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  • Boone (Paddy) Fitzpatrick

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    Everything posted by Boone (Paddy) Fitzpatrick

    1. He'd always wondered why healing wasn't a part of his abilities. He could change his density, alter his skin, become something else, but he couldn't close a wound. It was almost as if his body had a memory; when he altered it, it would return. A good thing he supposed. Being molten forever or a pile of skin and bones would kinda suck balls. He was checking out her place, nonchalantly, as she put her hand to his arm. No dudes. No dude stuff anyway. Didn't smell any dude cologne. Good, no boyfriends would be walking in the door at this awkward moment. "Damnit, Boone. I told you to be careful. Sometimes I really do hate your line of work." Eyes flicked up to her from the wound, then back to it, "I'm actually an accountant. Started in the Motor City. Came here after shit went to hell. I just collect things for fun." It was the first hint he didn't just live in his garage. Healing always felt funny, as if she was mingling in his ability to snap his atoms back together. Maybe it was just the reminder of a life before chaos, anger and recklessness. "Stop. Getting. Hurt" He blinked at her. "You know. One of these days I'm not going to be here to heal you. Then you'll just have to suffer the pain and then have scars from all the stitching." He showed up next to her at the sink, rinsing off blood when she was finished cleaning her hands. "Self-stitches suck," he said absently, rinsing carefully by getting his hand wet and 'squeegee-ing' it off his skin. He'd done this many times before, that was obvious. "You wanna go on a date? I have this... accountant work thing." It was so nonchalant, moving to pick up his shirt and coat to clean them up as much as he could. "Interested? I gotta wear a tux, so... you would have to wear an evening gown. A fancy one. You have a fancy one?"
    2. "Oh I think I could have you fix up some things. My sink has been acting up lately. I will just have to put you to work." “I can do that,” he said without hesitation. He did know if she knew exactly how handy he was. Their encounters had been mostly based on him doing something to get his ass injured, and then the healing chit chat that came afterward. Other than that…. his bar. He loved his bar, wait… that sounded like a bad country singer’s attempt at a failed side gig... moving along…. "Up two flights. I would offer to carry you, but that might look weird.” “Careful, I’m heavier than I look…” he grinned. He knew she was aware of his abilities, but wasn’t sure if she understood exactly what he was. He trotted up behind her, already sliding his leather coat off. "So how bad is it?" “Mother foooo…” he grumbled as he shrugged off his leather. His right arm was bound tight at the bicep in a swath of tee shirt he’d torn from the bottom of the one he was wearing under his Henley. Knife was pulled from his hip, the make-shift bandage cut off with a swipe and a hiss. Not much blood until now. The arm of his tee shirt underneath was starting to soak quickly and he yanked that off too, winding the bandage higher on his bicep above the wound to stave it off like a tourniquet. The grunt when bare skin hit air was annoyed. JEEEEEBUS it was fucking cold, every muscle tensing for a moment as he wiped the blood off his arm with his now decimated tee shirt to prevent it from getting everywhere in her rather clean place. The tourniquet wasn’t doing much anymore. He needed stitches. “Colder than a witch’s ti…” he stopped himself. “It’s just a clip, but it hit all the wrong spots.” Half dressed, bleeding, covered with goosebumps, and with nipples so hard they could cut diamonds in front of a pretty girl was NOT where he’d imagined he’d be when he got up that morning!
    3. "I'm guessing this isn't a friendly check up call, is it..." …awwwww hell… American honey had a bite to her. She always did. She was the only person who ever gave him hell for fucking up. No no, that wasn’t true. His boss at Pharos was constantly pissed at him for one reason or another but he was just an asshole too sensitive for his own good. He thought the damn git would burst a blood vessel when he ended a conversation a few days prior with ‘Ok Boomer’. Dude looked like he would explode, but just told him to fuck off for the day. Then there was Bakkhos, but he hadn’t fucked up for them to be mad at him. They would probably try to kill him or some shit like that. Give him an offer he couldn’t refuse. "There's no way that you are calling just to hang out because you're bored.... I know you and I know the kind of trouble you get into." If a wince was audible she could probably hear