Just A Night At The Bar

Summary:
July 20, 2014: - Three men walk into a bar… and it all goes to hell.

A Bar, Gotham City

A dive bar in Gotham City.


Characters

NPCs

  • None

Mood Music:
None


Tommy Monaghan leans into the bar, a half-empty glass of whiskey on one side, a half-empty bottle of beer in the other. Technically, you're not allowed to smoke inside public buildings in Gotham, but cops here have enough problems without worrying about enforcing bullshit yuppie laws like that. So there's also a semi-full ashtray, Tommy lighting a fresh one and blowing smoke, his sunglasses hiding his eyes so he doesn't freak out the regular folks. He speaks to the bartender, a bored looking, white haired and fleshy man by the name of Mick. All Irish bartenders are named Mick.

"Look, I ain't sayin' it wasn't my fault. I had my hand in it. I never shoulda taken the job in the first place. I never shoulda listened to Jimmy Palmiotti, because he's a skell and a moron and wouldn't know an actual friggin' assassin from his own nozzle. Ungh, you should've seen that guy, Mick. He was as hold as you, an' so wrinkled that his wrinkles had wrinkles, all saggin' and drippin' like a melted candle, which he had one o' those, too, 'cause he weren't wearin' a goddamned thing an' I'm lookin' for this sniper and shoutin' "Put yer hands in the air' and he just shows me his hairy ol' armpits. It ain't my fault…"

Logan has been enjoying Tommy's story from the other end of the bar for a while now. He hasn't contributed or even let on that he's paying attention, though. His shoulders are hunched and his head is half-bowed over a mug full of whatever beer they sling here that isn't Molson's so he doesn't give a damn. He lifts it up to take a sip, bringing his other ham-sized fist to brush away the foam caught in several days-worth of scruff. A cigar smoulders in the ashtray near to him, because yeah: fuck the po-lice.

And that's when the law stepped in.

Scratch that. That's not when the law stepped in. That's when someone who arguably worked within the law, to his own ends, to make a fast buck stepped in. One Edward Nygma, formerly supercriminal, now making a buck on people with more money than God and less sense than He gave a lemming. He didn't make a big show of it— wasn't even wearing a question mark coat. Just an olive-green suit, his idea of dressing down. He headed for the bar, taking off his derby as he went, pocketing his purple sunglasses. Gin and tonic, thank you bartender, and all that.

He seats himself squarely in the spaces between Tommy and Logan — empty stools to both sides of him, just enough space to be 'safe.'

He took out a notepad and began to write something down; glancing only briefly at his barmates, he settled in with the false comfort of someone who was all too aware of that trouble was nipping at his heels.

Tommy Monaghan is shaking his head, gesturing lavishly with his Marlboro, "So, I says to 'im, I says, "Hey, are you Joe Quesada?" and he says, "Ayup,", like he's a god damn cowboy on friggin' Bonanza introducin' me to Little Joe, and I was still seein' way much of Little JOe. I mean, I see a lot of 'em all the time anyway, sadly, man with the X-ray eyes an' that shit, but at least it gets balanced out by all the trim. In this case, I had nothin' but Methusalah's ballsack to comfort my eyes."

"So I'm like, "You a killer, Joe?" and he says, "Hell no, unless yer countin' Korea, an' even then weren't nothin' but a bunch o'—well, I ain't gonna use the words he used, but they would probably make you lose a basketball team if you said 'em now. So I said, "So, why'd Jimmy Palmiotti send me here?" and he's all, "That skunk, he owes me five hunnerd fer the pills I sold him last week…"

Tommy pauses and holds up a hand, turning his head to look over at Edward, "First of all, I ain't sure why yer head's full o' crosswords, but you have GOT to go slower, it is makin' me dizzy. Second of all, if this 'he' follows you in here, am I gonna have to shoot somebody or get the hairy little Terminator over there to get off his metal butt an' help out? Or should I just let 'em getcha?"

