mishandling. The brass knobs are completely black from the years of body-oil eating away at their once-bright coating. The door to the females' bathroom is always slightly ajar- either because females rarely attend these places; and the ladies' room is used as a quick-fix for the sexually depraved, desperate or desperate. Then again, it might simply be that the lock is stuck permanently.
The stink of unwashed bodies and urine are penetraded, lancelike, by the occasionally strong-smelling drink or plate of deep-fried greasy buffalo wings that pass under the nose of the passerby. The woefully underfunded and unkempt bar is simply called, in bubbly neon lights, "The Cantina", although both 't's are no longer lit.


The coyanina bitch sits at the end of the bar, near the stockpile of napkins and straws that the bartender keeps on hand for his drinks. While the bartender unbusies himself, she makes it occasion to speak with him- not flirtatiously; just smalltalk, it would seem. The occasional nonchalant joke, and she grins as wide as the horizon. She's laughing hard and loud and often, chugging beers and tanking shots and talking to anyone who comes her way.
Dressed in the fineries of some fiery explosion of a retro shoppe; all badly faded and stained with all manner of paints, latex and burns- her ankle-length skirt has a number of holes in it, although the few belts she's slung around it for fashion, or perhaps just some habitual madness manage to hide a few of them. Astride her is a well-worn knapsack; carrying a number of sketchbooks and texts.
"There is nothing in the singing of the secadas which would indicate they are about to die".
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Postby Halbherz » Tue Oct 31, 2006 7:26 pm

There's a door, only slightly sturdier, beyond those rotten ones that lead to the restrooms, normally secured with three simple sliding bolts and the empty husk of an out-of-order burglar alarm. Someone has had the half-wit to cut a motto into the wooden doorframe with his or her knife: "PAS NOT THEES PORTLS YIE FOLISH MORTILS", a reminder that the door opens out to the filthy backalley and the beat-up dumpster that has been the end to many a quaffing spree for many a happy customer. Yet somebody must have been through here recently, having left a seedy knapsack lying discarded in the corner.

Someon's trying the handle from the outside. Twisting it again and again, then shoving at the door, then kicking, then swearing. A minute later, Olaf enters the cantina from the main entrance, face scrunched up and mandibles masticating furiously, hands jammed deep into his pockets. Dark though as the room may be, darker still is the spot that begins to grow on the leg of his pants, surprisingly close to the knee. Seemingly impervious to the bartender's knowing grin, Olaf rushes straight towards the back exit. During the time it takes him to yank the knapsack's shoulder belt out of the closed door, some other critter also enters the bar, flushed and meek and rodent-like, that self-consciously orders a Rudy Red, hides in a dark corner, and downs the ale like mouthwash.

Olaf returns to the bar, not sparing the rodent a second look, and spouting off greenish Cudgum foam, snarls towards the barguy, "I was jes out for a minute, ya din't have to shut the fucking door on me, dammit..."
A lone figure sits still by a pool - he's been stamped human bacon by some butchering tool - he is you...
Social Security took care of this lad - we watch in reverence - as Narcissus is turned to a flower
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Postby Charred » Mon Nov 06, 2006 10:56 am

A watchful, if bleary with overindulgence in the drin, yellowed eye rolls over the brief scene, prompting a loud chuckle at the sight of the ass' jeans. "A bi' overindulged wi' an infection, are you? Mabbe a diaper'd suit y' better", she chuckled the statement noncommittally. "A beer suit y' better, mabbe?". The coyote is hunched over the bar; and presumably a glass of something, if it were easy to see over those beefstick arms. The yellow eyes flicker unintentionally to the timid individual who's parked himself at the other end of the bar.
Pulling herself up, she rises, massive and towering. The slow drawl standing from the barstool results in a crinkling noise which appears to be her back popping into place from being sat so long. Nose wrinkling, she thumbs at the bartender, "Oi, Mike, lemme get whatever mousey-boy down there's drinking; and another shot of whiskey, up". She moves towards the man, moving past the ass and leaving the man a wide berth. She slides into the barstool next to the man, with as wide a grin as her muzzle allows for; eyes smiling all the while with genuine familial affection. "Take it slow, mate, y' won't have room for the next one. Long day at the office..?" And so, the game begins anew.
"There is nothing in the singing of the secadas which would indicate they are about to die".
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Postby Halbherz » Mon Nov 06, 2006 2:40 pm

