The Black Pot

Q stands up, shifting from one foot to the other nervously. “I’m afraid of clowns. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Lots of people are. I’ve read IT,” he nods to James, “more than once. Pennywise was based on John Wayne Gacy you know.” He says that quietly. “Lovely concept. And let’s not forget that bloody clown from Poltergeist! Stephen Spielberg is afraid of clowns. And Michael Meyers was dressed up as a clown when he killed his sister at the beginning of Halloween. Coincidence? I don’t think so.” He unconsciously scratches the back of his head. “I’m going to tell you a story and then you tell me whether or not being afraid of clowns is something to laugh about."

( Please do not read any further if you are easily frightened. You have been warned! )

Dr. McCoy stands up to address the group in the cafe. He shrugs. "I've never really felt anythin' about clowns. I don't like 'em, but I don't hate 'em either. I'm indifferent, if anythin'."

"I took my daughter Joanna to a circus once when she was little, and at first, she was terrified of the clowns. She was five at the time, and anytime one of those clowns would come near her, she'd cry and hide herself in my arms."

He smiles at the memory. That was one of his favorite days, taking Joanna to the circus. When he was in medical school and during his internship, he didn’t get to spend much time with his daughter, so he always treasured those days when it was just the two of them. "It wasn't until after the show when one of the clowns came over to talk to her after he'd taken off his makeup that she realized they were just regular people with stuff on their faces."

"So that Halloween, she had her mother make her a clown costume." The doctor laughs out loud. "I think she scared more kids with that costume than any ghost or goblin that night."

There isn't a key in his hand but a promise would have to do. The lips are pulled in a small frown he walks into the place. It wriggled infant-like in the Doctor's mind, rosy colours and freshly growing flowers. Daffodils: it had made him smirk and the Doctor pout. Predictable, Doctor. Whispers of companions and friendship and long conversations made him gag and the Doctor grin.

Again, predictable. He pouts.

He watches from the door, nose wrinkled but the Doctor's crudely dismissed him for the day and told him to stay out of trouble. It stinks. Sweat. And bad food. And human pets. Other pets. Pets pets. It doesn't matter. It stinks. He seizes up those around him. Ape, ape, stupid ape, girl ape. He rolls his eyes, put-upon sigh on his lips as he stands in the back of the room, watching ape eight and ape nine put on the cheery faces.

"CLOWNS!"

( His shout carries, he nods eagerly at the crowd as they turn around. )

We're continuing the party-theme, kind of. We're going to talk about clowns. Evil clowns, specifically.

So clowns are regularly hired to entertain small children. And small children are regularly so deeply traumatised by the event that they carry the scars well on into their adult lives. Is fear of clowns crazy? Or is it totally understandable to you?

Are you afraid of clowns? Do you want to admit your coulrophobia in a safe and loving environment? This probably isn't the safe and loving environment I'd recommend for such a thing, but we could rustle up a cup of tea and a slice of cake if you really felt the need to come out.

Perhaps you might want to discuss Stephen King's contribution to the clown menace. Good taste might dictate that we leave all discussion of John Wayne Gacy aside, or maybe you don't hold with good taste and want to tell us all about him.

If nothing else, you might want to go hunting for (or draw) some pictures of truly terrifying clowns to share with us. We'd like to see some art for Halloween, with a clown theme.

The tag for this month is clowns, and don't forget to claim the month for your character here

Jack looks around for the owners and gives them a slightly confused thumbs-up. "Happy anniversary, then? Although from what I've heard, maybe nobody's died of food poisoning, but suffered... And there are other fun things to be done with swizzle sticks and umbrellas, but anyway, let's see." He goes into conversation for a bit, then starts talking again.

"I think I'm going to go with what Ianto said to me earlier. It doesn't actually exist here, although I've seen a few attempts to approximate it. I'd imagine the real thing is a lot better, though. And that would be a pan-galactic gargle blaster. It's got the right mix of potency and a nice intergalactic touch. And I like a cocktail with an olive in it, too."

He rubs his chin as he considers something that could actually be made, looking through the lists. "If that doesn't work, then... Hmmm. I don't know which cocktail exactly, but I'd say something that's nice and bright because--" He flashes a large grin, toothy and white. "I've got a hell of a smile. Maybe a nice layer of cream or something that'll really knock you out. Whatever it is, it should probably be one with a suggestive name, because I lay down plenty of innuendos. Hmmm. Suck Bang and Blow looks pretty potent, or maybe a Banana Blow Job. As the Doctor told me, bananas are good!"