Logan lifts his head from his beer when Edward takes a seat and his eyebrows actually raise when Tommy makes his statement. Figures. Whatever happened to the bars that just had thick-skulled goons for patrons? Now it's all apparent telepathic hitmen and former costumed weirdos. All the same he does little more than watch and wait and listen.

Edward startled at the address Tommy began, turning his head sharply; green eyes narrowed to slits, and for a a brief moment there was really ugly rage on his face. It smoothed away from one eye blink to the next, but… no, the intrusion doesn't please him.

"First, tht's very rude," you don't say, Eddie? "Second, that's — yet to be seen. Currently on a case, and the case is now on me. It happens, you know. Guy does something stupid, someone takes affront, next thing you know I get hired, and someone tips him off… now he thinks he can make his stupid go away by getting to me. But I don't think he'll be here anytime soon…. and hopefully nobody has to go 'terminator'."

Tommy Monaghan shrugs, "You got a problem with it, take it up with the giant alien bug that sucked my spine juice. I can't help hearin' it, it just comes on in. Believe me, I don't wanna see you writin' Penthouse Letters to Sudoku in my head any more'n you want me to see it," he says, downing the rest of his whiskey with a long slurp and nodding to Mick for a refill.

"Well, there are a LOT of stupid criminals in this town, so narrowin' it down might help. If you know who they hired, too, I know most of the hitters in town, I might be able to talk somethin' out. You must be a good guy t'somebody, 'cause nobody offered the contract t'me, which means either they're respectin' my moral code or they're cheap." he says. He can tell Logan's listening in, but what little he can pick up from the barbed wire garbage dump in that guy's brain, he'd rather just let it slide on by.

Logan cannot help but snort out a grunt of a laugh, fishing his cigar from the ashtray and taking a puff on it. The cloud of strong-smelling smoke wafts about him as he shakes his head. Weirdos.

Edward shot a look at Logan, before he returned his gaze to Tommy. God, he was in the right place at the wrong time, or the wrong place at the right time, or— some combination thereof, wasn't he?

"I think you're confused. I don't— I mean, I work to catch criminals. Another criminal did not hire him, and I hope no one hired anyone to erase me, thank you. I'm doing just fine not dying. Honestly the guy's—"

In the doorway. Screaming: "EDWARD NYGMAAAAAAAAA!" He was a thin man, strung-out and not very threatening. But looks could be deceiving, right?

"Ah, fuck," Edward mutters under his breath.

Tommy Monaghan is just used to assuming anyone you're hiding from is someone trying to kill you. I mean, why else would you hide from someone? Hmmmmmmmmmmm. Maybe Eddie here owes somebody money? Those are pretty much the only reasons Tommy would avoid anybody, and even most of those—

And then Heroine McMurphy here roams in the door screaming. Sure, he doesn't look threatening. That's good. It's much easier to scare the fuck out of people who aren't threatening.

So Tommy pulls out his forty-five and holds it out, still on his stool, cigarette in his mouth, and aims it at the squealing dude, "Settle down there, Skeletor. Hablo sane-o? You speak reasonable human, kemosabe, or are you limited t', like, junkie speech? 'cause I ain't seen Trainspotting in a while an' I'm out of practice. Good movie, though, that Ewan McGregor's really somethin', right, I mean?' he says, looking over at Eddie for agreement.

Logan turns around as the skinny fella starts screaming. To sensitive ears it is positively cacophonous and he winces. He's irritated enough to slap the guy around but never mind that, Tommy is pointing a gun at him. That's good enough reason for Logan not to do anything.

Edward goes very still. There are guns involved, this is always a good time to hold still. They may not be pointed at him but that can change.

Screamy McGee decides this is a good thing to do as well, because he A: Did not understand much of what Tommy said, but he Speaks Gun fluently and understands 'shut up and stop screaming' in that language. He just looks at Tommy, and then at Logan, and makes a whiny noise in his throat.

