Artifacts of Society

August 13, 2014: Because mercs have feelings, too. (Language and adult humor)

Some really run-down bar in New York City

A place like this has a lot of violent stories to tell.



  • Some big nasty bartender guy

Mood Music:

Classic bar scene. This shack could barely be called a bar, and if it's even passed the building inspection code, it probably did so only by killing the inspector or bribing him an exorbitant amount of cashola. A great place for dealings, the private room in back is sure to bring some kind of revenue to this rogue's palace welcoming to those who won't smash it up even more.

Chunks of wallpaper have been peeled off of the walls, showing layers of styles ranging all the way back to the fifties, and the lamps on the walls look like they belong to a prohibition-era style building, retrofitted with flickering lightbulbs that aren't even the LED energy-saving variety. The floor is old, wooden, and creaky, made of wood that looks like it came from a decrepid viking sailboat, and inevitably would give someone a bad case of splinters if they chose to go barefoot.

Aside from that, the torn leather seats, and the broken glass in the corner, the actual bar area looks pretty decent. The bar itself is polished wood, and a gruff, tattooed dude, buffer than superman rocks the back-counter. A small glass that looks way too small for him to be holding is gently cleaned with a dirty rag. Despite constant cleaning, some of the glasses look so dirty and covered with grime that they're probably just filled with alcohol that's half dirt content.

Who the fuck would even bother with a place like that? Wade, in full costume, steps out of the men's room which is labelled in a loving fashion "Hops" and "Barley" for the women's side. Or is it the other way around? Picking at his crotch, he skips a stride on over to the bar before sitting down in an empty stool. From the back he looks like he might be normal, with a ragged longcoat that conceals the majority of his weapons. A big ol' knife is still visible on his left leg, strapped up.

The bartender doesn't even spare a glance, and when DPiddy looks over he just says in a gravelly voice, "Jack, Jose, just give me the bottles." And he obliges, sliding over the bottles in exchange for a wad of cash that Wade just tosses on the counter. This is a waste of time, but whatever.


It's not a waste of time for everyone that passes through these doors. Female customers may be few and far between but those that do make it past the front doors are certainly cut from a very special cloth. One which has seen way too much damn bleach, in this case.

Domino pushes her way through and makes a beeline for the very same counter, coming to rest with an arm draped over the surface so she can slouch upon it at what seems like a slightly awkward angle. She doesn't have long to wait, the very same bartender making his way over as soon as she's noticed.

"It's done."

An observant fellow might notice the hint of a smirk upon the giant muscle-bound man's face, there and gone in an instant. He reaches under the bar then quite neatly places a plain white envelope in front of the woman.

With a slight bow of her head Dom takes the envelope and tucks it away beneath an unbuttoned black overshirt, the other fingerless gloved hand coming up to support her chin as she looks over the alcoholic offerings nearby. Payday's always worth celebrating, right?

That, and she figures she's not going to hold out for a second longer before the person to her left chimes in. She kinda walked right into this one. Lucky her.

"Evening, Deadpool."


Is it evening? Deadpool's been here a while, maybe that's pretty obvious, given the fact that no one else in the sparsely crowded bar is paying attention to him. Maybe it isn't. "Is it?" He looks over, to Domino, squinting a little bit before looking forward again, slouching over the bar. With his right hand he reaches up to hook a thumb under that mask to lift it just over his mouth. Reaching out, he takes the Jack first, uncapping it and chugging it straight.

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp!

Back it goes down onto the table, without a flinch. Maybe an eye twitch. Half the bottle is gone. Now he's just showing off. It's not like the alcohol does anything to him. Or, well. He reaches out for the bowl of peanuts before slipping drunkly forward. His head smashes into the corner of the bar and he slips right under the counter. "Ow." The peanut bowl, tipped slightly, spills a couple loose shells onto the counter. Swing and a miss.

Curled around his stool, he slowly pushes himself back up in an unsteady fashion. One hand on the seat, slowly.. Slowly. WHUMPF! His head bangs on the underside of the counter and he curses, "..motherfucker." Before numbly pushing himself back on the seat. That alcohol is definitely doing something, alright.


Dom's one hand slides down the front of her face as though wiping away her fatigue, or irritation (or trying to scrub Wade's personal funk away from her personal breathing space,) before twisting it enough to check the watch strapped to the underside of a wrist. "If you consider one in the morning to count as evening, sure."

"Deadbeat's been here all day," the bartender points out on his way past. Not that he cares, mind. So long as a customer keeps coughing up the cash and not the vomit, it's all good with him.

The moment that he collapses across the floor Dom says "Better luck next time" without giving the comment any real thought, her attention still focused on the bottles on display.

When he hits his head in coming back up, she suggests "Third time's the charm." With a gentle sigh she finally makes her selection by means of snapping her fingers and pointing to the bottle, to which she receives her poison of the evening. Or morning. Or whatever.

"You've been uncharacteristically quiet on the board lately," she then says in a level tone to the other merc while twisting the cap free of the bottle and lightly tossing it onto the counter. "Burned out already?"


Deadpool levels out on the counter soon enough to return to his slouching position he had before. One hand goes to his forehead while he wobbles a little bit back and forth. Third time's the charm. He reaches for the peanuts and finally manages to snag a handful and dump them out infront of himself. With a fist he smashes one and throws the two nuts into his mouth.

One in the morning. Whatever. "It doesn't matter," he slurrs a bit, "If you're tired of alcohol you're tired of life." A sentence said in a classic radio tone. Probably more personal than random. "Can't do anything right. Can't get paid. Can't heal." Reaching into his coat he takes out a switchblade, flicking it out he stabs near his hand. "Fuck." He tries again, misses, "Shit." He tries again, this time it goes through his hand. "Heheheyeeeaaaooww!"

