Spider's lips narrowed into a pensive line at the sound of the questioning voice.
These times were not the ones where people could afford to be fickle in their choices -- magic portals demanded a rapid ingestion of alcohol after all -- Spider was seemingly none-too-pleased to find his own decisions being questioned already. Now was not the time for questions, now was the time for drinking, smoking, and getting answers. Whoever this voice belonged to, well, they were about to get a verbal fistful of just what Spider thought.
Spider whirled around to greet the voice, almost ready to rain down a series of frothing shouts about the audacity of someone, anyone, who would question the very nature of his drink choices -- and then? He didn't. As his glasses, with their lacking symmetry of one red, circular lens and one, green, square one, slid down the bridge of his nose, Spider regarded the woman for a long moment.
Recognizing her wasn't hard, and Spider's demeanor instantly shifted. No longer was he the madman, incensed by a useless question, but instead the more curious professor, or bizarre outlaw Journalist, who may have just found himself his first (in a likely long string thereof) assistant.
"Because you don't drink whiskey in a place like this." Spider retorted, quite plainly, snapping the cigarette from his mouth in a rather dramatic display. "It would be insulting to the host. Besides. Whiskey is something you save for the hard burns, when you're under the pressing weight of a nightmarish deadline by some cheap, two bit, hustler of boredom that wouldn't know the truth if it climbed in bed with him and started chewing on his ankles."
Turning, in his usual, almost marionette style, Spider meandered toward a table and dropped himself, rather unceremoniously, into a seat. For a moment, it would appear that he'd forgotten all about the redhead, or seemingly lost all interest in his proposition to her as an assistant, as Spider reached up to rub at the small tattoo on his brow, his free hand rapidly working over the PDA again.
"So, what's the score here?" Spider asked, finally looking up at Charlie. "Bring me up to speed, and try and leave out any of the parts about --" Spider's focus shifted slightly as he abruptly began looking about the room. "-- where the hell is the rum? How am I supposed to get any work done without a proper drink? Time traveling portals into a land where people are nice and the air doesn't smell like mutant shit, and I can't get a proper word down about the thing. I should speak to the manager --" and Just like that, he shifted his focus back to Charlie, like he'd never left.
"This place that sound like someone's just on bad drugs, or some seriously amped up mood enhancers. Seriously, have you seen the way people smile here?" Spider's teeth clamped down in mock horror as he gave a, mildly feigned and somewhat genuine, shiver. "It's Unnatural -- and we'll worry a bout that, and the rum, shortly." Spider patted the empty table spot across from him.