| Home for the Holiday |
[26 Dec 2007|05:39pm] |
'Twas the night of Christmas, and in the double-wide
A creature stirred at the stove, careful not to burn his hide.
His companion seated on a newly-bought chair,
While smells of vegetarian lasagna danced 'round her hair;
Rhiannon in her best, and Whistler in his hat,
Had just settled down for an untraditional meal (lean, not fat),
When from the fire detector, there arose such a clatter,
He sprang into action, to deal with the matter.
"Jesus!" Whistler grabbed the potholders and dove towards the gourmet offense. He threw open the oven door and retrieved the slightly burnt garlic bread. Unceremoniously the metal pan clanged onto the stove top, and he spun ninety-degrees using his right foot to close the metal beast while frantically waving the holders in the air to disperse the smoke and silence the alarm.
"Give me those." Rhiannon scraped a chair under the smoke detector and climbed on it. Instead of fanning the pot holders, she ripped the cover off and pulled the battery out. The eruption of noise stopped. "What're you, expecting a visit from the fire marshall?" The battery thudded on the floor and rolled under the fridge, alongside untold numbers of dust bunnies and formerly frozen peas.
The air reeked. She got down and went to the front door, then made an effort to push some air out of the trailer by opening and closing it. "Well... That's what you get for watching Wheel. You're making me feel 80."
"It was that or 'Pimp My Grandmother'," the Agent winked. Christmas fare on television was sparse at best and the idea of a fake yule log with muzak-muzzled holiday tunes ran shivers up his spine. Definitely a demon-spawned idea. Give people a sneak-peek of what awaits them in the afterlife.
The hatted man watched as the battery disappeared, made a mental note to retrieve it. Like he'd done when the first two spatulas were accidentally kicked under the stove, or the spilled change from the pizza he'd ordered last week. In the future, archeologists would puzzle over the time capsule contents in Whistler's kitchen.
If Gerald let them in.
He dug out the garlic bread from the pan and threw the edible pieces into a wicker basket laced with paper towels, and set it on the table. Most of his compensated check from Star went to refurbishing/renovating his trailer, with the main treat being an actual three-piece dining set. Whistler gave the contents a once-over: vegetarian lasagna (check), garlic bread (check), caesar salad (from a bag, check).
"Dinner is served. Can you make it back to the table," he asked with a smile, "or do I need a wheelchair for your geriatric ass?"
( Only Under the Car )
( Holiday Gifts )
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| Two Mugs of Beer |
[17 Dec 2007|03:09pm] |
At just after ten on a Monday night, with only three demons perched on the bar stools, business was officially slow in the Basement. It had been the same story the night before… and the one preceding. Justus, the proprietor, wore his perpetually untroubled face despite Rhiannon’s dry commentary about shit hitting the fan. Being the sort to profit off explosions in the demon population, he didn’t stand to lose much if it happened.
The Slayer wiped her hands on a rag. All the mugs had been washed, dried, and stacked neatly on their racks. The counter was clean and smelled vaguely of ammonia. There was nothing to do but sit and watch her share of the tips not appear.
Rhiannon swiped a book of matches with the bar’s logo. She lit a cigarette and put her elbows on the bar. It stung a little when the mixture of water and cleaner soaked into her skin.
“You think it’s true… about the hellhounds?” Rhiannon had her own opinion, as well as an idea of where they might’ve come from, but she bit her tongue to listen to Justus talk.
Mallory's stomach had been a ball of quiet dread ever since she'd gotten the two phone messages from Rhiannon. She'd packed a few things and gotten into the truck, leaving behind a note for Sonya before renting a motel room in Vegas. The city, at least, was bigger than Searchlight, which would give Deanna less of a chance of finding her. But days passed, and nothing happened, which was good. But she hadn't heard from or seen Victoria, and that was bad.
She just didn't know how bad the actuality was yet.
Regardless of its clientele, she knew that The Basement was a safe place, the de-militarized zone, so she went there to risk asking questions. Even if no one there actually knew the Slayer, someone would probably know someone who did. She'd find Rhiannon first if she could, see what had happened.
The door opened quietly, then fell shut. It must be closing time, the redhead thought. She spotted that vaguely familiar face as Rhiannon finished lighting her smoke, then hung back to raise a hand in uncertain greeting.
What had Vicky told her, if anything? Did it matter what the woman thought of her, considering that they didn't even know one another? Probably not. Mallory took a few steps, lowered her weight onto one of the vacant barstools. Not casual, but waiting in silence regardless.