The bartender notices now and shouts, "Hey! Hey! Not on the counter!" He doesn't actually do anything to stop Deadpool from doing this. After all, with all the wads of cash he's been tossing this evening, he could buy a whole new counter.

As if to prove it, Deadpool takes the knife out of his hand and holds the hand up. The blood runs down his arm but it doesn't stop. Bored already, he drops the knife and puts his hand back on the counter. Where it continues to bleed. "One job! Just one. Fuck, Domino." He puts his head back into his other hand, covering his eyes. "I'm so fucked up. I can't.. I can't even get dressed in the morning." He still slurring drunkenly.


Yyyep. Gonna be here a while, though for a different sort of reason than Domino had originally anticipated. She quietly claims a stool to sit upon while Wade gets himself reoriented. Those poor peanuts never knew what hit 'em.

"Finally something we can agree to," she states while lifting her bottle a few inches higher in mock salute before claiming a healthy amount of the amber fluid. It's followed a moment later with a pale eyed glance, the albino finally looking his way. She does so with one brow hooked further up than its companion. "You can't heal?" When the point is proven she cringes, just slightly. "That was a little needlessly direct."

When the blade is dropped she nonchalantly reaches out to claim it from the other merc, if just for the time being. (You can have this back after class.) "You only failed -one- job?" Can't get dressed? (Well, that accounts for the smell.)

Claiming another hearty drink then setting the bottle aside, she offers "Aside from completely botching my last three major hits in under a month and getting hugged by a robot my life's just been fucking peachy. Look Wade, I'm ..why am I even doing this, not a fucking shrink," she mutters to herself while rubbing at her forehead then dropping the opened palm back to the counter, "I don't even know where to start. Life loves to do nothing more than hand us buckets of shit. Never stopped us before."


"You don't need to be my friend," shoots Wade back in a defensive slur. "We shouldn't even be alive." He doesn't reach for his knife when Domino takes it. He has another seven elsewhere on his body. Reaching forward he takes the Jack and downs a good bit more before returning it to the counter with a good bloodstain.

That statement was a nugget of truth. "Ever think.. Tommy Pickles was a still born? Think about it. And his father Stu just sits in the basement, making toys for his dead baby." Deadpool looks over, "What if we're just.. artifacts of a society that doesn't need us? And bad shit goes down only because we exist." Excuses, really. But it's whats on Wade's mind at the moment, whether or not that's the cause or the alcohol speaking is unclear. Hell, it could be Wade's normal crazy just excarbated by whatever's bothering him.

"Just tired of sitting at home and whacking it to Orange is the New Black." He shakes his head, uncapping the Jose and taking a swig of that.


"Someone has to," Dom replies with a black-lipped smirk. "Maybe not, but we are. I'm not going to start thinking that it's a bad thing. Maybe it is for everyone else, but apparently I'm a selfish bitch, so."

Her attention is never far from that wound in his hand. Is he really not going to heal the damage or is he just talking in a drunken stupor again..?

The next thoughtful inquiry is met with a confused expression, something which she silently pushes away, along with the story about Tommy Pickles, with another drink. As far as she's concerned understanding the reference isn't important to the question at hand. "I'd say that would be proof that we're the life of the party. Livin' the dream. Causing trouble's not easy. We're so elite."

Sitting at home and wh - Okaaaay, and we're walking..! "Thank you for choosing a different past-time now that you're hanging out here," she quietly comments. "What the hell, Wade. If you're tired of sitting around then get on the wire and find yourself a job. Patch always has more work than independents, go fuck up the Chicago scene for a while. Sitting around wallowing in your own stink and despair's not gonna help anything, and it's certainly not going to lift anyone's spirits."

(Yours -or- mine, kiddo.)

"We're the kind of people that get to do all of the -fun- shit that the 'civilized world' wishes never became a thing in the first place."


"That's true, Patches. Maybe it's time I just open up the door and try again." DP's still slurring a bit, but hey. Healing factor suckage. "You know, see new people, do new things. Lots of other fish in the sea that I haven't shot yet." He waves his hand a bit, patting Domino on the back.

He takes another swig of the Jose and puts it back on the counter. Yeah. That's good. "You know what I think will cheer me right up?" Deadpool turns a quarter turn in his seat before tapping the shoulder of an overweight leather-clad dude conversing with his skinny friend. Tap tap!

The man turns, a car tattoo is on his shoulder, along with a tattoo with a heart on his neck that lovingly says 'Mom'. "What the fuck do you want?"

To which Deadpool responds, "Nascar sucks. Hillary for president."

Several other people in the bar turn to look over at the bar, as Deadpool said that quite loudly. The man looks -furious-, and it's but a split second later that he shouts, "What?! Fuck you, buddy!" And he takes a swing!


"I've never needed a fancy healing ability to survive this game," Domino points out before returning the glass to blackened lips. There's always -someone- out there that needs to be killed, right?

She didn't anticipate the next person on that list being one of the other patrons. Eyes snap wide open. The bottle gets dropped down to the bar, quickly. "Wade, that's not what I-"

(-Shit- here we go.)

On second thought… It'd probably do him some good to get beat back into reality. Tough love and all, but sometimes that's just what it takes. Sure, she -could- use that borrowed knife to stick the biker guy's hand through but that seems a little excessive, doesn't it..? It's not -her- face on the line, here.

Breathing a slow sigh she turns back to the counter and reaches for her bottle once more. "Call him when you're done screwing around," she calls out above the noise of the outburst.

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