Fat Moon

[hazlogs]

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (78% full).
Currently on this gusty and cold winter morning in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 29 degrees Fahrenheit (-1.7 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the south-southwest at 13.4 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are clear 
  with a probable chance of precipitation.

The Rialto -- Auditorium(#3319RJ)
        The roar of the crowd. The smell of greasepaint. "Now is the winter of 
  our discontent..." An old, darkly nostalgic quality hangs heavy in the air 
  of this empty old theater. Once black-painted windows no longer refuse the 
  light of sun and moon, now broken and open to the city sky.
        Largely gutted now, this once gilded and opulent theater spreads like 
  an old grand dame holding desperately to a past now gone and largely 
  forgotten. The plush seats which once held nearly a thousand people are, for 
  the most part, long gone. Time's indifferent hand has dulled the once ornate 
  proscenium arch and faded the velvet red of the main curtain, leaving the 
  wide stage in dark shadows before the gaping and toothless mouth of the 
  music pit.
        At the right side of the stage, from the auditorium floor, a door 
  leads toward the back of the theater. To the left of the stage, an old exit 
  sign still glows above a reinforced door. In the back of the auditorium, 
  archways lead back to the lobby and the boarded up front doors.

The auditorium has a cold, empty feel to it, and seems deserted until you 
  catch the mild crash of broken glass. Salem's slouched in one of the 
  tattered plush seats, one of the few still left, his feet propped up on 
  another one. The Ronin is surrounded by a dank odor of alcohol and cigarette 
  smoke, not to mention the visible evidence of his indulgences.

Sally MacKay shifts one of the two cups back to her free hand and lets the 
  door swing closed behind her. "Hello?" she calls again, sounding way too 
  happy for so early in the morning. Turning her head in the direction of the 
  glassy sound, she spots Salem. "Hey," she greets as she bounces his way.

Salem stirs, craning his neck to look up without moving more than absolutely 
  necessary. He looks, frankly speaking, like hell -- eyes bloodshot and 
  shadowed, hair lank, and stubble roughening the edges of the usually 
  reasonably-groomed goatee-beard. He grunts and settles back into the chair. 
  "Mustang."

"Damn, you look like shit," Sally informs him with bright amusement. She 
  enters the row behind his and reaches forward to hand him one of the cups. 
  "Coffee, -blech- black."

Salem scowls. "Caffeine's the last thing I need," he says, hauling himself 
  into an upright-seated position. Or close to it. He takes the proffered cup 
  anyway. Underneath the half-conscious stupor brought on by the large amounts 
  of alcohol he's probably consumed, the rage thrums, vibrates, strains 
  against its chains and growls irritably.

Sally MacKay cocks her head slightly, looking at him as he sits up. The seats 
  in her row are ruined, so she sits on one of the armrests instead; thus 
  perched, she's back an extra foot or so from him than when she was standing. 
  Both of her hands wrap around her own cup, perhaps to warm her fingers, 
  perhaps not. "Things not so good now?" she ventures.

Salem takes the cap off his coffee and inhales the steam, eyes closing. 
  "Fucking Luna bitch," he growls. "Soon, dammit. Bloody cunt."

Sally MacKay huhs? "Who?" One of Sally's hands leave her cup to fiddle with 
  the plastic flap. "What happened?"

Salem gulps down a mouthful of coffee and spits out something virilent in 
  Serbian. "The moon, dammit, the fucking moon."

With a glance up, Sally ohs. She takes a sip of her own coffee before she 
  speaks quieter, "But it's not full till, like, Thursday? I checked - I 
  bought a calendar. Oh," she reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls 
  out a small white paper bag. "Hungry? I got donuts, too."

Salem is on his feet in a single violent, lurching motion, swearing again in 
  Serbian as he flings the coffee against the stage and kicks apart a pile of 
  beercans. "It doesn't matter!" he rants, kicking the back of the seats in 
  front of him. "It's gibbous already, you stupid little bitch, don't you 
  understand? Why the hell are you here?"

One of her hands lift, palm towards him in an intended pacifying gesture. "Yo, 
  easy," Sally says, her voice growing quieter as his gets angrier. She slips 
  off the armrest, trying to move away before really standing upright. "I'll 
  get gone, then. Chill, okay?" She tries a smile on him, but it's far from 
  her best and does nothing to cover the flickering of fear in her eyes. "Just 
  chill..."

Salem bends down, grabbing up a beer can and flinging it at the kinswoman, 
  face contorted with barely-controlled rage. "Get out!"

Sally MacKay side-steps the throw. "Okay, okay," she starts backing once she 
  reaches the aisle, puting distance between them before she turns her back on 
  him. "Damn," she mutters under her breath.

Salem turns away, still cursing under his breath as he staggers back to the 
  chair and drops down into it.

Sally MacKay pushes the door open and slips out, the donut bag somewhere on 
  the floor in the row behind the Ronin.
Sally MacKay leaves through the exit door into the alley.
Sally MacKay has left.