Another customer wouldn’t go unnoticed, since it was such a rarity. Justus was halfway through his spiel about the unlikelihood of a hellhound when the door opened. Rhiannon’s attention drifted to the door. It took her a second or two of staring to place Mallory’s name with her familiar face. It had been something like two years since they met, and that was only once.
“Mallory?” The brunette’s question cut Justus off, and she apologized for it with an uplifted index finger. Hold the phone… Rhiannon picked up her ashtray and headed in the newcomer’s direction. She didn’t know if the other woman smoked or not, but she was certain that second-hand didn’t bother her in the diner where they met once.
"Rhiannon." Answering the question with a nod as the soles of her tennis shoes slipped on the bottom rung of her stool. She had already walked off most of the tread and could use a new pair.
"Do you have a few minutes? I got your phone calls but wasn't sure when I'd be able to reach you." The Slayer worked here? Well, at least it'd cut down on the chances of fighting on the job, she supposed. "Do you have some time? I could buy a round of beers if that'd help get a table."
( Not Paying for Drinks )
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| What Are The Odds? |
[12 Dec 2007|12:06am] |
After more than eight years, getting hit still hurt.
Rhiannon wiped her lip.
She should've gone on a regular patrol, maybe hit a graveyard or two, and broken her body back in easily. But this whole 'vampires on wheels' thing had been bothering her for weeks. A half hour before sunset, the Slayer walked to the industrialized area where railroad tracks intersected and trains dropped cargo or picked up new cars before heading out of town. It didn't take long to find a seemingly deserted car that, her senses told her, gave shelter to a couple of vamps during the daylight hours.
Her plan was simple enough on paper. Give the metal door a tug, flood the car with sunlight, and go from there.
Sneaking up was utterly impossible. She did a tight-wire on the side of the rail car and found the handle. But as soon as she inched the door, it let out a scrape that practically turned her ears inside out. Sound amplification guaranteed that the occupants were feeling it, too. Hearing a chorus of angry snarls, Rhiannon grunted and yanked on the door as hard as she could.
At halfway, she heard the first demon explode in a cloud of dust. But then pulling got harder. Suddenly she was in a tug of war for control of the door. One of the vamps vamp got ballsy. Sunlight or not, it reached around and grabbed the Slayer's throat and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut behind her. First everything was orange, light cast by the burning vampire. Then he was dust and the car went pitch black. A fist hit her on the mouth. So much for simple on paper...
Whistler's idea, on paper, was perfect. Pound on the back door of the Chinese restaurant, flood the goon with his charm, and go from there. Faking his way into the poker game was pretty much impossible. High stakes meant high security. You needed guts. You needed a password. You needed a bankroll (which he had, courtesy of the last paycheck cashed from the Witching Hour). One out of three.
Whistler walked the tightrope when the six-foot bruiser answered the door. He stuffed a few dollars into the guy's breast pocket, hoping to impress, but the grunt from the front-line security indicated the hatted man was unwelcome. It was either brass balls or a death wish that found Whistler's foot thrust into the entrance and this his hands against the solid metal door, where he engaged in a tug of war. The scrape of metal against concrete reverberated along the alley as the Whistler versus Goliath battle rode on.
He didn't see the extra pair of hands that grabbed him by the lapels, and lifted him six inches off the ground before yanking him inside the restaurant. The door slammed shut behind him...
( Rail Car )
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| Ludicrous Speed |
[06 Dec 2007|08:33pm] |
At just after 9pm, Rhiannon settled on the curb at 1401 Rainbow Boulevard. She lit a cigarette. A cold snap had taken the temperature in the city from mild to cold in only a day. The concrete underneath Rhiannon's jeans reminded her of it. If she sat there too long, parts of her would go numb. So here's hoping he wasn't late. She pulled her leather coat tight and watched as her breath fogged the air.
Behind her, motors revved. The Mini Grand Prix was busy, even in the winter months. The noise from its four tracks was massive, the sounds rising and falling as the miniature cars circled each speedway. On a scale of unlikely places for Rhiannon to be, this had to rank Top 5. But the thing was, she had promised Joseph another round of gambling. She could be obvious about it and hand him a deck of cards or a pool stick. Chances were, he'd beat her.
Or she could surprise him. Besides, Rhiannon thought, tapping ash into the gutter, she could use something a little less serious. Even if she did plan to seriously kick his ass.
