7403/Drink Up

Drink Up
Date of Scene:	16 August 2021
Location:	The Laughing Magician
Synopsis:	On the hunt for another drink, Rocket finally comes across a promising place. Naturally, it's a little weird.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Rocket, Phoebe Beacon

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John Constantine has posed:
    It's a normal day at the Laughing Magician, that is to say that John's taking up his spot on that stool that no one else would ever dream of sitting on; seriously that thing is disgusting or cursed or something, it just doesn't feel right. Silk Cuts, ashtray, bottle of scotch, glass, all the usuals are accounted for beside the elbow he has on the bar top.

    Chas is behind the bar... polishing glasses but not with such an intensity that it makes those that know him wonder what John's done to piss him off *this* time.

    The jukebox hiss and crackles a little along with the music it plays - a mix of punk and classic, rock that.

    There *is* a bit of tension in the air, it's that general feeling of unease, of waiting for the next shoe to drop, for the sword to fall.

    It's relatively early, so the place isn't overly crowded, it doesn't really get hopping until nearing midnight. The freaks that frequent this place tend to come out at night.

Rocket has posed:
Rocket's found himself in Hell's Kitchen. Aptly named, he might think, if he recalled that little visit to Titans Tower. That kitchen looked like the name of this neighborhood.

He was still thirsty, and after rummaging around in a garbage bin didn't turn up as much as he was hoping for, a decision was made. Find the nearest bar and get a good drink. Or a bad drink. But, /a/ drink. Maybe two. Maybe two dozen.

"Who makes a bar in a basement?" he asks himself as he lands, the jetpack de-materializes, and he descends into.. "And what the flark kind of name is the Laughing Magician? I should..nah. I'm here. Time to get some." Then there's a pause as he squints up at another sign. "'Leave your load at the door?' That's nasty. Good thing I went earlier." In he goes, with a pistol at his side that definitely looks like it's not from around here.

Upon entering, he says, "Right. I'm gonna get down to business. I want a drink, preferably a few drinks. Every place I've been to apparently doesn't serve my kind, and I'm tired of it. The next one that tries to toss me out because I ain't like you, I'm calling Murd Blurdock, the best lawyer in space." He pauses in consideration, rubbing his furry chin, and he mutters, "Then again, he might be the worst lawyer in space. I think he's the /only/ lawyer in space. Doesn't matter!" He's back to speaking like normal again, pointing a finger of a small hand around. "So what's it gonna be?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Does a wee lass have any place better than to hang out at the bar?

    Technically, not until Thursday.

    As Rocket comes in and makes a scene, the young woman at the bar raises her head from her notebooks, where she was mid-way re-writing some notes, and she just... looks at Rocket. She raises her eyebrows, and then purses her lips -- and then lowers her gaze back down to the gun on his side, and then back to Rocket as he points his finger around.

    Someone might be able to tell she's trying her best not to go 'eee' over the strange creature, but she closes her notebook, and downs her sprite.

John Constantine has posed:
    Of course all eyes turn toward Rocket, even John's. He closes one eye, nope, it's still there. He closes the other, still there. Closes them both... still there.

    "John..." Chas draws the name out with a question mark at the end of it.

    "Aye, mate, I see it, was wonderin' if you did too or if I was havin' some sort of flashback to the days of Zee and Necro..."

    "It's John that speaks up. He knows it's not some sort of demon possessed thing, wards wouldn't have let it pass. So, Rocket isn't subjected to an attempted exorcism. "Well, threatenin' to sue's more like to get you tossed outa here than..." He makes a vague up and down gesture in Rocket's direction to indicate... "All the rest of that. You cursed or somethin', Mate. I can help with all it, if that's the case?"

    Chas stage whispers, "Mass hallucination maybe?" .... in John's direction.

Rocket has posed:
Rocket has notably not reached for his personal weapon. Not on his mind, but it is there. To them, he is a walking, talking raccoon in a jumpsuit with a gun. Yep.

