The Bar

[Ziggy455 678]

BETA

[table]Neighbouring the industrial district, through a maze of chimneys, factories and docks there stands The Bar. Its a vast, dilapidated piss-pot but it's home to many. Voted best watering hole by the council and remains one of the only places on city limits with a working toilet, you'll be as impressed by the amenities as you will be by the atmosphere.

Welcome to the troff of a thousand tales; pick your poison and grab a stool. Youre here for your own reasons. You don't have to go home but you can stay here... but it's a two drink minimum and the cigarette machine is broken. We didn't say it was luxurious.[/table]

Welcome to The Bar.

First visit eh? Well, I'm Kieran. I own this fine establishment. Ignore the regulars, your money is as good as theirs. It's probably better - you haven't run up a tab as long as my arm yet. Oh, those "rumours" about having to bring your own glass? Cobblers, complete lie. I wouldn't lie to you, I'm Irish. I don't have it in me. I will say though, one toe out of line and my man Walter will carry you out like a suitcase. That's your warning.

[table]NPCDescriptionKieran O'MalleyA beefy Irishman with an attitude as thick as his accent. He wears a stretched brown jumper with rolled up sleeves, a pair of polished black boots and tight black trousers. He is the owner and landlord of The Bar. His chin holds a beard stronger than most of what sits on the shelf behind. A widely respected man in the industrial district with more connections than you can count. Piss him off at your own peril.Molly GrünewaldA petite, red-haired girl with several tattoos on her neck and arms, varying in size and quality. She is attractive but men need not apply - she doesn't play that way. She is of British descent and is head of The Bar. Her and Kieran share a "soft-spoken bond". No, I don't know if they've slept together, stop asking. Hurt her, and she'll do a bitter eulogy at your funeral.Walter "Wall" BrissAn ex-Aryan brotherhood member. He is well stocked and bald with stubble you could strike a match on. He is a bouncer and bartender, opting to let his roles do the talking most nights. Imagine Hercules meets American History X and you're half way there. He's a dab hand with a pool cue too, but not in the way you'd think. We're still missing the other half of it.
Les "Dead-Eye" DraperAn avid billiards player with an eyepatch, who hasn't lost a game in 5 years. He visits the bar every other night to challenge anyone who dares ask for a game. Quirky but wise, he certainly is a character... though don't ask how he got the patch. Rumour has it he still has both eyes but as long as he keeps spending money I'm not prying.
Angela "Flick" PaigeA semi-regular patron who also sells pornographic DVDs. Questionable in content as well as quality, but her service is far from drying up. When not touting goods, she's usually hovering around the jukebox begging other people to buy songs for her, or in the back alley counting change and checking stock. She's harmless. Mostly.[/table]

[table]CharacterUserActivityLocationStatusTyrell BlackwellSRBN/AOOBAliveRudra SenAEsobHaving a drinkMain barAliveAdam SilversteinPhilosophicalZebraN/AFront DoorAliveUnnamed ManMokrie DelaRubbing an errand <unavailable!>Away from barAliveTomMokrie DelaHaving a drinkMain barAliveElizabeth H. SimoncountingfingersGetting dressedUpstairs (private) bedroomAliveSal Brutellliziggy455Chasing two rapists down The Bar's main street.OOBAliveElliot PollardCraigTalking to KieranMain RoomAlive[/table]

[table]RoomDescriptionMain RoomThe entrance room into the bar (but if the inspector asks, it's a foyer). Features a log fireplace, a large mahogany bar at the other end and more tables than we've ever needed. Most are wobbly, but they work. Huge curtains cover the old glass windows at the front entrance, and at this point I think they're stuck.BackroomA smaller bar is in here complete with bar memorabilia. Two pool tables are placed opposite each other as well as a jukebox and two cigarette machines. Anyone caught buying low-tar cigarettes will be barred. Windows peek into the alleyway and industrial area, also covered by curtains.Ground Floor HallwayA normal looking hallway, full of portraits of famous patrons and such. It leads to the stairs up to the second floor, to the back alley outside and the toilets. There's a smell here and we can't work out what it is.Ground Floor ToiletsGrimy and covered in graffiti, but no cleaner has ever succeeded in restoring it. A broken condom machine sits on the wall and it is a common place for crack addicts to take a nice nap. You'd probably be better going outside for a leak.Back AlleyBack alley Imagine your typical looking back alley, but this one overlooks the Industrial area. It's not Paris, but it'll do. Cardboard boxes can often be found full of pornography. Cleaning CupboardA small room behind the main bar, used to store cleaning products... if we had any. We also keep spare glasses and other stock in here. Lost property is kept for 48 hours before being sold.Second Floor Balcony BarA small "conference" like bar room which overlooks the industrial area at night. It has a smaller bar, a pool table, a pinball machine and more memorabilia. It has one wall with glass all across it that leads out into a balcony coated in cheap white chairs and tables, you know, those plastic white ones nobody likes?Second Floor ToiletsLook downstairs in those toilets and you'll get the idea, except the condom machine works here. Try your luck.BasementThe largest room in the baar, you are led down to the basement via a long hallway of stairs. Inside is a cordoned off area full of poker tables while at the other end a dance floor and performance stage are set up and in between lays a bar. I can't remember the last time we had a live artist on, though.RooftopThe rooftop gives off a beautiful view of the Industrial section that can't be seen from anywhere else. The entrance is from the side of the bar up a fire escape in the back alley or through the trapdoor behind the bar of the Conference Room. The small brick storage hut has a old couch leaned on it, smothered in cigarette burns.CellarOnly for the more "talented" workers, that cold atmosphere and strong stench of beer in a dingy metallic room could only come from here. It is behind the bar in the basement and connects beer to every other room. Rat free since 2014.[/table]