it… air sucking through his teeth at her dig. “Yahhh….” he said rather dejectedly. "And I'm at home. It's a block from the hospital. Makes it so I don't have to drive to work everyday...." That was unexpected. "God damnit, Boone...." If a puppy dog look could also be audible she could probably hear it, or at least the pebble his toe was playing with as he sat on his unmoving bike. “I’m sorry,” he didn’t know why he said it, just felt like it needed to be said. "How close are you to the hospital? If you can make it to my apartment you can come to my place. Or I could meet you at the hospital, but I'd rather not make a big scene there. Of course I'm free. I mean. No. I'm not busy tonight. And you don't have to freaking bring a beer if you're shot. Just get here and I'll heal you." “Ten minutes maybe?” He squinted in every direction. He knew where he was, but it was human nature apparently to always double check like idiots. “I'll be downstairs and out front waiting for you." “Okay,” he said quickly and hung up. Coat was pulled off for a moment… “…colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra…” he muttered to himself as he stabilized the wound again to try and mitigate the bleeding. Hurt like, FUCK… hard to steer his little beast with a weaker side. Smirk recognized how wrong the thought sounded. Coat back on, he wiped the blood on his dark shirt under his coat as he zipped it up and tucked his gray wool scarf tight around his neck. It was the end of the rides for his bike, would need to store it for the winter within days he suspected. Pull out his Brute. He hated winter. Sucked balls. As promised, ten minutes or so. He drove past it at first… an idiot wandering around on her street trying to find her was stupid. Drive past, confirm where she was, park decently and look like he was supposed to be there. Kept suspicion down at least. Going around the block, he returned and parked across the street, kicking the stand and stuffing both hands in his pockets. It was bleeding down his arm under his motocross jacket, he could feel it. A few more feet and he would successfully have not made a spectacle of himself after getting shot for the first time in HISTORY. He felt pretty proud of himself. Looking both ways, he trotted across the street. Eyes had already surveyed the place for idiots. Just him, all safe except a doorman. Smile was brilliant and a bit sarcastic. “Hi,” he said to the door guy, looking toward Altheia. “She knows me.” He stomped a bit of wet slush from his Tims, hands stayed in his pockets. Blood. Blood was bad. “I forgot the beer,” he whispered to Altheia loudly. “Sorry… we'll have to find something else to do.” Stupid grin was cast back to the doorman. She was gonna Gibbs-slap him. As soon as they were alone he was gonna get hit. "Like watch TV," he finished quickly, thinking twice about it. If she decided to punch him in the arm, all his stealth shit was for nothing...
    4. It was a nick, but damn… right on the fucking edge of the connective tissue on his bicep. FUCK! Eyes scanned the area just in case the idjits had brought back up. That would be the most royally stupid thing to do, but hey they tried to strong-arm him. Like, jeeeeeeesh, he did have a reputation for being a little quick on the trigger and an asshole. That should mean something, right? Like, NOT shoot him for once. What the fuck were they thinking? He probably was being watched, great… he was being watched as he played with his crotch because some brute squad had given him a pinch bruise. Stupid fucks. "Hello, Altheia speaking." “Hello Miss Altheia speaking,” he charmed in his ‘I don’t want to come off as needing something but I probably am so I’m just going to hope you don’t notice’ sort of tone. “Where you at? I have beer and I’m bored.” Okay, big ass lie. He could stop and get some beer. He needed a damn beer. Shit, she could probably hear the fucking bike through the phone. His gig was up, maybe… she could probably believe he was just riding around but it was late and when was he ever just riding around late and not getting into trouble. Like… NEVER. “Okay, so I sort of got shot…” he blurted out. “Okay… I know I know, I promised I wouldn’t get shot again. I was waiting all patient-like, and this dude came in like a dufus and his muscle cocked at gun on me then I got searched and I had to headbutt the one and shoot the other…” he reached up to his forehead absently just to make sure he wasn’t bleeding. “Don’t worry, I didn’t kill anybody, but if you get someone in the hospital shot in the foot that was probably me I’m going to shut up now.” He was quiet for a moment. “Are you free? I can still bring beer. I’m shot. I’m sorry.” Throat was cleared softly. "If you're not free I'll go to the hospital."
