WHO: Mason Sullivan and Deimos Moon WHEN: Pretty much now. WHERE: The Revolution Lounge, the bar Mason works at in Vegas. WHAT: Deimos drops in. Mason's going to get a headache and be a dick. Pretty much par for him. WARNINGS: Language. Mason's got sailor mouth. So we're going with an 'R'.
It was probably the longest Mason had ever held down a job; nearly two months in and it didn't seem like the manager at the club was hankering to lay him off any time soon. It wasn't his people skills of course; Mason's people skills weren't very good as he tended to insult more than compliment, but he had a pretty face, and there were plenty of drunk women around willing to throw money his way. Plus he was skilled at mixing drinks having made a habit of mixing his own back at home. There was also the occasional moment where he was brave enough to let Dick out a little bit, who was surprisingly more personable than he so long as he stopped letting the ever-increasing amount of stupid pour out of his mouth.
Tonight was like most Friday nights. It wasn't as busy as it was going to be later seeing as it wasn't even ten yet, but it didn't mean that Mason wasn't without work to do. There was still a fair number of customers for him to tend to, some cleaning up to do from the jackhole who worked prior to him, and a lot of prep work for the big rush. Mason wasn't entirely working by himself, but he always acted like he was, moving about to prep without any mind paid to his co-worker--except to check her out in a less-than-subtle fashion since she was slutting it up for the extra tips--and staying on his own side of the bar.
Anti-social, thy name is Mason.
He was just finishing up with a middle-aged woman who was chatting his ear off about some gambling luck tradition she had with her husband when the big rush came in. Mason thanked her for her tip with a forced smile before preparing himself for the onslaught of customers. It was time to get busy.