Angry Jerk

[hazlogs]

6/28/98

Medina Coffees(#2111RJM)
Since falling under new management in the past year, this place has somewhat 
  fallen into disrepair. The walls are stained, greasy. The front window has 
  not been washed in at least three months, obscuring any view of the 
  outdoors. There are more tables now, though few are new or in good repair. 
  The scent of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, competing with the rich smell 
  of various coffees.
The way to the street is on the western side of the shop. Items here may be 
  seen by +view.
Contents:
Merria
Angelo
Obvious exits:
STreet  

Angelo chuckles at that. "I've managed to do pretty well without a reason so 
  far. CelebraTING." He thinks a moment. "Tell me something. What horrid 
  warren are Elan and the others gathering in these days?"
Merria giggles. "Th'church. An' you said you weren't a drunk, so I figured you 
  probably at least told yourself you had a reason. Dint you?"
Salem pushes open the door to the coffeehouse and strides in, his entrance 
  provoking a few nervous looks from the weaker-willed persons in the room.
Angelo's eyes narrow a tad; he clearly passes over one or two replies before 
  going with, "I told myself, 'Self, it's time to drink some tequila.' I'm not 
  the contemplative sort when it comes to drunken tears."
Merria grins. "Sounds like a drunk to /me/. What auspice are you?" The 
  question, following immediately on the heels of the comment and said with no 
  change whatsoever in her cheerful tone is still issued at less than one 
  quarter the volume.
Salem gives the interior of Medina a quick scan, a gesture of painfully 
  habitual alertness. The Ahroun seems on-edge, keyed up despite the shortness 
  of the moon, and when his eyes fall on Merria he heads immediately over 
  toward her table, nevermind that her talk with Angelo might be private.
Angelo waves a hand at Merria's soft-spoken question. "I believe the trendy 
  term for it is 'no moon'," he returns under his breath, before continuing 
  more loudly, "But that's neither here nor there. What can you tell me about 
  that girl in the park the other evening, Alix..." he trails off as Salem 
  approaches, takes a long look up at him; the swizzle-stick between his teeth 
  droops. "Well. Hello, sunshine."

[Angelo]
Narrow features, hard grey eyes, just beginning to wrinkle at the corners. His 
  long hair is a stunning platinum blonde save for one forelock, dyed 
  blood-red and hanging to the left. An intricate silver earring hangs from 
  his right ear. Not tall, but clearly fit, he has a presence that makes up 
  for his small stature. He wears a dark t-shirt under a battered grey 
  trenchcoat, bearing some faded writing or other, black denim jeans, and 
  heavy black boots hung with links of chain. His left hand is noticeably 
  scarred.

