Splash is drawn to these types of places. Although he's new in town, the hip-hop performer has probably mapped out every strip club within a twenty-mile radius, and apparently he's on another fact-finding mission tonight.
Making his way into the titty bar, the performer is attired in a dark leather jacket and dark denim jeans. A gaudy necklace dangles from his neck, with an oversized golden dollar sign sported as bling. His tee-shirt reads simply: SPLASH, 2018 TOUR. As he makes his way to the bar -- not bothering to remove his sunglasses -- his head pivots and he takes in the no-frills surroundings. "Nice. Real nice."
"If you say so."
The 'greeting' comes from the only bartender currently on duty - it's still early by some standards, but there are a few regulars camped out already by the stage, enjoying the spectacle that is one-eyed Molly doing her thing. As for the brunette behind the bar, she's keeping herself busy. In a manner of speaking. With her hips leaned back against the rear counter, she's idly watching the show, flicking ash from her half-smoked cigarette directly onto the floor. Classy place, huh. Languidly shifting her gaze to the newcomer, Leonie doesn't bother to muster a 'hey, what can I get ya?!' or even a smile. She simply regards the man for a long moment through heavy-lidded green eyes. Does she recognise him? Maybe. Would she react any differently if she did? Our survey says: no.
Noting the emblazoned t-shirt, however, she clears up the former question, indicating it with an unhurried jab of her smoke before she speaks. "Night off?" She takes a slow drag, then exhales a plume of smoke ceilingward. Not like it's going to put a dent in the ambience, afte all.
"Oh, you know, I'm -always- on. Or always off, depending on how you look at it. But just moved into town, you know what I mean? So gotta check out the local landscape." Truth be told, Splash had moved to the outskirts of Fallcoast several months ago. As he settles down onto a barstool, the rapper shoots a gaze over to the lone stripper, before bringing his eyes back on the bartender.
"What's good here, sweetie? Long Island?" Appears he's out for a party.
Maybe it's the answer, or the endearment, but Leonie's lips draw back, revealing her pearly-whites in a grin that's equal parts invitation and menace, those dark-lashed eyes narrowing a fraction further as she braces the heels of both hands widespread on the bar's edge, her smoke held securely between her knuckles. "Everythin' and nothin' is good here, darlin'." Her voice is naturally low in timbre, with a throaty quality that's not entirely unpleasant. "Long Island it is." Setting down her cigarette in an ashtray between herself and Splash, the tattooed brunette turns to the rear of the bar in a fluid motion, deftly selecting a highball glass - it's even pretty smudge-free - from the shelf and sets about adding several clear spirits to it.
"New to the area, huh? And you're only now checking out the best titty bar on the wrong side of the tracks?" A 'tsking' is audible, before she casts the customer a glance over one bare shoulder. While not so flamboyantly dressed as the performers, obviously, she's.. hell, let's face it. She looks like she slept in those clothes. An ageing, close fitting tank top of ribbed black cotton, ripped jeans that are honestly frayed almost to oblivion both at the knees and - probably intentionally - the curve of her ass, and sturdy biker-style boots that reach to mid-calf. "For shame. And to think I used to dance to your shit." Okay, yes, she definitely knows who he is. she's just not going to draw attention, in the event he actually wants to enjoy at least his first drink in peace. A small mercy that tempers her vaguely acidic attitude.
"Hah! Yeah, I got a nice fan base at the college. Gonna do another concert soon. You play my stuff in here sometimes, I'm sure. Or is this just 80s rock ballads and that type of stuff?" The rapper erupts into belted-out laughter, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and revealing a black leather wallet. It doesnt' take long before a $20 bill is placed on the bartop.
From where he's sitting at the bar, Splash's eyes alternately wander over the lone dancer and the Metal Barbie bartender -- with, of course, an appreciative smile filling out his lips as she sets about mixing his stiff drink. "I only go to the best places, you know. This seemed like a good place to splash that cash -- from the online reviews, anyway." He winks once.
