Chatter at Charlie's

[hazlogs]

[Jan 11, 1998. Evening.]

Charlie's Tavern(#683RJ)
The environment of this questionable establishment seems close and hot around 
  you despite its fair size. The walls are done up in unremarkable fake-wood 
  paneling, an ugly dark-brown that chips in many places to show the lighter 
  plywood underneath. The floor is the sort of uneven, grey concrete that 
  suggests this building's earlier life as a garage of some sort; it dips and 
  rises, gathering small pools of beer and other spirits in various locations. 
  Wooden tables are scattered about, some in better repair than others but 
  most featuring elaborate networks of dents and scratches; a bar runs the 
  full west side of the room, its uniform brown length accented by a single 
  greasy metal footrest. Dark posters, long since faded into 
  incomprehensibility, hang off the walls at odd angles. What light there is 
  here reaches through in dusty beams from the two windows facing the street, 
  and from the flickering fluorescent rig swinging gently over the single 
  mottled pool table at the back. Perched up over one end of the bar is a 
  battered, black-and-white television.
A single battered black door leads back south to the street.
Contents:
Arlen
Merria
Elan
Pete Barlow
TV
Slab
Obvious exits:
Street  

[Merria]
Merria is a small, solid, knotty young woman who, despite being 19, will be 
  called a kid for years to come, with big round eyes, a small sharp nose, and 
  an expression of perpetual innocent and amazed curiosity. She has a cloud of 
  frizzy, unmanageable dark hair, dark eyes, and skin which would probably 
  still be fairly dark even if she had just washed, which she hasn't. She 
  wears battered sneakers, jeans with holes worn through in the knees, a black 
  sweatshirt, and an ancient army jacket with as many holes as pockets. On her 
  shoulder is a lumpy, well-aged book bag that appears to hold nothing so 
  geometric as books. Her engaging smile, however, is fresh and nearly 
  ever-present; she regards the world around her with an almost proprietary 
  pleasure, as though she had just invented it and is still marveling at her 
  cleverness. Her step is light and has an extra bounce to it. Clearly the 
  only way she has found of using all her excess energy is to make each step 
  work double.

Pete Barlow looks up from where he sits, the back of his hand just popping 
  hard onto the back of the Heinz bottle and sending a splatter of red stuff 
  down onto the fries. "Damn, the whole crew in, eh?" He gives Elan and Arlen 
  and smile before sobering a bit at the unknown factor. He gestures at the 
  empty chairs. "Fries?"

Elan grins and jerks his head to Merria. "Got someone to meet ya, dude. New 
  sista of ours, just blown in here, and looking to get set up." He unzips the 
  gymbag, revealing two six-packs of beer, and some sandwiches. "Brought ya 
  something, too." He grabs some fries in return.

Pete Barlow looks over at the beer and sandwiches, frowning. "Put those away 
  for later man, before slab goes nuts." The big bum looks over at Merria now, 
  giving her a stare.

Salem stalks into the bar, pushing past a much larger man who nevertheless 
  steps aside, looking vaguely unnerved. Salem pauses to give the interior a 
  once-over, his features set into a scowl, his eyes narrowed. Then he heads 
  for an empty table in a corner.

Merria stands next to Elan and regards Pete with bright, curious eyes. "Hey, 
  sir." She ducks her head a little and grins. "Merria Parker." She glances 
  around at the other patrons, hesitates between courtesy and caution, and 
  decides on the latter, leaving the introduction there.

Arlen flashes Pete a grin and takes a few fries, grabbing a seat as well, 
  since no one else seems inclined to.

[Pete Barlow]
        Remarkably plain like cheap vanilla ice milk in an old tupperware 
  bowl. A loose, easy, casual manner describes this tall fellow, his edges 
  turning in lazy almost masked curves. Dark brown hair with a few straggles 
  of grey slides back from a largely bald head. Narrow, somewhat droopy green 
  eyes glance out from a face covered in an unkempt, thick salt-n-pepper beard 
  circling a thin-lipped, crooked smile. Around 6'3 and probably in his late 
  thirties, Pete carries himself with a quiet, almost subservient manner 
  though the smile twisting his mouth might just betray a certain... lack of 
  seriousness.
        Pete's returned now to his normal duds: worn jeans, ivory cableknit 
  mock turtle sweater and heavy coat.