Merria swings around, her face lighting up as she spies the ahroun. "Salem!" 
  She nearly bounces out of her seat but restrains herself. "Hi!"
Salem pauses, head turning to rake eyes over Angelo, rage waking up enough to 
  snarl behind his eyes. He looks like the kind of person who would deliver a 
  swift fist to the face for such a remark, but restrains himself and shifts 
  his gaze toward Merria. "Evening, Merry," he says, keeping his tone even as 
  he helps himself to a seat.
Merria smiles sunnily at Salem, as though oblivious to his temper. "Angelo, 
  Salem," she says, laconic with her introductions. "How're you doin'?"
"Fine," says Salem, shortly, leaning back as he tugs a pack of cigarettes from 
  inside his coat. "What's the news?"
Angelo settles back, chewing quietly on his swizzle-stick. He examines Salem 
  through narrowed grey eyes.
Merria shrugs. "I dunno. Han't heard anythin' for a bit. Didja ever talk to 
  Arlen?"
Salem taps out a cigarette and lights it with curt, unthinking motions. "Not 
  yet," he says, after taking a drag on the cancer and exhaling gray smoke. 
  "Did she say when she'd contact me?"
"Um," Merria says. "I dint give her your number, 'cause I wasn't sure if I was 
  s'posed to. I left her number for you, though. On your counter."
Angelo takes a long, loud, slurping drag on his coffee, then sets the mug back 
  down.
Salem frowns. "Must have missed it. You could have given her my number, 
  though. Fuck knows she's had her hand in everything else." This last, 
  confusedly cryptic remark is delivered in nearly a growl.
Merria nods serenely. "Okay. When I see her again, I'll tell her." She takes 
  another long sip of her ice water. "'nt you gonna get anythin' to drink?" 
  She looks at Angelo. "'s the coffee good?"
Angelo blinks once. "Oh, am I still here?" He looks down at himself. "Why, I 
  guess I am."
Salem flicks a gaze toward Angelo, and then looks at Merria. "He family of 
  yours?"
Merria ducks her head and grins apologetically to Angelo. "Sorry." She nods to 
  Salem.
Salem turns his head slightly to eye Angelo again. Behind his gaze is a 
  thousand years of Shadow Lord arrogance, sunk deep into his genes. "Mm," he 
  says.
Angelo's gaze shifts to Salem. First he meets the other's haughty glance; 
  slowly, his eyes shift to focus on a position just a bit to the right of 
  Salem's head. "Say, sunshine," he says thoughtfully. "I think there's 
  something on your shoulder."
Merria flicks a quick glance at Salem, then wrinkles her nose at Angelo. "Oh, 
  stop it. It's not his fault he's crabby. You would be too, if you were him. 
  An' he wasn't rude to you or anythin'. Not really."
Salem smiles at Angelo. It isn't a nice smile. "One more time, and I break 
  your teeth," he says quietly.
Angelo purses his lips, cocks his head to one side; his eyes remain on the 
  aforementioned spot. After a moment's consideration he concludes, "Nope. 
  Still there."
Merria puts her glass down, annoyed, and scootches her chair back. "/Dumb/," 
  she says, leaving it up to the two men to figure out which she means.
An edge creeps further into Salem's tone, and his eyes never leave Angelo's 
  face. "Are you *trying* to piss me off? I assure you, it's no challenge, but 
  I doubt you'll like the consequences."
Merria looks a little surprised, and almost a little pleased. "'Course he is," 
  she tells Salem. And then, turning her eyes on Angelo with curiosity 
  creeping in to smother the annoyance, she adds to herself, "I wonder why."
Angelo's glance snaps back to Salem's face, grey eyes narrowing; he removes 
  the swizzle-stick from between his teeth and leans half across the table, 
  uncowed as he looks up at the much taller man. "Listen, friend. I didn't 
  invite you in here. If you want to brood, that's your business. But if 
  you're going to give *me* shit, you can move on. If you really want to do 
  this, I'll put you on my dance card for another evening."
"Fuck you," Salem retorts with a snarl, crushing out the cigarette and pushing 
  to his feet. He reaches out to grab Angelo by the collar. "I fucking gave 
  you warning. I fucking gave you *plenty* of warning. Do *not* fuck around 
  with me, or I *will* beat your skill against the nearest wall, and you 
  *will* be in pain."
A counterman, white-faced, starts edging toward the phone. Probably to call 
  the cops.
Angelo stands with Salem's motion, perhaps not least because he isn't all that 
  tall and the other man is dragging on his coat collar. His chair rattles 
  back and falls behind him, but Angelo keeps his eyes focused on the other 
  man's face, angry, lips drawn into a tight line. "I don't *need* your 
  warnings, Slick," he retorts. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Merria rolls her eyes and stands up, going over to the counter to chat 
  soothingly with the counterman and reassure him with remarkable persuasion 
  that phone calls are unnecessary. This allows her to turn her back on the 
  two men, much to her satisfaction.
Violence. It's all too easy for Salem; he's far too practiced at it. "My 
  name," he says, and snaps his free hand in a fist toward Angelo's gut. "Is 
  Jack," he adds, motions blurring into rage-fueld speed as aims a blow upside 
  the other man's head. "Salem." The last word is punctuated with a fist aimed 
  straight for Angelo's teeth.
Merria winces at the sound of each of the blows, though she doesn't look 
  around. All her normal bounce is starkly absent, however.
Arlen, with the evident uncertainty of one who's never been somewhere before, 
  pushes in the door quietly.
Angelo's breath goes out of him as he doubles over Salem's fist to the gut, 
  and the blow to the head comes near to knocking him off his feet; he keeps 
  them, however, and the third punch is warded away by a stiff forearm, after 
  which Angelo staggers out to one side. He turns on the larger man, falling 
  into a fighting stance; blood runs down his chin, but he actually favors the 
  other with a grim smile. "Allright, Jack Salem. You've had your fun. If it's 
  going to be now, it's going to be now." His hands clench into fists, and he 
  waits.
Arlen eyes Salem and Angelo. "Wunderbar," she mutters, and moves toward the 
  counter.
Merria turns around, a rare cold anger closing her face. She doesn't even see 
  Arlen. She walks over deliberately, and stands between Salem and Angelo, 
  facing the Gnawer. "Stop pokin' sticks at the bear, you jerk," she says 
  flatly. Then she turns around and says, "/Salem/!" loud enough to stand a 
  chance of penetrating the heady fumes of violence. She looks tiny, facing 
  down the glowering ahroun.
Salem glowers back at Merria, the fingers of his fist-hand flexing slowly. And 
  then, slowly, the Ahroun uncoils, bearded chin lifting as he straightens up. 
  A small muscle twitches near his left eye.
Merria waits until Salem has straightened, and then whirls around again to 
  pre-empt anything clever Angelo might say. "/Don't/," she says. "Just 
  /don't/. Just let it go. We don't need you dyin' to prove you're smarts."
Angelo watches Salem over Merria's shoulder, a perverse light in his grey 
  eyes, the grim smile remaining; slowly, his breathing becomes more shallow, 
  and he comes out of his crouch. "Why don't you take your friend and go," he 
  says softly.
Merria nods tersely, still extremely displeased at being put in this situation 
  at all. She turns around again. "Come on," she says, voice mellowing a 
  fraction. She jerks her chin toward the door.
Salem gives the hem of his t-shirt a tug, straightening it, and after a final 
  glare toward Angelo -- a 'this-isn't-finished-yet' glower -- he turns his 
  back sharply toward the other man to head for the door. A motion which 
  brings Arlen into his field of view.
         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 cut offs, 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 dark red t-shirt emblazoned with "Ladies sewing 
  circle and terrorist society" on it. Her boots are black, and well worn.
Arlen waves the sandwich she just ordered at Salem. "Enjoying your night out?"
Angelo clasps his hands behind his back, watching Salem evenly as he turns.
"No," says Salem shortly, as he starts moving past Arlen toward the door. 
  Clearly, if the Fury wants to talk with him, it'll have to be elsewhere. 
  Unless she pulls rank and insists he stay or something.
Arlen murmurs, "And it looked so entertaining," before she orders two more 
  sandwiches and moves to follow the Ronin.

