Owner	Pose
Inez Temple	Now, it takes a special kind of fucked up to be frequenting a bar at nearly 8pm on a week night. Oh, sure, a case could be made that Sister Margaret's is not your average bar... known for being a gathering place for mercs and other ne'er do wells, it is a rough and tough place where the worst of the worst scum of humanity comes to trade in death and despair and... "I DUG MY KEYS INTO THE SIDE OF HIS PRETTY LITTLE SOUPED UP FOUR WHEEL DRIVE...!" "OH god, who let Crazy Inez at the jukebox? Weasel? WEASEL!?" And apparently dancing girls. In a fit of passion fueled by too much of some fruity little drink with a clever punny name and possibly an umbrella in it, Inez has decided to celebrate. Just what? Who knows... And given her reputation for a quick temper it's not like anyone is actually going to interrupt her to ask. Other than the above-mentioned bitching, even the most hard-eyed and grim-faced patron just lifts their poison out of her way as she kicks and... well. Can it be called line dancing if it's on a bar? Most people are probably just glad she doesn't have an obvious gun. There's a screech to Carrie Underwood's revenge anthem, and Inez looks ready to murder as she turns to glare at the bartender, Weasel, who is holding the plug in one hand to the jukebox. She holds two fingers up to her eyes and then points them at him, scowling, before she hops down and adjusts her Stetson hat. "Spoilsport." She huffs, "Y' owe me a bottle o' Jack fer that." Weasel looks unimpressed, tapping a sign by the jukebox that says 'No Country Music, Inez!' and goes back to cleaning glasses.
Daimon Hellstrom	Most of the people who need a mercenary for anything that's remotely worth the paycheck probably don't actually set foot in the bar themselves. They have /people/ for that kind of work. Plausible deniability, so on, so forth. Daimon Hellstrom prefers to live dangerously. The Son of Satan is wearing a black three-piece suit, with a red shirt, left unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. He's been nursing a glass of whiskey at the bar, looking out at the mercenaries, surveying them, reading their auras, things like that. Of course, he watches Inez's impromptu performance. When it's over, her drains his whiskey, and looks over at the bartender. "You know," he suggests, his tone dry, "if there's no country music allowed, maybe you shouldn't keep the country music in the jukebox." The half-demon shrugs, like a silent way of being all 'just sayin,' and then pushes off from the bar to approach Inez. "Howdy, cowgirl. What are we celebrating?"
Inez Temple	"Life, liberty, an' t' pursuit o' money, stranger." Inez replies promptly, as she settles down at a corner of the bar with an empty cup in front of it. And, as previously hinted at, there is indeed a little pink umbrella in the glass along with an orange slice. "Gettin' a divorce!" Weasel looks unimpressed. Both by Daimon's advise and Inez's excuse to raise hell. "You say that every time he scores big." He mutters as he cleans his glasses. Inez ignores him, other than to repeat in a very firm voice. "I *said* I'm gettin' a *divorce*." She huffs, and shakes her head, lifting one boot to kick the bar stool beside her. "Pop a squat. Ain't the usual type we get in these parts. Y' lookin' for somethin', stranger?"
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon sits, rather than squats. Squatting over the barstool would just look weird. "Congratulations," he says, with a crooked smile. "Divorce is always a good reason to celebrate." Daimon motions for another whiskey. "Looking for a gun, actually," Daimon says as he shifts to more easily converse with Inez, not /quite/ facing her but certainly angled in her direction. "And someone to hold it. Maybe even someone to shoot it, if necessary. You happen to know anyone who'd be willing to do that for a paycheck, cowgirl?"
Inez Temple	"Damn right it is!" Inez says that with a scowl shot over one shoulder towards Weasel. Who continues to look utterly unimpressed as he sets a whiskey down in front of Daimon and refills Inez's fruity whatever from a pitcher he made of the concoction. Whatever it is, it smells like Hawaiian punch and is a decidedly unnatural color with a consistency similar to either slime or a frozen drink. Inez's scowl turns into a smile. "On Wade's tab." Weasel sighs, and moves on to lurking in the background like a good bartender. Inez knocks her hat back out of her eyes as Daimon makes his offer, tilting her head to the side. "Well, sheeeeeeeit, man, y' came to t' right place." She tells him cheerfully, looking more like a Texas sorority girl in her crop top hoodie, daisy dukes, and the hat and boots. "I was just gettin' bored. Gimme yer pitch."