A car slowed down and she stiffened, thinking it might be Joseph. But the driver only rolled down his window, checked the prices on the gate, and kept going. Rhiannon rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. "Breathe," she whispered, a nervous laugh to herself. "Jesus." A weird shot of anxiety made her knees jittery. She masked it by standing up and stamping on her cigarette butt.
Joseph had been up to the early hours of the new day, mostly because he couldn't sleep to save his life these days. He hadn't been able to sleep through the night since his mother's death and the subsequent events that unfolded in New York. Sleep cost too much; he had learned it the hard way. At the memory, Joseph's fingers lifted to scrub at the scar that marred his neck, but he quickly lit a cigarette to give his hands something to do. Idle hands were the Devil's playground, after all.
It was after he hit the traffic in Vegas that Joseph realized he was a mixture of excited and nervous, adrenaline warring with anxiety. It was a strange combination. He was curious about what Rhiannon had in store for them and how she intended on winning back the money she'd lost to him over a game of cards. The girl had more tricks up her sleeve than all the magicians in Vegas put together, and it was one of the things he'd always loved about her.
Given that it was slightly cooler in Vegas these days, Joseph had opted for warmer clothing, leather jacket over the top to keep the heat in. The streets were littered with people looking for fun, women dressed in little to nothing and suffering for it. There was something to be said for practicality over aesthetic appeal; not that the men were any better.
He flicked the filter end of his cigarette and ash was scattered in the wind - leaving small trails of grey behind - as Joseph accelerated and left the wicked world of the Las Vegas nightlife behind. Tonight was about something different - about meeting Rhiannon on her terms and seeing what she had in mind.
A little after nine his car drew up in the front of a Mini Grand Prix and Joseph cocked an eyebrow, chuckling softly and lowly from deep down in his chest. He stepped out of his car, slamming the door shut and exhaling smoke in one smooth movement. "Well... this is different," he commented, raising his voice a little so Rhiannon would be able to hear him. He'd spotted her early; hadn't been able to miss her. He offered her a slow, really easy smile, like he had absolutely no troubles in the world.
"Yeah?" Rhiannon dug her fingers deep inside her pockets, where it was warm. "You know me. I'd rather die than be predictable." It was more a joke than anything to be taken seriously. Jokes were good. In the absence of liquid courage, they loosened her face into a smile, so she didn't look tense enough to snap in half. She doubted there was any alcohol sold at a race track. Damn it.
The brunette meandered to where he stood. She was dressed simply, jeans and a thermal, boots and jacket. Her hair was down, a little effort to cover the fang-shaped scar that refused to budge, no matter what cream she rubbed on it. Rhiannon knew it was only a matter of time, but where memories of Deanna were concerned, less time was better.
Don't think about that now.
Think about him. Think about life.
( Racing )
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| Kindred |
[25 Nov 2007|09:59pm] |
'And lo, Elfleda’s light became snatched and taken from all mortal grasp. The Beastly Leviathan, it did prosper and called to midst it was. Elfleda’s virgin heart seduced.'
Rhiannon’s fingers hooked behind the mottled page but didn’t turn it. She read the passage over again and wondered if the living Elfleda had wanted to be taken, if she had succumbed to corruption and gone willingly, or if it had been the horrific separation from home and family that the words made it seem. She thought it would be ironic if the latter were true. The Elfleda that Rhiannon knew cared little for the feelings of other beings, though she did prefer persuasion over force. The Slayer supposed it made for a greater victory.
She closed her index finger in the book and looked at the wall. It wouldn’t be long before Elfleda came for her. So far, no one had returned her calls about Atia. It was just as well. Her body wasn’t yet healed and her mind was a mess. Just how she was meant to help restore Elfleda to power, effectively cutting Atia out of the picture, she wasn’t sure. There was no guarantee it would work.
Rhiannon set the book aside.
There was a warm glow in the apartment. The night before, she had gotten bored and wasted, too. So much for temperance. With a bottle in her hand, Rhiannon climbed on a kitchen chair and strung holiday lights from tiny nails in the brick mortar. They were haphazardly done, but something about acknowledging the season appealed to her. It stuck a middle finger up at her circumstances.
Now she stared at an orange bulb and thought about cigarettes.