You return to the street, leaving the aromatic shop behind.
Industrial Sector, Southwest Side
Several blocks encompassing the southern ends of 13th, 14th and 15th Streets 
  extend in an area poor and abandoned, with but a few businesses struggling 
  to survive. Along the northern edge of the district is a junk yard filled 
  with old washers, dryers, tires, and the myriad other elements of 
  human-created unrecycled waste. Smoke pours from a few factories, and the 
  more productive factories to the east combine with it to lay a thin film of 
  dark ash across much of the streets. Other factories, and warehouses between 
  them, lie abandoned or are home to the poor; at night, from some of those 
  with windows, the orange glow of oil drums used for heating and light shine 
  dully through the grime. Small shops serve the few factory workers who 
  remain in the area beyond the end of the working day, or during the lunch 
  hours grudgingly allowed. In the northeastern corner there is slightly more 
  activity in bars offering drinking and even some gambling in dark corners. 
  Along this stretch of street, the alleyways have stairways to second-floor 
  rooms, with the occasional alley entrance occupied evening and night by 
  painted women making blatant offers to the male passersby. Southwards, on 
  the southern side of Grym Broders Avenue, the train station falls into 
  disrepair similar to the rest of the area.
Obvious exits:
Filthy Alley  Abandoned Factory  Medina Coffees  East  North  

