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Caritas | Wednesday

It might have been colder than a witch's tit outside but that wasn't gonna stop Nathan from eating an ice cream cone behind the bar tonight. Look, he'd nicked it from a shop on the mainland (it'd been the easiest thing to grab and he'd been fucking hungry) and he wasn't gonna let it go to waste. Sure, it wasn't his favorite but what the hell, it'd been free.

Tino was giving him a look that Nathan had dubbed the 'I'm Tino and I suck' look. In reality, Tino was just probably nauseous because Nathan was sprinkling rum onto the ice cream every so often. It was a delicacy okay!

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There is a stage!

There is a bar!

Britta figured one of the best ways to beat the blues of having classes tomorrow was to hit up that bar and see if she'd have as much luck with a bartender not caring that her ID was fake on a different night as she had that other one. No, she hadn't figured out that even under twenty-one, you could drink at this bar. She just figured the weekdays were so slow, they'd take what they could get.

It was a pleasant, albeit slightly confused, surprise to see a familiar face behind the bar. "Hey, Big Irish," Britta smirked as she leaned on the bar, but a brow arched when she saw what he had. "Is that ice cream?"

"Indeed it is," Nathan said around a mouthful of ice cream. "And if you're nice, I might even share it with you."

Maybe.

"In case you haven't noticed," Britta informed him, "it's finally starting to get to be winter out there. Why would I want ice cream? In a bar. Wouldn't I have just gone to the ice cream shop if I wanted ice cream?"

"But it wouldn't be my ice cream that I got on sale -- " For free, even. " -- on the mainland. And who gives a fuck about winter, yeah? It's not like I'm out there freezing my balls off or something."

Britta narrowed her eyes a little bit in suspicion of going all the way to the mainland just to get ice cream that was on sale, but, whatever, maybe it was some weird European thing so she shouldn't judge.

"Whatever, neither am I," she said, since she didn't exactly have balls to freeze off. "I still don't want ice cream, though. I want a martini." She paused, for effect. "Three olives."

Yeah, she only ordered it because it sounded cool.

"A martini?" Nathan asked, sounding skeptical. "What the fuck type of drink is that? You a spy or something? Besides, aren't you like twelve? I might have to card you."

Yeah, right.

"A martini," Britta repeated. "It's a sophisticated drink, for sophisticated people. And you're the twelve year old, with your little ice cream cone."

Because that was such a sophisticated come-back.

"Sophisticated?" Nathan asked, raising an eyebrow at that. Nevertheless, he did reach for a glass, at least. "Why the hell are you trying to be sophisticated right now? Have you looked at the fucking band?"

Britta thought about saying that she had been trying not to look at the band, but it sounded so insensitive, so she didn't. She just pulled herself up importantly. "Maybe I just have a sophisticated palette," she said. "Who said you can't be in a dive like this and still get a good drink?"

"Have you ever had a fucking martini in your life?" Nathan asked quizzically.

"Well, yes," said Britta, petulant for a moment before she pulled herself up again. "I just...don't remember much about it, that's all. You know what they say? 'Liquor before beer, you're in the clear'? Not true. Especially not when there are whippits involved."

Nathan paused at that, gave her a look and then grudgingly finished making her martini before sliding it over to her.

"You're a little bit of a freak, aren't you?"

"Thanks," said Britta, about the drink, not the freak part, and she took a daunting sip before launching into her address to the freak part. "And I guess you could say that, if you're brainwashed into some sort of moralistically mandated perception of a nonexistent normalcy propagated by the masses to keep the populous in a constant state of dissatisfaction so they keep buying things and turning to religion to fill holes in their lives that they only think they have because people tell them so."

She took another sip of the martini, and didn't do a very good job of hiding the expression on her face that made it clear that martinis were a little bit gross, but she bet they got better if you drank them more often. Not that she was going to admit that to Nathan if she could help it.

Nathan was back to staring at her. And then he took a drink of his own in the hopes that maybe he'd understand that little spiel better.

...nope, didn't help. "What in the fuck are you on about?"

"Well, you know," said Britta, "who says anyone's a freak except people who are afraid of other people who are just different?"

There was a pause. Another sip of her martini after a second to bolster herself against it.