[Arlen]
        When at rest, this woman is content to rest. But she can burst into 
  movement at the drop of an interesting comment, eyes alight. She's about 
  5'5", and stocky, although it's obvious she's in quite good shape. Her face 
  is somewhat square, not at all beautiful, but strong, interesting, and 
  eyecatching even so, with fierce brown eyes and short brown, almost black 
  hair, with a rat-tail trailing down practically to the small of her back. 
  She seems in her mid twenties, a certain studied calm in her eyes.
        She wears battered blue jeans, one thumb hanging from the front pocket 
  (unless there's something more interesting to do with it), and a battered 
  jean jacket, with (today) a light green shirt emblazoned with "A woman 
  without a man is like a fish without a bicycle." on it. Her boots are black, 
  and well worn.

Elan nods as he zips the bag back up. "Yeah, just something for you t' take, 
  for later."

Pete Barlow gives a nod as he picks up his burger, taking a large bite out of 
  it with obvious relish. As he chews, he manages to say "...ete ....low..." 
  in response.

Merria starts to nod, and then does a double take. "Pete Barlow?" she asks 
  incredulously, more than half expecting to be corrected.

Salem manages to get a beer from the poor sap waiting tables and sits well 
  back in his chair, fishing inside the battered black duster for his 
  cigarettes. His eyes continue to rove the area with restless tension.

The big fellow nods before taking another bite. Barlow gives it a chaser of 
  beer and says, "That's right. Uncle Chugs to the family."

Merria breaks into a delighted grin. "Well, cool. An' here I got m'chiminage, 
  all set. Who'da guessed. Pleasedtomeetcha."
Merria's voice is low, but very pleased.

"Yer chimmy?" asks Pete as he reaches over for an onion ring. Barlow shoots a 
  glance over at Arlen and Elan before looking back at the woman. "Ain't you 
  bein' just a stitch hasty pudding, girl?"

Elan's eyes widen a bit at Merria's statement, and settles back with a few of 
  Pete's fries.

Merria ducks her head again, but she's still grinning. "Nah," she says. "I got 
  a message for you, that's all. You don't have to take it as nothin' but a 
  courtesy gift, if it turns out y'all want me to push on. It's not like it'll 
  do me any good to keep it. Just thought it worked out kinda tidily - never 
  guessed you'd be the Old Man Elan was talkin' about." She hooks a chair from 
  a nearby table and perches on the back of it.

Pete Barlow runs a ring through the ketchup. "Well, let's hear it then, 
  whatever this is."

Merria cocks her head, watching Pete with bright, sharp, speculative eyes. 
  "Well, there's three bits," she says obligingly. "They're from a spot out in 
  Portland, Oregon I stopped by a little bit ago. I told folks I was comin' up 
  here, and asked if I could pass anything along, an' I sorta got an ear-full. 
  First off," and her eyes focus sharply, curious to see what reaction she 
  will get, "Dresden's dead."

Elan kicks back and listens, calmly.

"About time that good for nothing fuckhead got taken out," says Barlow with a 
  snort. He takes another bite of his burger. "Never did like the way that 
  Fennie Get used to pound his way around town. Who did him in? He try to rape 
  the wrong gal?"

Salem nurses his beer, alternating sips of the cheap piss-tasting swill with 
  drags on his cigarette. He doesn't pay the table of Gnawers any more 
  attention than he gives anyone else in the bar. One of the tables near his 
  becomes empty of patrons, a trio of slumming college students heading back 
  out into the streets. The table stays empty.

Merria scratches her head. "Lady by the name of Liz, apparently. Wasn't her he 
  was aiming at though, far as I can tell, it was her girlfriend."

Arlen receives her own cheeseburger, and starts in on it, watching Pete as she 
  does so.

Pete Barlow dredges another ring through the red sauce. "Liz the Lez?" asks 
  Barlow with a sudden smile. He looks over at Arlen. "One of your family, 
  sister. Fat moon packin' it solid in her fists." The big guy looks back at 
  Merria. "I'll bet ole Liz done made him pay and then some."

Merria nods philosophically. "Five people wanted me to be sure to tell you, so 
  I guess the process made somethin' of an impression."

Arlen murmurs, "Can we get an amen?"

Merria grins sidelong at Arlen.

Pete Barlow laughs and leans back, wiping his mouth off. "Yeah. Dresden was a 
  shit. So what else you got to tell me?"

Merria says, little more slowly, "Eleanor made the Change, end of November. 
  She's doin' okay. Cub name 'Limps,' but of course the more legs you have, 
  the less it matters. Her mom said you'd want to know."

The big man's face and demeanor undergoes a rather interesting transition from 
  the burst of laughter just a few minutes ago to more focused intent. Barlow 
  listens, the smile still present on his face but a new flash of pride in his 
  eyes. "She did, eh?" Barlow doesn't look at the others, but looks down at 
  his food, focusing their for a moment. He picks up the burger and takes 
  another bite, wetness in his eyes perhaps getting lost in the motion of 
  going for the food. The big man simply nods as he chews.

