WHO: Dr Cox, Bobby Singer WHERE: The Roadhouse WHEN: Sunday, October 30; evening WHAT: Random interaction, basically :D RATING: TBD STATUS: thread; in-progress
As not every hour of the day, or even just the evening, involved needing to patch anyone up, Cox spent the time behind the bar serving drinks. While he had never had the ambition to be a bartender, while he still thought of himself as a doctor, being behind the bar was another form of keeping busy and that he did have the ambition for – plus, it had its perks.
Right now, one such perk meant having the fun of chucking a former customer out the door when said customer royally annoyed him. The Roadhouse wasn't a regular neighborhood bar, after all. Idiots were not wanted and, in Cox's case, systematically cut down to size verbally before usually being thrown out in a very physical sense. What, like the cops were going to come knocking in this city?
"And if we even see so much as a hair on your sorry head again," he called out into the parking lot, "you will find out exactly, and I do mean exactly, what I do to people I really can't stand. Here's a hint – it involves you being lunch to the closest freak in the night."
He turned to face the inside, a grin already spreading. "Dear God, it is good to be an owner of this place," he said, brushing his hands in front of them as though dusting them off before heading back toward the bar.