Place: Megaton, Moriarty's Saloon. Time: Noonish. Characters: Jericho, Shirley, open to any and all. Content: Crude language. Summary: Some pre-opening RPs to get settled in!
Jericho had actually woken up before noon that day, but the throbbing headache that had settled into the very center of his brain kept him fixed firmly on his back. What had he done last night, aside from getting blackout drunk? He couldn't even remember getting home. Some people might've considered the idea that someone else had helped them home, but that did not so much as cross his mind. He wasn't good enough friends with anyone for that to have happened. No, he'd likely stumbled home on autopilot.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, voice scratchy and hoarse. He stumbled around his shack somewhat blindly, shaking a few bottles before he found one that had something in it. A few experimental sniffs assured him it wasn't anything he'd regret drinking and he took a swallow, grimacing afterwards and tossing the bottle into a growing pile of empties.
Scratching himself listlessly, Jericho worked up the motivation to leave his stuffy shack with his first cigarette of the day. The rush of nicotine was one of the few things that still brought a smile to his face, the smoke fixed firmly between his lips as he scrounged for his armor. His gloves eluded him for a little while but he eventually found them on top of a shelf. How the fuck he'd gotten them up there, he didn't know, and didn't quite care. At least he was indoors.
Holstering a pistol and slinging a rifle over his back concluded his morning ritual and he was out the door, scratching at his jaw and squinting in the suddenly harsh sun. He flicked his now-spent cigarette over the railing just outside his door and lit another, adjusting his gear as he headed towards Moriarty's Saloon. It wasn't even a conscious decision anymore, his boots just took him over on autopilot. Wasn't like he had anything better to do.
Moriarty's was just as stuffy as his shack, though a weak fan set up somewhere in the back made a valiant effort to stir up a little circulation. People used to look up, sit up a little straighter when he walked in, but by now he was just another local.
More washed up local flavor, that was him in a nutshell. Jericho smirked and bought himself a bottle of whatever was cheap, slouching down in a chair that faced the door. Maybe it was a uselessly paranoid gesture, but he hated leaving his back exposed. He didn't think it was a habit that needed breaking.
Jericho had no set plan for the day even now that he'd wandered in and sat down. Nothing outside of finishing his current bottle and hitting up another one. Oh, that wasn't pathetic at all.
Maybe it'd be a rare day and someone interesting would stumble in through the front door of the saloon. Probably not, but hell, even the smallest changes in routine were welcome these days. Flicking ammo casings at Gob got old kind of fast, and he was between jobs so it wasn't like he could buy himself much entertainment.
Better than getting his fucking head blown off, right?