[table]RULESPlayer/Player Interaction:
Your character is a person who is in the bar and they can respond and interact with other players in the bar if that player consents and agrees. You have just written a story and you want to talk to another player who is positioned at the bar. Leave propositions open ended to allow other patrons to respond. Not everybody is a social butterfly, but do feel free to mingle.Playing "Terminator":
Okay listen up - this is a bar, not Die Hard. People come here to drink and forget, and we're expecting conflict now and again between patrons or their own story but in order to create a third dimensional character YOU ARE NOT AN ACTION HERO. You don't have great shooting skills, you can't kill people with your farts, and you sure as sh*t can't kick twelve burly bastards while drinking a Martini blindfolded. Create a realistic character with flaws.Fate:
When your character is attacked, in order to stop writers from slaughtering my custom the equilibrium of fate and cause and effect takes place. If you are going to do something to a patron, you must do it in the final line. Again, leave it open ended. Not everyone has a death wish that comes here, you know?Recent Activity:
This is an up-to-date status of each characters plotline. Whatever is placed in the box is the immediate previous event of that character, and is 99% accurate. Trust me, my CCTV rarely breaks. Check up on it to see how patrons in the bar are doing.Character's Color:
Don't forget to COLOR CODE your character's name in your preferred color so people can keep track of patrons. I'm not expecting you to wear name tags everywhere. Just a simple color code would be nice.Writing Stories:
Your character is in their own story. If another patron decides to enter your story, then you may choose to include him as long as you and the patron collaborate and agree. 90% of your time, you should focus on your own character and the creation of NPC characters that you can focus on.[/table] Edited March 9, 2016 by Mokrie Dela

[Ziggy455 678]

RESERVED FOR STUFF.

Edited March 8, 2016 by Ziggy455

[AEsob 26]

Through the dirt, the garbage and the smoke in the night, a man in an oxblood leather jacket, dark tapered jeans and grey boots steps out of the night into the light of the small bulb in front of The Bar.

 

In the strange combination of the neon lighting and the yellow light of the bulb, one notices his face.

 

He had a dark complexion, probably from somewhere in South-East Asia, and his nose, had been broken multiple times, evident from the simultaneous thickening and flattening. He had not slept properly in some time, so there were were bags under his brown eyes.

 

He had probably not cut his hair short in a month and a half, because it was unkempt and messy. His stubble was quite overgrown.

 

The butt of a 1911 sometimes peeks out of his jacket when he moves, and he notices it, tries to adjust the holster and push the gun inside.

 

He is Rudra Sen

 

When he enters The Bar, the huge number of people and the constant chattering hits him in the face. As an introvert, he tries to avoid a large number of people, but then he figures: "To hell with it then!"

 

He trots over to the mahogany bar, sits on the nearest stool, which he finds to be a little broken. He adjusts his position to be a little more comfortable, leans in and looks first at the Herculean barkeep, then at the number of scratches on the surface of the table. He orders the costliest beer available, and taking a few sips, relaxes as he watches a man with an eyepatch play billiards.

 

Location: Main Room

Edited March 3, 2016 by AEsob

[Ziggy455 678]

UPDATE: Does your patron have a name?

[SRB 14]

"Get back here" the lady screams as Tyrell Blackwell sprints away from her. Tucked in his arms is the lady's purse. He moves like the wind, zigzagging through the crowds of the downtown area attempting to elude his pursuer. He makes a left turn at an old deli, nearly knocking into an old couple, causing them to loose balance and nearly fall. Seconds of running pass, and he runs into a subway station. " Gotta hide, gotta hide - but where?" Tyrell eyeballs the bottom floor of the station, seeking out his next move. The middle aged women attempting to re obtain her belongings was no where to be seen. His adrenaline wouldn't let his mind or his body relax, he boarded the train, without knowledge of where it would lead.

 

As the doors closed, the train departed, picking up speed through dark tunnels. Tyrells mind raced, fingers tapping as if he'd been attempting to send a novel through Morse Code. At the next station, he walked inside of the bathroom, purse in hand. Plopping down on the toilet, he scavenged the handbag for anything he might find useful. "Lipstick, tampons, receipts, pens, ahh a wallet..". His smile quickly went inverted. His displeasure found inside of the wallet caused him to quickly get to his feet, throwing the handbag to the ground. "A twenty dollar bill, thats f*cking it?" Stuffing the cash into his pocket, he quickly proceeds out of the train station, walking out on the street above. After a quick glance around the area, he spots a sign that says "bar" on it a few blocks away.

 

Location: A few blocks away from "The Bar."

Edited March 3, 2016 by SRB

[AEsob 26]

UPDATE: Does your patron have a name?

 

Sorry, just added it in. He's Rudra Sen

[Motherstep 5,838]

Is there any way to avoid the massive spaces in between paragraphs?

[AEsob 26]

Is there any way to avoid the massive spaces in between paragraphs?