Relieved. A whole new definition of the word 'relieved', actually. Connor had gotten Rhiannon's text message while on the bus, and he felt so much better about everything that he didn't even mind the six blocks he had to walk from the place he exited the vehicle. The sun was down now, but not even the shadows disturbed him as he walked. His shoes made hollow sounds on the metal staircase as he climbed to the Slayer's porch, and a pack of cigarettes protruded from his shirt pocket.
His knuckles made sharp contact with the door, and he realized that knowing she was alive and not in a dumpster somewhere made him want to yell at her. She'd worried him, damn it, and worry wasn't something he acclimated to easily. The Destroyer's spine stiffened against the slight bite in the night air, and he jammed his hands into his pockets while he waited.
Don't yell. She's okay, that's what you wanted, remember? Stop being a loser.
"I even brought you some smokes." Like he'd brought her an offering as thanks. "I'll have one with you." The heel of his hand struck the door with a bang, echoing past him down the stairs. "Come on, okay?"
Rhiannon’s head snapped. “Ow.” She rubbed her neck and looked at the door locks. They were firmly in place. Whoever knocked on a door like that couldn’t be thrilled to see her, but they hadn‘t tried the knob. She got up and went to answer it in her bare feet.
“Hold on.” She twisted the deadbolts and unlatched the chain. When the door came open, a rush of cold air washed over her toes. She crossed her arms for warmth. “Connor?” He was the first friend that she’d seen since getting home. He looked worried-- hair in his eyes, a crease in his forehead. “Hey. You okay?”
He felt like an idiot, and he had to turn away from her and look towards the parking lot as he composed his face into a less tight-mouthed expression. He was wearing a blue thermal shirt, and he plucked at the slightly frayed hem of it as he concentrated on the way the passing traffic looked. One breath. Another. A third. Better? Maybe.
"I tried to call," he said in a mutter, turning back to face her. Forcing the eye contact despite feeling like he might cry. God, he was such a loser. "A few times. I figured you'd just lost your phone or something."
Pause. Yet another breath, his chest so tight it would barely allow the oxygen to pass by. "I'm sorry, can I come in?" He plucked the cigarettes out of his pocket and held them out to her in the palm of his hand.
( The World's Youngest Stalker )
( Bride Number 2 )
( Watch Your Back )
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| Life |
[21 Nov 2007|01:07am] |
Home doesn’t know I was gone.
The cat does. Her feeder’s long empty,
A single, soggy piece floating in the water bowl.
I got in my car and drove here with shaking knees.
Back in the hospital, they gave me fluids, insisted I stay
Overnight.
It wasn’t going to happen.
I had to get here.
It’s weird how I wanted to be alone again
When that’s all I’ve been for days.
There’s just a difference, and anyway
Who could I talk to?
Who would understand this?
Kris, maybe, but she’s gone.
The shower hurts.
Water pressure beats against bruises and cracked bones,
Half-healed.
Med tape leaves outlines that stick to the skin.
I tried to pull it up with my fingernails.
Here’s the problem.
I thought I was going to die.
It’s not like I’d admit it. Out loud, whatever.
But I did think it.
I’ll never be able to explain how much I hate her for it,
More now than ever.
Water washes the dirt and sweat and blood away.
Time makes the scars fade, just little pieces of a patchwork.
But I will never forget that she made me second-guess.
Pride is the cherished thing.
I tell myself,
She had to cheat to do it.
That’s true.
She’ll never beat me in a fair fight.
But she saw me cower, not because I was afraid of her,
But because I didn’t want to die.
I curled up and protected my life.
The smart thing, yeah,
But I would’ve rather stared it down, stone-faced.
You know they say in slaying that the first rule is to stay alive,
Run, if you’re outnumbered.
Get help.
Go back with guns blazing.
But curl up in chains, cover your head, and think what I was thinking?
I never think I’m going to lose.
You let that in, you’re fucked.
Game over.
Doubt is poisonous, insecurity they can smell.
Maybe I’m fooling myself.
Maybe all of us have a moment like that but we never admit it.
I’m not talking about the College Girls, the Shopping Girls, the Weekend Girls,
The Party Tricksters.
“Look what I can do with my super strength.”
I’m talking about grit and guts and glory girls.
We don’t want to say it.
We don’t want to think it.
“This thing I signed on for,
I know I said I’d die for it.
But please not yet.
Don’t do this now.
I’m not quite done with life.”
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[20 Nov 2007|06:37pm] |
Text Message for Connor and Corbett:
“Elfleda de-throned. New Bride in town. ATIA. Research. Don’t engage.”
