No one is entirely sure if it has a street address or not. It doesn't really need one, though. A radio tower is not too hard to overlook even amongst the sky scrapers and hotels.

Especially under the consideration that many people in the City might desire to tune into the tower's bounty, while few were seen prowling the sound waves for the latest news from the hotel. Maybe someone did.

Eli's chair is the kind that can swivel. He found this out when they gave it to him, and no such mechanism has been so abused since. He was swiveling now, although the headset hugging the back of his head was protesting by threatening to slip of his ears. He finally sticks out a finger-less gloved hand and stops. He leans forward and narrows both eyes firm-set on the microphone (which can also swivel on an arm, to his delight) and says.

"… Eight minutes. Commercials are too long, but that's my new record for all you loyal, lifeless counters."

The same cocky but casually conversational tone reverberates through every properly tuned radio in the city.

"Now we're back and we have a new guest. Not one for my roommate quest, but Mr. Persung says it is far more important than such paltry escapes. I've decided to overlook that offense and let him say what he needs. I'll be romancing the rooster if you need me."

He leans over and flips two switches. One activates the headset and microphone of the ashen faced man behind the glass due forward of Eli and the other deactivates Eli's microphone but keeps his headset quite on.

He swivels once more, ducking down and crooning,

"Sir Penningtooon…"

The blue (indicating silvery gray peppered with light grey and black) brahma standard rooster struts purposefully out of his comfortably lined box. It was not to the effect he answered to the name, but there were raisins and nuts to be had and he would not dare miss a chance to fill himself. He already weighed over nine pounds, was quite larger than an average housecat, and majestically combed and collared.

Eli beamed at the appearance of his fowl and quickly scooped some delectables from a dish near his elbow. He tossed them onto a small mat in front of Sir Pennington's luxurious quarters. The rooster stalked over officiously and began to scrape and devour the treats.

It was then Eli turned his attention back on the rapidly flushing man.

"- Communist influences are rampant."

Mr. Persung continued. Eli blinked and furrowed his brow. So the man's talk really had not been on the plausible uses for the colour red in daily activities. He should pay more attention to those pasty middle aged guests, and stop trusting his second-burner sense in the headset. He flipped the switch to activate his microphone and leaned forward.

"Worried about the advancement of a decade-old party?"

"This station is front-runner for their insidious activity!"

"…Really?"

"Yes!"

"Fair enough. Dasvidanya, comrade, thank you for that stunning insight."

Mr. Persung was left spluttering as Eli flipped both of their microphones onto the inactive channel. He leaned over and searched through the monstrous board and computer of music, tongue between his pink lips.

"Ha…"

A few buttons, a channel switch, and only the briefest of pauses later, "Anthem of the Russian Federation" began playing over the air waves. Eli slid his headset onto his spike-collared neck and motioned that the security escort the unfortunate radical away.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the Anthem play while gesturing for the prompter to see if any souls were waiting for an interview in the roommate search.

The officially dressed man turns and opens the doors between the broadcasting room and the much quieter waiting area, looking about for any takers.

It has been such a long day. It has been such a long day and it's not even noon yet. Johnny von den Krahen is not often called to work early in the morning- such early-bird jobs are usually reserved for new recruits, enthusiastically early risers and/or college students who'd better get used to waking up mornings anyway.

Not so for von den Krahen. Courier for three years and counting, not including the brief stint when he was seventeen which was really more of a summer job than anything else. Couriers, unlike postal workers, do not often last long. The sort of job that gives rise to lots of lopsided explanations of years of freelance work in resumes all over the city. Von den Krahen rather likes his job, in fact- one works alone, and delivering these packages requires only enough people skills to get the clipboard signed. And he (alone, he knows, among millions) likes the commute. And it's a surprisingly well-paying job- surprising, that is, to such a long-tall stretched-skinny boy as this, pierced and mohawked such that any respectable office building would simply throw away the application.

And so it is that von den Krahen finds himself fast asleep (it is, after all, before noon) in one of the plush-uncomfortable low-faux-modern chairs in the waiting room of a radio station, bubble-wrap-padded folder sliding slowly and inexorably down his jeans'd lap towards certain floor.

