"How's the policing business?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:06 Pacific Time on Sun Nov 30 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (46% full).

Rat and Raven Main Room

A relaxed atmosphere characterizes this room: less rowdy than a bar, less formal than a restaurant, the pub is filled with a friendly hubbub that spills out from tables and the bar itself. Several tables are scattered across the floor, each with room enough for two or three people at a time to walk between them. The tables are a dark wood, kept clean by the waitresses bustling around to accept orders. The patrons range from low twenties to their mid-fifties, or thereabouts, both male and female. Paintings decorate the wall, one each of the 'mascots' of the bar, a rat to the left of the door, a raven to the right, both depicted with a nobility not commonly offered to, at least, the rat. The other paintings include a three-masted ship, sails spread to the wind, that matches the tiny ship in a bottle behind the bar.

Nicodemus is seated at one of the small, more out-of-the-way tables off towards a corner. On the table before him is a Negro Modela mexican beer and about half a dozen hot wings. He looks to be about on his second--not bothering with utensils as hot wings and utensils simply don't mix very well.

No, hot wings and utensils just don't fit together, and neither do shaved-head, dogfight-scarred vicious killing machines and cozy, cheery little restaurant-pubs. The new Salem, the Salem Mark II if you will, draws attention as he enters, though he doesn't do anything more exciting than walk in and search for an available table. He, like Nicodemus, is fond of the small and out of the way ones, and thus he happens to head in the aging goth's direction.

Nicodemus' inner proximity alarm goes off as someone enters his secluded part of the dining area--and it's most definitely not the waitress. He looks up and at Salem, doesn't seem to recognize him at first, then coughs a couple times as recognition dawns. "Wow." One words sums it up.

Salem glances over at the sound, then turns to peer down at Nick, one eyebrow lifting. A moment later comes the wry smirk. "Eloquent. Hello, Nicodemus."

Nicodemus puts down the wing he was working on. "Salem," he replies by means of a greeting. "Just got sick of it and shaved it off?"

"Something like that..." Salem scratches absently at the back of his neck, looking vaguely wry. "Mind if I join you? Or would you rather eat alone?"

Nicodemus hesitates a split second, betraying that he debated the matter before responding. "No, feel free." He motions toward the spare chair opposite him with his trying-not-to-get-sauce-on-it left hand.

"Thank you." So polite. As long as he doesn't spill hot coffee on himself, anyway. Salem takes the indicated seat, draping his coat over the back as he does so. "How was your Thanksgiving?"

"Uneventful, more or less," Nicodemus replies, taking a sip from his beer. "Spent it with a couple other holiday orphans. You?"

Salem catches the eye of a waitress and waves her over. She's in no hurry to come, though. "Likewise," he answers Nick. "Alicia played mother and decided to see how many of us she could kill with turkey overdose." Despite the strained, tired look in his eyes, the scarred Garou manages a chuckle.

"Three cheers for tryptophan," Nicodemus adds with an undertone of subtle humor. "But yeah, it was good to just kick back and unwind for a change. Ended up sleeping about half the day away. Sometimes you just don't realize how tired you are until you stop for a second."

"No fucking kidding," Salem mutters.

The waitress, a twentisomething blonde probably hired as much for looks as skill, arrives and rattles off a "Hi-I'm-Julie-welcome-to-the-rat-and-raven. Would-you-like-to-try-a-benito-margarita?" at Salem, who's shaking his head almost before she's finished.

"No, thank you," he says, with a courtesy that fails to set the girl at ease. "I don't suppose you have any Jagodinsko?"

The girl shakes her head, her expression blank, and the Serbian-descended werewolf isn't all that surprised. "Coors, then," he says. The silver bullet, ha ha. With obvious relief, she hurries away.

"Jagodinsko?" Nicodemus inquires after the waitress disappears. "Polish?"

"Serbian," Salem says. "Hard to find, though." He shrugs, then settles himself more comfortably in his chair.

"Oh. Beers aren't really something I'm all that familiar with. I'd prefer a nice wine." Nick glances at the mexican beer he happens to be drinking tonight. "Just seemed appropriate for wings in this place. And wine and hot wings.... It's like wearing plaid and stripes."

"You somehow don't strike me as much of a wings person," Salem notes, head cocked to study Nicodemus with his good eye.

Nicodemus lifts a shoulder in a shrug of agreement. "Every once in a blue moon. Like cottage cheese. Nasty stuff, but once or thrice a year, I buy the smallest size there is, have about half a dozen spoonfuls, then don't want it again for ages." He pushes the plate slightly towards you. "Want some? I will most definitely not make it through this entire plate."

"Are they hot?" Salem asks, as he reaches for one. His tone of voice is one of mild curiosity at best. The blonde waitress returns to the table long enough to drop off his glass of cold beer and then vanishes.

Nicodemus says "One notch down from as hot as they come here." Apparently he likes to live dangerously. "A good, spicy Thai or Indian dish would be hotter.""

"Ah." Salem considers the little wing held between forefinger and thumb, then takes a bite out of it. Chews, considering some more. Swallows. "You're right." Working on the rest of the wing, he remarks, "There's a bar in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina that serves these so hot that the _only_ way to eat them is to put them into your mouth whole. You don't dare let them touch your lips."

Nicodemus finishes off the rest of the wing he was working on earlier. "Next time I get a craving, and the urge to do a road trip...."

Salem arches an eyebrow. "You'll know where to go." He washes down the wing with a swallow of beer. "How's the policing business?"

"I thought it'd be more exciting than it's turning out to be," the goth admits. "I'm more or less stuck as a beat cop and computer specialist unless I sign on full time, which I don't want to do. Too much politics higher up. Too many rules to follow and people ready to leap all over you for breaking the rules. I'm thinking about maybe taking some helicopter lessons. The chopper pilots from 'Nam are starting to retire now, so it'll be a wide-open field in a few years."

Nicodemus then adds, "What're you doing to pay the rent these days?"

Salem swallows some more beer. No need to rush on the wings. "Still doing repo work, actually. Money's good and the schedule's flexible."

Nicodemus asks, leaning forward slightly as he does so, "You ever intentionally been unable to locate a car? You know, like when a single mother with kids gets downsized or something along those lines. Or are you even privy to that kind of information--or just not think about it? Sure, there's deadbeats and people whose eyes are bigger than their head and wallet, but they aren't one hundred percent of the people getting their cars repo'ed."

Salem grimaces. "I'm not _completely_ heartless." He plucks another wing from the basket. A mini-drumstick, really. "I'll tell you, though. There are more deadbeats and people buying home theater systems when their children are wearing _crap_ than there are people who are unlucky and struggling." Spoken like a true cynic.

Nicodemus is apparently a cynic of sorts as well. "We make most of our own Hells."

"True enough." Salem's teeth bite into the soft, tender flesh of the small dead bird's leg. Predator and prey, twenty-first-century style.

Nicodemus works on a third wing and apparently decides that's it for him. "Well, I'd better run before I make my own hell with my girlfriend. Catch you later?" he says as he leaves a $10 and a $5 on the table to cover wings, beer, and tip.

Salem nods amiably. "I'll be around. Have a good evening, Nicodemus."