Quiet Saturday morning? Eh, it was for the birds. Did he even ever spend any time at his flat? Not really. That was probably why the most he had on his walls were a few posters of Disturbed, Slipknot, and Metallica and why only three rooms had much of anything in them: the kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom. Well...he did have some cabinets in his living room, but the open floorspace was used for something other than Twister or watching TV.

But the casino had a great lounge and said lounge had some of the best Scotch he'd ever tasted. That's why the witch was sitting on a couch in the back of the lounge with a glass of Scotch in one hand and his other resting on the arm, right next to an end table holding the bottle. It was almost noon as he watched the US kick the livin' shit out of England in a football - er, soccer match. He sipped his Scotch as he watched the game only to realize that it was almost empty.

He took the bottle and refilled it; the bottle clunked as he set it back down on the table, the amber liquid swirling around as the thick glass of the bottle's bottom hit the dark cherry of the end table. He went back to sipping the liquor as someone else plopped down on the couch next to him. His feet hadn't once moved from their crossed position on the foot stool immediately before the black leather sofa.

He'd made a heavy bet on the US winning this game and another on the 'enemy' getting totally demolished. Apparently, he was going to make a lot of money; there was no way in hell those tea-drinking softies could come back from the brutal assault they'd suffered thus far and the game was almost over.

In short, Tom Horne was thoroughly enjoying his semi-quiet Saturday morning. He'd probably blow his newfound wealth on the slots or at the Craps table, but he wasn't concerned. He didn't spend much on things other than witchcraft supplies and he only used his bartending money to pay for the necessities anyway; everything else came from his monetary inheritance.

James was normally very composed in public. He liked to project a certain appearance, give a certain air. The impression he gave seemde to shift dramatically from occasion to occasion, but it's pretty much always a genuine air. It was not often that James lost his composure. Then again, it's not often that he ran across a couch that was so obviously...comfortable.

That leather covered beauty must've been new, because he swore it wasn't here last time he knocked on Lady Fortune's door. He didn't have a date just yet and his clothes weren't so constricting that they reminded him about social cues. They were nice, yes, because he preferred to gamble in the Fortuna's more exclusive sections but they were free, loose, and classy. James' clothes said something about him.

And as he took a running skip towards the couch they said, "I'm free, loose, and classy, but I am currently filled with child-like glee." At least they didn't say, "I'm tipsy," which he was.

Plopping into that couch was like heaven, or a large woman's soft chest. You could just sink in and enjoy.

There was only one thing missing.

"Aha!"

And his couch-mate held it.

So James liked to travel, it was sort of what they did at family get-togethers, and he liked accents. He was pretty good at them. He also had pretty low inhibitions.

"S'cuse me, guv'na," he chose an obnoxious British accent, definitely over the top but extremely convincing. He leaned forward and grabbed the bottle for a quick swig. He set it right down again with a satisfied smack of his lips.

"Y'see, they may look like they're losing," he gestured to the TV, "but really, in the last five minutes, UK's gonna be all over those Yanks."

When some damned brit leaned over his lap to grab his bottle and took a swig, he got irritated. Then the guy leaned back and told him he was about to lose. Fortunately, however, he had a little advantage over the game; also, he wasn't worried about mouth diseases as he had remedies for that. He was just irritated.

"I seriously doubt it," he said without a trace of emotion beyond his placcid facade.

He didn't say anything more, though, as he watched the game. The next five minutes came - and then they went. One last goal for the Brits made for a last-ditch attempt to win, but it was only one goal. He smirked. He loved luck charms. He really did. He stood up.

"Well, time to collect my winnings."

He picked up the bottle and took it with him as he went to claim his winnings. A guard came over and acted as a witness while the money was counted out to him. Pocketed that money and stuck his hand in that pocket as he sat on a stool to finish his Scotch - only then noticing the strange Brit wasn't on the couch anymore.

Wonderful.

He already didn't like the Brit, and now the guy was probably going to stalk him all damned day. So much for an enjoyable Saturday.

Well you see, funny thing, James was still on the couch. But since the other half seemed to have been vacated, he took complete and full advantage and sprawled out over the entire thing. He snuggled into that warm, soft leather and practically buried himself in the seats. There must have been an arm or cushion in the way. It's quite understandable why Tom couldn't see.