The prompter blinks.

It certaintly did not look like one of the many callers ringing in desperately during the open-phone sessions for Eli to keep the roommate spot free. However, a body was a body.

He crosses the threadbard carpet and attempts to rouse von Krahen with a light jostle to the shoulder all whilst eyeing the package making friends with gravity and an incline.

In the next room, the last strains of his revenge were dying away and Eli was reorganzing himself for his vocal appearance.

"That was the latest version of "Anthem of the Russian Federation" by.. someone.. who likely has a z in their name..."

He clears his throat away from the microphone.

"Music by Alexander Alexandrov and words by Sergei Mikhalkov... there.. that wasn't too painful. Next on the agenda... perhaps another interview... if I really knew, we wouldn't have this show."

He leans back in his chair and eyes his rooster. The knighted barnyard dweller was still scratching about his mat although the raisins and nuts were entirely devoured.

The girl's gorgeous, really. As always just barely out of reach, blue-white milk-skin soft and supple and so close, black-blue hair long falling into curls at her waist and face like ice but such beautiful warm ice, and all he wants to do is touch her face but she doesn't think so and she's always a step ahead, red fields of poppies and a vast black sky but his mind pulls one of those bad transitions on him and he's sitting at a desk in a small white room and

Ohshit. Asleeponthejob.

Automatic impulses draw von den Krahen to his feet (catching the escaping package simultaneously) and he's halfway across the room before he's fully awake and he's already in through the door and this mohawked madman is saying something about Zs and sleep and duty muddle his mind, there's a package in his hand and he can't figure out where it is and this is getting tiring fast.

"Mister, there's a rooster on your floor." The tone flat and matter-of-fact, voice surprisingly deep for his thin frame and unsurprisngly surly for his expression, accent faintly Slavic- not that of a bilinguist but a secondhand accent, some extra-lettered language spoken perhaps at home but never picked up by the progeny. And there is a rooster on the floor and he's really never liked chickens much, really he hasn't and he's quite sure there's something he's supposed to be doing here.

The prompter jumps back, but finds his job done as the fatigued delivery boy stumbles into the appropriate room. He's surprised the lad remembered to open the door, but gradually loses interest and walks out to hunt up another styrofoam cup of black coffee.

Eli swiveled in that blessed chair and eyed von Krahen incredulously while deactivating his microphone and turning on a popular rock'n roll hit from the latest spotlit band.

"His name is Sir Pennington."

The same flat tone except it's all American.

The rooster lifts and tilts its pointed head and struts grandly toward von Krahen in hopes the stranger might weild an offering.

"Is that for me?"

Eli tilts forward, putting his weight onto the balls of his feet and drumming his right set of fingers on his left palm. His attention is rather rivetted on the mysterious package.

"That is a big fucking rooster, man," is all he can think to continue with. He blinks (eyes pale blue- no cliche depth, but more the suggestion of depth as though looking down at ocean through layers of ice) from said rooster to Eli and back, then uncomprehendingly to the package under his own arm. Oh. Right.

"Oh. Yah. Eli Scotts-Adams? For you- hold on a mo'-" He looks about blankly for a moment- "sonofabitch-" left it outside- "Hold," he explains, proffering the envelope, and then ducks out of the room to retrieve his clipboard (propped safely against his chair) and then back in. "And sign," he finishes, handing over the clipboard and a pen as well.

"That is a big fucking rooster," he adds after some contemplation of the feathered beast- confirming his earlier announcement or something, gods, he doesn't even know. "Sir Pennington, hey? He yours?"

"Isn't he?"

Some amount of proud beaming.

"Roosters are better than most guard dogs."

Better than his dog at least.

Sir Pennington has reached von Krahen and was nearing a pecking when the subject moved. Eli accepts the parcel covettingly, running a fingrtip down the length of one side and smirking to his feathered friend.

"Something for us.."

He comments outloud, musingly, mothy eyes upward.

The rooster flutters in a startled manner as von Krahen returns, ruffling feathers and then fastidiously fixing them with his prodding, smoothing beak.