His beady eyes sweep over the bartender, the guy at the stool, the girl with her books, and he plants his hands at his hips. That is definitely a bushy, ringed tail in back of him.

"Okay, so about that part, /you/ try going to half a dozen different places and just get kicked out before you can even say a word. That was called a preemptive strike. And yeah, I'm cursed. Cursed with a night without a drink. Unless..." Here, he looks with hope and expectation toward Chas. "...you can help change that. You got any specials 'round here?"

Just who and what /is/ this guy? On the off-chance any of the people here happened to see a video advertisement some months back about trips to space with the Guardians of the Galaxy...you never know.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe gives a little smile regarding trying to find a place to drink at, but she scratches at her cheek thoughtfully, regarding Rocket with a side-eye.

    "Well, if that's the only curse he's got -- sounds like you might have as lightly easy night." she states, drawing her messenger bag a bit closer.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Check the weapon at the bar and you can purchase anything you want," Chas points out. "Sorry, man, just the rules of the house." Really, he's taking it mostly in stride, but part of him might still be convinced that's a walking mass hallucination. Very bottom shelf, mostly out of view, that's where they keep the 'out of the ordinary', there's even Asgardian Mead down there for someone that knows what they're looking at or smelling. Might even be some sort of space juice honestly. It's eclectic and complete, that collection.

    Not much of a TV fella himself, John has *no* idea. He just turns his attention back to his drink, downs it, refills it, empties it again. Third one lasts longer. "Bloody hell," he mutters to himself. "Think I really have seen it all now," again muttered, almost whispered.

    Chas asks, innocently, truly, he means no insult. "Uh, you need a bowl of water to wash your pretzels and chips in or something?"

    Both men snap their attention in Phoebe's direction. From Chas she gets an urgent, "Shhhhhh." From John, "Don't *say* that, luv."

    The night is sure, one hundred percent, to blow to hell and back now.

Rocket has posed:
"I got lots of curses, and if there's one thing this mudball of a planet has, it's creative curses," Rocket says, sounding much like he's paying Earth a begrudging compliment. Eyes snap back toward Chas, and there's just a moment where his snout curls up into a sneer or a snarl, though silent. "You're lucky I'm itchin' for somethin' good. It takes a lot to get me to do what you're about to see."

He reaches down to come up with his piece, swirling it around a couple times before grabbing it by the business end, an energy cell of some kind held up in the other before he pockets it. "There, see? It's empty." After he's hopped up to get on more of the same level with the others via stool, he sets the gun down on the bar but before Chas or anyone else can reach for it, he says, "It stays right there. Don't worry. It ain't blastin' anything without the ammo. Now let's talk drinky-drinky. How's about you surprise me?"

Constantine gets a grin, but with him it always seems to look like a sneer. "I'm betting there's a flarkload of things you ain't seen." To Phoebe, "Aw, come on. And I /just/ put the ammo away." To Chas, after the question about the bowl, "You talkin' to me?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Yep. Phoebe broke a caridinal rule, and she winces about as soon as she says it, and reaches up to knock against the bar as she tilts her head back and goes "I'm sorry! I'm sorry -- that's like the M word, I should know better! What, do I hop off, hand on head, spin around to the left three times?" she asks, giving a wry grin to the two-and-a-half men in the bar.

John Constantine has posed:
    "How's about not," Chas replies, but only to be followed up with, "Got stuff back here that will straight, literally, kill the wrong person drinking it. A quick glance at John and a quick glance around the bar by John, has the Laughing Magician giving a nod. Everyone in here currently is something other than human. Scary thought that. Might be why they've all gone back to their own drinks once the initial shock of Rocket's over.

    "Asgardian stuff, for instance, straight kill you if you don't have the right stuff for it," Chas continues. "We have this." He pulls a bottle from that bottom shelf. It glows, it's blue. "Not sure what it is to be honest, someone brought it in as payment for us gettin' rid of his wife's pissed off spirit. Claimed he won it in a poker game and it came from space. Whatever." He settles that one back and picks up another, dismissing the space idea outright. "... got this?" He turns with a green bottle in hand, black liquid inside, "From the Fair Lands, unseelie side though so... Or I could just mix you a highball."