"Diaper, feh", Olaf mutters to himself, and adds, for the tender only to hear and not quite convincingly spontaneous, "Didn't wear diapers since that fuckin' 'Big Mama's Houseguest' gig." Nevertheless, he self-consciously readjusts his fit before ordering a Wessig, and as the bartender turns, he sticks his greenish gum lump under the countertop, wiping his muzzle on the shoulder.

It takes the Esel a while to regain his cool, and so he shifts around and watches the other clients weave to and fro, easing his mind by becoming no more than a spectator. He sees the rodent flinch at the approach of the large coyanina, and grinning his trademark goofish grin, he feels his bound-back ears twitch as he tries to pick up more of the conversation.


"Y-yeah, it's been a tad long", the mousey young guy admits, and fingers his bottle, which proves an inadequate shield against the sudden presence in his corner. "Just down for a drink, you see... gotta get back home soon. Ahem." Misinterpreting the yellow stare, he wipes at his faux-fur-lined jacket collar. "That's nothing..." he stutters, and his large round ears blush.
A lone figure sits still by a pool - he's been stamped human bacon by some butchering tool - he is you...
Social Security took care of this lad - we watch in reverence - as Narcissus is turned to a flower
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Halbherz
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Postby Charred » Sun Dec 03, 2006 2:08 pm

"Psht, only jokin', darlin'.", she turns her attention greedily back to the sheepish individual.
"Ya, well, ye'd be wise t' finish n' git it thru t' gettin' home, then. Don' want tah upset th' missus!", she laughs, and slouches against the bar, a great, pudgy arm resting apoun its' surface as she tilts back her mug and finishes her third drink, nose twitching unconsciously every few seconds.
"An ye", she shoots a glare at Olaf, "Better fine' a better place tah put yer cudgum. Thats' nasty, n' prolly diseased 'ar, t'boot". She tugs a napkin from under her empty glass, and offers it to him.
"There is nothing in the singing of the secadas which would indicate they are about to die".
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Postby Halbherz » Sun Dec 03, 2006 7:58 pm

The grabbing reflex is still ingrained into Olaf's hand, and he snatches the napkin even before he realizes what it is. He does give the enormous coyanina his Are-You-For-Real gaze. "Wuz saavin it fer later", he finally gruffs. The sudden glare of the barkeep prompts him to pluck the greenish lump from under the countertop though, and true to his word, he drops the rolled-up lump into his pocket.

"Wasn't nice, callin me diseesed. Wasn't helpful. Can't have that kinda slander, even if it's not my line of biz any more. Runt over there's prolly more diseesed than my ass..." He thumbs back at the rodent, who had figured that about now would be a nice moment to exit the bar unnoticed.
A lone figure sits still by a pool - he's been stamped human bacon by some butchering tool - he is you...
Social Security took care of this lad - we watch in reverence - as Narcissus is turned to a flower
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Halbherz
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Posts: 188
Joined: Tue Oct 10, 2006 6:09 pm
Location: Right behind your eyeballs.

Postby Charred » Tue Dec 12, 2006 11:54 pm

Her grin wavers on the edge of her lips as a smug smirk; eyebrows furrowed into some deep expression of sarcastic confusion. "I meant under the bar, sugar. Not you. Although y' might be.." Her gaze shifts to the rodent, shaking her head and sitting back down, the barstool creaking under her weight. "Nother beer, please!", prompted by the procurement of her wallet, sliding a five dollar bill across the counter.
"There is nothing in the singing of the secadas which would indicate they are about to die".
Charred
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Postby Halbherz » Mon Dec 18, 2006 7:36 pm

