dh_marcus (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} dh_marcus) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} darkesthour_rpg,@ 2008-03-03 21:36:00 |
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RP: This World Keeps Getting Smaller and Smaller
Date and Time: March 3, 2008 - early afternoon
Characters: Marcus Flint, Harry Potter
Location: Somewhere in Greater London, UK
Private/Public: Public
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, sexual innuendo
Summary: Marcus is out and about in London and runs into someone unexpectedly
Completion: Complete
When a person runs a large business, such as a club - such as Marcus did in running The Bacchanalia there was one rule of thumb he or she always had to remember:
Shite always happens.
It didn't mean Marcus enjoyed remembering it, particularly when it seemed to be happening more often than he cared to acknowledge. Particularly since his bar supplier had always been reliable for the years he had known it.
But the last two orders that Marcus had delivered at the club were undeniably and completely fucked up. Instead of straight spirits, he was delivered mixers. Instead of the one brand of expensive, imported ale he brought in from Ireland he was delivered a piss-coloured watery beer that he wouldn't serve to a dog. Plus, he was charged the price of the ale he should have received.
After several phone calls to Twilliger's, speaking with a rather new and incompetent warehouse manager Marcus had finally decided to take matters into his own hands. If the owner wasn't there when he arrived, Marcus would take his business elsewhere.
Though he loathed to do so. It wasn't Larry's fault that his warehouse manager was a cock-up. Still, Marcus had to do something.
Stepping off the tube in London, Marcus shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and pulled out his silver cigarette case. He lit a fag quickly behind his cupped hand, though he didn't use a match. Magic was a wonderful thing when it came to wordless firespells.
Inhaling deeply, Marcus turned his head to the exit that would lead him above ground and caught the image of a shorter, younger man heading his way from the opposite direction. He exhaled and narrowed his eyes - the man looking familiar. Then, catching the green eyes that were behind large spectacles and a faded lightning scare, Marcus knew why.
Potter.
As if the world wasn't small enough.
Marcus strolled towards the same direction until he was behind Harry, the both of then ascending the concrete stairs and the light of the sky glowing with promise above.
"I thought you never left the comfort of old men and goats, Potter," Marcus drawled, speaking behind Harry. He looked and had to admit - Potter had a fine arse even if the man was still a bit scrawny.
Date and Time: March 3, 2008 - early afternoon
Characters: Marcus Flint, Harry Potter
Location: Somewhere in Greater London, UK
Private/Public: Public
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, sexual innuendo
Summary: Marcus is out and about in London and runs into someone unexpectedly
Completion: Complete
When a person runs a large business, such as a club - such as Marcus did in running The Bacchanalia there was one rule of thumb he or she always had to remember:
Shite always happens.
It didn't mean Marcus enjoyed remembering it, particularly when it seemed to be happening more often than he cared to acknowledge. Particularly since his bar supplier had always been reliable for the years he had known it.
But the last two orders that Marcus had delivered at the club were undeniably and completely fucked up. Instead of straight spirits, he was delivered mixers. Instead of the one brand of expensive, imported ale he brought in from Ireland he was delivered a piss-coloured watery beer that he wouldn't serve to a dog. Plus, he was charged the price of the ale he should have received.
After several phone calls to Twilliger's, speaking with a rather new and incompetent warehouse manager Marcus had finally decided to take matters into his own hands. If the owner wasn't there when he arrived, Marcus would take his business elsewhere.
Though he loathed to do so. It wasn't Larry's fault that his warehouse manager was a cock-up. Still, Marcus had to do something.
Stepping off the tube in London, Marcus shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and pulled out his silver cigarette case. He lit a fag quickly behind his cupped hand, though he didn't use a match. Magic was a wonderful thing when it came to wordless firespells.
Inhaling deeply, Marcus turned his head to the exit that would lead him above ground and caught the image of a shorter, younger man heading his way from the opposite direction. He exhaled and narrowed his eyes - the man looking familiar. Then, catching the green eyes that were behind large spectacles and a faded lightning scare, Marcus knew why.
Potter.
As if the world wasn't small enough.
Marcus strolled towards the same direction until he was behind Harry, the both of then ascending the concrete stairs and the light of the sky glowing with promise above.
"I thought you never left the comfort of old men and goats, Potter," Marcus drawled, speaking behind Harry. He looked and had to admit - Potter had a fine arse even if the man was still a bit scrawny.