Shake. Stir. Pour.


The omnipresent sound of glass against glass, the slush of mixed alcoholic drinks, and the anticipated exclamation of the drinker letting out a pained cry were all present at the small corner of the bar. A bar that was now slightly empty as the drinkers went to nurse their injuried tongues while dancing away the drunken buzz that was flowing through them.


Consuming them. Burning them.


And dreadfully destroying their organs if they kept returning at the rate they were for more.


Shake. Stir. Pour.


--Get the fire extinguisher.

Jairus placed the burning glass down next to a startled couple and set the magic of a handy red extinguisher against the illuminating flames; the light captured and absorbed by his murky green eye and reflecting off sullied cornsilk hair that hid his other one. Clothed in the omnipresent style of black, the young man tilted his face away as powdery white gunk flew out of the red canister, exciting more indignified cries from the couple as they stepped back. Curses of "Watch it!", "Damn bastard!", and "Hey!" were common exclamations when it was his shift in the obnoxiously loud club which was ironically called..Club Ob-Noxious.

It wasn't his idea to give the reclusive place such a simplistic and unappealing name. But then, hadn't he expected to encounter what was so inaccurately called "human intellect" when he bought the building with another? His vision looked away from the display of the smothered white glass to a platform several yards from him; the co-owner of their club swaying with the music that he was in charge of. The DJ.

One of the reasons the place was so isolated from beyond the local residents; the blaring music enough to stun a person and cause them to run away from the club. Yes, the name "Club Ob-Noxious" was accurate in some moments considering how that adjective described the overall atmosphere of the place. Annoying. Lousy. Dirty.

Then again--people didn't come here for the music.

They came for the two for one booze.

Living above the club in an apartment where every breakable object had to be tied down lest the earthquake of music wreck glass-havoc; the young man was use to the noise and even more use to the smell of acrid smoke coming from his drinks. It was his life. The poisonious alcholic toxins that he served to his willing guinea pigs. The poison added and nullified before the customer's left the club. It was a game of his..To poison in one drink. And give the antidote in another. And occasionally when he felt the urge, he would bring one of his pets to his apartment above where cries of pleasure could be heard. Or was that pain? Either way..the lucky unfortunates never returned to Club Ob-Noxious..

...unless it was on a flyer.

Sending a final gust from the extinguisher, the bartender lifted the glass with leather-gloved fingers as he gave it an inspecting glance from his single milky emerald eye before placing it down next to the confused customer. Yes, the willowly pale man was eccentric however he was devoted to his job; his pallid skin seeming to illuminate and radiate under the low colorful lights of the club that would have been otherwise..ghastly in daylight. In sooth, the bartender was a comely man through, handsome only if one had acquired the taste for dead beatniks. The elegant slender man clothed in a tight black turtle-neck and matching slacks adorn with silvery suspenders resting against his thighs was..conservative, sickly pale, and holding all the feline grace one could dream of for a man so tall. From his covered throat to his black loafers, the man hid his skin and flesh from eyes, letting only his wane face be seen as a long bang of light blond hair covered the right side of his unhealthy countenance. He was as healthy as any other man who had not consumed his drinks but by some fated nature, the bartender appeared as if he could fall ill any moment when in reality, his lean frame held silent strength within.

Taking a towel and dabbing his chin lightly, Jairus reached blindly for a bottle and poured it into a glass before lighting a match and causing the liquor to catch on fire, the flames swaying to the flow of the music before its short-lived existence was blown out by the bartender.

Just another typical day at Club Ob-Noxious.

Fenrir really isn't sure why he's here.

Rifter had expressly forbade him to drink, after all. And Fen, well, he wasn't about to disobey. However, the friendly girl from the last club had asked him to come here with her and, having nothing better to do, he had.

She's lost in the crowd somewhere. He hasn't been able to find her for some time and is beginning to suspect that he won't.

So, our intrepid shadow-servant gone wrong headed over to the bar, where he's sitting, now, waiting to catch the bartender's attention. He hopes they have something non-alcoholic to serve.