Which massive spaces?

 

AEsob

 

EDIT: I'm an idiot, shoot me in the head please?

Edited March 3, 2016 by AEsob

[Ziggy455 678]

Is there any way to avoid the massive spaces in between paragraphs?

 

For some odd reason, no. I've got the coding literally on top of each other and those spaces are still there. It's annoying.

[GTAKid667 8,692]

Is there any way to avoid the massive spaces in between paragraphs?

 

Is there any way to avoid the massive spaces in between paragraphs?

For some odd reason, no. I've got the coding literally on top of each other and those spaces are still there. It's annoying.

 

Table Codes on the forum don't tend to work correctly the majority of the time, which seems to be a problem with the post editor on the forum software and causes issues like this which can be a bit of a pain for larger topics that use several tables in the OP. There is a way to remove the big spaces above the tables as I said here a few days ago, all of the table code has to be written together without the enter key being pressed after each opening or closing [tr], [td] and [th] tag which while makes it more difficult to read if you want to do a quick edit, will prevent such large spaces appearing.

 

I've taken the code from the OP and removed the line breaks, try pasting this into the first post instead of whats there at the minute. You may need to use the post editor in BBCode View by clicking the light switch button () and then pasting it in properly for it to work correctly:

 

BETA

[table]

Neighbouring the industrial district, through a maze of chimneys, factories and docks there stands The Bar. It’s a vast, dilapidated piss-pot but it's home to many. Voted best watering hole by the council and remains one of the only places on city limits with a working toilet, you'll be as impressed by the amenities as you will be by the atmosphere. Welcome to the troff of a thousand tales; pick your poison and grab a stool. You’re here for your own reasons. You don't have to go home but you can stay here... but it's a two drink minimum and the cigarette machine is broken. We didn't say it was luxurious.[/table]

Welcome to The Bar.

First visit eh? Well, I'm Kieran. I own this fine establishment. Ignore the regulars, your money is as good as theirs. It's probably better - you haven't run up a tab as long as my arm yet. Oh, those "rumours" about having to bring your own glass? Cobblers, complete lie. I wouldn't lie to you, I'm Irish. I don't have it in me. I will say though, one toe out of line and my man Walter will carry you out like a suitcase. That's your warning. [table]

NPCDescriptionKieran O'MalleyA beefy Irishman with an attitude as thick as his accent. He wears a stretched brown jumper with rolled up sleeves, a pair of polished black boots and tight black trousers. He is the owner and landlord of The Bar. His chin holds a beard stronger than most of what sits on the shelf behind. A widely respected man in the industrial district with more connections than you can count. Piss him off at your own peril.Molly GrünewaldA petite, red-haired girl with several tattoos on her neck and arms, varying in size and quality. She is attractive but men need not apply - she doesn't play that way. She is of British descent and is head of The Bar. Her and Kieran share a "soft-spoken bond". Hurt her, and she'll do a bitter eulogy at your funeral.Walter "Wall" BrissAn ex-Aryan brotherhood member. He is well stocked and bald with stubble you could strike a match on. He is a bouncer and bartender, opting to let his roles do the talking most nights. Imagine Hercules meets American History X and you're half way there.Les "Dead-Eye" DraperAn avid billiards player with an eyepatch, who hasn't lost a game in 5 years. He visits the bar every other night to challenge anyone who dares ask for a game. Quirky, wise, and full of black soul, he is a character... though don't ask how he got the patch. Rumour has it he still has both eyes.[/table][table]CharacterUserActivityLocationStatusTyrell BlackwellSRBtest cellOOBAlivetest celltest celltest celltest celltest cell[/table][table]RoomDescriptionMain RoomThe Entrance room into The Bar, the main room is a typical room. Rectangular with a log fireplace, a large mahogany bar at the other end and a sh*tload of tables too. Huge curtains cover the old glass windows at the front entrance.BackroomA smaller bar is in here, complete with bar memorabilia. Two pool tables are placed opposite each other as well as a jukebox and two cigarette machines, windows that peek into the alleyway and industrial area beyond are covered by curtains.Ground Floor HallwayA normal looking hallway, full of portraits of famous patrons and such. It leads to the stairs up to the second floor, to the back alley outside and the toilets.Ground Floor ToiletsGrimy looking and covered in graffiti, the toilets are covered in puke and sh*t. A broken condom machine is in there too and it is a common place for crack addicts to take a nice nap. You'd much prefer to piss outside.Back AlleyBack alley Imagine your typical looking back alley, but this one overlooks the Industrial area. Pretty ain't it? Cleaning CupboardA small room behind the main bar, used for cleaning products and such. Second Floor storage room A small room full of bar sh*t. Glasses, mats and chairs. Unused organs and keyboards.Second Floor Balcony BarA small 'conference' like bar room which overlooks the industrial area at night, it has a bar, a pool table, a pinball table and a lot of MC memorabilia. It has one wall with glass all across it that leads out into a grimy balcony coated in cheap white chairs and tables, those plastic white ones nobody likes.Second Floor ToiletsLook downstairs in those toilets, you'd get the picture. Except the condom machine works here.BasementThe largest room in The Bar, you are led down to the basement via a long hallways of stairs, inside is a cordoned off area full of poker tables while at the other end a dance floor and performance stage are set up and in between lays a bar.RooftopThe rooftop gives off a beautiful view of the Industrial section that can't be seen from anywhere else, the entrance is from the side of the bar up a fire escape in the Back alley or through the trapdoor behind the bar of the Conference Room. The small brick storage hut has a old couch leaned on it.CellarOnly a place for the talented workers, that cold feeling and strong smell of beer in a dingy metallic room only spells out one place. It is behind the bar in the basement and connects beer to every other room.[/table][table]RULESPlayer/Player Interaction: Your character is a person who is in the bar, they can respond and interact with other players in the bar if that player consents and agrees like so: You have just written a story and you want to talk to another player who is positioned at the bar. You will finish your story with 'Player 1 then went over and sat next to Player 2, and in turn Player 2 will respond correctly.Playing Terminator: Okay listen up, this is a bar, a bar when where people come to drink and we're expecting conflict now and again between patrons or their own story but in order to create a third dimensional character- YOU ARE NOT AN ACTION HERO. You don't have mad shooting skills, you can't kill people with your farts, and you sure as f*ck can't kick twelve burly bastards while drinking a Martini. Create a realistic character with flaws.Fate When your character is attacked, in order to stop writers from just writing 'my character shot you in teh head and burns you to death!' the equilibrium of fate and cause and effect takes place. If you are going to do something to a patron, you must do it in the final line like so: Daniel went forward with his knife raised and brought it down onto Steven!Recent Activity is an up to date status of each characters plotline. Whatever is placed in the box is the immediate previous event of that character and is 99% of the time the accurate and up to date action of the character to. Check up on it to see how Patrons in the Bar are doing.Character's color Don't forget to COLOR CODE your character's name in your preferred color so people can keep track of Patrons.Writing stories: Your character is in his own story. If another patron decides to enter your story, then you may choose to include him as long as you and the patron collaborate and agree. 90% of your time, you should focus on your own character and the creation of NPC characters that you can focus onCharacter's color Don't forget to COLOR CODE your character's name in your preferred color so people can keep track of Patrons.[/table]You should also not use [center] tags in the table code either, tables unfortunately can no longer be centered since the forum upgraded to the current software. If you want the text in a particular cell centered, then the center tags need to go inside of the [td][/td] tags and then it should work properly.