Elan looks to the big Gnawer, but keeps his peace.

Arlen doesn't. She says a quiet "Congratulations", burying herself in her 
  sandwich again afterwards.

The other table ajacent to Salem's empties itself; like the other, it doesn't 
  gain replacement patrons. Salem doesn't look up from his own table.

Merria is quiet for a bit, showing perhaps a little more sensitivity than on 
  might have expected. Then she speaks up again, this time with the first 
  truly dubious note in her voice. "There's one other thing. Someone named 
  Eggs told me to tell you that the '68 Volkswagon's back."

"She is? After all this time?" asks Barlow with a start, setting his burger 
  down. "Did you see her?"

Merria shakes her head. Then she stops. "Well, maybe. I'm not sure. Things 
  were happening kinda fast at that point. But that's what Eggs said."

Pete Barlow shakes his head as well, running a hand back over his bald pate 
  where a cold sweat seems to have broken out. "That ain't good news at all. 
  Good to know, mind you, but not good news. Shit the bed." Pete sweeps a 
  glance around at the others and then settles back in the chair. "Eggs told 
  you this, right?"

Merria nods emphatically, on firmer ground.

Arlen's glancing back and forth, curiously. "I take it this is the kind of 
  thing you can't explain without a lot of context?"

Pete Barlow looks from Merria to Arlen and then back to Merria. "Tell her what 
  you know, I'll fill in the rest. I gotta have a minute here." Barlow picks 
  up the rest of his burger and starts to wolf it down.

The door opens and along with a sudden burst of cold air, Sally enters. She 
  glances around, needing little time for her eyes to adjust to the slight 
  difference in lighting.

Elan eats a few more fries, and cocks his head a bit, eyes going a bit distant.

Merria cracks her knuckles. "You've pretty much got what I know. I was on 
  somethin' with them - they needed a scout and I happened to be handy - I 
  don't think it had anything much to do with it. So at one point we were kind 
  of blipping in and out of the realm, which I don't do so fast, anyhow, and I 
  saw something green and rusty go by out of the corner of my eye. I didn't 
  pay it too much attention except to stay low until it was gone, but Eggs got 
  kind of sickly lookin' - which on him is sort of funny - and grabbed me and 
  said, 'When you find Pete, tell him the '68 Volkswagons back.'" She shrugs. 
  "That's all. We were kind of busy. I tried every way I could think of to get 
  him to tell me more later, but he clammed up." She casts a speculative eye 
  at the full moon. "What /is/ it about?"

Salem finishes off his beer and rises from his table, stalking toward the bar 
  for another.

Elan looks to Pete, suddenly excited. "Jimmy got the Dogmobile, back!"

Pete Barlow scratches the back of his head and frowns. "Bad ju-ju is what it 
  is sister, real bad ju-ju." Barlow reaches over for an onion. He looks at 
  Arlen. "We'll talk about it later... in private." The big guys bites on the 
  onion ring and nods to Elan. "Good deal. Where was it?"

Sally MacKay bops over to the table, grinning all around. "Hey guys," she 
  greets as she snags a free chair and spins it around and tosses her coat 
  onto it. She hmms? at Elan, pausing before actually stepping off towards the 
  bar to get herself a drink.

Elan says "It got stolen...months ago. He must'a finally tracked it down."

Arlen nods. "Right enough, then. Be looking forward to it."

Merria glances sideways at Arlen with an expression that says, 'you and me, 
  both,

Salem perches himself on a stool and leans his elbows on the bar. The guy on 
  the stool next to him - a fat, grizzled bastard in a John Deere cap - turns 
  to protest, but instead simply stares for a moment, gets up, and takes his 
  beer to a table.

Merria glances sideways at Arlen with an expression that says, 'you and me, 
  both,' as clearly as words could. She slides off the back of the chair she 
  was perching on and stands uncertainly, listening to Pete and Elan for a 
  minute.

Sally MacKay huhs and nods. "Cool," she says amicably enough as she bops off 
  towards the bar. Passing the John Deere fellow with a grin, Sally pounces 
  forward as she reaches the bar itself, her forearms flat against its surface 
  and her weight off her feet for the moment. "Hey," she calls to the 
  bartender from her place a few stools down from Salem.

"That's right," says Barlow as he looks over at Elan, nodding. "You guys 
  should..." Barlow stops as something catches his eye, that something being 
  the fellow perched on a bar. He frowns as he looks at Salem, studying him 
  for a moment.

Arlen finishes her burger, and says, reluctantly, "I have to go find Morgan. 
  I'll talk to you folks later."