Let's examine him, shall we? A distorted mimickry of his caster, Fenrir is medium heigh and slimly built-- one of those guys whose muscle is naturally all in the arms and legs, rather than shoulders and chest. His hair is black because black it easier to do, and it's curly because he hadn't bothered to change it. His eyes are black because he can't change them, and they're rather a dead give-away unless he squints, as he's doing now-- with his eyes open wide, it's obvious that they're black from corner to corner.

The clothing he wears is far less extravagant than that of other club-goers-- simple jeans, a simple shirt, a simple jacket, all black. Again, it's easier to make when he takes on a solid form.

He's smiling in a vague, good-natured sort of way as he patiently waits his turn.

((Gneh. Excuse blah-ness.))

The wait wasn't long.

Considering that the patrons loitering around the counter were quickly dissuaded by the bartender's supposingly crazed antics. Flames would emerge out of nowhere, noxious green fumes would drift visible in the air, and the sound of the fire extinguisher was becoming uncomfortably common around the establishment. They would come back of course--once the buzz was gone and they were left empty of any exhilarating sensations of blissful drunken stupor or an intoxicated high. Unbeknownst to them that if they didn't return to the bar--they didn't return to the club. Or home as a matter of fact.

A jaded eye watched lazily from behind the wet counter of spilt liquid-fire and water, a single elegant hand drying an amber-stained cup with a clean rag through the glass refused to surrender its colorful hue. And from this gloved hand were five urbane fingers, each concealed in black leather that squeaked when they rubbed lightly against sullied gold-tinted glass.
One by one the people left. Either with a contorted face of pain or a baffled expression on their face as they wondered exactly what they had consumed to cause their throat to go ablaze. One by one they disappeared until at last--only a single figure sat patiently alone. And with his poor vision, Jairus narrowed his glazed eye to focus and make out the dark outline of the figure; the tenebrous light seeming to blend the man into its black surroundings.

At first, the young man wondered if the person was really there.

The second on why he was here.

And the third..that he had yet to see a more ridiculous smile on a blank human face.

The creature was an oddity in the midst of the club's mechanical residents; the people hindered and limited from fluid motions by the stiff and tight clothes they wore. The eccentric bartender hadn't even known that jeans were acceptable under the club's questionable version of "appropriate attire".
But perhaps the figure was a hobo who had taken the notion of pretending to be a club drunk so he could loiter and sleep in some corner. Which, to the irked bartender's assumption--the man had chosen to be a seat at his counter. There didn't seem to be any other valid explanation to why..

Jairus glanced at the smile from the corner of his eye.

Of course, he could just be another insane hobo or an experiment that had gone wrong and hadn't died like he was suppose to.

Note to Oneself: Increase the dosage of toxin.

Cocking a slender brow at the other and wondering if feigning ignorance of the person's presence was excusable; the young man pulled back a strand of loose blond hair and placed it behind his ear in self-contemplation.

No, ignoring the only person sitting at your bar was hardly logically.

So with resign or the fact that the person hadn't called for him and stated what alcoholic brain-cell murdering concoction he wanted; the bartender prepared himself to being forced to actually speak to a human tonight.
He tried to minimize his words as short and understandable as possible.

"Are you lost?"

Quite an achievement to make contact to an inaccurately described "sentient" creature. He only hoped that he had butchered his eloquence enough for comprehension to dawn upon the other. And as if he had realized that he had involuntarily started or opened some vague gate or invitation for a conversation, he hastily dug in his mind to add something more indifferent.

This eventually resulted in an updated improvement to his "word-friendly for the intellectually-deprived" list of phrases. It came out as one word; his tone smooth and elaborated where even the question mark seem to be a part of the word itself.

"Drink?"

Surely such simplicity was communicated through the channel and noise to connect with the man's skull and fire at least a single synapse in his poorly fed mind?

Ah, the bartender seems to be talking to him.

Having waited so long, Fen's mind had drifted off, his attention drawn to the colours and movements out in the rest of the bar. Now, a few not entirely polite words draw him back.

Had the author of the previous post not godmoded just a teensy tiny bit, Fenrir might have responded to the first query. As is, we'll imagine he was daydreaming.

Drink? "Oh, yes. Yeah, I was wondering if you had any milk? Or... something non-alcoholic." It tells you something about a person when they're automatic reaction is to say 'yes' and, once they have time to think about their words, they use the slangier 'yeah.'