 

Edited March 3, 2016 by GTAKid667

[AEsob 26]

 

Maybe it is the ghost of the Forums. For every space it steals when we paste stuff in the reply box, it adds here.

[Cebra 1,234]

Adam Silverstein's foot accidentally kicks an empty Coke can. It blows across the street, coming to rest under an ancient Chevy up on blocks. He eyes the car, the condemned building behind it — What the f*ck am I doing here?

 

He continues forward in a hurry to go someplace but with no place to go. His pea coat sways against his knees; he tries to hold it straight, fails, digs a stray cigarette and lighter out of his pocket. Shaking hands — the cig between his lips, he drops the lighter and it hits the concrete. A look down the dingy alleyway beside him as he picks it up, he gets an eyeful of a septuagenarian and a working girl fumbling around each other. Adam balks and lights up proper, takes a deep inhale and coughs even deeper. Probably no worse than the air I'm breathing here.

 

He tries to get his bearings: lots of brickwork factories, a few billowing smoke from their chimneys into the dark night air. Behind him the elevated subway station he got off at: he watches as his last chance to go home sparks along the tracks. Down the street, a touch hard to see behind the polluted haze hanging in the air, a blue neon sign that stands as the only vibrant color in his sight. It draws Adam forward as he puffs the cigarette and wards off the shakes. A vibration near his thigh; he resists the urge to check his phone as a pithy scream pierces the air. I'm alone, I'm unarmed, I don't know where I am. Keep walking. He ponders how effective his lighter would work as a weapon and comes to the conclusion that it wouldn't. At all. The urge overcomes him entirely as he pulls his cellphone from his pocket and holds it like an atom bomb.

 

48 minutes ago: Where are you??? I'm getting worried

20 minutes ago: Answer me Adam

Just now: you can't just leave a message like that and not come home. if your not back by midnight I'm calling the cops. Your call.

 

I shouldn't have checked it. The neon sign pierces through the haze along with a sigh of relief: a vibrant building. A parking lot full of cars. Walking in the opposite direction, someone else heading toward the same destination: a bar, hidden away beyond abandoned blocks of sh*tholes. It doesn't look much nicer but it's full of life. Adam gets a better look at the other figure, a man skulking about the sidewalk nervously. Adam gets to the door first, stomping his cigarette and holding it open for Tyrell Blackwell.

 

Location: Front door.

Edited March 4, 2016 by PhilosophicalZebra

[countingfingers 111]

"Damn, it's cold," Elizabeth H. Simon spoke as she trotted through the dark alley. Her dark boots splashed on the puddles. Dressed in a brown wool jacket, green camoflauged pants, and a black T-shirt, her absence of a fashion sense was more than obvious. The woman was gorgeous, maintaining such a fine womanly shape and feminine features. The woman seemed Caucasian, and had a dark brown hair color.

 

The only thing that seemed out of place was a leather eyepatch sealing her left eye like a tomb. The opposite one, the good one, was a shining grey color. Wrapped in her soft lips was a cigar. Cuban, of course.The mysterious woman continued to walk about with anxiety.