    Seems Rocket's stumbled into the bar most likely to serve the 'weird' than any other in town.

    "You have to name your first five born children after me," John deadpans to Phoebe, even the girls.

    "He didn't mean no harm, he watches too many of those Ytube things with the cute animals and raccoons washing food or summat," is explained to Rocket.

Rocket has posed:
Rocket puts a hand up. "Okay. Before we go any further, I want to be clear about one thing. And I mean crystal. Contrary to what your eyes and primitive brains may be telling you at this very moment, I am neither a cute animal nor a raccoon. I'm Rocket. That's it. Rocket. You can call me that, or you can call me the best pilot in seven systems. I'm one of the Guardians of the Galaxy."

Pause. "Maybe you've heard of me."

Pause. "That usually gets me at least two free drinks."

Pause. "Fine. I got enough creds, /excuse/ me, /Earth/ money to cover it. See?"

He hauls out a pile of coins, paper, a credit card or two that certainly do not bear his name on it, and there is actually a twenty in there. "So gimme something that'll make me forget I ever saw anyone here." There's the sneer-smile again, as he eyes the exchange between Constantine and Phoebe before muttering, "Five is a lot of kits."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "You'd have better luck naming your first five after /me/." Phoebe replies to John in equal deadpan. "That dog won't hunt."

    And seemingly just the least bit offended, she opens her notebook again, and re-writes her shorthand from the previous page.

    "And yes, five is a lot for humans, we tend to just have the one at a time."

John Constantine has posed:
    Chas actually plucks out one of the credit cards and asks, "This one been made yet?" He has no issue using a stolen credit card to pay for Rocket's drinks it seems. "...and sorry, mate, looks like a duck and all..." Really, the man was trying to be nice.

    "Constantine, John Constantine," John pipes up from his stool. Owner, half-owner here, me'n me mate, Chas there," he nods to the man behind the bar.

    The wards in the bar *PING* loud in John's mind and he's up and around to the back room faster than one thought he could move given the looks of him.

    "Bolocks! Phoebe!" It's all her fault. "Chas, bloody Death Gods are at it again! In the fuckin' Mediterranean!" He just manages to actually see the location on the map that pinged the activity before the whole thing bursts into flames and dies out again. One night, just one freakin' night.

    Chas lets out a sigh pulls that blue bottle out from behind the bar again and settles it, along with a glass, in front of Rocket. Someone has to test the stuff, right? "I'll let Meg know!" he calls out, knowing John won't be back this way before he's popping home and then back out the other side to his destination.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Phoebe Beacon, how do you do Rocket. So, you're from--" she begins, and then the wards ping, and she hops off her stool, grabbing her jacket and her messenger bag. She gives a smile to Chas "Don't mind the cactus on the window in the kitchen! Trying some Sympathetic Magic!" she calls back, and she's out to follow John.

    Rule number one: Keep John Alive. At /least/ until Tuesday Night.

Rocket has posed:
Rocket hand-waves. "Beats me. Found it." Of course he did. "Yours if you're feelin' lucky." The hand closes back over the rest of his money after Chas claims the hot credit card, and the space creature looks at him with a more definitive grin. They may have just found common ground. "And forget it. I just gotta set the record straight for the unaware."

The way Constantine reacts to the wards that go off is the only indication something's wrong. Squinting toward him, then Phoebe, he shakes his head. "Death Gods? Yeah, we faced stuff like that..uh..whenever." He waves it off like it's nothing, then he tells Phoebe, "Currently the Milano. That's a ship. But we hang out around Knowhere." Which sounds a lot like nowhere, for what it's worth.

Watching the two of them take off to, presumably, the Mediterranean place he mentioned, Rocket shrugs and turns back to Chas. "Ain't my fight." Not even that is going to interrupt him from this when the blue stuff is about to be poured.

"Bottoms up, pal?"