Fenrir gives the bartender an encouraging and slightly smile, leaning one of his elbows on the counter.

He's one of those puppies you have to kick a few times before they notice.

The author of the aforementioned post protests that he has done no such thing. And that after a careful analysis to see his faults, he can see only two such heinous acts by his part. And in the desire to defend his honor--if he even has any of course--he would like to say that Jairus was merely exercising his notions of Naga supremacy over what he assumed was a human creature. And thus has called Fen..and he quotes, "inaccurately described "sentient" creature" unquote, to all people. Not as a remark to accost the shadowy and friendly ah..thing nor that he knows Fen is a shadowy and friendly thing. Of course, this is his own observation and does not apply to much at all. The second would be, he presumes, what the author of the prior post has mentioned. Jairus merely tied the sentences in one breath through Fen was welcome to reply. The unadorned sequence of his words would have been: "Are you lost? Pause. Drink?" The author of this post is greatly, grandly, and humorously indignifed. He is hungry as well. But since the last comment is not quite interesting, the godly moding young man slaps his wrist and says: "Poo. Shalln't do it again mate."

Now this greatly, grandly, and humorously indiginifed person who in truth, is not indignified at all, shall resume focus on Jairus lest he rot on the spot from inactivity.

Or smile and enact the idea of kicking puppies.

The bartender did not like disorder and things that were out of routine as they surely were now. Milk of course--was not on his list of alcoholic rubbish. The word "nonalcoholic" was foreign to his ears. And the young man that he had spoken too--while mildly pleasing to his single eye--had mentioned the forbidden.

Milk.

Humans should not drink milk. Let them crumble and scatter fragile bones from the lack of it.

Humans milked cows.

And Nagas drank it.

Casting off what reluctant civility he had reserved on his slightly and regrettfully related kind; Jairus went over to the young man and leaned against the counter as he prompted an arm to rest against it. A single murky green eye narrowed as he looked unbemused at the other.

"What diabolic, preposterous, and scurrilous suggestion have you just uttered to my hearing? I believe it is a general consensus that this is in fact--a bar. And that I am in fact--a bartender and you have just inquired for a divine substance that comes slovenly from a bovine's tit. We serve alcohol. Mind-damaging, intoxicating, and corrosive alcohol. And unless you are indeed lost--I demand that you refrain from being healthy and conscious of your health and correctly request to be placed in a transitory state of being blissfully catatonic." Jairus snapped as he jabbed a leather-embraced finger against the counter for emphasis before resuming back into the impossible task of wiping the amber-tinted glass free of its stains.

Fenrir pauses for a moment, running a few of the less common words through what, for lack of a more properly occult word, we'll call his database.

It barely takes a second, and then he shrugs apologetically.

"Sorry. I'm not really supposed to drink alcohol." What is the guy, twenty-something? Does he need to ask his mommy?

His caster, actually.

"Are you sure you don't have, say, a coke? For a rum and coke?"

The ever-versatile brow rose once more at the man's refute. No. It wasn't a refute--it was an apology. And this itself, had caused the Naga-in-disguise to momentarily pause and stare at the other. The hand that had been so vigorously scrubbing the amber-tinted glass in his hand had stopped as well when the aforementioned brow had been cocked yet again in less then the span of five minutes or so. Not that he hadn't heard apologizes before from the drunk and wepting customers around his counter who lamented on some alcohol-induced memory that buggered the heck out of him. Those tears were poisonious for crying out loud.

No pun intended.

But the bizarre character that some cat dragged in was: (1) Not drunk. (2) Not wepting. (3) And could have actually understood the soliloquy he had just said seconds ago. And God forbid that if it was true. He rather liked humans to be inferior and mindless.

Then there was just the absolute "friendliness" that seem to reek from him like the strong and upiquitous odor of dog dung. The bartender's nose almost twitched and wrinkled as the thought came to mind and the smell almost real to his senses. One mustn't forget the patience, the ever-perturbing smile, the polite mannerisms, and the odd squinting eyes which he didn't quite understand.

Which of course--he wouldn't admit that he didn't quite understand.