She muttered something about a man whom she robbed, but it's all pointless, right? The jiggling of a standard Five-Seven emitted from her rear-pocket. Escaping the darkness of the alleyway, the neon sign of a bar, "THE Bar," caught her eye. Her eye widened with excitement. Fine place for a drink, she thought. She sprinted toward the bar's front entrance, to avoid any pursuers. Opening the door and ignoring the other future customer with passion, the crowd greeted her with confusion, lustful eyes, and disregard. "How's the liquor, boys?!" She clamored.

 

Location: Main room.

 

(Side Note: Originally, I planned to have the character as a male, but I decided to add a feminine touch to the liquor hole, so I changed it. I got the last name from the previous character's first name.)

(Another side note: Decided to change the introduction a little further. Sorry.)

Edited March 5, 2016 by countingfingers

[Carbonox 863]

Ever since William Jameson was kicked out of his regular place, he had been itching to find something new to hang out in, get a few drinks and hang out with people that would hopefully share his passion, and figured he'd finally found it, as he approached the mysterious "Bar" he'd never heard of before. He was still visibly fuming as he thought of the owner of that previous place, who apparently thought it wasn't OK to present fanfictions of William's favorite Harry Potter characters to every patron in sight and asking them what might happen next. And doing it while sh*t-faced drunk, nonetheless.

 

The man arrived outside the bar looking nervous, wondering what kind of a reception he was going to get once the patrons realized they hadn't seen him before. He was a bit shorter than what the average height was for males in this country, and the style of his glasses made him look a little geeky, but it didn't mean he was a complete pushover - in fact, he could recall one time when he became particularly vicious after someone mistakenly tried to bully him and take his notebook away, only to get stabbed with a nearby pool cue. In one arm he carried said notebook, filled with plot synopses (that he already knew from memory) and original character fact sheets, though maybe for now, he'd try and hold off on his addiction of showing them to people until he got to know them better.

 

Location: Front door.

[Mokrie Dela 2,833]

The door flung open, pounding on the battered wall behind it, scratching already scuffed advertisement posters even further. Without breaking his gait, the man bounded in, rain bouncing off of the broad shoulders of his leather trench coat. The door shut on its own, his heavy boots clumping on the hardwood floor as they carried him to the worn bar.

 

"Whiskey," he said, his voice an idling motorcycle engine. The barman obliged, seeing in the man's steeled grey eyes no wish to talk. He downed the first shot, slapping a hundred dollars on the bar. "Keep them coming till it runs out."

 

"If you're conscious that long," the barman replied with a nod.

 

The man turned and watched the patrons of the bar. It was quiet, certainly more quiet than he remembered it. His eyes rested on an Asian with a crooked nose, and he instantly figured out why his nose was crooked; his face was simply punchable, his dark eyes untruthful. He was not to be trusted. The Asian watched the pool table, his expression mimicking the man's own; suspicion, displeasure. The Asian was hiding something.

 

He turned his attention to the pool table, to the man with an eye patch. How did you get that? The man asked silently. A knife? Or some unfortunate medical occurrence. He was no threat.

 

His man was not there yet. Still, he kept his peripheral vision primed to watch the strangers he didn't trust. Strange that even the barman hadn't shown even the slightest signs of recognition, but then he didn't remember him, either.

 

He glanced at the pool player, then the untrustworthy Asian again. He touched his hip with the outside of his pinkie, feeling the unseen hard bulge through the leather. Relief washed over him, and with a look down at his scarred knuckles, wrapped around the shot glass, he smiled. None of these posers could touch him.

 

He brought his hand to his mouth as his chest heaved. A beast roared from within, its scream climbing up his throat with a thousand spindly legs. He hooped a cacophony of gravelly coughs, his skin burning and his stomach tearing. Sweat built up and ran in torrents down his face. The whiskey was water to the fire.

 

Out of breath, he waved away the concerned barman. "I'm not going to die on your floor, but then I wouldn't be the first, would I? Damned bikers. f*ck off."

 

The barman recoiled and sought refuge at the far end of the bar, turning his attention to another patron, unsuccessfully hiding his discomfort. The man turned, seeing neutral faces, everyone trying too hard to not stare. He saw the mocking in their eyes, and thought how satisfying it would be to extinguish such arrogance. The Asian cast s brief sideways glance. Asshole.

 

Another cough assaulted his throat, not as serious as before; a niggle. The whiskey burned, acid tracks over wheezing scar tissue. He sighed, his chest rumbling.

 

Everything falls apart, he told himself, for the thousandth time. Priceless sculptures from the greatest civilisations, surviving hundreds, thousands of years, we're now regressing to dust, just as he was. He was once a mighty man - still is, he corrected, though he had to concede his best days were behind him, a shadow of shame in a high noon of glory.

 

You're pathetic, old man.

 

Not as much as you think.

 

His watch beeped, a chirp standing out of the grim atmosphere of the bar like the melodic call of a small, majestic bird. He sighed, reaching in to his pocket for the jar, feeling it and hearing the Maraca rattle as he pulled it out. He opened the child-proof lock, cynically questioning if a child was truly unable to defeat it, and shook two tablets onto his palm. He stared at them with contempt, their orange coating mocking. With a frown he threw them into his mouth, flushing them down to Hell with the whiskey.