The Esel, once out of the smirking gaze, tries to vent his edginess in a deep sigh, but absent-mindedly starts to peel the label off his Wessig bottle instead. Time and again his eyes dart towards the door whenever a cool breeze tells his neck mane that somebody has entered or left: another appointment, no doubt. Still, when his bottle is perfectly devoid of soggy paper, and emptied of its stale lukewarm contents, he nervously mutters, "don' beleeve he dint come...", and eyes the coyanina warily.
A lone figure sits still by a pool - he's been stamped human bacon by some butchering tool - he is you...
Social Security took care of this lad - we watch in reverence - as Narcissus is turned to a flower
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Halbherz
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Joined: Tue Oct 10, 2006 6:09 pm
Location: Right behind your eyeballs.

Postby Halbherz » Sun Jan 28, 2007 11:11 pm

"Hey champ", Olaf finally calls out to the barguy, his frayed patience worn thin at last.
"Champ, I bin waitin fer a guy here, and hee dint come. Anyone askin fer me tonite, tellem I still got him his fuckin book an pickchers, an I esspect him toomorrow, rite here, same time. Think you can tellem that?"
A little belatedly, the Esel digs deep in his pockets for a few crumpled-up bills, and smoothens them down on the counter: two bucks for the errand. Then Olaf checks his knapsack: still closed; and shoulders it. "Stupid fuckin fel", he mutters, but quickly casts his gaze floorwards as he realizes he's still within earshot of the coyanina. As if to explain, he shrugs (knapsack bouncing on his bony back), and brays, "One a dem nights where nuthing works out rite."
A lone figure sits still by a pool - he's been stamped human bacon by some butchering tool - he is you...
Social Security took care of this lad - we watch in reverence - as Narcissus is turned to a flower
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Halbherz
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Posts: 188
Joined: Tue Oct 10, 2006 6:09 pm
Location: Right behind your eyeballs.

Postby Andrick » Mon Jan 29, 2007 5:03 pm

The door swings open for a peculiarly dressed stag; peculiar in the sense that no one would frequent a place like this while wearing a suit as fancy as his. It is obvious that the newcomer did not know what he was in for as he recoils back a step like he had just hit an invisible wall. The stag's scrunched up face and choking snort reveals what his problem is - a nose too dainty for the stench of this place. He looks to turn back for the door but straightens up and composes himself instead. The stag glares at the few people indiscreet enough to gawk at his ungraceful entrance before heading straight to the bar.

"A glass of... something not vile, something you'd drink if you were the customer," rumbles the buck as he pulls his collar a little wider. A hand flashs into view, producing a book of matches from some unner pocket of the well-tailored evening coat he wears.
"Y'know, if nothing else, living here has incredibly sharpened my 'Hey, there's someone coming for my dick!' defense skills." - JET
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Postby Charred » Tue Nov 13, 2007 10:04 am

Halbherz wrote:"Hey champ", Olaf finally calls out to the barguy, his frayed patience worn thin at last.
"Champ, I bin waitin fer a guy here, and hee dint come. Anyone askin fer me tonite, tellem I still got him his fuckin book an pickchers, an I esspect him toomorrow, rite here, same time. Think you can tellem that?"
A little belatedly, the Esel digs deep in his pockets for a few crumpled-up bills, and smoothens them down on the counter: two bucks for the errand. Then Olaf checks his knapsack: still closed; and shoulders it. "Stupid fuckin fel", he mutters, but quickly casts his gaze floorwards as he realizes he's still within earshot of the coyanina. As if to explain, he shrugs (knapsack bouncing on his bony back), and brays, "One a dem nights where nuthing works out rite."


The bitch flicks an ear absently, dismissivly, shrugs broad shoulders and takes a long drink of beer. " 'salright. Them days gotta happen so the good days seem better. Want a beer to make you feel better? My treat."
"There is nothing in the singing of the secadas which would indicate they are about to die".
Charred
Abject Anathema
 
Posts: 32
Joined: Fri Oct 06, 2006 3:38 am


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