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[20 Nov 2007|06:34pm] |
Text Message for Whistler
“ 1- Thank god 4 hotel Lost n Found. Cell phone = good. 2- Need your brain. All u know about ATIA.”
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| The Lowest Blow |
[13 Nov 2007|10:16pm] |
Three days went by, to the best of Rhiannon’s knowledge. The warehouse was pitch black at night, allowing her to see no farther than her hands, if she put her face up to them. But in the morning, light poured through cracks around the boarded windows, and as the sun shifted across in the sky, that light crawled the length of the room. All the way to the bodies in the corner.
She was grateful it wasn’t the dead of summer. Even so, flies found a way inside. They buzzed near her ears and landed on the lacerations on her arms and legs. It seemed pointless to keep shaking them off, but Rhiannon couldn’t stand the sensation of their tiny legs and wings.
She was cold half the day. She was hungry and thirsty all of it. The Slayer wished for a lot of things. At the top of her list were shackle keys, water, plumbing, deep sleep, and to rewind time and send that text to Whistler.
Deanna came around often. Each time they traded taunts. At first it culminated in physical violence, but the last time, there was only the one thing, the worst thing. A bite. It was inevitable that she’d do it and bleed the Slayer half-dry. It was just as likely that Rhiannon, in her limited range of movement ,would fight it so hard she hurt herself in the process. The metal brackets around her wrists and ankles rubbed her skin away. She suspected that one of her thumbs was broken from trying to slip the metal over her hand.
Rhiannon took what pride she could out of getting a small shot off at the vampire. She had managed to pry a piece of floorboard up and she stuck it into Deanna after her fangs made contact. It didn’t hit the heart. She didn’t actually know what it hit. Probably the shoulder. All she knew was that she woke up later, presumably after passing out, and Deanna had gone.
Now there were footsteps again, two pairs of feet in high heels.
Rhiannon pulled herself up. “How’s the splinter?”
[Thread: Open to Deanna and Celine]
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| Blood |
[11 Nov 2007|01:06am] |
Las Vegas was a hotbed of activity, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Name your poison and you could find it within spitting distance of the strip. All seven deadly sins could be accomplished between sun-up and sunset, and there was always someone at the ready to lend a helping hand. Sometimes even for free.
The abandoned warehouse wasn't. It cost a small fortune to acquire the dank, secluded building off the Boulder Highway, north of Henderson. She needed a place where revved engines drowned out screams. A perpetual twilight facility, one where vampiric eyes could see, and blind their prey with the absence of natural light. Floorboards so rotten that the wrong step could trip up a hapless, currently chained-up Slayer into the basement. The threat of a broken neck just amped up the overall terror.
Terror. Deanna was all about terror. For so long they'd been adversaries, the brunette and redhead. Slayer versus vampire. Locked in combat outside of soup kitchens, dark alleys. Only when their mutual survival was threatened had they established a temporary truce, a necessary evil.
She sized up Rhiannon. Licked her lips. Game and set to the vampire.
The floor was hard and it scratched. That much Rhiannon could tell just by sliding her cheek. The movement was hidden under her hair. She had a lot of it, dark and thick and sheltering. Beneath its cover she stayed long after she awoke. There wasn't much past the pain of electrocution she remembered. But she knew the instant consciousness returned that her wrists and ankles were heavy, and that meant she was shackled, in somebody's keep. Her eyes opened a sliver and showed her it was dark. Her fingers moved and told her the floor was wood and it smelled earthen. Her mouth was dry.
She waited another hour, because the minute a captive came around, torture started. That's how she'd done it with Collins. Rhiannon wanted to pick when it started. She wanted to be well and truly awake when it did.
She didn't bother wondering who was behind this. It was obvious, or so she thought. Deanna, by way of Victoria.
Rhiannon was as quiet as a mouse, even when company came. She let herself get good and angry. She stroked the rotten floor with a fingertip, thinking about how to get a good chunk out of it later, how to hide it between her palms. Let that redheaded bitch get close enough to bite her, and then poof. Dust. She'd probably starve to death afterwards, but it'd be worth it.
"Coward," she growled.
( Make it scream for me )
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| An Interview With a Vampire Slayer |
[05 Nov 2007|11:18pm] |
Vampire and Slayer... One rarely ever openly invited the other into their domain.
