Russ C (greasemonkey) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-09-10 22:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, imogen cymbeline, russ campbell |
Gotham: Russ C & Imogen C
Who: Russ and Imogen
What: Points of view & introductions
Where: Some crummy bar in Gotham City.
When: Now
Warnings: Foul language extremely likely
The garage was back to normal. Music that rang out over the buzz and grind of power-tools, men yelling at each other because they couldn’t be fucked to cross the distance, the cars that rolled in like shit and out like someone had sprayed a new high-gloss coat and removed the smell but still shit where it counted. Back to normal and wasn’t that a trip? Gotham was like Vegas: you saw that many naked girls wandering around with tassels on their tits and feathers on their asses, you figured that was normal. Gotham was smog, it was crooked cops so bent you couldn’t work out which direction their feet were pointing if they were looking at you, it was money under the table because that way, the cut taken by the higher-ups was smaller.
Russ bailed come the end. The break-room still smelled like stale sleep, burned coffee and a fight with his kid brother that still simmered at home, resentment thick like nicotine painting the walls yellow. Yeah, no, he was gone: his mouth dry and his fingernails black with dirt and streaks on his jeans from wiping his palms clean between fucking handshakes with customers who thought getting dirty in a fucking garage was beyond all reason.
The bar was uncomplicated. You found some shit you liked and you stuck with it, even if the floors were dirty and the pool table baize was torn to shit from drunk fuckers trying to play. It was bad music, turned down low enough the bartender could talk over it, and cheap beer on tap that was made somewhere no one heard of or cared anything about. He sat with whiskey in front of him, tumbler marked with fingerprints and a generous measure of amber poured in, glinting like a fly-trap. Boots wedged on the bar of the stool, stained fingernails tapping idly on the glass with the measure of some shit played with a guitar that twanged.
It was better than feeling Ford’s anger press in like a blanket smothering a fire. Hell, it was better than a lot of things. It just wasn’t good.