Packie Chat

[hazlogs]

[9/24/97]

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.

Davy comes down the stairs. As is his usual for coming to the pack hangout, 
  he's carrying two paper grocery sacks. One makes clinking noises as he moves.

Hershey is stretched out on her usual mattress with a paperback Stephen King. 
  She glances up and waves the book at Davy in greeting.

Jackson comes in from the stairs.
Jackson has arrived.
        This guy is young -- /maybe/ early twenties -- and could pass by just 
  about anyone without comment. He's a hair shy of six feet, with a mismatched 
  slim build and wide, strong shoulders. There's enough hard muscle in the 
  right places to make it clear that he can take care of his own business, and 
  that every once in awhile he can step in and straighten out someone else's. 
  Other than that there's not much to see. He's got a plain face, ordinary, 
  everyday: brown eyes, short brown hair, and a few days' worth of soft beard 
  that doesn't do much to make him stand out. His hands -- slim, agile 
  artist's hands -- are surprisingly dirty under the nails, scarred across the 
  knuckles, and stained most everywhere in between with the leftover gusto of 
  red-blue-yellow-black spray paint.
        At the moment he's dressed in lazy street man's chic: tank-style white 
  t-shirt complete with ambiguous stains, a well-worn flannel in several 
  shades of blue, ragged brown slacks with threadbare holes in the knees, a 
  bulging regulation army backpack with a bedroll strapped to the side, and 
  second-hand boots with one duct-tape reinforced toe.

Alexander comes in from the stairs.
Alexander has arrived.

Davy grins over at Hershey. "When I finish apartment hunting, we'll have to 
  have a Steven King movie fest. Hey, I bought some more of the candies. But 
  don't eat all the Krackle this time, huh?" He sets the bags on the table and 
  begins to empty the food into one of the prop closets that the pack has thus 
  appropriated. Most are unperishable staples, like peanut butter and bread, 
  but there's a sizable amount of junk food too, incluing the aforementioned 
  tiny chocolate bars. He pulls a six-pack of draft beer out of one bag and a 
  six-pack of Coke out of the other and sets them on the folding table. 
  Looking up while he folds down the bags, he grins at everyone. "Name your 
  poison, as long as it's beer or Coke. They're cold, anyway."

Hershey whoops, dropping the book to help herself to a huge handful of 
  chocolatey goodness, plus a Coke. No wonder she has acne. "Bitchin', Davy."

Alexander comes downt he stairs a little after Davy, calling out, "Anybody 
  home?"

Hershey calls back, "Nobody but us mutts, boss!"

Davy calls up, "Allllexander, come on down. You get to choose between a 
  lifetime supply of Rice-a-roni, the San Francisco treat, or what's behind 
  door number 1!"

Jackson appears at the top of the stairs, a small stained duffle bag strapped 
  over one shoulder and a white plastic grocery bag in his other hand. "Yeah, 
  m'man," he says, right behind Alexander, grinning as he starts down toward 
  Davy and Hershey. "Well, if it ain't a party I didn't get invited to," he 
  says, shaking his head. "Don't got much choice but to crash it now, do I?" 
  The plastic bag lands in an old recliner, falling open to spill its guts -- 
  another six pack of beer.

Davy gives a whoop, "A man after my own heart." Alexander grabs a Coke, then 
  goes back outside, saying he'll return.

Jackson lets himself drop like a stone into a second recliner, but only after 
  swerving over toward Davy to snag a Coke and a handful of mini candy bars. 
  His blue bag slides off his shoulder and onto the floor beside him, his 
  elbow guiding it relatively gently the last stretch. It clinks and clatters 
  softly, contentedly into place. "So, what's news lil' sis?" he asks Hershey 
  before raising his can toward Davy in a toast and then gulping half of it 
  away.

Hershey washes down a mouthful of chocolate with a swig of Coke. "Went out ta 
  that halfmoon party last night. Out in th' woods."

Davy himself takes a beer and snags his favorite comfy chair. He raises his 
  can in return and chugs the lot without stopping. Finally lowering the can, 
  he smacks his lips and makes a long 'aaahhhhh' sound.

Jackson nods, leaning back and letting the chair swallow him. "Good, good," he 
  says, a little distractedly, nursing the Coke. "They alright folks out that 
  way? I mean, you don't go that way much do you? They don't treat you like 
  you don't belong, I guess is what I'm sayin'." He makes a perplexed face, 
  then adds, "Suppose I oughta get out there and see things for myself, huh?"