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon manages the impressive feat of keeping eye contact with Inez. His eyes are an unnatural shade of red. It matches his dark red hair, at least. "I need to perform an exorcism," he says, with a tone so calm and matter of fact that it's like he performs exorcisms all the time. "This particular one might be a bit tricky, and I'll need to maintain my concentration. So I need someone who can shoot anything or anyone that will attempt to break said concentration." Daimon spreads his hands, like it's all just that simple.
Inez Temple	"Exorcism, eh?" Inez frowns, the humor leaving her own baby blue eyes as she considers Daimon, taking in his entire appearance in minute oppose to just going with the flow. For all her humor and care-free ways, she *is* a professional. And part of that is assessing the client. "Fer t' record, I ain't a virgin or believer, and get a mite feisty at human sacrificin'." She frowns, and takes a sip of her ridiculous drink from the pink curly straw, consideringly. "Expectin' folks on t' mortal coil, or y' expectin' some sort o' mystic bunny foo foo types? An' what y' thinkin' of fer payment?"
Daimon Hellstrom	"I'm no fan of human sacrifice, either," Daimon says. "And I'm not a virgin, either, so I suppose we're even." His tone is exceedingly dry, like he can't help but treat every conversation as something to joke about. "A dilettante tried to pledge himself to Ikthalon," Daimon says, speaking as if Inez will have any clue who or what Ikthalon is. "He was, unfortunately, successful. Even more unfortunately, the altar he constructed is... flawed. Which is to be expected when people don't know what they're doing." Daimon frowns, like Inez can relate to the idea of amateurs getting in the way. Which she almost certainly can. "Right now, what's left of his body is fused to the altar and attempting to attack anyone who comes too close. There's also the risk that in closing the wound he left in... well, the fabric that separates dimensions, there might be an opportunity for something that doesn't belong here to poke its head through. I'm confident one triggerman -- or triggerwoman -- is enough to keep things in line, though. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here."
Inez Temple	Does Inez's pretty blue eyes glaze over at Daimon's explanation? Well... a little. No offense, but she barely has a high school education and while they certainly covered demons and rituals in Sunday School she was usually too busy picking fights to pay attention to the Lord's word. Amen. When his explanation is over, she tilts her hat down over her face, considering it as she slurps on her fruity little drink, one finger flicking the umbrella away as it tickles her nose. Finally... "Reckon' I could do it." She finally says, amiably, as she flicks her hat back up and sets the drink down half-finished. "I even got a priest that owes me fer services rendered." Um. Whu? "Bullets blessed by a priest o' an Abrahamic faith work? Or will more specialized equipment be necessary?"
Daimon Hellstrom	"Couldn't hurt," Daimon says to the talk of blessed bullets. He notices Inez zoning out a bit during his explanation, but really, that probably sells him more on Inez. Who wants to answer a whole bunch of questions? Here's your money, now shoot the thing. Easy. "As for payment? Whatever your going rate is. I'm a lot of bad things, but I'm not a cheapskate. Payment by secure electronic bank transfer, deposit up front and the rest once the exorcism is done. Transportation and lodging included, hazard pay if it gets... hazardous." Daimon reaches out with one hand, offering it to Inez. "Daimon Hellstrom, by the way. The Son of Satan."
Inez Temple	"Son of... Satan?" Inez's eyebrows rise up, and threaten to knock the hat off her head. She lets out a whistle. "Damn. M' third grade teacher always said Satan'd take me away. Guess this is close enough fer her." She ignores the straw and takes several deep gulps of the drink, finishing it off as if it were water with only a hint of a wince. Not because of the alcohol, of course. Because of brain freeze. Promise. She surfaces from the hell that is drinking too quick to consider Daimon. "Outlaw." She tells him, giving him her 'business' name, as she considers him with narrowed eyes. "If y' claimin' to be the son o' Satan, then y' either the real deal or powerful 'nuff not t' care." She says slowly, consideringly, "If that's the case... Half in cash, half in a favor owed, with a contract outlinin' the details of what each party is allowed."