    5. Butcher Shop Meet-Up, after hours 11pm Snickers were great. Snickers were FUCKING great! Hulk of a man was leaning against a stainless steel prep table, battered Tims crossed at the ankles as he waited in the cold, munching on the Snickers he'd pilfered from piece of crap party store before finding his way to the meet-up. Smelled like blood, of course... duh. Not so much in the cooler. Why the cooler? Because that's where all the stupid asses wanted to meet and pretend to play mob. So he waited, ate his Snickers and dropped the wrapper into a trash can full of... who the fuck knew? The floor had pooled blood on it in various places, could have been anything. Hand slid into the inner coat pocket of his leather motocross jacket, a few envelopes he'd snagged from his actual LEGIT business before he'd headed over to do Pharos stuff. Accountant, square suit and tie bullshit. One from Bakkhos. Had to be. As much as the group was straight laced and proper on the outside, it was always a TRAP! Fuckers. Thumb pried at the prissy pants envelope, ripping the flap open. An honest to god fucking invite to...? "Crazy bastards," he muttered, stuffing it back into his pocket and looking at the other one. A report from another client. Stupid idiot didn't know his ass from his elbow. The click wasn't unexpected. Dealing in shadowy places after hours was never something for the meek. Sigh was slow, taking one last look at the paper before folding it and stuffing it back into his inner pocket with the other. "This place stinks, can we get this done?" Another click. Really... Hands went up lazily as he pushed off the prep counter and faced his "dealers". A girl this time, peachy. They were worse than dudes. Tended to be more aggressive because they weren't in a dick measuring contest. They just fucked you up instead. Hm. The invite did say plus one. She was cute... in a "I'm going to fucking kill you" sort of way. *npc* Search him. HEY HEY NOW! Now he needed to ask her on a date because she knew what religion he was... incredulous expression in her direction was rare for him. She'd just groped his ass. The fuck?? "Fuck this," it was rare his temper flared, but her pinchy pinch business to find a gun HURT. "No weapons, that was the deal. You broke it first, I'm out." Muzzle was placed against his temple. "You don't want to do that," dark eyes had trained on the jackass calling the shots. Little spit of a man in his overcoat. "You got balls enough to put a gun to my head, I'll kick your ass just the same....girl or not." Why were people always so fucking PREDICTABLE! He was a fast motherfucker, barrel of the woman's gun grabbed as he pulled her toward him and gave her a vicious headbutt. She was down for the count, now he and Dr. Evil were pointing a gun at each other.., this wasn't going to go well. So he just shrugged and shot him in the foot. The guy squealed but still managed to get a shot off that grazed the Pharos' bicep. DICK! "YOU ASSHOLE!" finger tugged at the slice in his leather. Okay, so maybe it wasn't just a graze. "You fucking SHOT me!" Both weapons were secured, taken apart, throwing all the pieces in random directions. Prissy gun shit. Shotguns... that was where it was at. "Dick," he muttered, pushing through the stupid plastic flappy things to make his way outside. Belt slid out with a sizzled snap and he wrapped it around his arm, pulling it tight. Bike roared to life, phone already on his ear as he pulled at the crotch of his jeans. "Dumb bitch pinched my nads..." mutter was irritated as the phone rang. "Please pick up Altheia..." he had another meet-up tonight and didn't want to be bleeding for that one. But, it was late... and she was Altheia. And... Altheia was like apple pie, she was probably in slippers and snuggled on a warm couch with infinite comfort items while his ass was getting shot in a stupid stinky cooler. He really had to get another job.
    6. Phone smacked several times on his palm. Stupid fucking cell reception. How long did it take to get tech back up and running anyway, for Christ’s sake. Stuffing it in the back pocket of worn jeans, he pulled his beat to hell fishtail parka on. Skullcap tight around his ears, off-white threadbare wool scarf hung loose, he closed the door on his humble and crappy temporary abode to rendezvous with this… idiot. They didn’t have the goods and normally he wouldn’t give them two shakes if they hadn’t any product, buuut the information was too good to let go of. He let the bike warm up for a moment before moving off into the even bleaker parts of town, discarded cars and general fuckery reminding him more and more of the first months after everything went to shit. Some places came back, some probably never would. Detroit was still the middle of the largest troll fuckery possible. He missed the place, it had its troubles but it was gorgeous and tough as nails. Renaissance before the world went to shit. He’d get back there someday. Cutting the engine, he coasted a bit and came to a stop. Dumb fucking meet-up spot… stupid blind spots. Yah, they were going to shoot him. He was late. They were late. Of course they were late… the rack of a shotgun confirming they weren’t. He chuckled, getting off the bike and kicking the stand. They were going to shoot him. One of these days it would be GREAT to be disappointed. One came from the side, out of a trash coated alley, pointing the business end at his temple. The other, he didn’t know. Didn’t fucking care. Teenagers...ish?? Old enough to vote, not old enough to drink. Sheeeeeeesh.... “If we’re here to talk, why the shotgun?” he reached up and pushed it away like an annoying fly. It floated back up to his temple, the vicious side eye of the wildly unpredictable Pharos relic hunter pushing it away again. *npc* “Because we heard you’re an asshole.” He laughed out loud, putting his palm directly on the muzzle. It was a great belly laugh. He needed that. The two were dressed like they had just stepped out of a post-apocalyptic movie, casting nervous glances toward each other. They were green as fuck. He suddenly grasped the barrel, snapping it backward into the