fandomtownies | The Devil's Nest: Saturday, 9/10

You'd think that Deb's first stop -- after crawling out of a plane crash with only a shoulderbag, a disheveled flight attendant uniform, a head wound and a vague woozy feeling that Deb was a really stupid name, despite the fact that she was wearing it pinned to her chest -- would have been a hospital, but no.

It was the Kwik Stop. And after that, the General Store. And after that, the lobby of every sit-down restaurant she trudged past in her uneven shoes with one of the high heels broken off.

AND NOT ONE OF THEM HAD A GODDAMN CIGARETTE FOR SALE!

Finally, after circling back to raid the Kwik-Stop for emergency measures, she'd stumbled -- hands shaking, arms plastered with patches and half a pack of Nicorette gum in her mouth -- into a gothy dance-club place, where sure she'd be able to bum a smoke off some pretentious black-clad kid, right?

JHSGAJKHGSAJKHG THERE WASN'T EVEN ANYBODY AT THE BAR, LET ALONE THE DANCE FLOOR!

Swearing, not remotely under her breath, Deb tossed her bag on the countertop and slipped behind the bar herself. Which... didn't seem to have any booze -- oh right, Fandom, she'd heard about this place -- but she didn't really care about that. First because she was busy ransacking the shelves -- what self-respecting bartender wouldn't have a secret stash of cigs -- and second because what self-respecting flight attendant wouldn't already have a jump-bag half full of those tiny airline bottles?

[OOC: Open! There is no booze for sale, but the chick behind the counter might deal it to you under the counter.]

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So noted, and note it Deb did. Then again, she had booze to trade, if the dwarf was into that kind of thing.

Please, what self-respecting dwarf wasn't into tiny bottles of booze?

Deb scooped ice into a plastic cup, then popped the top on a can of Sprite and poured it in, relaxing into the refreshing sound for a moment. Okay, moment over. "Peanuts or trail mix?" she droned.

"Trail mix, please," Dave said. "Have you been working here long? You really seem to have the routine down."

Oops. wrong thing to say, Dave. Then again, anything could be the wrong thing to say, so it was hardly his fault.

"Do I look like I work in a cheesy goth bump-and-grind mart?" Deb went from drone to screech in milliseconds, flinging the packet of trail mix at his head so her hands were free to indicate her uniform with professional place-the-mask-over-your-face-and-breathe-evenly dexterity. "See these wings? See them? I earned these wings, buster!"

"I thought the outfit looked out of place," Dave said, after the trail mix bounced off his head. "So you work for an airline? What brings you to town?"

She looked down at her uniform. She looked up at him. She said, slowly and almost gently, as she realized he was clearly brain-damaged (possibly from the trail mix?) and she shouldn't be yelling at him, "An airplane."

Edited 2011-09-11 02:44 (UTC)

"I meant it a little less literally, but that's fine," Dave said.

"Well, it literally crashed on the other side of the island, so that's literally why I'm here," Deb grumped. "Like I'd willingly go someplace with no booze, no coffee, and worst of all, no cigarettes?" She said those last two words as if the very concept was blasphemous, which it was.

"Oh, you can get the first from one of the speakessies. I don't know where they are, though. I prefer my liquid drug to be black and keep me awake," Dave said.

"What a coincidence - that's how I prefer my men!"

She was wearing the uniform. The island couldn't let that opening pass by.

"In that case, I'm halfway there," Dave said since Deb wasn't falling asleep and, clearly, the lack of caffeine earlier had caused permanent brain damage.

Deb snorted. "The rest of the way would have to involve a brain transplant, though." Into a body with rhythm that was at least three years older than he was now.

"Still, if you consider settling, I'll be around," Dave said.

Oh, please, like she'd -- "Find me a pack of cigarettes and I'll love you like you're six foot six and your name is Kareem. I'll even call you Kareem."

"Sorry. No clue where to get those," Dave said. "And why would I want you to call me Kareem?"

"........Eat your damn trail mix!" So there.

"Okay, okay," Dave said, picking up the package of trail mix and opening it up to eat. He just didn't want anything else thrown at him when he was still in a pretty good mood.

The Devil's Nest: Saturday, 9/10

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