Cath Delaney (battle_man) wrote in oblivionrp, @ 2009-04-23 18:56:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | cath, cath and ronnie, ronnie |
There's Not Enough Beer For This
Who: Cathair, Ronnie
Where: Cult of Dionysus
When: Early evening
The dimness of the club was a welcome relief to Cath's exhausted eyes. All day, he'd been holed up in the bloody library, reading. He hadn't done that since university, even when preparing for a mission. And reading a bunch of blarney, as far as he was concerned. It wasn't that Cath didn't completely disbelieve in the supernatural. He was quite certain there was a God and a Devil, angels and demons, and ghosts. But some much of what he'd read was romanticized nonsense written to be entertaining, not informative.
What he had found that could be remotely credible, was grim at best. Equipment malfunctions, bizarre deaths, ghost ships, people going fucknutting insane. And that was from the lot that had made it out. Most ships that had trouble in the Triangle just never came back. Lost at sea, odd last transmissions, odds and sods washing up on one beach other another, belonging to people what were lost forever.
Cath needed a beer. Likely several beers. And he was on a mission. No rest for the wicked, after all. He needed to find a member of security and grill them. In a friendly, non-suspicious manner. He could do that. And he quickly spotted a likely victim, crouched over his mug and meal. That was definitely not beer in it either. Looked like soda pop, how fizzy it was. Now that wouldn't do. Really, they should just bloody open up the tap, even if they were expecting to make it out of the mess. To make up for what everyone was being put through.
He tapped on the bar with two fingers and paid the bartender as she poured two Guinnesses. She'd be as used to him and Mae as Mary and the other bartenders were. Probably though he was just there first. Frankly, he might well be in the doghouse, but that was the least of his worries.
Moving over to the security lad and set the mug down in front of him. Guinness wasn't his drink of choice, but he could drink it all bloody night and only get a buzz. His liver had probably been pickled by the age of twenty-five. His poison of choice was whiskey, but he needed his head tonight. "Mind if I join you?" he asked. "I've even got a peace offering for bothering you. You look as if you could use it."