19147/Prop Goes The Weasel

Prop Goes The Weasel
Date of Scene:	24 September 2024
Location:	Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls
Synopsis:	A bartender-- er, ChatGPT, makes a costly mistake, a Clown is Down to Clown and the angriest Canadian Karaoke you've never seen.
Cast of Characters:	Wade Wilson, The Joker, Logan Howlett

---

Wade Wilson has posed:
Weasel is tending bar on a more particularly dry night in Sister Margaret's. Most of the mercenaries are out and about making Weasel some cash. Well, making themselves some cash but Weasel gets a cut because he's the one passing out the cards and then there's the whole Dead Pool hanging above the bar. Then there's something about a Finder's Fee. Listen, Weasel has to make some cash somehow. The bartending isn't going to cut it.

The handful of other patrons are minding their business and sipping drinks or eating bad food that definitely doesn't taste good. Whatever the case may be, there's just a couple of people still around to keep the owner of their favorite spot out of trouble.

But it's a quiet night. Quiet nights don't mean trouble.

... Right?

The Joker has posed:
If you had to give Charlie Charliehorse a description, physically speaking, it's 'stopped dressing in the 80s'. His rumpled suit, the sunglasses, the lackadaisical attitude, it all screams temporarily embarrassed yuppie. The sunglasses keep you from seeing how utterly empty his eyes are, and the out of date pink silk shirt covers the blood stains. He remains Joker's present majordomo and number one guy, and so his job is to make sure the bar named after an orphanage is not a trap.

He sticks his head in. Mercenaries, hitmen, tough guys, nothing interesting. "You may resume slumming, Mister J."

A hand reaches out to gently touch Charlie's cheek. A flash of fear is on his face, but he swallows it. "That name brings back bad memories, Charlie." The Joker says, shaking Charlie's jaw gently. "So keep using it."

The Clown Prince of Crime walks into the little hole in the wall, spinning around once to soak in the atmosphere. The deformed clown's rictus grin widens as he gives a little hop, peels his kid gloves off of his hands to reveal the awful chalk white underneath, and abruptly sits down at the bar.

"I'd like." The Joker says, kicking his legs, "A seven and seven, please."

Logan Howlett has posed:
Minding his business? Maybe. Sipping? Naw.

Logan's down at the far end of the bar, in a shadowed nook that's about as removed from Weasel as one can be without sacrificing the efficacy of a stern 'Hey, BUB' when a man needs a fresh pitcher, or another bottle. He's got a half-full round of the full bodied variant of house swill, and maybe a third of a bottle of cheap whiskey left; hey, something in common with Joker. Great.

The trick to a healing factor is hittin' it hard, hittin' it fast, and not letting it up til that shit quits keeping up. It's the same in a bar as in a particularly gruesome fight, really. A shot goes into a pint glass full of brew, and that booze goes down the Wolverine's maw smoothly. No one in the place who knows him is liable to be surprised; but it's still an unusual pace. One might even say uncanny.

The jukebox rotation tonight is thoroughly queued with classic rock, and interlopers who try to bust in on his playlist get a glare, perhaps even a growl. With a low, deep inhalation, Logan plants two heavy mitts attached to tree trunk worthy arms and shoves himself to his feet. Even as broad as the fella is, he's heavier than he looks.

With a pronounced drunken wrangle, Wolverine wanders with the waning beat back to the bar's best entertainment. He pays the machine. It starts thumping out the cheerful strains, and mournful lyrics of Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. Tears of a Clown, of course.

Wolverine digs in an inside breast pocket of his tassle-adorned leather jacket for a cigar, and lights it with a matchbook as he mirrors his swagger, to a new rhythm, on the way back to his shadowy stool.

Wade Wilson has posed:
"Seven and Seven. Right. That one's so boring I'm gonna have to actually look it up." Weasel is always himself to every customer. Even ones that have reputations that might precede them. He's just kind of, well, a Weasel. He holds up a finger and immediately grabs at his phone to google 'how to make a seven and seven' and then goes milling about behind the bar to see if he can even find a clean glass to try this in.