guy’s nose and pulled it out of his hands. It was cracked open casually as the gunman nursed a bloody nose. Relieving the shotgun of its shells, he tossed them over his shoulder, snapped it back together and handed it back. “That’s so you don’t end up shooting someone in the dick. I’m bulletproof anyway dumbass.” Lie. Lie. LIE! He was only bulletproof when he wasn’t an idiot. “You got information for me or not? I have cash, you have info.. you talk, I pay… ya dig it?” The other had pulled a pistol. Fuck a duck. He put his palms up. Fine. Green ass mother fuckers with mama’s purse gun. What. In. The. World. Could. Go. WRONG! “You talk… I pay. Ima gonna reach into my pocket now… don’t shoot,” he waved his hand at them as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bank zip bag and tossed it at him. They checked it. Good. One lesson they learned. *npc* “So… we got a tip that Pharos is dealing relics.” Duh, he knew this. He was the fucker that was dealing Pharos relics. Meh, they were rinky dink party tricks. They’d never miss them anyway. “I know this.” *npc* “No, like… stuff Pharos gets from ARMA.” Brow cocked slightly. “Okay? How did you come across this awesome nugget of information…?” *npc* “His brother, knows a guy that was running something out of New York. From ARMA, to Pharos, and out here to hook up with someone going overseas.” “Did that your brother's sister's hair dresser's dog groomer's former roomate have a name?” *npc* “Orvil.” The relic hunter sucked his tooth a moment. Yahhhhh this was going to be a shitty day. “Orvil? ...as in like, the popcorn?” He nodded vigorously. “Sorry about the nose kid, gotta go. Safety’s on by the way,” he said quietly and got on his bike, reaching into his pocket to pull out a second bag and toss it to the kid with the shotgun. The other was checking the safety on his gun. “Great info, there’s your tip not to tell anyone else. I mean it. Get some gun training peanut.” The bike roared to life. This was a big problem. Orvil. Not Orvil a guy like they thought. Out in the bleak to someone who didn't know better, that was a bastardized OFL. ARMA relics were either going to Pharos, and Pharos to the Order, or they were getting fucked in between. This was not a flow of hand offs that spelled anything but bad, bad tidings. He had to bust out of his squat riki-tik and get back to New York. ARMA first. See his favorite doc. She’d either slap him or hug him. Always fun.
    7. March 1st, 2022 Some shithole in west Boston Cold ass morning Boone's hand passed over several empty bottles on the floor, knocking one over in the process. Bingo. Lifting it up before the precious nectar spilled to high heaven, he swallowed what was left. Day old beer was crap. You know what was worse? No fucking beer at all. Boston was a shithole, this part of Boston anyway. No good booze, and the stupid propane heater had gone off sometime in the night. His couch and blankets weren't doing much to keep him warm. God damn fetch boy again. Nobody wanted to set foot on the west side. The east side? Decent, coming back to life. The west? Stunk like troll shit. Could be worse, he could be in fucking Ohio. That was literally troll shit. His squat was pretty high up, had to hide his bike below though. Almost got bit once out in this direction by some fucking zombie that wandered into town. They were rare to see now this far into even basic civilization. Even then, getting almost bit when you were taking a morning piss was absolute fuckery. So, hideouts had to be a couple floors up. Even zombies bumped into crap, would wake him up, unless he was drunk as hell. That didn't happen enough lately. Everything else, mmm... just the usual when Pharos had banished him into the middle of nowhere to grab some crap that was worth half a dime bag in New York. Trinkets. Trinkets because he'd been a little too frisky with the boss' daughter. That was what, three times this year he was demoted? Maybe it was because he simply didn't give a crap. It was worth it at the time. Freezing his ass off in the middle of a partially abandoned building waiting for a contact to show up made him question his path in life. Aw hell, nah. Being away from New York after what had happened was a vacation. While people were running around like a bunch of headless chickens, he had the skill and the balls to actually go out into the wild and look. For what? Something... closure. Aura was always a stuffy bitch... but he owed it to Cass to not stop looking. Cass was family. The stupid pittance trinkets he'd been sent to snag he'd already gotten. Back to the almighty Pharos safe to protect the world from unsavory stupid crap. Leaving today would get him back in maybe a day. Of course, when running for stupid shit he could be a little bit more nosy about non-stupid crap. Boston seemed to be the hot spot for non-stupid shit at the moment. There was something moving. Gears turned, no big deal. The trade was like a clock, his brain able to see the world move in patterns like nobody else could. It was a gift, and it was why he was still alive... that and he could talk his ass out of anything. And get shot. He got shot a lot. Getting shot was bullshit. He got shot more often than he probably should. Had to do with his smart mouth most of the time. He simply didn't like dicks. He wanted in, he wanted the deal, he wanted out. Everyone always had to try and screw somebody, like it even fucking mattered. Then, when he told them 'your mom', they usually shot him. They didn't like it when he insulted their mom. Anyways... the gears had stopped, some even reversing direction. Enough to notice. Patterns had changed. He'd heard about the crazy shit in the trade west of New York. Per usual things ebbed and flowed and always found equilibrium again. This time? Crap was reversing direction. Now his contact... his contact had something different than the typical wanker magic toys. Something interesting that had been snagged in New York. Shit didn't come out of New York. It went into New York. Anything coming out of New York was hot, and expensive, and almost always stolen. And dangerous. That interested him.