Salem turns his head slightly, regarding Sally sidelong. His eyes narrow a bit 
  as he recognizes her, and he takes a moment to look her over again, 
  unsmiling.

Elan nods to Arlen and Merria, by way of saying goodbye. He gives Pete a 
  glance and a murmured, "Seen that bastard around, a few times." He smiles to 
  Sally.

Arlen pulls open the door and heads outside.

Merria says, "See you," to Arlen, and then, thinking of something, says 
  hastily to Pete and Elan, "You mind...?" as she tips her head after Arlen.

Pete Barlow returns the nod to Elan, still looking over at the fellow. "Know 
  him?"

Sally MacKay's eyes follow the bartender for a moment, waiting impatiently as 
  he fills the orders of those before her. Finally she lets her eyes wander up 
  and down the bar, checking out faces as she usually does. One side of her 
  smile curls up further than the other as she spots Salem. "Hey," she says in 
  a friendly enough tone.

Elan shakes his head, not even looking at the man full on. "Seen him 'round a 
  few times, in the neighborhood. Word is, he's a badass. Fighter." His voice 
  is low and his manner casual.

Merria murmurs, "See you, Elan...nice meeting you, sir," and slides out the 
  door on Arlen's trail.

Salem's lips twitch a bit at Sally's greeting. He studies her for a few more 
  heartbeats and then nods. "Evening." His voice rasps a bit, the tones 
  clipped but educated.

Pete Barlow mmms and goes back to his meal. "Plenty of those types around. He 
  cause much trouble?"

Sally MacKay's eyes flick away a moment, checking on the bartender's progress 
  before she turns back to Salem, studying him once more. She lets the quiet 
  draw out before asking in a tone touched with playfulness, "You in a better 
  mood now?"

Elan murmers to Pete. "Beat people up. Ruthless. Got a lot of people scared of 
  him. Um, ain't killed anyone that I've heard."

Salem's tight, thin smile shows little humor, and the look in his eyes 
  remains... intense. "An inch, maybe," he replies to Sally, his tone cynical.

Pete Barlow gives Elan a hard look. "And you guys are just letting him scare 
  the 'hood and shit?" Barlow shakes his head, grabbing the last of the onion 
  rings. "Take care of it or I'll do it myself."

Elan bristles and glares at the Ahroun, but nods. "Sure. We keeping an eye 
  out, man. Don't be saying we ain't doin' out job..."

As the bartender finally makes his way to Sally, she turns her bright smile 
  towards him and asks for a beer. While she waits, she looks back to Salem 
  and mmms spectulatevely. "An inch? You can do better with that." She slides 
  down the bar and past the empty stool vacated by John Deere, reaching out to 
  tap the Garou's glass with the back of one finger. "Have another, it might 
  help," she offers in as merry a tone as his isn't.

A flicker of a frown passes across Salem's hawkish features, and his posture 
  remains tense and vaguely restless, as though he might, at any moment, 
  spring into violent action. But, by contrast, his tone remains almost 
  cordial as he answers Sally. "That," he says, "would take something a good 
  deal better than this pig's piss." He taps the glass significantly.

Pete Barlow smiles at Elan and nods. "That's the spirit. Just don't want punks 
  makin' the 'hood nastier than it has to be." Barlow leans up and sucks down 
  some more of his shake.

Elan nods at Pete, and turns to look at this exchange between Sally and Salem.

The blonde watches Salem's reaction as she nears, daring clear on her face and 
  excitement bright in her eyes. She doesn't retreat back down the bar, even 
  once the bartender returns with her beer and collects her money. "Pig piss," 
  she echoes with amusement before taking a sip. "You got a name?" she asks 
  pointedly.

Pete Barlow stands up after finishing his meal. "Gonna go check on Quaid. See 
  if he's awake yet. Catch you later, Eyes."

"Salem," he answers. After a short pause, he adds, "Jack Salem."

"Sally," she answers in the same manner, "Mustang Sally." Grinning, she takes 
  another drink.

Pete Barlow pulls open the door and heads outside.

Elan gives a nod to Pete. "Sure thing, man."

Salem narrows his eyes slightly and then nods. "Pleased to meet you, Sally," 
  he replies with automatic courtesy. He still hasn't smiled, not really.

That's okay, the blonde is smiling enough for the both of them. "So, like, is 
  this your usual place?" Sally uses the hand not wrapped around her mug to 
  gesture at the room as a whole.

Salem shrugs and takes a draught from his glass of beer. "If you could call it 
  that," he says. "I've hardly been in town a week yet."

Elan hefts his heavy gumbag, and saunters over to Sally. "See ya later, 'k, 
  MacKay?"

Salem's hard gaze flicks coldly over toward Elan.

