Just call me Spike (bloody_will) wrote in btvsal, @ 2009-08-04 21:37:00 |
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Current mood: | cheerful |
Staking a claim
WHO: Spike, OT anyone
WHEN: Tuesday night
WHERE: The Golden Eagle
There was nothing garish about the sign. Considering it was on the Strip, not far from Avarice and various other hotspots, "nothing garish" meant "practically invisible". Spike was okay with that. There was a time and a place to be flashy and bold and call attention to yourself, and there was a time and a place to be a sneaky git and take over your own little corner of paradise.
Spike eyed it critically through the plate glass, badly in need of a washing, and and nodded.
"The Golden Eagle," he said out loud. Wounded ... well, Western and American. And a golden eagle had been an awesome unit of currency ... ten bucks packed into something heavy and about the size of a quarter. Worth more than it appeared to ...
Yeah, that fit.
He walked inside through the open door and got a quick look around. The place was busier than it had been in ages, helped along by word on the street that it was a discrete place, a safe place, for those with something to hide. A pair of horns, fangs, a three-kitten-a-day habit ... whatever.
The decor was mostly leftover 70's crap ... some neon beer signs over peeling paneling. There was a poster for Killian's Red depicting Kathy Ireland (who the hell even knew who she was, anymore, Spike wondered) dressed a little like a sexy leprechaun. A pair of steer horns hung above the jukebox, which actually had a pretty good selection of music.
Spike nodded at the bartender, who slid him a longneck Budweiser. Spike took a drink and leaned back against the bar, looking around the room with a smirk.