"And better. Definitely better. Heck, if I'm a freak, I'll take it." She lifted her glass in a toast. "Viva la freaks! Much better than a brainwashed automaton of the masses."

Nathan was wondering if Britta was a little touched in the head. He didn't say that though amazingly enough.

"You're not a member of PETA, are you?" Nathan wondered. "I've heard about those twats. If I were to kill a fucking cockroach, they'd be at my door with signs and throwing fucking paint on me and shit because cockroaches are endangered and if that's you, no thank you."

"Cockroaches don't need us to defend them," Britta said. "They're badasses and will probably be the only thing to outlive us once the hole in the o-zone burns us all up or cellular phones turn us all into nuclear freaks. But, no, I'm not a member of PETA, though I am a vegetarian."

Wearing a leather jacket. She frowned, though, in thought. Maybe she should join PETA. It might make for good cred. "You have to at least admire their message. Animals are people, too."

"Animals are fucking meat," Nathan said, rolling his eyes. "If they were people, they'd be people who wore shoes and pants and fucking leather coats like you're doing."

"Ah, not all people have shoes," Britta pointed out quickly, seeing a trump card and taking it. "I was just talking to a girl last week who didn't have any shoes. Shoes don't make people people."

"So, what kinda shoes are you wearing?" Nathan asked, wanting to trump her trump card.

Britta wanted to say she wasn't wearing any, either, but it was cold out and she was kind of short, so boots with heels were important. She shifted a little in her seat, trying to fight her amusement, and trying to regain her composure as an important figure of defiance and equality.

"No shoes, cheap shoes, fancy shoes," she said. "It shouldn't matter what shoes a person has."

But she did like her boots (http://www.etsy.com/listing/90558254/vintage-90s-classy-leather-boots-with?ref=sr_gallery_26&sref=&ga_includes[0]=tags&ga_search_query=90s+boots&ga_search_type=all&ga_facet=) and so she carefully got a hold on the bar so she could lean back and kick up a foot briefly enough to show him. "But not bad, huh?"

They weren't bad at all and they definitely looked good on her but hey, if she wanted to trump him, he was gonna trump her, if he could.

"And I bet you could have bought dinner for about five hundred kids in one of those rundown countries for the price of them boots," Nathan pointed out.

"Nuh uh," said Britta proudly. "I got them at a thrift store. Gently used."

Ugh, good thing she wasn't wearing the expensive pair her parents got her for her sixteenth birthday or something! She sure dodge a bullet on that one.

"Yeah, so?" Nathan asked, raising an eyebrow. "You don't think you could have bought a few packets of noodles with your thrift store boots? The starving kids with flies as decoration would eat your fucking toothpaste if they had to."

"Fine, then," said Britta, "I'll just have to make an extra donation of noodles and toothpaste when the Anarchist Philanthropists club does its food drive. And I'll even throw in some shoes."

"You're such a saint," Nathan said, taking a long draw from his bottle. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "And if you did that, do you think those kids are gonna fucking deify you or something? They'll just want more and more and more."

"Diefy me?" asked Britta. "I hope not. Religion is as big a scam as capitalism. I just want to do some good, you know? If I hadn't been sent here, I was going to go into the Peace Corp, travel the world, see what it's really like for them. You can't truly help someone unless you've walked a mile in their shoes...or walked a mile in bare feet since they haven't got shoes."

"You're making yourself sound like a pompous twat," Nathan said eloquently. Or not. "Like seriously, you're hot and all but what is this word vomit coming out of your mouth?"

"It is not being a pompous twat to want to help people," Britta insisted with a scoff. "It's being a pompous twat to not help people."

She didn't seem to bothered, though. In fact, she seemed to be preening a little. Because he said she was hot. Ha!

"And what about those people that just can't help people?" Nathan wondered, raising an eyebrow. "What about those people that just don't have the means? You gonna look down on them?"

There is a lounge!

There is a back room!

There is an OOC and I'm around!

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Caritas | Wednesday

The Stage [Caritas 01/18]

The Bar [Caritas 01/18]

Re: The Bar [Caritas 01/18]

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The Lounge [Caritas 01/18]

The Back Room [Caritas 01/18]

The OOC [Caritas 01/18]