"Ewan McGregor? Saw him in The Pillow Book. Ten out of ten, would bang," Edward dryly responded to Tommy, totally twisting his comment on it's ear (…even if he was completely honest. Who wouldn't bang Ewan McGregor?)

Screamy whines again, and then said, very unhappily: "That bastard… I lost my wife becaue of you!"

"You lost your wife because you're a raging drug addict pedophile. I just had the proof. That's all." Edward is miffed. Really, this is just gross.

Tommy Monaghan quirks an eyebrow over at Edward, "You really are a bundle full o' puzzle, ain'tcha, bro? Hey, I saw that movie, too, you can 'ave Obi Wan, I'll take the Asian broad, we're square, far as I'm concerned." he says, then does a quick X-ray check of Screamy, making sure he's not armed.

When he hears the exact nature of the complaint, he raises an eyebrow, "That true, squirrel nuts? You a kiddie poker? 'cause, I gotta tell ya, if you are, your wife's not the only thing yer about to lose," he says, and he casually cocks the hammer on his pistol.

Logan bristles slightly. Screamy is the last kind of person he'd defend but he's been present at more than his fair share of shootings. Killers get killed. That's as simple as he's made it for himself and as nasty as this piece of work is, he can't quite reconcile himself with sitting back and letting him get shot. He frowns and shifts, turning about in his seat to look between Tommy and the Screamer. The last thing he wants to do is defend human trash but you don't get to pick and choose with a moral code, even one as loose as his.

Edward's mind reads unerring truth as he says, "Sets 'em up, gets 'em hooked, and then wonders why his ex-wife hires a PI to prove that he does it so she can make sure Cindy and Teresa never see daddy again."

He's with Logan on this, though, hands up. "The courts will take care of him. He's run me down for nothing — the photos are already on their way, and hopefully GCPD has a nice, fat case file on you. And I walk away away a happy man and decently paid."

There's a incongruency: Edward considers himself well paid, so it's the truth… but the case is pro bono.

Tommy Monaghan looks back and forth between Eddie and the squealer, the thoughts of Logan intense enough that he picks him up. He doesn't have any desire to tangle with the little fireplug of a serial killer over there. Even if he couldn't read minds, he's been around bad men long enough to know when one's badder, and that one's badder'n him by a longshot.

"Will you relax, I ain't gonna kill 'im. Sheesh, I'm a professional, I don't kill people for free, it would ruin my reputation, I mean, what kind of an idiot—*BANG*

The gun fires and Squealer doubles over and clutches…his crotch, a massive amount of blood spreading through his jeans, "Whoops, clumsy me. Mick, better call 911. Don't worry, I'm pretty sure he'll live. PUt some pressure on it, Humbert. Push on what's left o' yer dick real hard an' try'n staunch it."

For a moment, Logan considers teaching Tommy a lesson. A brief glimpse inside his mind would hint at the kind of punishment he's capable of dishing out without it being terminal. But he weighs it up as not being worth the effort. The Screamer got what he deserved and he's seen men come back from worse injuries. He shrugs and turns back to his drink.

Edward startles little, and then just /sighs/ like this puts him out terribly. Like the other men, he can't muster much empathy for Screamy McGee, and instead is more concerned about being harassed by the GCPD for any involvement here.

"Jesus, that could have gone better." Screamy also thinks so, but can't really articulate it right now what with him curled into a fetal, screaming ball.

Tommy Monaghan shakes his head, "Oh, relax, ambulance takes about fifteen minutes to get to this part of Gotham. City ain't exactly known for its reliable civil servants, especially down this part o' town," he says, lighting a fresh cigarette, 'Still, I'm gonna get the fuck outta here, myself. YOu guys wanna stay, land o' the free, home o' the brave, semper fi an' all that shit," he says. "Mick, I know you didn't see nothin', but I promise I'll pay my tab, at least, next time I come in t'make it up to ya. An' I'll finish tellin' ya about Droopy Balls Quesada, the Oldest Assassin in the World…" he says.


Back to: RP Logs

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License