He pushes the word across his tongue, finding it difficult to pronounce, so he discards it. But there's something aesthetically pleasing about the glasses in all shapes and sizes, the colourful suns rising in their containers. He surprises himself by reaching for one and takes a sip. Sweet, too sweet, he thinks, turning the glass in front of him. Orange and red and the tinkle of ice - autumn making way for winter. He immediately associates it with that - with maples turning, and over-ripe fruit left to rot. It shouldn't taste sweet. It should taste bitter.

Noiselessly, he pushes the glass away with both hands, then looks up with resolve. "Sake, please."

Dr. McCoy smiles at the topic. "Now here's somethin' I know a little about. That's not to say I'm a lush or anythin', but I know a good drink when I taste one."

"I've always been a big fan of the mint julep. There's nothin' like a cold mint julep in a silver mint julep cup on a hot summer day." He smiles again.

"But I wouldn't say that the mint julep is a good cocktail of choice to describe me. If I had to pick one, I'd probably say an ol' fashioned cocktail. I'm an ol' fashioned kind of guy, even though I'm from the future. I never could catch up with everyone else when it came to technology, aside from medical equipment. Give me a good ol' fashioned shuttle ride over the transporter, or an ol' paper book over the computerized thing. Some people rely to much on computers and machines and forget the value of the human brain."

"But back to the cocktail. It tends to be bitter, and I've been told repeatedly that I can be pretty bitter. But it does have a little sugar in it, so there's a little sweetness in there. Not to say I'm sweet, but I have my nice moments." The doctor pauses, then adds with a smirk, "When I'm in the mood."

He shrugs before taking a sip of the drink in front of him.

"So I guess that's it. I'm an ol' fashioned cocktail."

“My, such colourful names,” Holmes murmurs as he peruses the list Regulus has provided. “I didn’t think you were supposed to feel like an imbecile until after you had drunk them.” His eyes narrow when he comes across the drinks named liquid cocaine. He quickly scans the ingredients. He doesn’t know what Red Bull is, but it doesn’t sound very appetizing. “I seriously doubt that these would have the intended effect on the imbiber,” he comments, flicking at his cuffs. He shakes his head. “Either avail yourself of the genuine article or leave well enough alone.” He smiles wolfishly. “Don’t try and mix them.” He leans back, thinking, tapping his chin with the stem of his pipe. “I’ve always preferred wine to cocktails. A nice Chateau La Tour. Very soothing after a tiring day. Or perhaps an eighteen-year old Glenmorangie. Something that won’t leave you feeling as if you’d been chased by the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

He's toying with the water glass, the liquid in it too thick to be water. He sips it, shrugs.

"I usually drink vodka straight, no surprise. Or Bourbon, if the mood hits. Something to describe me though: it's hardly going to be a cocktail, fruity little umbrellas and juices, don't kid yourself."

He takes another sip, licks his lips to chase after the taste of the alcohol.

"Drink to describe me, it's called Iron Curtain, fuckin' appropriate if you think about it. You take a shot glass, don't care if it's frozen or not, hell, most of the time you don't have the moment to spare to think about that. If you're in a shitty mood pour in the vodka first. Make it half full, three-fourths full, really doesn't matter. Then dribble in the Jägermeister, little clouds of black that rain on your parade. If you're in a good mood, pour in the Jägermeister first and fill it up with vodka, little clouds of white that brighten the day. If you give it time it'll settle into layers, easy to tell apart, easy to separate, but then you twirl it, twist it, fuck with it and it becomes this dark something that's gonna give you nightmares."

Another sip of the vodka.

"It goes down easy, easier than each of those in separate glasses. It's still gonna give you a headache in the morning. But it makes for a good night. That's something that can't be said for everyone. Or everything. You get at least one good night out of it."

He raises his glass in toast and drinks it down.

Andy runs his hand over his head, looks around at the small but intimate gathering.  He is nervous, he realizes. He doesn't know many of the people here, though Q's presence makes him smile.  But since it is expected for patrons of the cafe to contribute to the discussions, he puts his misgivings aside and stands.

"I'm the youngest of three, two older sisters. They're somewhat older than me, so by the time I came along, they decided that I was just for them to play with, take care and, of course, lead astray.  If I was going to try things that I shouldn't ought to be trying, then I would do it under their watchful eye."  He grins. "And their guidance. Which, needless to say, was often not exactly circumspect."