This is not exactly the most upscale place for such a classy drink. It takes him a few moments to get the drink done and it gets served up with a dirty napkin and all. "Here you go. Depending on how terrible it is, it might be on the house."

At this point Weasel is used to the jukebox antics of Logan. He doesn't even bat an eye.

The Joker has posed:
Charlie pulls on his collar a little. His job is, largely, to keep the Joker from doing an atrocity here on Kingpin's territory. Maggia territory? Charlie isn't completely up to date on New York's ever shifting barriers, which is a little embarrassing.

Joker, meanwhile, is insulted to his face, served a drink in a dirty glass, and then some tiny canadian gets clever with the jukebox. Charlie sweats, realizing he's taken his eye off the boss.

"I suppose this is all what we call 'local color', yes?" Joker says, swirling his drink around and carefully pulling a hair out of it. "Friend." He says towards mister music man, "I think this might be yours, you should get the sommelier to give you a receipt." He flicks the hair away, and swigs. "Ah! Awful."

"Boss I think that's."

"Oh relax Charlie, I can smell the maple syrup from here. Most passive aggressive people on the planet. Anyway, Stoat, is it." Joker says towards Weasel, "What's this 'Dead Pool' thing? Is it the same as the one on your web site?"

Logan Howlett has posed:
o/` Now if there's a smile on my face
It's only there trying to fool the public
But when it comes down to fooling you--
Now honey that's quite a different subject. ~~o/`

Count on Joker to suss out the Canadian aggression with keen aplomb. It really seems to get under Logan's collar-- which is somewhat concealed under an old silver and turquoise bolo tie, well styled to the white cowboy hat set on the bar. This is to say the runty Canuck drinks another swig, sways to the music, grins to himself and hums along. It's a sure bet that he can hear every word spoken from the security of his sweet and savory scentcloud.

o/` But don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Really I'm sad, oh, I'm sadder than sad
You're gone and I'm hurting so bad
Like a clown I appear to be glad (sad, sad, sad, sad) ~~o/`

For four words, the gruff little mutant even sings along. One guess which four. Logan even spares a little chuckle; Stoat is a decent choice. The stool creaks protest as he kicks a foot up and leans himself back, with the languid ease of any arrogant drunkard. Puff, puff, proud ceilingward plume of cigar smoke.

Wade Wilson has posed:
"The Dead Pool. You put some money down. Bet on who you want to die. If the die? You get paid." Weasel grins as he leans on the bar. "And so do I since this is my place and all. It's a good game. You should put some money down." Weasel's getting a bit more on the cocky side and maybe even a little too close to the customers with his bar leaning. "You look like a high roller."

It takes Weasel a few moments to realize the other part. "Wait, my website's still up? Damn you, Squarespace." Weasel reaches for his phone. "Now I gotta' download Rocket Money so I can cancel that subscription..."

Either Weasel's all about telling everyone his business or he's doing some well intentioned sponsorship reads right now.

The Joker has posed:
Charlie thinks about a lot of things.

He is almost SURE that is the Wolverine trying to drive his boss into a homicidal rage. Normally this count be handled, but they're not in Gotham: the web of favors, threats and bribes Joker uses as a net for his act isn't nearly as strong here. All of these men who think they're hard might take a shot at the clown.

"I ask." Joker says, his finger tapping the bar with every sad, to show how utterly not bothered he is. See how unbothered he is? "Because I happened to find myself on the online version of this little list and Joker, I thought, why would this Ferret want you dead? I'm almost certain I haven't tried to kill you."

"Frankly you're a bigger joke alive." Joker says, leaning forward, his eyebrows twitching at the shameless Rocketmoney pitch. "What, not Mint Mobile."

His finger keeps tapping along to the song, and Charlie pulls his cell phone out, calling the car. He's noticed the hungry look in the bar's collective eye at 'Joker' and "Worth money dead".

Logan Howlett has posed:
It's not the kind of thing that usually amuses the Wolverine; betting on which asshole dies next. At least it's not his kind of thing //anymore//. If this were the bar's a-list crew, there'd probably be more takers, and less (wise?) fear.