"Yeah?" Sally sarts to answer, then she turns to nod to Elan. "Cool," the 
  Gnawer gets a smile and a finger-waggling wave good bye.

Elan gives a nod and friendly pat to Sally. He gives a nod to Salem, 
  ackowledging him.

Salem simply gazes silently at Elan, waiting for the prettyboy to go away.

Sally MacKay's smile grows at the pat and she returns it playfully before 
  turning back to face Salem.

Elan walks out, whistling.

Salem watches Elan go and then turns to Sally. "Friend of yours?"

Sally MacKay shrugs and nods at the same time, "Yeah, he's cool. We hang out 
  sometimes." She tosses back her hair with a flicking of her head before 
  picking up the thread again, "Where'd you move from?"

Salem takes another swallow of beer, grimacing slightly at the taste. "Mf. I 
  was in Portland for a while."

"Cool," Sally says casually, conversationally. "Hey," she says suddenly, 
  pausing only to take another drink, "You play pool?"

"Pool?" Though the tension, the rage under the surface, doesn't lessen, it 
  seems that he's decided that Sally isn't a threat, on any level. "No, I'm 
  afraid not."

Sally MacKay aws, a sound of disappointment though her expression saddens not 
  at all. "Too bad, I work over at Reggie's," she cocks a thumb in that 
  direction. "And we serve better shit than this," she taps her own mug this 
  time. Her tone regains its playful edge, "And if you asked nicely, you might 
  even get yourself a free drink or two." Chuckling to herself, she raises her 
  glass again.

Salem's lips twitch, the corners turning upwards a tiny bit before his mouth 
  returns to its usual unsmiling state. "Oh? _How_ nicely?" Though one _might_ 
  imagine a mild playfulness in response, the eyes remain narrowly fixed
  on Sally's face, humorless.

Sally's eyes brighten further, her whole expression growing warmer at his 
  almost-smile. She mmms, turning away slightly under the pretense of looking 
  for the bartender as the Garou looks her over. "Very nicely," she finally 
  answers as her eyes return to his.

Salem grunts slightly, breaking the mutual gaze long enough to take another 
  drink of his beer. "You like to play games, don't you? Walk near fire?"

The slight crinkling around her eyes and her knowing chuckle yells a much 
  clearer 'yes!' then her actually words do. She raises her glass and takes a 
  slow sip before giving him, "Sometimes."

Salem turns his eyes back to her, his expression mostly thoughtful and 
  intrigued, but mingled with suspicion and slight disbelief. He leans forward 
  a bit, bringing their faces close enough that she can smell the mingled 
  leather and cigarette smoke. "How close do you like to walk the line, I 
  wonder?"

Sally MacKay's nose wrinkles a touch at one of the two scents coming from him, 
  and it isn't the leather. While she doesn't lean back from him, her face 
  turns away seemingly without her noticing it, though not enough to break the 
  eye contact just yet. "That," she starts, then pauses to take a drink. The 
  mug just happens to interrupt the directness of his gaze for just a quick 
  moment, "you'll just have to find out on your own." Her confident, almost 
  cocky, smile is back in place as she lowers the glass to the bar.

Salem's eyes glint with bitter recognition, and he smiles crookedly, though 
  his eyes remain dark and the violence continues to sit tightly coiled under 
  the surface of his skin. His voice lowers a bit, the words clipped, the 
  trace of some accent - European? - slipping through the syllables. "I _do_ 
  hope you're not just bullshitting me, Mustang Sally. I'd be so disappointed."

"Bullshitting?" Sally repeats slowly as if testing the feel of the word. Her 
  nearly empty mug raises towards her mouth, then she stops before actually 
  drinking. Even if it was full it would do little to hide the smile which 
  seems to shine from every other aspect of her face. "Now would I do that?" 
  she asks in a lilting, almost teasing tone.

Salem grins slightly now, though the way his upper lip curls up and exposes a 
  few teeth make the expression seem feral, predatorial. "You like to flirt 
  with darkness," he says with quiet intensity. "Many do, or think they do. 
  When it truly comes down to it, though..." He shrugs, straightening up to 
  drain the rest of his beer glass. "They shit their pants, sometimes scream, 
  and then usually die. That's been my experience, anyway."

Sally MacKay's confidence doesn't appear to be shaken in the least. She tosses 
  back her hair, then lowers her voice as she assumes the careful tone an 
  actor on a moviescreen might use, "I've seen 'darkness'," she informs him, 
  using the act to cover the near-truth of her words, "I've looked in its face 
  and bought it a beer. /I'd/ make /it/ turn tail and run," she continues in a 
  bravo so overblown it'd be hard-pressed to be mistaken for the truth.