"One weekend, our mum and dad went on holiday, leaving my sisters in charge of me.  I think  I was about eleven, almost twelve.  My oldest sister's boyfriend, now her husband, had a friend who worked at a liquor store that had caught fire.  They needed to store the alcohol somewhere safe..."  He shook his head. "A twenty year old's apartment. Safe. Right. Anyway, the friend invited my brother in law, his name is Steve, over.  He brought my sister and of course she couldn't leave me and my other sister there all by ourselves, so we went along."

He laughs to himself, remembering the bloke's apartment.  "Pretty bottles everywhere.  Must've been sixty or so bottles of liquor in that place, and, fortunately or unfortunately, no inventory just yet of what had survived the fire and what had not."

Andy stares at the ceiling with a smile.  "Bottles everywhere, beautiful bottles.  West Indies Orange Bitters, Falernum, Blue Curacao, Curacao-Triple Sec, Orgeat, and Sloe Gin, green bottles, red bottles, yellow bottles, bottles of every shape and design and price.  Rare, common, harsh and delicate.  A rainbow of cocktail mixers and gin, rum, vodka..."  His gaze finds Q's.  "Heaven with the faint tinge of smoke is what I was looking at, though it soon enough became my hell. And, of course, my sisters'."

"The hours passed, my sisters and Steve and his mate were careful at first, just sticking with the best recipes, leaving me to drink my Coke like a good boy.  They'd parked me in front of the telly, but I couldn't take my eyes off all the pretty bottles, and their laughter soon made it impossible to watch.  After awhile they quieted, and I got up, bored.   I think my older sister and Steve had passed out by then, and my other sis wasn't far behind.  All those glasses sitting around, and the only one awake was Nate.  I remember his grin now, waving me toward the pretty bottles.  'Help yourself,' he told me, then closed his eyes.  And, I was alone.

"I found a clean glass--a martini glass, I know now, but then had no idea.  I knew I needed a recipe, but had no idea what.  They'd opened half the bottles, it seemed, though I guess probably not that much.  I had some Coke left, so decided to start with that.  Saw a nice bottle of Tequila, tossed that in, some Kahlua I think, maybe some rum, threw in some bitters...tasted that and about threw up.  Tossed that. Grabbed a pretty blue bottle, much better.  Vodka added to that, threw a cherry in, maybe something else I don't remember. Coconut?  Maybe.  It was something fruity.  That one was good. "  He smiles, remembering that first rush of heat, the pleasant rumble in his twelve-year-old belly.  "Next I tried a green version, have no idea what it was, very pretty, then yellow....think I made another blue drink too.  Lots of cherries.  I was having a blast, getting pretty pissed pretty fast. I remember Nate joining me at one point, telling me he liked how I mixed drinks but I had to name them.  All cocktails have great names like fuzzy navels, sex on the beach (that one had made his twelve year old self giggle),  ball destroyer, crimson death, you know.  Creative names, cocktails.

"In any case, by the time I got to the fifth drink, I was starting to feel a little strange.  Sick, really.  The room had started to spin, and Nate had two heads.  My sister had three, but mum and dad? Oh boy.  Twelve heads each at least, and all very unamused.  Seems we'd all passed out, and the night had come and gone, and part of the next day too.   The last I remember was my mum grabbing hold of me as I started to get up but then fall over. After that, nothing.  I think, in the end, it was my final concoction that got me."  He raises an empty hand in tribute, remembering well, sort-of.  "Sort of a Balalaika, with triple sec, Absolute, lime, two cubes of ice.  And of course a dash of cosmopolitan mixer for that lovely blood-red colour." 

He grins, dropping his hand. "I named that one Two Dead Sisters." 

"As a doctor, I don't think there's ever a good reason for war. Too much death, too much destruction, and to be honest, I don't even want to think about what it's like to patch up that many wounded. I get enough work just explorin' the galaxy. I've seen my share of battles and small skirmishes, and those were bad enough for me."

He's quiet for a moment as he thinks about the question. "Realistically though, there are reasons for war, even some I don't agree with. Preservation of the species, freedom, things like that. I don't like the idea of war, even if it is for a good cause. But there will always be those people that would rather be at war than at peace."

The doctor scoffs and makes a face. "I saw the most asinine war I'd ever seen, and probably ever will see. Two planets had been at war for over 500 years, and they'd 'progressed' so that the whole thing was played out by their computers. Simulated bombings, simulated attacks, but it left real people dead. Each side's computers generated 'casualty' lists during each attack, and all of those people, whether they wanted to or not, had to report to a suicide booth to kill themselves in the name of war."