Eli signs alongside all the right Xs, a convoluted excuse for a name. The 'E' is the only thing certain.

"Oh yes.."

He returns the clipboard.

"I've had him for almost three years now. He's something of a mascot for me... and I don't know how he managed to get knighted.. but there's a reason for sure."

He smiles wryly and begins ripping at the package.

"Yeah, sure," he agrees doubtfully (general doubt, no specific target), accepting the clipboard. He sure doesn't doubt Sir Pennington's abilities as a watchdog... rooster. That thing looks mean, really, all beak and talons and yeesh. Von den Krahen has never quite trusted land-bound birds- not natural, although of course he knows it is. He supposes it's just the site of these silly lumbering winged things plodding or hopping along or whatever it is they do- it's awful to him, in a way. What would be the use of having wings if you couldn't use them?

"Eli Scotts-Adams... Say, you've got that radio show, right? Er... this radio show, I mean, innit." Of course he's got this radio show- he's in this recording booth at this radio tower, isn't he? Duh, to use the vernacular. "My dad used to listen to you all the time. Really cracked him up."

"Uhm-huh..."

Comes the response. Eli is surveying his bounty. The white packaging revealed a forwarded issue of a radio magazine, some brand new connector wires, what appear to be chargable battery packs, and some other gagdets which had Eli all a-grins.

He finally looks up and then merely gestures to the wall. A promotional poster with the word "Miscellany" printed across it in a sloppy 'hand written' form.

"Used to?"

He isn't sure if the past tense is because the strange guest's father was dead or had stopped listening for another reason. He pressed because he did not want to find it to be the second option.

"Well.. I think it's still funny..."

The song he had set clicked off, the screen on the computer shifting to the opening menu. Elsewhere, a light began to blink. Eli tended to this and appeared to have begun taking a telephone call as result.

"Everyone can hear you. What's your piece?"

"Is.. Is this.. Eli?"

"Yes, is this..."

His eyes flicker to the screen as it loads. A name and number display in white against a black backdrop.

"Maurene?"

Multiple pitches of squealing and a few faint chants of 'we got on, we got on' from the background. Eli dons his devilish smirk and cajoles in to the microphone.

"Sounds like you have the whole team there, Mo.."

"Oh, I do... I mean.. all my friends and me... we totally never miss your show!"

"I'm deeply touched."

Plenty of sincerity, regardless of whether false or genuine.

"Can we request a song...?"

"Of course, my small herd of pre-pubescent fans."

"Can we hear some Queen?? Please?"

"Anything you want. Remember, stay in school and drink your vegetables."

The advice was standard, not a mistake on his part. He flips the girls off and shuffles Queen to the deck, Another One Bites the Dust coming up first and so it then blasts over the air waves. He seems satisfied and turns his attention back to von den Krahen.

"Thanks for the delivery. Are you interested in an interview?"

Von den Krahen is left temporarily to his thoughts (watching with something bordering on bemusement as Eli handles Maurene and the herd), a moment to reflect on Eli's expression (uncertainty to grin to smirk and back and on to a gentle sort of content, rapid-fire)- and mohawk, admittedly, and very nearly grins when the DJ returns to reality. This is almost worth being up before noon for.

"Interview? Dunno. What for?" And pauses.

"He listened your show all the way up to the last, actually," he adds, shrugging- he may be slow on the uptake sometimes, but he can see what stopped Eli. "Well. More or less, anyway- old coot went in his sleep, and Mum wouldn't leave the radio on nights." Gosh. Indifferent much?

Eli tapped the microphone with a fingertip so it swung away from his head.

"I need a roommate. I've got a decent-sized apartment and I want a human to share with. Sir Pennington lives on the balcony and there's old Charley.. my hound.. but he likes to sleep in front of the 'frige... no real need to plan around him."

He points to a chair alongside him.

Eli preferred conducting these interviews on a personal level, not between glass.

"You can sit there if you're interested."

He faces the computers and clicks his tongue to the beat of an entirely different song than that playing.

"I'll have to mention that."

He mumbled, apparently addressing von den Krahen's father's loyalty.