    8. Beer belly…. all dudes had beer bellies in different states of “maturity”. Hahahaha…. his, was well a little underdeveloped because he went off to god knows where all the time and had to live off power bars, dirt and bugs.. Not really. Just power bars. Occasional squirrel. Moose. Moose and squirrel. Meese? Aw fuck it. Brow rose slightly under the guise of being focused and concentrated, he knew she got tipsy quick. Might need a chaperone home if that’s where she chose to go. He had a flop spot upstairs, but… man cave. True man cave. No girls allowed. Food delivered, he just bypassed the silverware and picked one up like a cheeseburger. They were fried, sorta.. but no greasy paws. “I sure wish I could cook but what I manage to do is burn my food though I’m better over an open flame like a campfire.” “That’s a skill, definitely a hard earned skill. Major props.” "I'm wondering if the way to a girl's heart might not also be food, I mean. These are really freaking good.” “Maybe I’ll start a cooking class,” he munched and flicked a quirked glance to Blue. Her perpetual state of annoyance didn’t change. *npc* You’d be awesome. The deadpan delivery of almost everything she said still made him snicker. He loved her to death. “Hear that? Accountant. Builder of fancy pants motorcycles and master chef,” he grabbed a clean dishtowel and tossed it at her playfully. She was going to clean his clock later hahahaha…. Then it came. The explanation that really… reallllllly tested his resolve. Sure, Altheia sorta knew what he’d been doing before he’d gotten shot when they first met. BUT, she didn’t really. Nobody did. Not Blue, not Bakkhos, not Pharos. Nobody except his buyers… sellers, err buyers. No fucking difference. So not Irish and has a fancy toy eh? He smoothly took a long tip of his mug, eyes glancing to Altheia, then to the room. Place was empty. Good. Not for long though. Dinner crowd, end of work crowd… Don’t say shit. Don’t say shit. Don’t say shit. Act cool. Boone is cool. Boone is awesome. “Brooch eh?” Mug clunked on the counter and he turned in his stool, both forearms on the counter as he picked apart his second potato cake like a piece of chicken as he ate it. His interest wasn’t ALLLL bad… c’mon now. It wasn’t like he was going to clunk the guy over the head, take it and sell it to the highest bidder. He HAD a REAL job. Like… taking it and giving it to Pharos. Neither of them knew that soooo… fuck it. Nosy it was. "Are we talkin' like cameo hoity toity or like..." his fingers flipped and he made a quiet explosion sound. "... kaboom kind of thing?"
    9. “No where near as much as Boone is” “I heard that,” he muttered. WHY did people think he was a lush?? …he was a lush. He was just a functional lush. Irish and altered seemed to make this AMAZING mix of functional drunk. He was never really drunk, metabolism burned too fast. He could just keep drinking and hope for the best?? "First of all. Who said that I will be falling down? Second of all. Who said I'll be getting up. Although. I am quite hungry.... I think I forgot to eat today...." There were few things that bothered him. That was one.. errrrrrr two? Cripes he was an accountant by day, he knew how to frickin’ count and stuff. Per se… He hated that phrase, it was a dumb phrase, per se… moving on. Two things. People that took advantage of those that worked their asses off and those that worked their asses off and forgot to eat. So… POTATO CAKES! "I'm so glad both of you know what that is and have something to bond over, I guess the way to a man's heart really is his stomach" “Darn right,” it was matter of fact. “Well we do like to eat but there are other ways to our hearts” His laugh was bright, the air “fist bump” at the man spoke volumes. Lotsa ways… "If you had spilled my drink....." “I’d pour you another,” the chide was sing song as he dictated how many potato cakes the world needed. Everybody needed potato cakes. “It’s almost as if… I have unlimited access to alcohol…” "Um.... Okay.... What if I don't want that many" “I’ll eat ‘em,” he rubbed his stomach as he cooked. “Gotta keep my beer belly fluffed somehow.” He reeeeeealllly wanted a cook that could make traditional Irish food. Blue had been looking, but passively. “Not sure if that’s necessary, there probably isn’t that much demand for potato pancakes.” Eyes flicked to Blue as she continued prepping for the evening crowd. The “pin-up girl” was often mistaken for his girlfriend, but she was very much like a sister. She didn’t take his shit, and she could throw a punch with the rest of them. Sometimes, she even rivaled his wit but could do it with a straight face. *npc* There isn’t. She agreed with Brandon, casting Boone a glance with a lick of sarcasm to annoy him. “Traitor.” "I.... I didn't have that bad of a hangover. I mean.... I've had worse hangovers...Probably will have a worse hangover...." “Nah, food during helps.” He glanced out over the counter as he asked her friend if he was kin of sorts. Apparently Altheia didn’t know either. What a curious dude. “I got some secrets on that, but food does help.” He flipped his creations… “Tell you what, you come out with those boxties and I’ll let you decide.” The “humble accountant” chuckled to himself as he plated his masterpieces, totally blasé about grabbing things without a potholder. To Altheia and Blue, it was normal to see. To anyone else, the usual reaction was to freak out that he was going to burn himself. Hell… at first his normal reaction was always to freak out that he was going to burn himself. Now… picking up a griddle not by the handle was the norm. Silverware. The best cool looking stoneware plates anywhere in the world and they were slid in front of the two with the grace of a master chef… or just someone that worked in a bar all his life. Sliding glasses down the bar was actually a real thing too. He poured himself another beer and sat to dig in. “Do you cook?”