'course, in that instance, Logan wouldn't as likely be here, either. Smoking. Drinking. Thinking -way- too much. Then there's this clown.

-- o/` Now if I appear to be carefree
It's only to camouflage my sadness
In order to shield my pride, I try
To cover this hurt with a show of gladness o/` --

A few eyes are drawn, a few whispers are shared, but not the ol' Canucklehead's. He downs a double shot, washes it down with the rest of his beer, and takes a long and thoughtful, savoring draw from his stogie. Truth be told, the kind of guy Joker is happens to be the kind of guy Wolverine thinks about offing just because; just for the good of everyone else.

The kind of guy who should have been bussed to Claw City years ago.

-- o/` But don't let my show convince you
That I've been happy since you
Decided to go (why did you go?)
Oh, I need you so (I need you so)
I'm hurt and I want you to know (want you to know)
But for others, I put on a show, ooh, oh (it's just a show) o/` --

These things don't live and die in a vacuum, though. It's a gruesome food pyramid out there in the muck of the underworld. Plus, some folks are trying not to be That Guy as much without really being backed into a corner with it; no matter how much That Guy they actually were to begin with. Some folks think they're hard; some would just be long dead if they weren't, by now.

"What's the pool up to, Jack?" The deep scratch penetrates the ambience, interposes itself with understated, lethal authority; the best there is. The song carries on, but the whole bar has that momentary -static- as if everything cut to abject silence.
-- o/` There's some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown, when there's no one around, oh, yeah o/` --

Wade Wilson has posed:
"Yeah, uh, legally I can't do the Mint Mobile ones. That's the Canadian's department. He worked out some kinda' deal with John Campea... I dunno, man. I just work here."

This is what happens when Weasel tries to backtrack. He's already in hot water and now he verbally flails around until he can no longer be in danger of drowning. Or until someone offers him a life raft. In this case, he might need something more like a life bazooka?

"Oh was your name up there? That's definitely the biggest mistake that I didn't even know I made. I think I got you confused with that other one? He also has a green vibe going?" Weasel snaps his fingers trying to stall while pretending to think up a name. "Riddler! That's the one! Riddler! Huge typo, I know. But I can fix it." Weasel's in full fear mode. "... let em fix it."

Weasel's a pose away from a full on panic. And a hand under the bar away from the Deadpool Panic Button.

The Joker has posed:
It's like nails on a chalkboard. That stupid song. Normally it wouldn't get to him, but Weasel is so Weasel it's wearing on Joker's last nerve. All he wanted to do is know who set the bounty, but instead we have this nonsense. Whatever happened to stoolies with self respect?!

"Riddler?!" Joker snaps, having to raise his voice over the song and the general ambiance of a jeer in the room. "Riddler, worth more on the books than the Clown Prince of Crime!? Ignominy! You can put him on there, precisely two dollars under my amount."

"Wait." Joker snaps a finger. "I don't want him dead, and one of these losers might pull it off. Alright, twenty bucks under mine."

"Sir." Charlie says, carefully."The car's hot." And then Logan speaks.

Joker turns to take a long look at the wild animal stuffed into a flannel shirt, and then back at Weasel. "You didn't answer your customer, Marmot." Joker says, gently. "That's a little rude. We'd all like to hear how much I'm worth, after all."

Logan Howlett has posed:
o/` Just like Pagliacci did
I try to keep my surface hid o/`

Weasel doesn't -really- want to bring up the dollar value attached, it seems. It makes sense, and really... well. Wolverine's initial response is a grunt. An evenly slurred, "Don't need t'know." For the first time since the man walked in the door, the runty Canuck turns his gaze to regard the Joker, watching him from behind the burning ember of his cigar's contained, coaxed inferno.

o/` Smiling in the public, I
But in my lonely room, I cry
The tears of a clown o/`

