Demon Marcus, Sunday, All Day

[myownface]

Hot.

Freaking hell, how was it that hot out? Who had authorized that shit? Were they trying to cull out the Canadians that had ventured to America for school, or something? Because, okay, it got bake-your-balls-off hot in the summertime in Toronto, too. But like this? With the heat and the coastal mugginess? Was that shit even legal?

All hideous clothing was going to be spared a horrible burning death today, because Sparkle was draped melodramatically over the Demon Marcus counter, alternating between painting his nails and just plain bitching about the heat. Didn't matter if there was nobody around to hear it. Bitching about the weather was a distinctly Canadian thing, and no thirty-five-freaking-degree weather was going to take that from him.

Ugh.

[Open!]

McCoppin Scrap, Sunday, All Day

[drinks_coffeezilla]

You would think that with the heat the way it was, outside was the last place Dean would ever think to be. Especially not surrounded by reflective metals and black rubber tires. (The tires had reappeared sometime over the course of the week. Dean suspected strongly at this point that the junk yard just kind of re-filled itself based on whatever whims it had, day by day.)

Either way, if you thought that he was going to be inside out of this heat, you'd be wrong. He'd pulled out his lawn chair, grabbed a newspaper, pulled on his shades, and he was reading quite happily, having found a patch of shade that was just the right size, underneath the half-constructed armature for his Alot of Tires sculpture.

All he had to do was be here today. And if being here meant that he could kick back and drink ungodly amounts of iced coffee, then so be it.

[Open!]

Wellspring Arms & Meditation Center, Sunday

[firstnameagent.livejournal.com]

Coulson was beating the heat today the best way he knew how: by going to work. There was air conditioning here, which helped. But since he was on work hours now, he'd dealt with that far too casual "top button unbuttoned" thing he had going on last night. That was Party Phil. This was Work Coulson. They were two different - albeit nearly identical - creatures.

But seriously, the AC made meditation much easier today.

[OOC: I'll be mostly afk most of the afternoon. Back this evening.]

Goodvalor's Little Bivoli, Sunday

[cataclysmicluck.livejournal.com]

Zayne was starting to suspect that the checks he had done on the droids when he returned to Fandom weren't extensive enough. He had no other way to explain the carved ice table and chairs in the middle of the restaurant.

Today's Special:
Sit At a Table Made of Ice

Zayne erased the third line, which suggested that you could lick the table. Because that would be weird.

[OOC: No OCD, same slowness through the afternoon that I mentioned in Coulson's post.]

The Devil's Nest- Sunday

[inaskinnyway.livejournal.com]

Susan wasn't at the door today, though she was at work. It was just that she'd gone to demand to know why the DJ kept playing Call Me Maybe and wouldn't stop and found that his equipment for whatever reason was malfunctioning just enough to keep playing the song and wouldn't shut off no matter what they did.

It wasn't that Susan could provide mechanical assistance as much as she was trying to prevent him from having a total breakdown at hearing the song as much as he had.