He laughs, but not out of humor. "And they actually claimed this was the more civilized way to do it! Instead of workin' out a damn truce, they just became complacent with their war, lettin' computers fight it for them, then walkin' into a little booth to be put to death if the computer told them to! Instead of tryin' to work out their differences, they just accepted the fact that they'd always been at war and always would be. Hell, I doubt any of them could even give the reason they were at war in the first place!"

He shakes his head. "No, war is never the answer. I think we've all seen enough of that."

seasidecafe turns 1 year old this month, and to celebrate the fact that we've managed to make it this far without anyone being set on fire/turned into a twiglet/died of food poisoning, this month we're going to talk about the most fun you can have with swizzle sticks and miniature umbrellas: yes, cocktails.

If you were a cocktail, what would you be? Short and sour? Long, frothy and sticky-sweet? Or would you just burn like paint stripper? If you're just that unique and would like to invent a cocktail that you feel sums you up, please tell us about it. You never know, we might even make it for you. Need a little help?

The tag for this month is cocktails, and don't forget to claim the month for your character here.

War. Ianto gives a half-deprecating little laugh. What the hell kind of thing is that to talk about, in a place full of soldiers and mercenaries and refugees? Who wants to even think about that, let alone talk about it?

He looks around, sees people like Cesare, or that strange new man with the dark glasses on even inside, and wonders how many people would believe that he, Ianto Jones, had been to war. With his face that makes him look even younger than his years, innocent look honed to the point of perfection, smooth hands, calm demeanour, nice clothes, who would believe that he had fought and almost died, seen almost everyone he knew, everyone he loved and cared about, destroyed, and he was powerless to stop it.

"What other reason is there for fighting, other than to save the world? Maybe a whole galaxy, maybe a planet or country or a city, maybe even the world inside your own head. I fought to save the world once. More than once." He gives a bitter, forced smile. "Save it from us and our stupid, unthinking arrogance. No matter what happens, we're always our own worst enemies."

Jack has been thinking over it for awhile as he listens, not really saying anything to anyone about it, just taking it in. He speaks slower than usual, trying to be careful about what he says.

"I get the impression that I've been involved in more wars than any of you, from what you've said. Not sure. And that probably depends on what you count as involvement, too-- your home being targeted for a military action? Passing through a war zone and getting caught up in it for awhile? Actually enlisting and serving in a declared war? Because I've been involved in all those ways, myself. Doesn't make me better than you or anything, just saying, I've got the experience to comment on it. I wasn't originally 'captain,' but I did end up earning the rank."

He takes the harmonica out of his coat pocket to fiddle with it— a little gift from the Luggage, reminding him of the days passing time in the army trains, playing cards and singing songs.

"You've got to believe when you're at war. What you believe in, that's up to you. Maybe it's the cause you're supposedly fighting for, maybe it's a need for vengeance. Maybe it's some higher power, if you're into that. Or just the people you're fighting alongside, believing in them and wanting to get them out alive. It's a motivator. Keeps you fighting. You need belief to sustain you through it. You have to believe whatever it is, it's gonna happen eventually. You're going to beat the enemy, or save that person's life, or get the answers you need, whatever it is. Sometimes you don't have a choice about it because the war comes to you or you end up in it, and you just have to fight if you're going to live, but sometimes you choose to be in there. And you have to believe in something in either case. I've made that choice several times now. I've seen people stop believing, and when they give up like that, it gets them killed or gets the people around them killed, because they don't try any more to hang on to life. Their own or anyone else's. And especially when you're in command, you've got to keep the people around you motivated to keep believing, too. Sometimes you know you're probably sending them to their deaths, but you have to find some way of getting through it."

Chips.

They're a good reason to start a war - at least, they're certainly the reason for one of my most bloody and long-lived wars. Who would dare fight me over chips, you might ask. Are they bored, reckless, or just plain stupid? Don't they recognise the stubborness of a Black and the determination of a youngest son?

Well. Let me tell you.

Seagulls.

Yes. Vermin of the seafront. Pestilence of the promenade. Stealers of my chips. It's almost as if they don't know who I am. Or that I could transfigure every single one of them into a slug if I wanted to. If only there weren't so many damn people milling about the place, looking at me funny just because I like to threaten the nasty things with terrible pain and mushiness. Is it so wrong to want to eat one's chips in peace without any squawking or violent wing-flapping?

