bwc_domino (bwc_domino) wrote in bwc_rp, @ 2014-08-21 14:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | dianthe papalia, domino joe |
File this for me
Who: Domino Joe, Dianthe Papalia
What: Joe returns from a trip out of state, and his putting-up-with-shit meter is running low.
When: 21 August 2014, 23:30
Where: The Lost Hour
Extra Notes: Public thread, if people want to join in.
Blackwood.
It was a pretty far cry from what he was used to on the west coast, even though he'd been on the eastern side of the country for years now. He missed it, in many ways, even if the Anarch Free State was a bit of a joke in and of itself. Hierarchies persisted, regardless of how much people insisted they didn't, after all, but things were still a little more liberal there.
He felt the vice-like grip of the Camarilla from the state border, frankly, and it was making him ornery. Even the open road hadn't assuaged it entirely, although his bike always helped a little. And booze. And blood. He'd fed earlier in the evening, so it was just the second one on him mind as he steered the hog towards the bar, allowing it to rumble in on inertia before he cut the engine, instantly reducing its growl to a purr, and then silence apart from the ticking of the engine.
He stepped off and shook the stiffness out of his limbs, clocking the handful of people scattered outside of it, puffing away at cigarettes. That very act marked them as kine, even without his other senses telling him so. Vaguely, he wondered if he had really had enough to eat, and whether he could take a few of them down the alleyway to the side, before he stamped that thought down. It was his beast talking, pure and simple, and he resolved to pull back on its chains.
He ignored the humans as he pushed through the glass door of the bar, and allowed the sensations of The Lost Hour to wash over him like a refreshing wave, blowing out the negativity and frustration of coming back to the city in a blast of stale beer, loud music, raucous cheering and sweat.
It was a biker bar, through and through, or at least it appeared so to the Kine. For the Kindred, it was something a little different. It attracted Brujah, Gangrel and Anarchs primarily, although the occasional Malkavian found her way in. Even the Nosferatu made an appearance now and again long after it stopped catering to mortals, but they were rarer than gold dust these days. Mostly, he heard, they stuck to their sewers and crypts, although the better off had a few luxury penthouse apartments where they could live through the internet. Joe had never understood the need for elevation that his kind often professed - even the Camarilla was called "The Ivory Tower", for Christ's sake. Who wanted to be closer to the sun? At least the Sabbat, for all of their faults, recognised that they were closer to Hell than Heaven, and buried their initiates accordingly.
"Domino," said Bear, his bar manager while he was away, and Joe nodded. The man was Brujah, like him, and the picture of the modern clan. Big, swarthy, bedecked in tattoos and sporting a metal beard with a shaved head, Joe often joked that he didn't need to hire security for The Lost Hour, the bar took care of itself. Bear was a man of few words, which suited Joe, too, and he had an unnatural instinct for knowing what was needed without being told. The case in point was made as he poured a generous measure of bourbon into a tumbler and slid it over to him, already pouring the second as Joe took the first in two enormous gulps.
"Message," he grunted, passing across the whiskey before handing over an envelope with it.
"Fuck's sake," Joe sighed, lighting a cigarette with a battered Zippo as he turned the item over in his hand. It was virgin white with silver trim, wax-sealed on the back with the mark of Clan Ventrue. Joe spat at the sight of it, and Bear rumbled his approval. He pulled his switchblade from inside the leather cutte he wore, and sliced through the seal - seriously, was e-mail too much for these assholes?
"Blah, blah," he intoned, scanning over the cursive script, painstakingly scrawled on the paper inside, which probably cost more per sheet than the glass of alcohol in his hand. "Prince demands your presence, absence of a Brujah primogen, fuck you very much you fascist Camarilla prick."
He placed the letter on the bar, almost reverently, and reached over, grabbing a bottle of overproof rum, which he upended over the paper. It soaked up the liquid greedily, all of which led to a spectacular burst of flame when Joe dropped his cigarette onto the page.
After a few moments the flames died down, and the shrivelled, curled remnants of the letter began to drift away as Joe lit another cigarette.
"Oops," he said, glaring at the charred spot on the bar as he took a swig from the rum, feeling it burn pleasantly down his throat.