Von den Krahen takes a moment out to contemplate his current living situation; with his mother, whom he moved back in with a year ago after father dearest died- out of what, he's not sure, some spontaneous familial sympathy on his part. Misplaced, apparently, as it turned out, for his mother (as easily amused as his father was) tooled along just like normal, fine dandy and completely indifferent.

"Okay." Watching von den Krahen sit down is a rather interesting thing- a process, really, a matter of folding up and into the seat. "Oh.. I'm von den Krahen. Er, John von den Krahen, really." It's obvious by his faintly distasteful tone that he doesn't go by John. The word sounds strange in his mouth- a word that, by all rights, only his mother would use, and only his mother does.

In case, you know, Eli might think the name of this potential roommate important.

Eli, unfortunately, had not been watching von den Krahen sit. He was organizing a line-up of songs to follow any situations where conversation panned out into nothingness.

When he finally does turn, it is with a bemused smile.

"von den Krahen."

He echoes as if "john" had never been spoken. Eli rarely saw faces during the day and had long since developed a skill for reading into inflection and tone.

"That's uncommonly righteous."

He acknowledges sincerely while Queen ends. He shoves von den Krahen a headset, gesturing how to put it on over one's ears.

"You'll hear a low buzz at first.. that means it's disconnected. Once I connect you and you speak into the microphone, you'll be on the radio. I don't care what you say."

He was still being sincere. Of course there were restrictions, limitations, and red tape over what could and could not be said, but Eli thought it amusing to push the common sense pedal as far as he could before having the person forced out.

He puts his own headset online, keeping von den Krahen on the buzzing-level until Eli felt he was properly situated.

"I never left. I've been sitting here the whole time."

He liked saying it more than "we're back" because he had not lifted his butt from the comfy, swivel seat. Eli begins to make small talk about the gadgets as he waited for von den Krahen to become fully situated.

Von den Krahen blinks blankly at the headset- puts it on, feels ridiculous (in a vague sort of way)- and, never a very technical kind of guy, allows his brain to erase the interruption, and continues as if there is no buzzing in his ears.

"What, von den Krahen? Nah, it's my Mom's- she insisted on it. Apparently den Krahen- the Crows- was a place in Germany. Or not in Germany, or something. Never was really explained properly." He settles back in the chair, fingertips (bitten down nails) tapping out a rhythm on the plastic arm of the chair, and watches Sir Pennington.

Sir Pennington cleaned his feathers with the regalness allotted to all birds of his stature and social standing.

Eli leans back in the chair and put his boots on the top of the nearest CD deck.

"Your people's latest poll results make no sense to me."

He says to microhpone conversationally.

"You all realize that every single one of those artists are so horribly past their primes or even their downfalls it's sick?"

Argumentable statements made for interesting phone-ins and that was what he catered to.

"I finally found a decent guest to face you all with... He goes by von den Krahen and he's your latest opponent for my covetted roommate position."

He flips the connector switch, putting von den Krahen on the airwaves for all of Bayfield.

"Not in Germany? So are you.. not-in-Germany-German? Or.. do you just say "German"?"

It was an honest question.

"I think we always said 'German' because it's easier than trying to explain what it really is," von den Krahen shrugs, eyes on Sir Pennington. He's vaguely aware that his words are being directly transmitted to the homes of innumerable listeners; he finds, however, that perhaps it's not important.

"It's kind of that American mutt thing, you know- like, Hey. I'm Irish, Greek, English, Italian and- what- Hungarian or something, right- not me personally, just hypothetically. And anybody born and raised in Ireland, Greece, England, Italy, or Hungary could pride themselves on being able to trace their bloodlines back time out of mind and still be pureblood whatever. But America's young, by comparison, so you borrow and steal and emigrate and what have you and hey presto, instant family tree."

Von den Krahen briefly wonders what Sir Pennington thinks of being petted, and upon further consideration decides that he likes his fingers intact more than a nice case of satisfied curiosity.

"The closest I can guess is it's not so much German as it's vague Norse-Slavic-Cyrillic- but talking about it you can see why it's easier to just say, Oh yeah, German."