From afar, Merria | Merria doesn't move until Salem is moving, and then she 
  heads off in his wake. Recognizing Arlen gives her pause, however, and she 
  hesitates, visibly torn between the two until it becomes clear that the Fury 
  is following. She crooks a very, very small smile at the other woman and 
  follows Salem out.
Merria strolls out of Medina Coffees on the corner of Grym Broders and 13th.
Merria has arrived.
Arlen strolls out of Medina Coffees on the corner of Grym Broders and 13th.
Arlen has arrived.
Salem stops just outside the Medina to light another cigarette, drawing smoke 
  into his lungs with a deep, angry breath. Tension and rage still coil around 
  him like poisoned smoke.
Merria's jaw is still tight and her usual good cheer still noticibly absent. 
  She doesn't even greet Arlen, except with her eyes.
Arlen gives Merria a brief grin, and then resumes eating her ham and cheese 
  sandwich in silence.
Salem eventually flicks his gaze toward Arlen. "You wanted to talk to me?" he 
  asks, gruffly.
Merria shakes her head immediately. "Not tonight," she says, as though it were 
  actually her business.
Arlen says, "Ah. Yes. But not, I suspect, tonight."
Merria gives Arlen another look in which relief is evident. Slowly, she starts 
  to unwind herself.
Salem grunts. "You know where I live. If you don't, Merry can tell you." His 
  gaze flicks to the Gnawer, then back to the Fury. "Good night," he says, and 
  then turns to stalk away.
Arlen says, "She certainly can," and finishes the other half of her sandwich. 
  "Good night, Salem."
Merria watches Salem go. "Night," she says finally, her voice rather small.
Industrial Sector, Southwest Side
Several blocks encompassing the southern ends of 13th, 14th and 15th Streets 
  extend in an area poor and abandoned, with but a few businesses struggling 
  to survive. Along the northern edge of the district is a junk yard filled 
  with old washers, dryers, tires, and the myriad other elements of 
  human-created unrecycled waste. Smoke pours from a few factories, and the 
  more productive factories to the east combine with it to lay a thin film of 
  dark ash across much of the streets. Other factories, and warehouses between 
  them, lie abandoned or are home to the poor; at night, from some of those 
  with windows, the orange glow of oil drums used for heating and light shine 
  dully through the grime. Small shops serve the few factory workers who 
  remain in the area beyond the end of the working day, or during the lunch 
  hours grudgingly allowed. In the northeastern corner there is slightly more 
  activity in bars offering drinking and even some gambling in dark corners. 
  Along this stretch of street, the alleyways have stairways to second-floor 
  rooms, with the occasional alley entrance occupied evening and night by 
  painted women making blatant offers to the male passersby. Southwards, on 
  the southern side of Grym Broders Avenue, the train station falls into 
  disrepair similar to the rest of the area.
Contents:
Arlen
Merria
Obvious exits:
Filthy Alley  Abandoned Factory  Medina Coffees  East  North  
You go east towards the more active industrial sector.
Jermantown Avenue, Industrial Sector
From warehouses a few blocks away from the river, across a chunk of city more 
  than a dozen blocks wide, factories brood over the streets like dark dragons 
  over their piles of treasure, greedy and all-encompassing. Huddling around 
  the factories are smaller, less imposing buildings that are probably 
  warehouses, or storage locations for trucks. The factories spill fumes into 
  the air, darkening the area and blanketing it in a stench to mark 
  humankind's domination over the world. Some of the warehouses stand empty, 
  some are boarded over, and some, on the northern and western fringes of the 
  area, have been converted to bars, with bizarre lighting, frequent brawls, 
  and music that blares loudly at all hours of the night. There are no 
  residences here for anyone to complain, and the factory workers populate the 
  bars thickly. Throughout the area, trash and oil mingle together on alleyway 
  streets, impeding the paths to the dumpsters at the ends of many of the 
  alleys.
Contents:
Truck
Obvious exits:
Filthy Alley  Forgotten Church  East  West  
It is currently 20:47 Pacific Time on Sun Jun 28 1998.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (29% full).
Currently on this breezy and warm summer evening in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 74 degrees Fahrenheit (23.3 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the south-southwest at 6 mph. The ground is wet. Skies are overcast 
  with a definite chance of precipitation.