Salem's eyes gleam as he leans toward Sally again. "Guess what?" He's almost 
  playful himself, now, but it's the playfulness of a large cat toying with a 
  mouse that it'll probably eat if it feels inclined to.

Jenny gingerly opens the door, two fingers on the greasy pushplate, and looks 
  around. She didn't look ecstatic when she came in, and her expression 
  doesn't change as she cases the joint.

This time the blonde does lean in, coming closer to him. "What?" Sally asks 
  with the blissful cheeryness of a mouse sure the 'cat' is nothing more than 
  a play of sunlight on dust motes.

Salem rises from his bar stool and, in a smooth moment, is standing next to 
  Sally, one hand on her shoulder. "I'm calling your bluff." His expression 
  never changes; if anything, the gleam in his eye gets stronger.

Jenny spots the wide empty space at the bar and smiles grimly. She may be 
  having oral surgery, but at least they're using a sharp blade. As she moves 
  toward the bar, a large man roughly moves her aside to make room for his 
  entrance. She stumbles into the middle of the room, weight drawn off balance 
  by the heavy black box. The man laughs in mild and jaded amusement, and she 
  nearly wheels on him and spares him a sharp word.

With his hand on her shoulder, he'd feel the unconscious tensing of her 
  muscles that a watcher might miss. Anyone at the bar would see only the 
  blonde raising her mug for a drink, looking not worried in the least about 
  this growing situation. As she lowers the glass back down, she asks with her 
  ever-present smile, "My bluff?"

Salem leans over, hand remaining on Sally's shoulder as his face nears hers. 
  Lips close to her ear, he murmurs, "Put your money where your mouth is."

Jenny stumps over to the bar and throws the box up onto a stool. Slapping the 
  bar to get the bartender's attention, she calls "Hey! Hey mac! Hey!"

Sally MacKay shifts her weight away as his face draws closer, though she 
  covers the movement by placing her elbow up and onto the bar. "Where m-?" 
  she jumps as the bar is hit, distracted for a moment as her attention shifts 
  to Jenny.

Salem flicks his eyes toward Jenny, briefly, and then turns back to Sally. "I 
  thought so." His voice is cold now, the scorn evident in his tone and face. 
  "Just another fucking bullshitter."

Jenny leans across the bar once the bartender draws near. "You guys ever have 
  live music in this shit hole? Even some tin-ear steel guitar C and W setup?"

Sally MacKay turns and places her back to the bar, both of her elbows up onto 
  it now. Her chin snaps up, her eyes narrowing just a touch at his words. " ' 
  'Nother fuckin' bullshitter'," she echoes with as much scorn in her tone as 
  he used, but that and confidence are not the only thing in her eyes anymore, 
  though she's doing a good job at using those two to mask it. "Fuck you," she 
  shakes her head in a harsh little movement, her eyes cutting away and 
  towards the door for just a second.

The bartender eyes Jenny like a particularly lascivious bug in a jar. "Maybe 
  if your tits was as big as your gut, lady. Not interested."

Salem leans a hand on the bar, his eyes still on Sally. "Tell me I'm wrong 
  then," he says, his voice turning hard, the tones violently clipped. "_Can_ 
  you play or are you just a vacant little girl pretending she knows what's 
  behind the shadows?"

Jenny purses her lips and grabs up her amp. "Fuck you." she states clearly, "I 
  wouldn't wanna play here anyway. I'd prob'ly get herpes off one of the bar 
  stools."

[Jenny]
Tall, solid, a definite presence. Even dressed in a flowing white poet's 
  blouse and black velveteen tights, she fails to look elfin. Golden brown 
  hair flows down the sides of an angular, squared face. Confident nose, 
  forward chin, and fearless blue eyes give her the look of a woman born to 
  resist, to contest, to strive, and to win comma dammit.
She's likely to have near her an electric guitar and a small amp, which is 
  useful for sitting on. A black belt holds a small leathern purse. If it's 
  cold, she has a leather jacket festooned with bits of chrome. On her head is 
  a brown felt fedora.

Sally MacKay's eyes fix on his, full of an anger from a different source now. 
  "I know what's in them," she says in a low voice, her eyes saying that she 
  not only knows, but does not like it. "I know /exactly/ what's in them, and 
  /you/ have no fuckin' clue. Get the hell outta here." She can't quite make 
  herself turn her back on him, but she does turn her face away, catching the 
  tail-end of Jenny's interplay.

Jenny turns to leave, and the bartender shouts after her "Hey! You'd *give* 
  somebody herpes off the bar stool!" Then he mutters "Stupid fat cunt." and 
  returns to his business.