Daimon Hellstrom	"Real enough," Daimon says. He doesn't get into the whole business about the common concept of 'Satan' actually being multiple different powerful demons, all of whom are equally entitled to the name based on blah blah blah... "A contract," he repeats. "A man introduces you as the son of the devil, and your first move is to want a /contract/ with that man? I'll never doubt your bravery, cowgirl. Done deal." The way he says it makes it sound like Inez probably could have asked for more -- /could have/, since that ship must have sailed! "You might want to wear your union suit for this one," he says. He has no idea that her costume actually covers /less/ than her current outfit. Just like how poor Inez probably has no idea that Ikthalon is an ice demon.
Inez Temple	"Oiy!" Inez protests, "Half t' shit people say 'bout deals with t' devil are 'coz they're too dumb to set clear terms an' conditions!" She scowls at him, crossing arms over ample chest after setting the drink down on the counter. "I know m' limits, and I ain't signin' shit 'til a priest an' a wizard looks over it." Beat. "Reckon that Strange feller with t' goofy goatee does house calls?" That is to Weasel, who is pretending rather unsuccessfully not to eavesdrop. He shrugs. Inez turns back to Daimon, and reaches behind her to snag the beer bottle off a guy. And true to her nickname of 'Crazy Inez' she proceeds to break the bottle and holding the broken glass by the neck slices it down her arm... following the throbbing veins. Despite the fact the glass is obviously sharp, given it cuts through the hoodie's sleeve, it barely leaves a scratch on her and even that disappears in seconds, leaving just a few drops of blood she daintily dabs with a white handkerchief pulled out of her back pocket. "Reckon' I'm a mite tougher'n I look." She tells him cockily, and to be fair, she'd have to be, given the disruption she's caused for a hardened lot of the worst villainy and scum of NYC without retaliation. "I ain't questionin' yer involvement with Icky Talons, don't question my preparations."
Daimon Hellstrom	"Personally, I just use a lawyer," Daimon says, and he sounds like he's being serious about that. No lie detected. Daimon doesn't flinch when Inez breaks the bottle, or when she slashes herself. He even has a calm sip of his whiskey. Maybe too calm... but then again, he's probably seen so, so, so much worse than this. "I'm not paying for that hoodie," he says. "But so noted. I'll let you prepare how you wish."
Inez Temple	"Shit, man, lawyers are worse than Satan!" Inez exclaims with wide eyes, before picking up her drink again and taking several sips through the crazy straw. "'Sides, they ain't got souls so they don't worry 'bout accidentally offerin' them up." She doffs her hat, holding it to her chest solemnly. "Christ is mah savior, an' through him I am saved." The hat is then shoved back on, and she takes a drink. "So y' got a card or somethin' fer me t' contact y' with? I keep a salty circle 'round my trailer." She squints. "That's suppose t' ward off y' evil bastards, right?"
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon just shrugs his shoulders at the salt circle idea. It probably won't keep /him/ out, but he also doesn't really believe her anyway. Daimon reaches into his jacket and takes out a business card. There's just a phone number on it, no name, no occupation, no nothing. "This is my direct line. I'm hoping to get this done within the week. Give me a buzz when you're all prepared, and we'll handle this." He sounds confident of that fact.
Inez Temple	The card disappears into hammer-space. Or at least, that's how it looks, when Inez accepts the piece of paper and makes it go away with a flick. Spoilers? She stuffed it into every woman's bag of holding: her bra. She nods to him, and gives him a salute with her hat. "Reckon' I'll just ask for another sweater in t' divorce." She tells him cheerfully enough, "Think he spent all o' his money on Bea Arthur sex pillows outta Japan, so gotta get m' Alimony some other way, yeah?"
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon considers this notion, the Japanese Bea Arthur sex pillow. He finishes his whiskey, and sets the glass down. "There are worse vices," Daimon finally concludes, before he moves to stand up. "I'll speak with the dispatcher here, make sure your deposit is routed the right way. Be seeing you, cowgirl." With that, Daimon seems ready to mosey, unless Outlaw stops him.
Inez Temple	"Thanks fer bein' a friend." Inez offers a lazy wave and another tip of her hat as she sends the Son of Satan off to whatever nefarious schemes and hellish actions await him with a Golden Girls quote, proving that there's a reason she is one of the only people that can be in a room with Wade Wilson for longer than a couple of hours without committing suicide. Niche claim to fame, perhaps, but you take what you can get in a city like New York City.