|It's Brittany, Bitch | Ερις (eristic) wrote in paxletalelogs,|
@ 2010-10-26 16:58:00
|Entry tags:||eris, veles|
Who: Kaminski and Charlie
What: Hate. Lots and lots of hate.
Where: Snake Pit Ale House
When: Same day as the Charger's loss
Warnings: Where there is Charlie, profanity runs rampant. I apologize to all those who have virgin ears. As for whatever else, I'll let you know.
The Snake Pit was a decent place to hang out after work. Charlie had started frequenting the corner bar a few weeks after starting at Pep Boys; her co-workers often went there and she had followed suit. Charlie, needing company? Forgo the idea, she was only in it for the alcohol. The others she worked with treated her like one of the guys anyway, and it gave her some routine. Not that she was all about routine these days, but she was trying to make an effort to look like a normal person. No one had stamped FELON across her forehead, no, she scared others away just with the scowl on her face.
Taking a worn-looking seat at the bar, she set her helmet on the stool next to her and the messenger bag plopped on the floor. Frank, the bartender, nodded at her - holy hell, she was becoming a regular. It had been years, but, hey, it felt good. And after all the shenanigans at the apartment building, it was good to feel good. No psychotic thoughts, no need to sink nails into flesh or feel blood... Ok, stop stop stop stop, she muttered insider her mind, though outwardly she was still as pissed looking as ever.
"Guinness and a meatball sandwich, I'm starving," she rattled off. At least her meals weren't regular, if you could call trying various combinations of beer and sandwiches nonroutine. But the food at the Snake Pit was better than anything she'd ever eaten in prison.
"Tough day?" She rolled her eyes at Frank's inquiry, though by now he knew it for the sarcastic gesture that it always was. The bar was rarely busy, another thing in its favor in Charlie's eyes, and Frank...well, Frank was a bit of a chatter box.
"No more than usual. Some idiot tryin' to tell me how to fix his fuckin' muffler. All worried that I'd scratch the paint or something - insisted on standing around the entire time. These people and their precious Prius', I swear," she replied, her tone slow and even. Ready for a relaxing evening enjoying some tunes from the jukebox (currently playing "Sweet Child O'Mine," one of Charlie's favorites) and chowing down in relative peace.
"I don't know if I hate electric cars or not. It just ain't the same, you know?" Frank slid the beer towards her with a nod, and she grabbed it from the counter, lifting it to her lips to take a sip, her eyes rising to take a glance at the screen, where the Patriots were soundly beating the Chargers.