In his study of human anatomy, the reaction would be quite the opposite with bulging eyes that tried to capture what scarce light was in the club. But he wasn't doing so. Just as he himself--was not doing so. He wasn't fond of finding common traits between humans and himself. Even if the other was squinting as if the lad was half-blind and he wasn't. Through in fact--he was a tad half-blind.

He found the man unbearable. And the lad hadn't even spoken a paragraph yet.

"Well.." he said after a pause.

"I believe we're getting somewhere then. Exactly why are you seated in my bar if you don't intend to be wasted?" Jairus asked, adding the last part reluctantly after some thought.

His voice while sleek--had always held a nasty tone hidden within its depths. It was as if it was a perfect crystal wine-glass that had somehow over the years or abuse--acquired a marring and disfiguring crack on its pristine surface. While the words that had been uttered before were brusque and curt, the bartender's tone took a change for the better when he spoke to the young man now. The expression on his countenance less stringent and testy.

Sure--this was a good sign for some for someone who despised humans. But it was rather hard to surface some type of explanation for his single eye latent with bemused malice as he peered at the other. It was the 'God, I hate your types. Why can't you all go to hell and leave your corpses to be consumed by maggots?' expression if such a look could be described. Or perhaps a better description would be 'Could I stab you? Please? Please? Please?' if you added the slight curl of his lips in the smallest and palest of smiles.

Unfortunately, no one, no where, wrote a book called 'facial expressions in north america and how to interpret them, complete with illustrations.' Fen has to work from instinct and what little experience he's had.

He's starting to get the impression that this bartender is les than friendly, but he doesn't let it deter him. Maybe the guy just needs to warm up.

"I came here with someone else, and kinda lost her." He shrugs, continuing to smile amiably. "I decided that I might as well patronize the establishment." Ooh, big words.

He gives Jairus an inquiring look, one eyebrow slightly lifted, dark on dark eyes slightly less squinted.

"Coke?" he prompts.

((OOC: Due to the fact that I have been under semi-intense contemplation and that I'm having a terrible day..I'm going to make the rash decision of simply dying in this place. In other words--disappear. I'm moody. I'm hungry. And I'm tired. I know that this choice is merely reflecting the "I hate the world at this moment, why can't a comet smash us?" feeling that I am consumed with right now. And I might correct my words but as of the current status quo..*poofs*

I've vanished.))

((Well... that sucks. Come back when you're feeling better?))

((Ah ha! I knew that tidbit of my writing was influenced somewhere. A vague memory of this post must have lingered in my mind while I was writing about Jairus' description but I couldn't pinpoint my thoughts to who. A moment there--I had thought it was Cruci but then she doesn't directly speak with the reader. For one thing I knew it was not anything of my instant creations of goofy remarks. I'm tickled that I was able to find out the source. ^^=

"Now. Lets take a look at the object for sale shall we? For he was a rather strapping young man born of healthy complexion and good-natured smiles. By height--the prince was a good and solid 5'11. The lad unfortunately missing that one inch to truly be six feet high. But considering how dainty and short the women-stock came these days, this would hardly be a problem."

It is nearly identical. Shamefully nearly identical that I must slap my wrist and say "Poo. Shalln't do it again mate". Oh I am tickled to find out where that alien tidbit emerged in my post. A million and two apologies mate that my writing went parallel to yours for a moment there. Fusion of influence dancing in my mind.

*flickers his imaginary tail*

I still find it remarkable. Yes..sinfully remarkable and the fact that this is turning into a rant of awe and shamefully shameful shame. Through I think it's brilliant that my memory actually works instead of malfunctioning. Actually retains what it reads. This also an excuse ah..reason why I mustn't rpg here. The posts are too fascinating not to forget. And slowly assimilation will occur unconsciously and my originality will be turned into an American melting pot. And that won't do if I plan to be a writer when I'm wrinkled and retired from travelling after viruses and the likes. Still brilliant. And a thousand or was that a million and two apologizes for not recognizing it sooner. I give you my hat mate.

Brilliant. Utterly brilliant. I'm downright tickled pink!))

((A good writer reads, and you can assimilate writing style through reading. You've got your own style, whatever happens. It will probably be influenced no matter what. Who knows, you might end up liking speaking directly to the reader in your work. I know I don't mind that you did it.

And you're as likely to pick up style from people you roleplay with a lot on Neo.

And I'm Canadian...))