Getting Chummy with Edge

[hazlogs]

[2/4/98]

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (54% full).

Green Room -- The Rialto(#3680RAJ)
        Once a home to the backstage antics and off-stage life of actors from 
  the grand Shakespearians to the slapsticks of vaudeville to the props 
  mistresses, this broad room parallels in size the stage above it. Old and 
  gaudy couches, chez-lounges, and rockers sit in haphazard groups about an 
  old but functional pot-bellied stove whose smokepipe leads off into the 
  bricking of the back wall.
        Pairs of dressing rooms lead off at each side. To one side, stairs 
  lead up into the theater itself. Off to one side, a wide door leads into the 
  darkened alcoves of the props and costume closets. Opposite those closets, a 
  bricked up archway leads nowhere.

Pete Barlow shakes his head, "YOu gotta fuckin' eat better, man." Barlow 
  pushes a few boxes of Chinese aside and then settles on what look like the 
  fixings for a serious sandwich. He turns, arms loaded. "Get some meat on 
  your... bones."

Jose Figueroa is speaking really loudly about eating and such as Jack comes 
  down the stairs. "Aw man. Food." He moves over to the table slowly, waiting 
  to see if Pete makes himself one first.

Salem raps on the wall, door, whichever seems most convenient, before he comes 
  down.

Pete Barlow shoots a scowl over at Jose, grabbing the boxer by the shoulder. 
  He turns the younger Gnawer around and moves him toward the couch. "Sit 
  down." His voice isn't raised but distinct. As the knock comes, Barlow moves 
  over toward the stairwell. "Who's there?"

"Me." Salem's voice has a tense, hard edge to it; the moon's only half full 
  and already he's starting to feel the pull, the itching rage under his skin. 
  Gaia knows what drew him down here, when he's been so careful to avoid 
  stepping on toes. "Shall I leave?"

Jose Figueroa allows himself to be plopped on the couch.

"Nah, come on down Jack," says Barlow casually as he goes back to the table. 
  "Just makin' a sandwich for Figeuroa. You want one?"

Salem clomps the rest of the way down, expression tight and sour, dark eyes 
  shadowed underneath. "Sandwich? Mf. Yes. Thanks."

Jose Figueroa looks up at Jack as he comes down the stairs, reclining on the 
  couch and looking pretty crappy. Dried blood can be seen in Jose's left ear.

[Jose]
A late 20's, short (5'5") dark Mexican male with short black hair has his 
  hands stuffed into a dark blue jacket, worn with travel. His jeans are 
  frayed around the cuffs and faded on the thighs to a greyish white. His work 
  boots have got to be from the 80's, with the sole of the right boot 
  partially flopping at the toe. He wears a red plaid flannel shirt, with a 
  once-white t-shirt underneath.
His features are reminiscent of an Aztec statue, with flat nose, puffy eyes 
  and round face.

Pete Barlow doesn't ask about preferences or anything, but proceeds to make 
  two rather thick and heavy sandwiches laden with sandwich meats, pickles, 
  hot banana papers, cheeses, onion, and even a sliced tomato. "Nicked this 
  hummer at Safeway this morning," mutters Barlow as he slices the red veggie. 
  Two papertowls are the best china Pete's serving the victuals on tonight, 
  both of which he slides along the table toward each of the 'customers.' "You 
  warmin' up yet, Salem?"

Jose Figueroa sits up slowly. "Thanks Pete." He takes a healthy bite of the 
  sandwich, puts it down, and reclines to chew.

Salem drops down into a convenient chair. "Warming up?" His eyes flick to 
  Jose, noting the blood from the man's ears with a frown.

Pete Barlow heads to the fridge, cleaning up the table with an odd 
  fastidiousness for a Gnawer. In fact, the perceptive may notice that the big 
  Gnawer is oddly obsessive about placing things in specific places, even to 
  shifting the pickle jar a quarter of an inch one direction and then another 
  four times. Almost compulsively fastidious, so to speak. Most of a six pack 
  returns with Pete to the table--Negro Modello. "Yeah, moon's gettin' 
  thicker."