    10. “do you have bacstaí?” His head cocked slightly, the arch of his eyebrow completing the look of a confused puppy for a moment… then the grin, and the murmur of lips trying to figure out just what the fuck he was talking about. They had a real name, he forgot sometimes the food his mum made wasn’t just potato cake. “Bacstai…? bacstai… bac-stai… BOXTY?” He clapped his hands together and pointed at the man. “Yes! YES!” He literally vaulted over the counter. “We need to get someone who can make this stuff… besides me,” he chirped to Blue, grabbing a towel, wiping his hands and then washing them all proper. “I told you people wanted it. Bangers… farl…. real bar food, not just that chips and spinach dip crap.” *npc* Dinstinct lack of Irish at the moment to make it to your liking Paddy. They’re all in Ireland freaking out about Outworlders. Boone didn’t frown often, when he did it was startling. Puppy to Rottweiler in less than a second. “Ain’t the Irish doin’ that,” he was not happy. “Some other fucked up shit going on there… English. It’s the fucking English. Can’t fight dragons so they jump onto my fucking island and get all shitty with Outworlders…” The rant continued into the back, pots clanging, random swear words as he lit the griddle. Face peeked out from around the corner. “How many you want mate?” he asked Brandon, whose name he didn’t even know at the moment. Mate. His name was mate. He pointed at Altheia, spatula in hand. “You get four.” Not even caring one bit in the slightest she probably had no idea what they even were. “See, if you’d had these that night you stayed at my place…” …the pause was poignant. Shit. Um. Shit. SHIT! “…because I got shot and called your boss who was a friend of mine and he called you and you came over on a favor and healed me so I didn't get perished and I was the perfect gentleman and let you sleep on the couch.” Pause again, a quick peer around the corner to make sure things were okay as food began to sizzle. “You wouldn’t have had a hangover.” The clack of a mad scientist in the kitchen was bright, he truly enjoyed cooking. "You Irish mate?" he asked Brandon, flipping something that was starting to smell amazing. Distract. Distract and charm from the fact he probably just totally sent the wrong message about that night.... yikes. It'd been the first time in a long time he truly thought he would die, smuggling illegally was dangerous... but rarely did someone get the jump on him like that. He really did owe her a debt he couldn't repay. So he would make... PANCAKES! err... POTATO CAKES!
    11. Chuckling to himself at both of their crankiness, he tinkered a little on the jukebox. They alllllllll said they weren’t going to drink any more at some point or another. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow…. but it would happen. He hated this damn thing… Steel toed boot kicked it slightly, the stink-eye toward the two at the bar. He grumbled like an old man sometimes. Crap, he just wanted that fucking song out of the thing. Soft sigh was like the kid that couldn’t come out and play, kicking it again softly with his toe as if to communicate his displeasure with the thing. He hated this machine. Blue’s idea. Blue annoyed him sometimes, but she did remind him to eat. There was no reason in hell he should be able to survive out in the nowhere, but for some reason when he was surrounded by civilization he got lazy. Out in the crazy it was keep up or die. He kept her around because he’d probably die of starvation with the civies… hahaha “Stupid piece of crap,” he mumbled. He HATED Journey, glancing up as Brandon beckoned him back over. What the fuck was people’s fascination with zombies? Other than… well zombie grossness. He fucking hated zombies. Like rats. He hated rats more. He glanced at Altheia with the wary eyes of a puppy trying to be lured to the vet. He was being drawn back over. Hahaha.. TRAP! Nope. Nope…nope… he wasn’t falling into the ‘I told you so trap’. He should have stayed upstairs, peering behind the player of bad music to see if there was some kind of control to program the songs there. Nuuuuu of course not. He would have to pass them to get to the stairs up to his office. Internally he was rolling around like a two year old having a tantrum. There was no way out of this…. ARGGG “You know what helps with the tipsies? Bar food,” he chuckled to himself. “There’s a reason bar food is hearty. Eat some food before you fall down. Not everyone is a functional drunk like me.” Wandering back that way, he stayed on the other side of Blue as she did her prep rounds for the impending dinner rush; make sure taps were full, peanuts were stocked. He kind of… helped her, and the eye roll from her was profound. Keeping busy and responsible and stuff gave him a reason not to look either of them in the eye. HA! Then he didn’t have to engage at why his face looked like a great bar fight had taken place… but he could still tell crazy ass stories if they asked.
