Post by Leon Silverblood on Feb 19, 2007 3:38:02 GMT -5
Leon, with his very slight sort of build, tries not to let the door look like it weighs 2000 pounds, though it sure as hell feels that way. He looks around at the place and is, for all the right reasons, reminded of the movie "From Dusk till Dawn." He stands in front of the caged dancer, though she could more accurately be described as a caged crackhead, by the way she eyes him. He has something she wants. He knows what it is, too: brains. Leon smiles at this thought. How rarely any girl was ever really after that. Not that he had any, but still. "Women," he muttered as he stepped to the bar.
Leon placed several first aid kits on the bar, brand new and raided from a hospital drugstore. "Gimme a tab for what this is worth. I imagine you have quite the selection here, considering how many liquor stores have windows looking worse than ex-virgin necros.. Yeah I see that grin. Give me some really expensive rum, since it didn't cost you a thing. triple shot in a coke, please." He smiled broadly at the bartender, who'd damn well better respect someone with that kind of candor, but no animosity.
The drink, presently appearing, wasn't a triple at all, probably not even a double, the bartender's response to Leon's attempted assertion. And it was cheap rum, too. Bastard. Leon grinned at the man, who grinned back and nodded. "Yes, I did," the burly ass seemed to say.
Turning and walking past the cage again, he headed for a table and was soon lost in thought, idly fingering the knotted nylon hair of a barbie doll that hung from the bandolier across his chest. There were five of them, dangling and dirty, some missing limbs, some bearing the partial burns or melting disfigurements incidental to a nomadic life, or nomadic undeath, in Malton. He may have grunt-mumbled a hello as he passed the lifers at the table, as those who aren't really talking to anyone will do when they must, but who can be sure he wasn't speaking to his synthetic girlfriends? Clearly, he had been one of the lucky(?) few to escape the Malton Lunatarium in the "early days of the outbreak," and now he divided his time almost evenly between trying to stay alive and trying to sow the seeds of his insanity, which of course implies many things. They're all true.
Leon placed several first aid kits on the bar, brand new and raided from a hospital drugstore. "Gimme a tab for what this is worth. I imagine you have quite the selection here, considering how many liquor stores have windows looking worse than ex-virgin necros.. Yeah I see that grin. Give me some really expensive rum, since it didn't cost you a thing. triple shot in a coke, please." He smiled broadly at the bartender, who'd damn well better respect someone with that kind of candor, but no animosity.
The drink, presently appearing, wasn't a triple at all, probably not even a double, the bartender's response to Leon's attempted assertion. And it was cheap rum, too. Bastard. Leon grinned at the man, who grinned back and nodded. "Yes, I did," the burly ass seemed to say.
Turning and walking past the cage again, he headed for a table and was soon lost in thought, idly fingering the knotted nylon hair of a barbie doll that hung from the bandolier across his chest. There were five of them, dangling and dirty, some missing limbs, some bearing the partial burns or melting disfigurements incidental to a nomadic life, or nomadic undeath, in Malton. He may have grunt-mumbled a hello as he passed the lifers at the table, as those who aren't really talking to anyone will do when they must, but who can be sure he wasn't speaking to his synthetic girlfriends? Clearly, he had been one of the lucky(?) few to escape the Malton Lunatarium in the "early days of the outbreak," and now he divided his time almost evenly between trying to stay alive and trying to sow the seeds of his insanity, which of course implies many things. They're all true.