Salem's anger boils closer to the surface as he reaches out to take Sally by 
  the shoulder again. "Prove it."

Sally MacKay jerks her shoulder, trying to pull it free though she makes no 
  move to step away. Her chin remains up, her lips pressed tight and her smile 
  no where to be seen. "How? How the fuck am I supposed to prove what I've 
  fuckin' seen?"

Jenny jerks the door open with the toe of her boot, as if she's practised in 
  opening doors with her hands full, and stomps out into the cold.

Salem tightens his grip, though not enough to hurt. He takes a deep breath and 
  lowers his voice, his words for her ears only. "I don't care _what_ you've 
  seen. Just if you've seen it, and if you've got the _spine_ to walk into the 
  darkness again. If not..." He grimaces. "Everything you've said earlier is 
  just so much bullshit."

"Let /go/!" On 'go' Sally gives her shoulder another tug, the confidence in 
  her eyes ever so slowly bleeding away. "I see th-" she catches herself, 
  pausing noticably and changing course. She pulls at his hold again before 
  continuing, and if she doesn't free herself, she starts leaning backwards 
  over the bar to gain those few inches of room. "I see 'the darkness' every 
  fuckin day," she informs him.

Salem straightens up, letting go of Sally's shoulder with a frustrated 
  exhalation of breath. "Forget it, then," he growls, starting to turn away. 
  "I just thought you might enjoy a bit of excitement in your pathetic life."

Sally MacKay steps back the moment she's released, angling so that she'll no 
  longer be trapped against the bar. Her hand starts to raise towards her 
  shoulder, then she catches herself and forces it back down. "Fuck you," she 
  says in her end-all of come-backs, watching him with a newfound wariness. 
  "You have no friggin' clue about 'darkness' and 'excitement', know that?" 
  she spits the words at him.

Salem turns back, the intensity at full force and all of it directed at Sally. 
  "You'd be surprised."

Now with the room, Sally takes another half-step back. "Doubt that," she 
  throws back at him, her eyes not even coming close to leaving him. Then she 
  stops suddenly. Laughing humorlessly she tosses his own words back at him, 
  "Prove it."

One can almost see the bonfires sparking up behind Salem's eyes. He grins now, 
  his teeth showing. "Come with me and I will."

Foolish? Yes. Stupid? No. Sally shakes her head. "No fuckin' way. Show me 
  here," now her smile hints at returning, but it's a cold one, "If you can."

Salem's voice lowers, eyes narrowing. "In front of dozens of witnesses? Are 
  you _mad_?"

Sally MacKay laughs her challenging little laugh again, then shakes her head. 
  She makes a show of looking away from him as if he were suddenly of little 
  importance, finding her beer but not yet reaching for it. "You can't, can 
  you?"

Salem leans havily against the bar. "Convenient, isn't it?" he remarks, 
  bitterly, cynically. "I can't prove anything to you _here_ because then 
  everyone else in this bar would have to die. So there you sit, safe in your 
  own smug little paradigm."

The few feet of distance she has gained seems to have renewed her confidence. 
  "Likely excuse," Sally says, leaning her side against the bar and folding 
  her arms across her chest. Her voice drops and she seems to be attempting to 
  copy some man's tone, " 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill ya'. 
  Like you could /really/ kill everyone in here," her eyes scan over the crowd 
  as if to make her point.

Salem is silent for a moment, his gaze passing over the inhabitants of the 
  bar. If Sally looks at his expression, she'd find that he seems to be 
  actually _considering_ it. One hand grips the edge of the bar, tightly, as 
  he balances on the razor's edge of self-control.

Sally MacKay finishes her glance around and looks back to him. Her newly 
  returned smile falters as she checks out his expression. "Damn, I was 
  joking, man. Don't look so fuckin' serious," she mumbles and waves to the 
  bartender to get his attention. "'Nother beer," she calls, seeing how he 
  doesn't seem inclined to some closer than he has to. She glances towards 
  Salem's mug and amends, "Two."

Salem's eyes blink, his gaze flickering back toward Sally. The tension eases 
  up. Slightly. He seats himself on the bar stool next to her with care, as 
  though he were a bomb that might explode (which isn't far from the truth, 
  really). "Fuck," he mutters, half to himself, half to the woman next to him. 
  There's a strained quality to his voice now. "I need something stronger than 
  beer."

Sally MacKay waves a hand, indicating the bartender down at the other end. "So 
  tell him." She continues her lean, her hip against the bar and her eyes on 
  him. She's quiet for a moment, the challenge, the anger, and even that hint 
  of fear gone from her eyes leaving only speculation as she studies the Ronin.

Salem meets her eyes, his face tightening. He snorts. "They don't sell what I 
  need."