    12. Hahahaha…. the eeeeeeevil bitch glare! He was used to that one, deflecting and ignoring grouchy pants bullshit with his ‘I don’t give two shits about your fucking feelings or propriety’ face was pure talent. “Well I had planned to find a great place to kick back and down a few beers, thought I might make some new friends, shoot some pool, drop some money in the jukebox and have some great food for dinner, but I don’t accept drinks from people who insult women and the rest of what I came here for is the good shit and I save that for friends.” His sudden laugh at the comment was adorable, this guy must have been Irish in a past life... uptipping his own mug as a glance to his shit-kicking bouncer in disguise gave him an invisible signal to chill and not throw them out. He downed the glass without taking a breath, or a break, or answering the giant elephant in the room and then slid the empty to Blue- who caught it and set it in a sink like it was a regular occurrence. Which it was. Not the elephants… maybe… but whatever. He also didn’t piss alpha, people could stare at him all they wanted… he held up a finger for him to hold the cranky-pants thought, sliding the 2nd glass he’d just offered back and uptipped that too until it was gone. The second empty glass slid to Blue and he motioned to her to toss the empty coke bottle over, which she did. He caught it, spinning it in his palm and clinking it on the bar in front of Altheia just as Mr. Sassy Pants finished his huffy “I’ll go someplace else as if Boone really cared" protest. He just needed his teacher glasses and a nice tight bun and ruffle collar for the next few moments of edification. It was a hilarious vision in his head at least. Completely bypassing the obvious customer dissent because well, he didn’t give two shits, he opened his mouth to speak… "We aren't friends?" …closing it. A cocked eyebrow flashed at her. He opened his mouth again, then closed it. Him being him, what was that supposed to- make him mad? … aw fuck it. Guilty? Lesson time. The laugh came again as she huffed at him. It was actually the most sincere thing about him, he was always warm. Laughing for him was all he really could do in his life to not go insane and strangle people. Or punch them in the face.... "So what's up with you today? Hiding because you got ruffed up?" He pointed at her, expression playfully quirky, “no.. and we’re not gonna talk about that…” He really didn’t want to talk about how the artifact got away from him even AFTER he got into the brawl. Finger moved back to the empty bottle of Coke. “This…” he picked it up slightly and clinked it back on the bar counter, “is Mexican Coke. As you know, Mexico, or the ability to get to Mexico or even WANT to go to Mexico because it's zombie-land no longer exists… The ability to bottle this shit, no longer exists. It’s bottled in glass, which preserves the flavor bite, and it's slightly sweeter. It’s preferred for Jack and Cokes, and rum and Cokes. You add a spiced rum and it’s arguably better than drunk sex. There are a half dozen bottles left in the known world. One of which, you… Altheia, my dear, just drank. Which means, if you followed the math I mentioned just moments before I poured you a glass of my mama’s Irish beer instead of getting all cranky-pants...” ..the playful cranky glare was brief… “…you would know the GOOD shit, is what I just gave both of you.” He tossed the bottle back to Blue. “You… yourself… Altheia, and only Altheia, can order five more. Half dozen left, minus the one you drank, is five. There are only five more left in the world, and Blue here will save them for you. Unless you don’t want them. In which case I’ll sell them to someone. For a lot of money ....because I don’t really feel like going back to Mexico. And I still owe you, so... we're even maybe.”” His bartender gave him a bottle of water, which he opened and drank some of, sucking air through his teeth and a quick tongue over his split lip to check if it was bleeding. Smirk was calm, easy, followed by the laugh that seemed to indicate all the grouchiness was forgiven or at the very least not even cared about in the slightest. He took another drink of water, brows coming down and annoyed for the first time. If one didn't know him, he seemed... unstable. Or, just a jerk. “There’s zombies there, and one bit me.” He got up, the stool spinning under his hand before he put it back in its spot. “Anywho, I’ll leave you two to your date. That beer,” he pointed at the tap he’d poured from. “is the tap only I give permission to use. Mama was Irish. This was her bar, and she made the best beer in the world. There’s not much of it left and it’s the best shit in the house, only for friends. But, if you don’t want to be my friends, I get it. I’m an unapologetic asshole... but at least I'm a dick with great booze.” Eyebrows wiggled. His phone rang and he flipped it open and put it to his ear, giving Blue instructions to get them anything they wanted on the house as he left them to their date. He retreated to the jukebox, trying to figure out how to undo what Blue had done to get it running again. Except he was trying to get it UNrunning. Break it maybe?