Hershey shrugs. "The Fianna who organized the thing, Ravenfeeder, she turned 
  sour when I said I was a Metis, but she wasn't, ya know, a _bitch_ about it. 
  Everyone was pretty cool, 'cept for Bites Back, who was a _total_ dork. 
  Still, everybody thought he was a dork, so it wasn't just me, ya know?"

Davy chimes in, "Bites-Back /is/ a dork."

You say "A dork who doesn't know _shit_ about bein' a halfmoon."

Davy rolls his shoulders and gets up to get another beer. This one goes 
  slower. "Well, he's sure not unbiased, I can tell you."

Hershey chugs Coke, then belches. "Yeah. But I arranged ta learn that 
  truth-sniffer gift, an' teach a rite ta one of the Uktena. So I figger I'm 
  in pretty good. Seemed like a bunch'a cool Garou."

Davy flashes a grin. "Excuse you. Most of them are, yeah. And Ravenfeeder's 
  not too bad. A little tight sometimes, but she's okay."

Hershey grins and nods. "Yeah."

Davy rubs his beard. "Hey, Alexander's girlfriend was saying something about 
  needing someone that could tell truth from lies." He shakes his head. 
  "Something about a guy wanting a fake id for a young kid, so he could claim 
  it was his. Maybe you could look her up, after you learn it."

Hershey nods, finishing off the Coke. She crushes it against her forehead. 
  *crump*

Davy grins. "Head-Like-Brick."

Hershey grins back, toothily, and grabs a beer. "Damn shittin' straight, 
  Irishboy."

Davy's lips quirk. "You can shit crooked?"

Hershey quips, "Can't you?"

Davy snorts a laugh. "Guess I never bent over to watch."

Hershey snickers, nearly spraying beer out her nose.

Davy grins at his packmate, she of the stately social graces.

Hershey chugs down another swallow and a half of beer. "Hey, Davy. It true 
  what they say 'bout Fianna?"

Davy says modestly, "Yes, but I can't show you. It's against the Litany.

Hershey finishes off the beer and tosses the empty can at Davy. "Wuss!"

Davy ducks, grinning. "No, seriously, whatcha want to know?"

Hershey pushes her glasses up her nose and peers significantly at Davy's 
  crotch, then laughs and sits back. "They say youse guys can _choose_ if ya 
  wanna get drunk or not."

Davy nods. "Yup. At least, it's a gift a lot of us have."

Hershey snags another beer. "Bitchin'. An' yer hung like Great Danes, right?" 
  She guffaws at this.

Davy snickers. "Never checked out a Great Dane, but I think that's apt."

Hershey cracks open the beer and chugs down a healthy portion. "You a virgin?"

Davy shakes his head, leaning back in the couch again. Unlike his earlier 
  joking boasting, he doesn't elaborate on that with more sly remarks.

Hershey picks up on the change of mood. "Sore spot?"

Davy shakes his head. He half-grins, then says, "Just kind of a romantic, I 
  guess. Doesn't seem right to brag on the women I've shared my bed with, you 
  know?"

Hershey makes an 'oooo' noise. "A _gentleman_."

Davy's grin grows and he gives Hershey a mock-warning look. "Don't you go 
  spreading it around, now."

Hershey slips a finger across her lips. "Mum's the word, Davyboy."

Davy just grins again. He then asks, "Why do you ask?"

Hershey shrugs. "Curious." She smiles, a bit doozy from the beers. "Gotta know 
  ya packmates, yeah?"

Davy nods. "Yeah." He then grins. "So, what's the most embarrassing thing that 
  ever happened to you?"

Hershey wrinkles her nose. "Eww. You'd _have_ ta ask that?" Then she grins, 
  scrunching up her face and thinking. "Probably the first time my mom caught 
  me lookin' at porno mags."

Davy winks. "Guys or girls?"

Hershey's ears turn an interesting shade of pink. "Girls. But I ain't a lezbo. 
  I was just, um..." Her cheeks turn red now, too. "I was thirteen, you know? 
  Growin' hairs where there weren't none. Not in Homid, anyway." She giggles.

Davy grins back. "Just wondering." He drops his voice. "I think I know where 
  Pete keeps a stash, see."

Hershey giggles, nearly snorting beer out her nose. "You would."

Davy grins bigger, then says, "Hey, a new moon has to keep some self-respect."

Hershey laughs, her usual donkey-bray of hilarity. "Yer _bad_, Davy."