The smoke fills his mouth, obscures muttonchops and deadly eyes as he breathes it back out in the ample space between them. Through the hazy tendrils, the shifting cloud, Logan remains //locked in//. Sizing up quarry. "Ain't likely to be enough for half your crowd to get past their shit-stained trousers." Wolverine wagers, still not bothering to even stand up from his stool. In fact, he pours himself another beer out of his warming pitcher, expertly eliminating all but the desirable border of foam, as he notes nonchalantly, far too casually, "I'd do ya for free."

o/` When there's no one around, oh, yeah, baby
Now if there's a smile on my face
Don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression o/`

The pour is the only span his eyes leave the Joker, another pull from his cigar, a deep drink from his brew punctuating the dark, sidelong smirk thrown the Clown Prince of Crime now. "Still-- coulda been me laid the dollars down. I know a solid bet when I see one." The oddsmakers might be sharply shifting on this particular pool's probabilities.

Wade Wilson has posed:
Weasel has been trying desperately to not answer questions about money while a target for said money is this close to him in the bar. He also can't seem to discreetly reach the Deadpanic Button (better name) so he's just kind of trying to spin this as much as he can. Joker's not having it.

There's an elongated gulp that comes in the form of more stalling. "Uh, due to a terrible mistake due to the use of ChatGPT, I am unable to properly answer that question." These words are tossed in the direction of Logan. "You see, this terrifying and threatening man right here is not actually supposed to be on the Dead Pool. So any and all price of heads that may or may not have been seen or written or typed by artificial intelligence are null and void as of the time of this--" Weasel looks at the Joker and reconsiders quickly.

"Yesterday. As of yesterday."

When it seems like Logan is starting to reach for the attention in this weird exchange between various levels of ne'er-do-well that are currently occupying this same mercenary space. "Or whatever he's saying. Really, the point is, whatever the reason, it's not my fault. That's all that I'm really trying to stay and all that we should really be focused on. Can we at least agree on that?"

The Joker has posed:
Charlie wonders if Joker could take the legendary Wolverine.

Not, he deciedes, in a bar without any plan and a room full of guns pointed at him. Maybe. The boss is nearly as slippery as the bat when he wants to be. Charlie reaches for the piece hidden in his jacket pocket, and.

"Well that's a load off my mind!" Joker says, standing up and slapping some bills on the table. "A round for the bar, for no one wanting me dead!"

"Well except Major Dad here." Joker gestures at Logan like they're old pals. "You know, it's flattering being threatened by a professional and all, but have you considered just finding some troubled teenaged girl to adopt instead? It's a safer hobby."

"Besides." Joker reaches out and touches Weasel's nose. "I know who to blame for my trouble."

"And that's all I wanted!" Joker says, cheerful again. "Come, Charlie, while we're in the city we might as well piss off the Empire State Building. I know you've always wanted to. Toodles, hairy men! Ah hah hah!"

Logan Howlett has posed:
o/` Don't let this smile I wear
Make you think that I don't care
When really, I'm sad
Hurtin' so bad o/`

It's probably a lucky thing all around that Charlie /doesn't/ draw-- even the alacrity with which the Wolverine's gaze -snaps- to the underling the moment the guy's hand moves.

The Joker may be high tier cunning, deadly, fearsome even-- as threatening and risky as tussling with the Batman, under the right circumstances. Thing in this particular case is-- Wolverine's deck is almost as stacked as Joker's, while being his own breed of martial master; and veteran killer.

"Lemme know the next time some flamin' fuckwad orphans one to compensate for the girth of their prick, bub." It's more of an as-needed charity thing than a reliable hobby; said fuckwads show up way more reliably, but their pursuits are eclectic. "If I don't let ya know somethin' first."

The beer is drained, then replenished, as harder electric guitars kick in over the jukebox as it cycles to Thin Lizzy, and Logan ashes his cigar next to a forgotten bowl of very questionable peanuts, plucking the wide-brimmed hat up off the bar and placing it upon his iconic 'do.

o/` Fightin! --- Fightin!
I'm tough, rough, ready and able
To pick myself up from under this table
Don't stick no sign on me, I got no label
I'm a little sick, unsure, unsound and unstable o/`