 

The door opened, a chill reaching in and slapping his face. He looked up, slipping the jar back in his pocket. He looked back to his drink, showing no acknowledgement toward the newcomer. It was his man.

[AEsob 26]

Rudra Sen was slowly contemplating life when the door banged open and derailed the train of his thoughts. A grey eyed man in a trench coat and boots rushed in, like he owned the place, and taking long, heavy steps came up to the barman.

 

Rudra was slightly irritated. He hated when people made a lot of noise, or behaved like arrogant pricks. But somehow, he knew that this man was not just an annoying prick, he was dangerous, not to be trusted, and he was carrying.

 

He had placed a hundred dollars on the table, and in a dramatic manner, asked for whiskey till his money ran out.

 

Rudra felt as if he'd stared at him a few seconds too long, and as if on cue, the newcomer scoped him out. Rudra could feel his eyes on his nose, probably thinking why it was broken, then just a moment later he looked at the man playing billiards. Or pool, whatever, back in India, it was only billiards and pools were for swimming.

 

Rudra was wondering why the dead drop location from his client had not come in, but then figured that it was for the best, because as soon as it came in, he'd have to get bored in some alley preparing a death trap for a soon to be dead man.

 

Well, his target would be dead sooner or later, plus the beer, though overpriced was not that bad.

 

The man in the trench coat started coughing violently. Why? Maybe he'd eaten a knife. Or was it petrol?

 

When the barman came over, Mr. Trenchcoat said he wasn't going to die on his floor tonight. Maybe, or maybe not. Rudra remembered when someone called him and told him that the person he was paid to kill was sitting right next to him. Wasn't pretty.

 

Rudra glanced at him, and Mr. Trenchcoat glanced back at him. He was an asshole, but a dangerous asshole. In this world, one gets you killed, the other makes you feared.

 

Trenchcoat man's watch beeped, so he pulled out an almost empty jar out of his pocket, turned it upside down on his palm and gave it a hard shake. He downed his pills with alcohol.

 

Why is he taking the pills if he wants to die anyway? Oh, maybe he wants to go out the dignified way.

 

Then a text message came in, the location of his dead drop. Rudra stood up, put fifty dollars on the table and walked out of the door, ignoring everyone else in his way.

 

Luckily his dead drop was a fifteen minute walk from the bar, and the place where he was supposed to kill his target another thirty minutes.

 

Location: Out of Bar

 

 

 

.

Edited March 5, 2016 by AEsob

[Mokrie Dela 2,833]

Without a word, the newcomer left, under the confused eye of the barman. With another cough, the man turned and followed. The rain had eased to a fine drizzle, just enough to be annoying, still.

 

"You should get that looked at," the newcomer said, his accent a gentle British.

 

"Where you think these came from, Tom?" the man said, holding up his pills. "They're not mints."

 

"You would have thought it'd be cleared by now."

 

The man scowled. "It's something I have to live with. Eating a twenty-two will do that. Now what are we doing?"

 

"See that Indian chap giving you the eye in there?" Tom pointed down the road at the hunched figure scurrying down the street. Like a cockroach, the man thought.

 

"The guy who I really want to punch?"

 

"He's the mark. We're tight on this one, but we need what he's after. We might even turn out to be allies, who knows."

 

"I hope not, I'm itching to send him on his ass."

 

"Cool it, cowboy. We don't know yet. But we'll go in hard. He's used to this game, and known to us. Only we don't know what side he's on. We'll follow him; control your cough, no one is good enough to detect us. He'll have no idea if you stay quiet. Once he's done what he's doing, we move in. I'll divert his attention, you grab him. We'll have a chat, find out where he's coming from."

 

"And if he don't play ball?"

 

"You know what to do the. We're all armed, and were the best there are."

 

"We're the worst of the worst. The lowest of the low. I'll shoot his balls off."

 

"He's an operator; he'll know we'll have him, so he'll be cool."

 

The man felt the niggle at the back of his throat but tensed his stomach muscles, stifling the cough. Tom nodded his approval.

 

"Keep sharp," he whispered, crossing the street. "Just in case; you cough, he turns, and I'll take him to the ground and we'll talk to him the hard way."

 

"I hope he's as good as you say," the man said. "I hate when amateurs panic. Sure can be fun though."

[countingfingers 111]

The bar was not much for events, to Elizabeth's surprise. She'd hoped for a bar brawl to break out, but there wasn't much going on. Sinking into her chair, she released a sigh, one of annoyance. She rubbed her fingers against the eyepatch covering her eye. She hated the damned thing, it's like a permanent reminder of the life she chose and the consequences of getting involved in the life.

 

Her attention returned to the bar. A guy in a leather jacket seemed to leave far too quickly, like he just forgot to do something imporant. He seemed dangerous. The man wiggled his belt, like he had something to hide, and paced out of the building.

 

The trench coat geezer left around the same time, but stopped to discuss with another fellow. A kidnapping, perhaps. Something drew her to these people. She knew the perils of interrupting criminals, she knew far too well, but chose to tail the men.

 

(Sorry, I didn't realize someone else posted before me, so I had to quickly compensate for that mistake. Apologize if it's not up to most standards.)

Edited March 6, 2016 by countingfingers

[Mokrie Dela 2,833]

Damn this web of intrigue is getting tense!

[AEsob 26]

Mokrie, my dear, I had no idea Trenchcoat man was so interested in my introverted, sociopathic contract killer.