So yes. It's war.

The lines have been drawn. Any one of those filthy creatures comes anywhere near the café and they are slime. Unfortunately the sea front is currently their territory, but it's only a matter of time, you'll see. In these sad circumstances of being unable to blast them into sticky nothingness, I have come up with another strategy. Muggles would refer to my cunning plan as a "brolly". I'd prefer to call it a "self-contained sanctuary for the enjoyment of deep-fried tubers". Although I admit that's a bit of a mouthful. Maybe I'll work on that.

Still.

There is no penetrating its defences. There is no escaping a very sharp poke from the tip if you get within striking distance. Watch out, seagulls. Regulus Black has chips, and he's not afraid to eat them on your turf.

It's only natural, she thinks, that the topic eventually crops up. The long dog days of summer are in full swing, tempers shorten as the blood thickens in the veins, and wisdom seems to slumber in the muggy nights. War and the dog days of summer were nearly as predictable as the flooding of the Nile. Just as predictable, she thinks whilst tapping freshly lacquered nails on the table top, will be the answers that the kine give.

"The best reason for staring a war? Clearly not boredom, although that has fuelled ample conflicts through the ages. I would have say, then, to get what you wish with the least amount of personal effort and expenditure." Her thoughts turn to the conflicts raging across the world and Isabel wonders how shocked the gathered kine would be to learn how easily manipulated world governments are, especially to those who've had centuries to perfect their methods of persuasion. "Fortunately, or not depending on your point of view, there are always those who can be counted on to take up the mantle of a cause with the right motivation. Money, ideology, boredom... take your pick, or mix and match, it is really all the same."

Taking a long draught of her bottled vitae, so thoughtfully provided by one of the summer transients... no, tourist, she corrects herself... Isabel weighs her preferred methods of engaging in warfare. While it is amusing and satisfying on some levels to be out in the midst of the fighting, it was better by far to let others do the fighting for you. "Back when I rode with Garibaldi and the red shirts, I preferred to harry and hound the Austrian forces, riding them into exhaustion and then draining them. But times have changed and war is too mechanised," she shrugs, "so I leave it to chosen mercenaries. Supply them with arms, funding, and food, and your war is as good as won."

Q raises his hand, as if he were back in school. "OOH! I know this one!" He stands up and raises his wand like a baton.
Feel free to sing along. Everybody knows ( war )

His mind has been drifting a lot, lately. Sometimes the boundaries blur. He'll find himself talking to Miquel as if he were by his side, finds himself looking for familiar things. Sometimes it takes a while to pull himself together and practice what they call common courtesy, and like a garment that is coarse and much too small, it sends him chafing. Makes him angry: this kicking of heels, eating humble pie, saying yes and please and thank you. Sometimes his manners slip, especially when his mind is elsewhere.

He's been sitting in his favourite spot, if a sticky chair near the windows can be called that (his favourite spot... what has happened to the loggia of San Clemente in the Borgo, breeze-swept, sun-dried? there's the patter of naked feet rushing towards him-) and stirs something that pretends to be caffè. He won't drink it anyway.

"War," he muses idly. "War is a way of getting you what you want."

Kyra has another cup of tea. Her slim hands are folded around it, as though she's trying to use its heat to drive a bone-deep chill out of her hands. And maybe she is. She's new to this place, and wasn't expecting to have all these Deep Thoughts thrust at her like this. Some of them have been pretty surprising.

"Everybody has something they're willing to fight for. Something... maybe someone... they're willing to die for. I was reading this book -- been reading a lot of books lately -- and there's this guy who said the only way evil succeeds is if good people don't do anything to stop it. You know, if they just sit around, get complacent, figure it's someone else's job to stand up and draw a line in the sand and all that. So I'm kind of wondering... I found out where my line in the sand is, but... how about everybody else? What's the thing that'd make you take up arms? Go to war? Kill? Die? What would you protect, with your life, and with your soul? Or maybe who? 'Cause there's gotta be something, right? I dunno if everybody has a price, but I figure everybody has a line in the sand."

She takes a sip of tea and looks around at the other people in the cafe, mild curiosity in her expression.

"Mine's right in front of my friends. Where's yours?"

The luggage marched solemnly up to the stage. He turned and 'looked' at the people seated around the cafe. He opened his lid, tipped up, and a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.




The luggage nodded to the assembled and exited, stage left.