A 6'3" chunky man with moppy blue hair partially pulled back into a ponytail slides in the door just seconds behind the first patron. "Pardon me, mam. I'm sopping wet and extremely uncomfortable," he says as he pulls off his grey, soaked trenchcoat, revealing a nametag which reads "Padge" and a pink cat tail pinned to the back of his khaki shorts. "Can't catch a break this year, eh? Rain, power outages, nuclear espionage - it's all too much for a simple lad like me," Padge moans as he sets his saturated coat over a bar-stool and promptly sits on it. "Igor, poor me a cranberry juice, would ya? I got cramps."
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Alright, I'll play Gererbil (gare - ERB - ELL).
Gerebil trots through the damp alleyway at a rate slightly more exciting than a tidy stroll. The light patter of the passing storm covers the noise of her raspy, exasperated breaths. She keeps her left hand over the bullet wound on her hip - her right hand stays in her coat pocket, clutching a .38 special; a .38 special that she acquired this morning for a very particular task, a task which she is certain fled down this alleyway. Right?
She stops for a moment, exasperated, and leans to rest on an old mattress conveniently standing against the brick wall. f**k, she thinks, how could I have lost them? She takes a few deep breaths and looks down at the wound. Aside from the new and terribly pesky bloodstains on her new shirt, pants, and the inside of her coat, the wound isn't so terrible. Nothing that her cat's veterinarian couldn't stitch up in the morning. Why did the husband have to have a gun? This could have been so much easier. This was supposed to be done before the acid kicked in.
Okay, focus, she tells herself. She closes her eyes and listens closely to her surroundings. Rain. Rain on the ground. Rain on the dumpster lid. Is that a distant car? Could have just been then wind. Then there it was:
*splish* *clack* *clack* *splash* *clack*
Footsteps. Behind me. She quickly lowers herself as to keep hidden behind the dumpster, dexterously peeking out between the warped, curved lid and the metal frame. She spots a figure walking towards her location. Shit. Could they have seen me? No. She moves closer to the alleyway wall and straightens up, pulling her coat closed to hide her wound. She leans back against the wall and lowers her head, keeping her eyes gazing up at her brow.
Okay, play it cool. They're just going to walk past. They don't know I'm nearly tripping, and they surely don't know I'm hunting a man and his horse. But this is the last time I'm taking a contract from Ranch-hand Robbie.
Gerebil trots through the damp alleyway at a rate slightly more exciting than a tidy stroll. The light patter of the passing storm covers the noise of her raspy, exasperated breaths. She keeps her left hand over the bullet wound on her hip - her right hand stays in her coat pocket, clutching a .38 special; a .38 special that she acquired this morning for a very particular task, a task which she is certain fled down this alleyway. Right?
She stops for a moment, exasperated, and leans to rest on an old mattress conveniently standing against the brick wall. f**k, she thinks, how could I have lost them? She takes a few deep breaths and looks down at the wound. Aside from the new and terribly pesky bloodstains on her new shirt, pants, and the inside of her coat, the wound isn't so terrible. Nothing that her cat's veterinarian couldn't stitch up in the morning. Why did the husband have to have a gun? This could have been so much easier. This was supposed to be done before the acid kicked in.
Okay, focus, she tells herself. She closes her eyes and listens closely to her surroundings. Rain. Rain on the ground. Rain on the dumpster lid. Is that a distant car? Could have just been then wind. Then there it was:
*splish* *clack* *clack* *splash* *clack*
Footsteps. Behind me. She quickly lowers herself as to keep hidden behind the dumpster, dexterously peeking out between the warped, curved lid and the metal frame. She spots a figure walking towards her location. Shit. Could they have seen me? No. She moves closer to the alleyway wall and straightens up, pulling her coat closed to hide her wound. She leans back against the wall and lowers her head, keeping her eyes gazing up at her brow.
Okay, play it cool. They're just going to walk past. They don't know I'm nearly tripping, and they surely don't know I'm hunting a man and his horse. But this is the last time I'm taking a contract from Ranch-hand Robbie.
Padge freezes for what feels like twenty-eight days and some odd number of hours; it's been a while since he's looked down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Uh, eh, uh, oh, the password," Padge stutters. He reaches over to his supersaturated coat and rifles through the pockets, eventually producing an equally wet napkin with some illegible writing on it. Padge carefully lays it on the table, closes his eyes and slowly hovers his hand over the napkin, as if feeling for the ghost of the password rising from the smeared ink. "Igloo. Igloo is the password," Padge says with familiar uncertainty. After an intense moment, Padge feels the urge to explain himself.
"Okay, look, you know I'm bad with passwords. All that matters is that I'm here, right? And, two days early? Hell, you're lucky I got here within a week of the meeting date! And before the meeting, no less," Padge chuckles nervously. "So, that cranberry juice..."
"Uh, eh, uh, oh, the password," Padge stutters. He reaches over to his supersaturated coat and rifles through the pockets, eventually producing an equally wet napkin with some illegible writing on it. Padge carefully lays it on the table, closes his eyes and slowly hovers his hand over the napkin, as if feeling for the ghost of the password rising from the smeared ink. "Igloo. Igloo is the password," Padge says with familiar uncertainty. After an intense moment, Padge feels the urge to explain himself.
"Okay, look, you know I'm bad with passwords. All that matters is that I'm here, right? And, two days early? Hell, you're lucky I got here within a week of the meeting date! And before the meeting, no less," Padge chuckles nervously. "So, that cranberry juice..."
A 6'3" chunky man with moppy blue hair partially pulled back into a ponytail slides in the door just seconds behind the first patron. "Pardon me, mam. I'm sopping wet and extremely uncomfortable," he says as he pulls off his grey, soaked trenchcoat, revealing a nametag which reads "Padge" and a pink cat tail pinned to the back of his khaki shorts. "Can't catch a break this year, eh? Rain, power outages, nuclear espionage - it's all too much for a simple lad like me," Padge moans as he sets his saturated coat over a bar-stool and promptly sits on it. "Igor, poor me a cranberry juice, would ya? I got cramps."