Post by gslicexx on Aug 19, 2011 23:31:49 GMT -5
If there was one thing that Chris had come to learn over the past two days, it was that the state of Wisconsin was frigging cold in the middle of September. However, if there was one thing that Chris had come to learn over the past two hours, it was that Kenosha, Wisconsin had just the right cure for the bone-deep chill inhabiting his body. Alcohol. And lots of it. It had taken him a while to finally pick which one he wanted to go to, since nearly every block he'd turned on had a bar squeezed in there somewhere. In the end, his choice was a small dive that was barely seedy enough for him to get in without question or a second look at the fake I.D. that had long since returned to the confines of his wallet.
The place wasn't half bad. It wasn't too crowded for a typical Saturday night, but not empty to the point of allowing him to feel comfortable either. The bartender had been pretty nice, minus the brief suspicion that had crossed her face and then the wandering eyes after he'd showed her the false proof of his identity. He admired the way she worked-- pouring his rum and coke a few fingers at a time, still usure of him but not completely distrusting since she'd allowed him the refill that he was currently draining at a slow pace. Being a hunter, getting drunk had never done anything good for him. Hell, it usually never did anyone any good. But for him especially, and all of the others like him, keeping his mind sharp and his hazel-green eyes peeled was a necessity.
Then again, if he'd been on the ball like he usually was, he wouldn't be sitting down in this bar, nursing the burn of alcohol in his throat along with the painful throb coursing throughout his back that had caused him to get the alcohol in the first place. Werewolves sucked major ass. He'd never hated a supernatural creature so much in his life, other than Wendigos, but that was a completely different story. The fact was that the mutt had slammed him against so many effin' trees that his back was now heavily bruised, and his mood had gone south for the winter.
"Effin' mutt." Chris mumbled to himself, taking another pull from his glass, relishing the burn of the rum that was being dulled down by the carbination of the soda. He was tempted to ask for just a straight shot of Captain Morgan, but he doubted the bartender would give it to him unless he took his shirt off or something, and with as much pain as he was in right now, the simple task of even rotating his shoulders would nearly kill him. So yeah, he'd stick with the soda for the time being.
The place wasn't half bad. It wasn't too crowded for a typical Saturday night, but not empty to the point of allowing him to feel comfortable either. The bartender had been pretty nice, minus the brief suspicion that had crossed her face and then the wandering eyes after he'd showed her the false proof of his identity. He admired the way she worked-- pouring his rum and coke a few fingers at a time, still usure of him but not completely distrusting since she'd allowed him the refill that he was currently draining at a slow pace. Being a hunter, getting drunk had never done anything good for him. Hell, it usually never did anyone any good. But for him especially, and all of the others like him, keeping his mind sharp and his hazel-green eyes peeled was a necessity.
Then again, if he'd been on the ball like he usually was, he wouldn't be sitting down in this bar, nursing the burn of alcohol in his throat along with the painful throb coursing throughout his back that had caused him to get the alcohol in the first place. Werewolves sucked major ass. He'd never hated a supernatural creature so much in his life, other than Wendigos, but that was a completely different story. The fact was that the mutt had slammed him against so many effin' trees that his back was now heavily bruised, and his mood had gone south for the winter.
"Effin' mutt." Chris mumbled to himself, taking another pull from his glass, relishing the burn of the rum that was being dulled down by the carbination of the soda. He was tempted to ask for just a straight shot of Captain Morgan, but he doubted the bartender would give it to him unless he took his shirt off or something, and with as much pain as he was in right now, the simple task of even rotating his shoulders would nearly kill him. So yeah, he'd stick with the soda for the time being.