Salem grunts. "Yes, I know." He picks up the sandwich and bites into it, 
  savagely and slouching back in the chair as he chews.

Jose Figueroa helps himself to a beer, holding it against the back of his head 
  first before opening and sipping.

Pete Barlow pops open one of the Mexican brews--a newly acquired beverage at 
  the Rialto--and sits down in his rocking chair. "Like to have you join us in 
  a few for a Cleansing, Jack," says Barlow after taking a deep chug of the 
  beer. "Interested?"

Salem helps himself to a beer as well, hand hovering just short of opening it 
  when Barlow pops the question. If anything, the Ronin's frown deepens 
  slightly, eyes wary. "Maybe," he says cagily, popping open the beer. "What's 
  being Cleansed?"

Pete Barlow rocks slowly. "Lair of a tentacled son of a bitch down at the 
  wharves. Stinkin' hole of a cesspool that this big-ass thing done made his 
  home. We busted it up but need to go back for the Cleansing."

Jose Figueroa pipes up, oblivious to any conversations going on. "Pete? Asshole 
  punks who watch the park wanna bounce our buddy here out on his ear soon."

Salem takes a swallow of beer and then sets it down. "I don't know the 
  ritual," the Ronin says slowly as he picks up his sandwich. "But--" He 
  breaks off as Jose speaks again, and frowns.

Pete Barlow watches Salem's reaction but he too turns at Jose's revelation. 
  "Who, Untouchables?"

Jose Figueroa hmms? at Pete, then nods. "That fuckwad Lord and the fuckwad 
  Fang, too."

Salem's lip curls. "Bloody Fangs," he mutters. The sandwich suffers another 
  bite, as though it were really Scott the Ronin would like to sink his teeth 
  into.

"What Fang?" says Barlow with a frown, shooting back another chug of the beer. 
  "Scott?"

Jose Figueroa doesn't hear Pete (obviously). Judging from Jack's reaction, 
  Jose says "They're just jealous you're so buff, dude."

Salem pauses in mid-chew, lifting his eyebrows at Jose. After a moment, he 
  swallows, smirks humorlessly, and says, "Or that I'm on better terms with 
  one of their kinfolk than they are."

Jose Figueroa takes the sandwich in his hands. "By the way, dude, I can't hear 
  a fuckin' thing. Nasty blew up my ears last night." He takes another giant 
  bite, pushing a pepper ring into his mouth.

Pete Barlow shakes his head, leaning his head back against the chair. "We'll 
  fuckin' see about this. Silly ass punks think they're actually doin' some 
  good in the Park. What two, maybe three of them in that pack? Shit, they 
  can't even /see/ our tracks, let alone know we got the watch on the place." 
  Barlow looks over at Salem, suddenly interested in teh comment. "Who's that?"

Salem squints at Jose, notes the dried blood again, and grunts 
  acknowledgement. To Barlow, he replies, "Sally. She works over at that pool 
  hall." The Ronin's compresses his lips. "She's... headstrong," he adds, and 
  then switches the subject. "I thought Edge would be in charge of the park, 
  since it seems to be in your, mm, area."

Davy comes in from outside, shoulders hunched in his jacket. For once, he's 
  neither singing or whistling. In face, his normally cheerful face bears a 
  frown.

Pete Barlow nods at the identification of the kinGirl, though he probably 
  isn't filing the information away. "Some dumbass political shit that, to be 
  honest, I've ignored. Edge watches the Park. Shit, Arlen and I met fending 
  off a nasty about a couple months ago. FiannaBoy can't see beyond bloodlines 
  so he's not about to let a pack that's got me in it have the job." Barlow 
  looks over at in the incoming Fianna, nodding. "Got you panties in a wad, 
  Woad?"

Davy's eyes sweep the room, his frown intensifying a little as he sees Salem. 
  But he answers Pete directly, "Just got a bitch of a headache."