    13. He physically turned toward the office door at the sound of music, bottle in mid-tip and boots clunking to the floor. What the hell....? Who the flip fixed that damn thing after he'd yanked the plug? Aw shit... if he heard 'Don't Stop Believin' one more damn time he was going to take an axe to that fucking thing. Thankfully, it wasn't. Blue. It was Blue that fixed it. Dammit. Huff soft, feet went back up and he squinted at the closed-circuit TV. So they knew each other.... If he'd been in his right mind, he would probably consider this spying. Aw cripes, it was spying. The security system was super important, it was never really intended for this but he didn't give two shits... it was kinda like caller ID, swipe left for call ignore... usually it was some crazy byotch that had too much to drink and thought he was her new beau that he had to make himself scarce for. This was different.... he just, was self conscious??? Fuck that. He was self-conscious about his black eye. Self. Conscious. A guy that told jokes so dirty it could make yo mamma blush... When did this self-conscious shit start? Blue poured Altheia's friend something... not a bad choice. "I don't really know. I just felt like getting out of the hospital and my apartment. Being in my apartment all the time, aside from the hospital, is getting kind of boring" His laugh was audible from the office and down the stairs after Blue hung up on him. Of all the places she came... this was one that was never boring. Jack and Coke. Jack and Coke? Bottle finished, it spun in his palm and was placed on his desk to take care of later. He got up and brushed himself off. "Use the Mexican Coke," voice was strong enough to carry down the stairs. He peered in his mirror a moment, rifling his hair forward. Yep. Shiner. Nasty one too. Busted lip. Nasty as well. Brick walls and handle bars don't do the body good.... the other guy looked worse. Nothing better than a good all out brawl. Footsteps were heavy as he 'jaunted' down the stairs. He hurt in places people shouldn't hurt. *npc* "Only got half a dozen left," Blue called back up. "Then Altheia can only order five more," he stepped off the bottom stair and behind the bar counter. "Save the good shit for friends." He dragged a stool from the cash register over across the bar from both of them, pouring himself something from the tap. "Try that one," he slid it over to Brandon and then poured one for himself, leaning his forearms on the counter and downing half the mug in one swig. There wasn't a blink of a care whether or not the guy already had one to finish. The more the merrier. "So what brings ya'll here besides boredom?"
    14. Coin flipped in his fingers every second or so with a 'ping'.... ..nap time it issss.... He plopped down in his office chair on the second floor, swiping a stack of papers to the side and put the heels of his boots up one at a time onto the desk. Looooong stretch of arms then fingers intertwined behind his head, leaning back, eyes checking out the closed circuit TV to his left for a quick moment. Empty.... no wait. One. Blue could take care of him. Mehbe he should actually be responsible... heel slid over the stack of papers slightly. Just bills. Bills sucked. Even in the post apocalypse there were fucking bills... his pub tended to be a bit more loosey goosey than his own place. Projects were meticulous, his bachelor pad was meticulous, this place... meticulous. Except his office. It was his version of "under the bed". Nobody ever came in the office anyway. Well. Only if they wanted to clean the place, then he got pissed. Things got cleaned, he couldn't frickin find anything. Stupid cleaning... moving on... motion on the TV brought his attention back. Well I'll be damned... She always seemed to know when he got roughed up... and she knew the other guy. Always interested in that gossip... The laugh to himself always was on the border of inside joke or naughty internal monologue. Most of the time a little of both. It kept him from going completely crazy. Maybe he already was. He leaned over... almost tipping the chair because he refused to take his feet off the desk, picking up the phone to ring once for Blue just before she asked the duo what they wanted to drink. The bartender picked it up, casting an annoyed glance back at the security camera. *npc* What? Her answer was snarky. It was always snarky because she knew he was watching the bar from his office. You tell them I don't want none of them healer kind 'round here unless they order some expensive shit. The chuckle to himself brought a roll of her eyes and a curt smile to the two as she listened to her boss. *npc* I'm not going to tell them that. You can get your ass down here and tell them yourself. Awww Blue. C'mon... *npc* Yes yes I get it... you don't want friends to see you got in a fight. Get your pansy ass down here anyway, you're being a dick. She hung up on him, then turned to the two with a bright smile. *npc* What can I get ya? The harumph was almost audible, busted lip in a bit of a pout for a moment as he leaned over and opened his personal cooler and pulled out a beer. He'd drink his beer. Then he'd go down... tipping back the bottle and watching the screen with interest.
    15. Slainte 7/8 2021 2:30pm Crazy ass mofo... *npc* Paddy... The woman's voice snapped him out of his grouchy face at the stupid piece of equipment, Blue always snapped him out of his moods... she was like a sister. *npc* You got shit to do. Stop screwing around with the sink. I'll get someone on it. Lips pursed, then smooched her on the cheek. It was quiet always right after the lunch rush; a little bit of a lull before the dinner crowd and all out race to last call. He needed a nap or some shit, still pretty banged up from his last escapade. He sported a shiner, bashed knuckles or a bruised jaw more often than he'd like to admit. Someone getting the drop on him made him pissy. Granted, he dealt with assholes most of the time and it was rare they had a one-up, it still annoyed him. He was alive though, he'd heal. I'll be in my office trying to be responsible. Let me know if anything interesting happens. With that, the quirky Pharos employee made his way up the stairs. Nap maybe. Responsibilities... nap... responsibilities, nap. Aw hell, he'd flip a coin.
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