A book interview was hardly the modern-day equivalent of an epic ceremonial ritual, but it was helping to dig Victoria out of her emotional mire. Or at least, that was the plan. The feelings of having been so easily replaced in the eyes of her maker? Those were still very much there. Nevertheless, this was a significant opportunity and would sharpen her mind.
"Hi," she greeted the other brunette. "Come on in..."
There was probably an irony in the fact that they had only just got around to this. After all, the idea had been agreed at the opening of Fang Noir and although still standing, it had been out of business for quite some time.
Life and death.
Slayer and undead.
Meeting at her hotel room, in the Bellagio, was a partial guarantee against Rhiannon simply taking the opportunity to stake her. Vicky was not defenseless and would aim to make an awful lot of noise to attract others' attention, if nothing else.
Plus, she had a gun hidden away. Always a better option to put some distance between yourself and a natural killer of your own kind. Slayers probably couldn't dodge bullets, right?
Even so, they were just precautions. Victoria was not Katherine. She was not the type to go making elaborate plans to kill Slayers. Regardless of self-preservation, she had a partner to think of.
"My book notes are actually one of the few things I was able to salvage from the Fang Noir thing."
Rhiannon stood with hands behind her back, though not in hiding a weapon. Her thumbs had simply hooked into her back pockets upon entering the hotel room. She had been in the private domains of vampires before, 99% of the time intending to stake them. So this was, in a word, awkward.
Even having agreed that there would be no violence tonight, Rhiannon was not stupid. She found herself glancing into the open lavatory, half-expecting a trap, such as a second vampire lunging through the shower curtain. None did.
She came a bit farther inside. The carpet was thick and spongy under foot. There was a sensation of her boots sinking down a bit with each step. Rhiannon wondered if they would leave footprints.
“Believe it or not, we didn’t mean to knock the place down,” the Slayer said. The door slipped shut behind her, a metallic click on quiet air. “I’m glad you got your notes out. I used to make art. If I lost my work back then, I’d have gone nuts.” Instead many canvases and sketchpads had disappeared years later, simply because Rhiannon had been unable to take them with her from couch to couch. Once she had a place of her own, art materials were expenses subtracted from rent money, and painting or drawing constituted time subtracted from her duty.
Besides, rarely was there energy for more than one real passion.
( Q & A )
( Dear Maria )
( Don't Turn Your Back )
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| Gambling |
[01 Nov 2007|10:53pm] |
You would think that after throwing himself out of plane on All Hallows Eve, Joseph wouldn’t want to chance his luck any further, but you’d be wrong.
After he stripped out of his suit and said his goodbyes to both Whistler and Star, mentioning how he hoped he’d be seeing them again, he drove into Vegas and to the nearest casino. He knew he needed and wanted a drink and maybe a couple of cigarettes, and there was no better environment for enjoying those things than that of a casino floor.
Most of the time the floor buzzed with life, filled with people’s chatter, repetitive clinks of chips sliding across tables, slot machine reels spinning to reveal the losing and winning symbols, and the never-ending shouts of success and groans of despair. Joseph loved it and he loved the fact that the casino was one place guaranteed to give you a true and realistic snapshot of the human condition.
He was a well-known face, even after his recent time away, and it wasn’t long until he was being recognized and he was shouting a couple of exchanges across the wide expanse of deep red carpet. Joseph didn’t need to look where he was going. He’d walked a tread through the casino so many times in the past that he could close his eyes and his feet would take him exactly where he wanted to go.
Eventually his wandering feet brought him to a small table with a collection of people already sitting around it, cards in the process of being shuffled. “Hey Laura,” he greeted the dealer with a casual smile.
“Hey Joseph, you want me to deal you in?”
“Please,” Joseph affirmed with a nod of his head, tossing out enough onto the table to cover his joining the table and the game about to start. When one of the cocktail waitresses came past, he turned and ordered himself a whiskey, thanking her a couple seconds later as she noted his order and went on her way.
Joseph shrugged out of his jacket, slinging it over the back of his chair before he turned back to the table, reaching down to unbutton cuffs and fold sleeves of his shirt towards his elbows. He planned to be there for the long haul so he was just doing what any sensible gambler did; he was making himself comfortable.
A couple seconds later he dragged a pack of cigarettes out of depths unknown and busied the tapered tips of his fingers with going through the steps to light a cigarette.
( Me, Too )
“Another round, Joseph?”
“Please,” Joseph muttered with a nod of his head, shifting ever so slightly as players joined him.
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