It really didn't last long, though, because some people from hospitality were looking at him strangely and a short skirt flitted by. So James just sort of unfolded vertically. It was really a cool effect, especially since he could win contests in cool if he wanted to. But just like he was too cool for school, he's too cool for contests. So he doesn't win them.

He did go and hit on the short skirt (in a non-creeper sort of way), only to find out that she was married. James bowed out with all grace and style.

Well then he started to get bored.

And then he spotted Mr. Soccer-Snob over with that deliriously tasty scotch. He seemed a little too wound up for James' philosophy on life.

James decided to have a little fun.

It didn't take long to get right next to Tom, and hopefully, since he tried to approach from Tom from behind, the witch didn't have any idea that James was there. He might have James didn't know, but it would be fun if James could really say that he was that sneaky.

"'Ello, guv'na!"

Tom was not blind, nor was he an idiot. His peripheral vision picked up on the guy pretty quick and he decided to get rid of him. He was liking this Brit less and less. He downed what was in the glass and then stared at it for a few seconds. His hand still in his pocket, his fingers remained unseen as the formed a couple of strange signs. Then he put the glass down - right next to the idiotic Brit.

Finally, he picked up his bottle of Scotch and downed it. Then he set the bottle down and walked out toward the casino.

((New spell I thought up! =D Check my profile for details. ^_^))

Well that was rude. Then again, this guy was all sorts of rude (according to James, who was actually being rude) so it made sense.

The selkie had a tendency to be childish at times in his actions, only really being in human society for about a decade or so. He'd done well so far, considering his circumstances, but it may take a few more years to really fine tune those social skills.

Nevertheless, James is stuck in a box. It was so weird. One minute he was super stealthy faux Limey ninja, the next....was a severely limited square of influence. He could sit down. That was pretty much it. In the three minutes it took James to figure this out, he did some inconspicuous testing of his boundaries. Regardless of his practice in cool, there were weird looks. But then he bought alcohol, so all weirdness was forgiven in the exchange of money. During which, James discovered that he seemed to be the only one aware of those ridiculously rigid limitations. Well at least he had a chair. And time, apparently. Ten minutes had passed and he wasn't any closer to figuring this one out.

Ah. Alcohol...

Damn it. It was that bastard by the TV. It had to have been...

Well James was just going to sit there and glare. Maybe the Asshole could feel his fury across the casino. Who knows.

While waiting, James dangled his leg and bumped it against the invisible wall in a rhythmic fashion. When this stupid..whatever-it-was wore off, he'd know.

Tom picked up some chips and headed for the slots. On his way there, though, he stopped off for a bit of Blackjack. His luck charm was still in effect and probably would be for another hour or so; it was simple, yes, but SO very powerful. After he got three BJs in a row, the dealer pulled out a different set of cards - probably a trick deck. In any event, he still got four 21s before he was finally asked to leave. The dealer had busted in the first three hands of the second deck. Pocketing his chips, he headed for the slots and started throwing some coins down.

James wanted to get out of there. James had been counting. It was around the 657th time that his foot tested the boundaries that they finally broke and gave way. If he hadn't been in public and not properly soused, James would have lept for joy and merriment.

But he still hadn't enough alcohol. So he didn't.

Instead, he mused about the positioning of his current nemesis.

He would be difficult to spot amongst this crowd, that was for sure. But luckily for James, not all of his animal senses failed him once he shed his skin. His sight was as normal as a human's, his hearing was about on par, but outside of his skin, he still kept part of his nose. Maybe it wasn't so developed as a werewolf's might be, perhaps there were really too many people in this establishment to trust his olfactory senses, but hell if James wasn't going to try anyway. This guy was probably a mage or something, which made sense given the unpleasant 20 minutes in the brig. So it wasn't likely that James would be able to do anything to the man other than make him feel unpleasant, but the biped seal was going to do the best he could.

James took a stroll near the vicinity of the couch to familiarize himself with the man's stench. He followed it as far as he could, but lost it somewhere near the blackjack tables. Thankfully, there was a decent concentration where the man must've sat and played that James was able to pick it up again.

He sauntered over to the slot machines.