Salem glances up quickly at the new arrival, clearly on-edge, though it may 
  simply be an effect of the inevitably waxing moon. He says nothing, just 
  bites into the sandwich again, chews, swallows.

Jose Figueroa waves from the couch, dried blood coating Jose's ears. "What's 
  up, Davy? Don' bother answerin'. I can't hear." He grins and takes another 
  bite of an enormous sandwich.

Davy raises his eyebrows at Jose, then asks the room, "What'd I miss?"

Pete Barlow gives a nod to Davy, continuing his slow see-saw rocking motion on 
  his chair. "Jabs got his ears boxed by some Nasty up in the mountains."

Jose Figueroa nods at Davy, still chewing.

Salem finishes his sandwich in silence and leans back in hs chair to nurse his 
  beer.

Piping up out of nowhere, Jose asks, loudly, "Did whoever dragged me home tell 
  you 'bout last night, Pete? I don' remember nothin' much."

Pete Barlow gives a nod, hand scratching the back of his neck--good thing he 
  doesn't follow Flea. "Yeah, Arlen dragged your ass in."

Jose Figueroa says "Who? Arlen?"

Davy's lips give an impatient twitch, but he doesn't repeat his question.

Pete Barlow gives a nod, a stiff nod, to Jose before looking back over at 
  Salem. "What tribe were you... before you took to the road?"

Salem's eyes, which had been intently studying his beer can, flick upwards 
  toward Barlow. His lips twitch slightly, almost into a smile, closer to a 
  smirk, and without any humor whatsoever. "Isn't it obvious?"

Davy breaks into an open scowl. "I think everyone's gone fucking deaf." He 
  then turns toward the lower room, his boots stomping on the floor.

Jose Figueroa watches with fascination, Salem amused at something, Davy not so 
  amused.

Pete Barlow gives a shrug to Salem's question. "I ain't ever been much good at 
  that shit."

Davy leaves up the stairs into the theater above.
Davy has left.

"Shadow Lord." Salem spits the two words out and takes another long pull of 
  his beer.

Jose Figueroa watches Davy go downstairs, an amused expression on his face.

Pete Barlow turns from where he has watched Davy head upstairs. He looks back 
  at Salem. "Why does that frighten me?" The big guy chuckles and shakes his 
  head, an uneasy gesture. "So what brought you here, then, Jack? Just roamin' 
  around?"

Salem smiles humorlessly again, a flash of teeth showing before he takes 
  another draught of Pete's beer. "Roaming around. More or less, yes."

Jose Figueroa finishes his sandwich and half his beer.

Pete Barlow picks up his book, cracking it open to where he marked. He gives 
  the other two a look and then starts reading.

Jose Figueroa shifts uncomfortably on the couch. "Man, I wish you'd switch to 
  el lobo or something. I hate not hearin'."

Salem watches Barlow a moment, perhaps puzzled by the abrupt change in the 
  man's attention. His eyes twitch briefly to Jose.

Pete Barlow looks up from his book and over at Jose, shaking his head. "You'd 
  heal a helluva lot faster if you'd take the thick-man, Jabs." Barlow looks 
  back down at his book, trying to read and then just shutting it again before 
  looking back over at Salem. "OK. I'm just gonna ask. What made you go 
  Rice-a-roni?"

Jose Figueroa leans back and rests his eyes. "Or speak in my mind."

Salem scowls. "It was punishment." He takes another swallow of beer, finishing 
  the can. "I really do not like to talk about it."

"Fair enough," says Barlow with a shrug. "I won't press you where you don't 
  want to go. Just like to know more about a guy I might have defendin' my 
  ass."

Salem sets the empty can on the table with a *thunk*. "The Shadow Lords are 
  unforgiving of failure," he says tightly, "and I had rivals far more 
  politically astute." He slouches back into his chair. "I prefer to leave it 
  at that."

"I hate politics," says Barlow in reply, leaving it at that.

Salem grunts a curt, sullen agreement.