 

AEsob

[countingfingers 111]

It's quite juicy. Although, I'm not sure how to express my own plot into it harmoniously without absolutely destroying everyone else's plot.

[AEsob 26]

With the annoying rain at an all time low, Rudra walked along the road whistling to himself. About three minutes on his way, he'd heard three more sets of footsteps other than his. Two of those footsteps moved in unison, tried to keep it quiet, but the last one was definitely an amateur.

 

They were following him.

 

He smiled, if the rain had not eased, he wouldn't be able to detect them. The only problem in this case was that he didn't know who was tailing him. If he turned around, then the people following him would know that he knew.

 

He brought up his GPS, apparently his dead drop was less than forty metres to his left. But he kept on walking. Screw the job, why are people following me?

 

Suddenly he noticed an alleyway, and ducked in there.

 

The lack of street lighting meant that the people following him wouldn't notice. To them, he'd simply disappeared.

 

Taking cover behind a dumpster, Rudra drew his Elite P500 Wide Body M1911A1 and disengaged the safety. In his left hand he held a slightly longer than usual Karambit knife. Rudra smelled the air around him. Isn't the smell glorious?

 

The two men following him had lost him, and as they walked right by the alley, the slight coughing and the moving tail of a trench coat confirmed that Trenchcoat man, the asshole from the Bar was following him. As soon as they were out of sight, Rudra silently creeped up behind them.

 

Amateur asshats.

 

Luckily for him, out of nowhere, a garbage can crashed down. The loud metallic noise disrupting the silent void that was the night.

 

The two men immediately reached for their guns.

 

Rudra used this time, and their diverted attentions to stand right behind the men, his P500 pushed right against Trenchcoat man's head, and the edge of his Karambit against Trenchcoat man's best buddy, nicking the skin and drawing blood.

 

"Now now, Trenchcoat man, you disappoint me, I thought you were a professional. And if it was a fight you wanted, you could have just asked! Right, now tell me why you and your best friend here...by the way, I hope the knife isn't too comfortable...were following me. You are costing me money tonight, and I want to know why. Did someone order a hit on the ghor? If they did, you people are idiots if you think you can pull that off."

 

Location: 15 minutes from the Bar.

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ghor: An adjective attributed to the god Rudra mentioned in the Rigved, ghor literally means extremely terrifying. BTW, I'm not religious at all, I hate religion. Just a mythology buff, probably has something to do with the fact that I'm pursuing a PhD in History.

Edited March 5, 2016 by AEsob

[Mokrie Dela 2,833]

They shared the slightest of glances, saying so much between them. Fool they both said, and a lot more.

 

It was a case of patience. He'd noticed the woman hanging back. Was she with this guy? She had disappeared.

 

"Alright, you got me," he said. He slowly turned, his arms in the air. "Good choice in weapon. My pal is going to turn now. Slowly. Don't cut him."

 

Slowly, Tom turned. All three men looked at eachother.

 

"So, who are you?" The Indian asked, his voice calmer.

 

"Nobody, really."

 

"Who are you?" Tom added.

 

"The same."

 

They stared at the Indian man, who he'd severely underestimated. He was impressed, though he'd seen better. He was better.

 

It was Tom who proved it. With a quick glance to his left - at nothing - it happened. The Indian flashed his eyes to his right -

 

Both men moved. Tom, ducking back, under the blade, both hands disarming it. The gun clattered to the floor. The man wrapped his hands around the Indian's neck. Tom stepped back, doo log up the dropped gun and blade, aiming from a safe distance. Superiority was established. Even the best of the best couldn't do anything.

 

"Now why don't you tell us what you were doing?" The man growled. "Or my pal will slice off your balls."

 

"Alright," the Indian sighed. "A dead drop. I have a target -"

 

"You're the assassin?!" Tom blinked. "You're the assassin?!"

 

The man laughed - an act that sent him into another coughing fit. He emerged, seeing the repulsed face of the Indian. "Don't worry, it's not contagious. Wrong man, Tom."

 

"What?" The Indian was confused.

 

Tom lowered his weapon. "You're being hunted yourself. We were sent to take out the chap hunting you."

 

"Why?"

 

The man sighed, releasing the Indian. "Because the man you're to kill needs to die. We're on the same side."

 

Tom extended his hand. "I'm Tom."

 

The Indian shook it. "Rudra."

 

"And I'm Santa clause," the man said. "Are you alone?"

 

"Yes!"

 

"Then whoever is following us is our enemy. What say we do, mister Indian?"

Edited March 5, 2016 by Mokrie Dela

[countingfingers 111]

Creeping through the alley way in which the two have entered, Elizabeth felt no fear, but rather, excitement. The adrenaline coursing through her body gave her pleasure. She peeked at the alley where the two turned, unsure how it will conclude. The man who was followed subdued the two followers. They were defeated effortlessly.

 

One by gun point and the other by knife point. She felt as though she was a spectator to a gladiator battle, praying for a beheading. He knew I've been following him, she thought. The euphoria fueled her to take action. She couldn't sit in the colosseum any further, she wants to be the gladiator.

 

There wasn't any further action. The men were at a stand still. Were they talking? What should my next action be? She continued to think about her next move. She walked out towards the men. Is she suicidal?