"And what is it that you need?" Sally asks casually as if their nearly violent 
  exchange never happened.

Salem considers her a moment before answering. "Something illegal, in the 
  opiate family, preferably." He almost manages an airy tone. Almost. 
  "Something to take the edge off my... temper."

Sally MacKay snorts, the sound one of pure amusement and nothing else. She 
  lays down enough money for one of the beers as the bartender returns with 
  the drinks. "Ever think of trying meditation or some shit like that?" she 
  half jokes, half suggests.

Salem waits until the bartender heads back out of earshot, with fortunately is 
  not very long. "It _is_ medication," he replies sardonically.

Sally MacKay chuckles and gives him a side-long look. "You got a one-track 
  mind? Meditation, med-i-tat-ion." She crosses her arms once more and closes 
  her eyes, "Ohm, ohm...," then cracks one open to peek at him. "Get it?" Her 
  tone is quickly nearing as warm as it had been when they first met.

Salem pauses in the act of reaching for his beer. "Misheard," he says, a bit 
  curtly. He takes a long draught from his glass and then shakes his head. 
  "Doesn't do a damned thing for me. Meditation."

Sally MacKay nods, "Then maybe medication's the way to go." She takes a sip of 
  her beer and glances around. Of course there's no one near, even the 
  bartender has fled. She takes another drink, perhaps using that as a cover 
  for her growing smile.

Salem swallows another mouthful of beer and considers Sally for another 
  moment. "Yes. Well. You know how it is. New city, don't know where anything 
  is." He doesn't fail to miss her smile.

With a 'Mmm hmm', Sally turns back to look at him. "Yep," she says as she 
  looks him up and down, then pronounces, "But you're probably, like, a cop or 
  something." Her eyes are bright, though, and he wouldn't be wrong to guess 
  she doesn't truly believe that.

Salem lifts an eyebrow. "Do I _look_ like a fucking cop?" The temper strains 
  at its bonds, making his tone sharper than he intends it to be, as evidenced 
  by a quick shake of his head and another swallow of beer. "No. I'm not a 
  cop."

Sally MacKay shakes her head acceptingly, "Nah, you're not one. I'd know." She 
  sips her beer again before she speaks again, softer now. "There're lots of 
  places, the 'Lich and a few other clubs, and SCCU, 'course."

"The college?" His lips twist into a heavily sardonic half-smile. "Of course." 
  He lifts his beer glass to her in a slight salute, showing that he isn't 
  _entirely_ without manners. "Thanks."

Sally MacKay nods, "The college." The twinkle returns to her eye as Sally 
  adds, "What else would it be good for?" She nods back to him, "Welcome." 
  She's looking down the bar and her voice doesn't change as she asks, "That 
  the darkness you were talking about?"

Salem simply shakes his head in answer.

Now Sally looks back to him, just a simple look. "Then what?" she asks, no 
  more challenge, no more games, her voice no louder than while on the topic 
  of drugs.

Salem gives his head another slight shake, his common sense returning. "Forget 
  it," he mutters, tensely but without direct insult. A faint, faint glimmer 
  of humor touches his clipped tones. "'I could show you, but then I've have 
  to kill you.'"

Sally MacKay laughs and looks down into her mug before looking back up at him. 
  "You're okay," she informs the Garou. She tilts her head, sending a wave of 
  blond hair across her shoulder as she says, "But I wanna know what you think 
  darkness is one day. Deal?"

Salem considers that for a moment and then nods. "Deal," he replies quietly. 
  "Perhaps in a couple of weeks."

"Cool," Sally says with a smile, then glances down at her watchless wrist. A 
  frown settling upon her lips for just a second, she glances around for a 
  clock before having to ask him, "You got a watch?"

Salem sets his beer on the bar and reaches into an inner pocket of his duster. 
  He removes a rather cheap-looking sports watch, digital, with a broken band 
  and examines it. "It's nine-thirty."

"Aw hell," Sally lifts her beer and drains as much as she can before giving 
  him a wry smile. Whe swipes her lips with her fingertips, then gives him a 
  quick wave. "I'm late," she explains with a smile and a rolling of her eyes. 
  "Catch you later, maybe?" She starts walking, then turns around so she can 
  still see him, "And remember, if you're nice, I'll spot you a beer. 
  Reggie's!" She reminds him as she walks backwards.

Salem lifts his beer glass in a mute salute to the young woman, watching her 
  leave.

Sally MacKay spins back around so that she's walking forward again, her blonde 
  hair fanning out as she does. She snags her jacket from the chair she 
  dropped it onto hours ago, then bops her way out the door and vanishes out 
  into the darkness.