Who: Group 2 (Ava, Jack, Luke, and Poppy) and the Penguin Pals What: Busting a Drug Deal Where: Property for Sale in Woodinville, 139th Ave NE When: 1 AM on Sunday, November 14 Warnings: PG-13 style violence, mentions of criminal activity, gunfire, mentions of illegal drugs.
The hotel room in Jack Kersey's name was fairly small, without a single furnishing that could be considered luxury. Though there was nothing wrong with it per say, it held an eerie air. It was the sort of hotel room that could be written up in horror novels as the scene of a gruesome crime that would result in hauntings for decades to come. The bathtub had small chips in the sides, the ideal location for ghostly "blood" to ooze onto the floor and frighten good-looking blonde actresses with lulling careers. For some reason, the overhead light flickered every time someone passed beneath it. And the sink couldn't be turned on without emitting a low squeaking sound that was thankfully drowned out by the running water.
Sitting in one of the old chairs was a man dressed well above the class of the room that surrounded him. The chair was turned towards the window, back to the door, to allow him to stare intently at a small chickadee perched on a telephone wire that ran between his hotel window and the buildings on the other side of the street. As he stared, he puffed on a thick cigar that filled the small room with a thick, heady smoke. The smoke that hissed from his nostrils formed narrow streams that began to expand and curl through the air, rising to the ceiling only to disperse after the slow-moving collision.
After an indeterminate amount of time, the man straightened up in his seat. The chickadee was hopping from side to side, head canted towards the ground and then to the window he hid behind. With a foul smile, he pulled the cigar from his lips, dropping the ash into a provided tray as he reached into the breast of his jet black dinner jacket. The chickadee fluttered to the windowsill as he strode forward, reaching the window with a small bag of seed hefted in his palm. Opening the window just a crack, he spread the seed across the outside edge of the sill before closing the window again. He left the chickadee to devour her feast, taking another drag on his cigar as he strolled towards the door.
Before leaving, he paused in the bathroom, peering into the mirror critically. He smoothed a hand over his stomach, watching the brilliant white of his shirt disappear into his black trousers. Rebuttoning the jacket, he adjusted his black bow tie. Holding the cigar in his teeth, Owen Vogel gave his reflection an enormous grin.
"It's showtime." The Blue Bull had been a failed attempt at bringing a British pub to downtown Seattle. Poor management and a cantankerous staff closed the bar within a year, leaving the property desolate and uninhabited. The owners were still trying to sell it, but with the economy's downturn, it was difficult to find willing buyers. For months, the Blue Bull was unloved and abandoned on 139th Ave NE, with nobody sparing more than a batted eye for it whenever they passed.
At one o'clock in the morning on Sunday, November 14th, the old Blue Bull received more attention than it had in months. The boarded-up space was carefully broken into, the plastic furniture and rubble left where it was as a collapsing TV dinner table was set up in its center. Several battery-powered "lanterns" were dotted about the space to give it light, a dim glow that was barely visible to the outside world. Inside, twelve men were evenly dispersed throughout the space.
Standing on either end of the small card table were two men at approximately the same height, dressed in opposites. One wore a black and white mask and a pristine suit while the other was dressed casually in jeans and a light t-shirt. Behind the man in the black and white were two others, grimly dressed in black sweaters. Alan Jennings pulled at the collar of his sweater, glancing over at Hank Kinsey on his right. Both men were keeping a sharp eye on the Penguin as he leaned over the table, extending a gloved hand to the man in jeans. "John," he said with a heavy smile, teeth bared.
John Drake clasped his hand firmly, knuckles bloodied and worn from fights long past. "Penguin," he said, voice tense. His gaze was never still, bounding from face to face before settling on the Penguin's beady-eyed stare. "What've you got for me today?"
The Penguin chuckled, reaching beneath the table for a black case. "Just a little something," he said casually, opening the latches. The lid opened wide to reveal rows and rows of individual plastic bags of cocaine, all identical. Drake eyed the wares skeptically before picking up a bag, inspecting it warily. "You have to check?" the Penguin asked with amusement, chuckling once more. "I admire that. You don't take anything for granted."
"I don't," John replied airily, putting the bag down. After a moment's hesitation, he beckoned to a man in gray. The man slapped a full-to-bursting envelope in his palm. The envelope was quickly forked over to the Penguin. "This covers it," he said.
"Oh?" The Penguin split the envelope open with gloved fingers, flipping through the bills carefully. "Should I take that for granted?" His squawking laughter spooked the rottweiler stationed at the entrance with his handler, creating a vacuum of silence in the abandoned bar that seemed too sweet to persist.