 

"Can I play, too?" Elizabeth giggled. Her face was psychotic, the face of real bloodlust.

Edited March 5, 2016 by countingfingers

[AEsob 26]

It was Rudra who acted first. He drove a knee into the woman's ribs, then elbowed her in the face. As she hit the ground, 'Santa Claus' held down her arms, as Rudra drew a derringer two shot and aimed it at her face.

 

She was disoriented, and confused. Her soft features had contorted with the pain, blood dripping from her mouth. She was dressed like an upside down tree.

 

He had seen her at the bar.

 

There was no mercy in the dark eyes of the assassin.

 

"Who the f*ck are you and who sent you!", he growled.

Edited March 5, 2016 by AEsob

[countingfingers 111]

The blow has caused her to cough and hack. "Look! I'm you, trench coat!" She chuckled, "But why are you antagonizing me? For I am but a lowly woman trotting about. Would it be more beneficial for me to simply offer my services?"

 

The wounds began to throb. The man deals a heavy blow, enough to bring someone to their grave. The man's pistol aimed toward her face didn't seem to affect her, either.

 

"Your services?" The man questioned.

 

"Yes, my services. You've got troublesome hit, eh? How 'bout another gun for hire? No fee, just let me get the finishing blow! And if I must, I hope, nay, pray we get to dissect him alive!" She continued to laugh over her own words. The laughter only enhanced the pain she sustained from her two blows, but that only lightly stopped her maniacle howls. She staggered to her feet, still bound from movement by Santa Claus' tight grip. "So whadda ya say?"

 

(The upside down tree comment was quite humorous.)

Edited March 5, 2016 by countingfingers

[Mokrie Dela 2,833]

Have we just invented a criminal

Super team? Are the avengers going to come after them?

 

"What say you, Singh?" The man said, turning to the Indian. "You trust her? I don't, and I've got a bullet here just itching to go into her head."

 

"Wait," Tom said. "If this woman is not hunting, just an opportunist, then who the hell is after you, Rudra?"

 

The men all looked around the dark street, seeking unseen enemies.

 

The man wheezed again. "No one's been around the block as much as me. Mohammed, tell me this: who is your target?"

[AEsob 26]

"Gurdeep Singh. You might have heard of him, he's an infamous crime lord."

 

Rudra turned to look at the woman on the floor.

 

"Hey Santa. I've been a good boy this year, why don't you give me my gun back. This woman knows too much."

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Gimme a reason not to kill you...I've been waiting to say that for a long, long time.

[SRB 14]

Tyrell Blackwell walks into the bar, heading straight for the bathroom. While sitting on a toilet for his second time today, he thinks about his life. "Why did I choose this, what was I thinking?" The weight of his eyelids were too heavy, things go black. He jumps awake to the sound of a loud door being slammed, and people moving. Unaware of how long his toilet slumber party was, he peeks out of the stall, realizing nobody else inside of the bathroom. Eyeballing himself in the mirror, his head shakes from left to right. "Disappointment" . He shoves the door open, letting it slam shut behind him. "Act tough, nobody will mess with you" he thinks to himself. Nobody will make problems with somebody who looks dangerous. His tough act was almost pretty much just that. An act. Rarely in Tyrells life has he had the courage to do the things he should of. He pretends while in public, a cheap trick to the rest of the world that he thinks will let him fit in.

 

Back in the main bar, he hears the front door slam shut. Only people in sight are the pirate-like dart player and the bartender. "Weren't there just people in here? Oh yeah I passed out on the John." Instead of finding a stool, he finds the stairs. He reaches the second floor, examining the bar there. Looking at the windows he finds himself interested in the balcony. He emerges through the doors and out onto the balcony. "World, why me? "He says out loud to himself, to the city, to the sky and to whoever and whatever was around him. He then looks down at the view below him, again shaking his head.

 

Location: Balcony

Edited March 6, 2016 by SRB

[countingfingers 111]

A feeling of deja vu? Gripped by both arms, men muttering bullsh*t one-liners like it's a cliche action movie, and a gun pointed at her head. Death seemed like an inevitable event to befall Elizabeth. Though, who wants to die in such a pitiful manner? Should she bolt?

 

Should she try to bite the bullet? The fear of death wasn't an issue, she knew she might die the moment she peered her head into the situation. "Hey, if you want me dead, so be it. But just so you know, you'll be missing out," she spoke, "Just want a bit of chaos and fun."

 

She had no intentions of struggling. She simply propped herself calmly to a close distance to "Broken-Nose", jerked her head closer to the gun muzzle, and exclaimed the words, "Deus-Ex-Machina isn't on my side this time!"

A feeling of deja vu? Gripped by both arms, men muttering bullsh*t one-liners like it's a cliche action movie, and a gun pointed at her head. Death seemed like an inevitable event to befall Elizabeth. Though, who wants to die in such a pitiful manner? Should she bolt?

 

Should she try to bite the bullet? The fear of death wasn't an issue, she knew she might die the moment she peered her head into the situation. "Hey, if you want me dead, so be it. But just so you know, you'll be missing out," she spoke, "Just want a bit of chaos and fun."

 

She had no intentions of struggling. She simply propped herself calmly to a close distance to "Broken-Nose", jerked her head closer to the gun muzzle, and exclaimed the words, "Deus-Ex-Machina isn't on my side this time!"