Bingo.

This time James was rather more composed.

"Now tha' wasn' a verra nice thing to do."

But he did switch accents.

Now he's a Scott.

Though there was no outward sound, he mentally sighed. His lips pressed together irritatedly. He focused more closely on the slots than he should have, clearly trying to ignore the man. When he spoke, though - and not in his usual accent - he couldn't help but risk a glance. He looked back to the slots almost before he had glanced at him, dropping some quarters in and pulling the arm.

"So what's with the phony voice?"

He might as well figure out who the dude was that kept bothering him. It wasn't like he was a total ass, after all; a partial ass, maybe - but not a total ass. Three BARs. He pocketed his winnings before dropping some more coins in and pulling the lever once more.

James leaned his elbow on the nearest available, stable surface and cupped his chin in his hand. He looked like he could be completely innocent of anything.

"Oh, come now, me voice ain't phony!"

There was a grin on his face. James stood up and sauntered behind the man. Leaning in served two purposes: to get a better view of what he was doing and to make him any degree of uncomfortable.

"Me accent is," he said low into the other guy's ear. Then he pulled away, because it isn't James' practice to hit on guys. ...unless it's with his fists.

"It's a verra difficult distinction t' make, but I kin see why you might have a bi' of a struggle with it."

Hm, the black jack dealer seemed a little pissed before and judging by the amount of chips this guy has, and all the success he was having with the slots...James' face was overcome with a smile that was a bit less pleasant than the one he usually saved for impressing people. But he'd tuck away what he'd learned for now and use the knowledge when it was prudent.

"Uh-huh," he said, not believing a single word coming out of the idiot's mouth.

Of course, even as he collected his winnings yet again, it didn't take an idiot to notice the gleam in the annoying little turd's shifty eyes or the slightest upturn of the corners of his thin lips. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom took it all in and mentally rolled his eyes. As he stood, though, he looked at the clock; roughly a half-hour more and the luck charm would end. He didn't like to keep such things going as they tended to negatively affect the energy surrounding a place. Too much positive energy and it would eventually start to spill over - and that would prove disastrous. It wasn't right to mess with the fates, but it was relatively safe if you knew what in the hell you were doing.

Tom, of course, knew exactly what he was doing.

He headed to the main desk and cash in his chips. Then he counted his money, pocketed it, and stuck his hands in his pockets. Something like $128,760 was his now and he wasn't having it stolen by some low-life. Fortunately, there was a bank just around the corner - his bank, interestingly enough.

The sun was still shining as he stepped outside, keeping the sidewalk and the air around Tom warm even as a light breeze ruffled his messy hair. Undoubtedly, the idiot was still following him; he didn't particularly care. As he walked up to the bank, he spoke with one of the two security guards quietly. He nodded, understanding that he was to deny the man entry should he indeed decide to follow, and then motioned for the other to help him. They promptly formed a wall. Not too much later, he came out with only a few hundred dollars on his person.

So the man wanted to ignore him? That was fine with James. He had better things he could be doing. There was a poker table somewhere with an arrogant rich man, And in some languages, "arrogant rich man" could be translated as "James" (roughly, of course...). This, of course, also translates to, "There was a poker table with his name on it" but the young black man isn't the best at waxing poetic.

He sauntered over to a table and played the appropriate part, tricking his opposite into betting high. He didn't exactly rake in $100,000 but a cool 1,000 isn't anything to turn your nose at.

His mission accomplished, James went to acquire himself a woman. That was even easier than playing poker. At approximately the same time that Tom was leaving the bank, James tipped the valet and climbed into a shiny Porsche 911, courtesy of his equally flashy date. He grinned when he recognized Tom. The engine revved and stoked his testosterone and without a second glance, he was gone.

Tom noticed the car and its driver, but he wasn't too concerned. Okay, so the guy was a rich fuck. But he was an excessively annoying rich fuck he could really care less about. Oh, well. At least he had the money he needed for supplies; he needed some new supplies. He rolled his eyes at the flashy dude and headed down the street, completely comfortable in knowing that he could have a lot more than just a fancy car and great sex if he wanted it. After all, he wasn't fake like some people were.

Gods, how he hated rich fucks with their wallets stuck up their oversized asses.