"We play a little bit of everythin', in here. And I don't just mean the music." Lemon juice is dashed in, before Leo's turning back to the forefront of the bar, her gaze lowered on her task for the moment. But yes, she knows an appreciative eye when she senses one, and there's a subtle upward quirk at the corner of her lips. "Shit, sometimes they get so desperate they even play my stuff. But yeah, pretty sure I've seen Mercedes shakin' her ass to that one.. what's it.." She snaps the fingers of her free hand as she guns some Coke into the highball. "Earthquake dat ass..?" She even goes so far as to recite a couple of lyrics, though it's clearly not her genre. Scooping some ice into the glass, only now does the bartender flick a glance up toward the star.
Plopping a lemon wedge in as a 'garnish' - hey, it's not that limp, only been set out a couple hours - she swaps the Long Island for the twenty in a swift blink-and-you-miss-it motion. "There's online reviews of this place? Fuuuuuck. Anythin' about the spectacular, personal service from the staff? 'Cause, y'know, I pride myself on my customer service skills." The note is placed in the register, as it opens with a predictable 'cha-ching!' and she palms the change onto the sticky bartop with a wink.
The door to the back office at the Queen of Hearts creaks open, and a rugged youth with a bit of a tousling to his crown of hair stumbles out into the lounge, half-bent over because he's trying to both walk and pull one of his old boots on at the same time. "God damn it! I overslept again, Leo." He tells her, in case she can't figure it out. He's so helpful like that. A few more stumbling steps put him somewhere near the bar, on the customer-side, and he stops, grabbing a fistful of his Black Flag tee-shirt and sniffing it. It takes a moment for him to make a judgment call, before he nods and say (mostly to himself) "That'll keep."
Wolf Casanova grabs himself a seat and straddles it, "I'm gonna need some hair of the dog for this one, darlin'. Aren't you supposed to grow out of these things?" He must be referring to the hangover. His hands come up, he tousles his hair further then smooths it out, and that just about puts in him ship-shape condition for a typical night of wrangling assholes. He does look to his left, there at Splash, and give the man a nod. "Sup?"
"Yeah, that's a good song if you're in the business of shakin' your ass. Which you are if you work at a strip club, right? I know my markets." The rapper belts out another laugh, taking a tentative sip of the Long Island and instantly lighting up with a grand smile. "Nice and strong, too. Good way to start my night." Splash offers a wink of appreciation to Leo, before turning his attention briefly to the newcomer. With a faux salute of his glass and a kind-enough smile, the hip-hop artist -- a term used loosely -- then casts his eyes back on the lone dancer. "Variety of music is good, yeah. Variety of music, variety of girls. Diversified portfolio and all that shit."
"You're supposed to have grown out of a lot of things by now, Wolfman, and yet I still ain't holdin' my breath." Picking up her almost-done smoke, Leo places it between her lips with an air of ladylike gentility and takes a satisfying drag, offering her fellow employee a neutral gaze through the acrid haze. "Bouncer." This is directed toward Splash, by way of explanation of the hungover fellow's presence, before the brunette stubs out her cigarette with a thumb and a sigh. She sets about making a specific concoction. Oh dear lord. And yet, she continues the conversation with both men affably enough as she works.
"Rough day at the office, sweetheart?" Plainly addressed toward Wolf, accompanied by a sardonic twitch of her ruby-stained lips, Leo swipes up a shaker and dumps two shots of rum in, for starters. The appreciation from her customer, however, does not go unheeded. "Not the kind of place for watered-down shit. That's why you don't see no Bud Lite. Ask Wolf here for a sip of this baby, if you want a little somethin'.." She flicks her green eyes toward the hi-hop artist suggestively. "..different."
Up on stage, Molly seems to have finished her set for now - she's prowling around the edge on all fours, collecting in the elastic of her sequinned thong. Amazing she doesn't fall right off the edge, when you consider the eyepatch. Years of practise won't see you wrong, haha. Behind the bar, Leo adds a splash of absinthe, then some falernum, to the shaker held firm in her grasp. And over the speakers? Rather ironic. Ram Jam's Black Betty. Ahh, mood music.
Wolf reaches up to where he's got a pack of cigarettes rolled into the left sleeve of his tee-shirt, and he twists it just enough to fish one out without even needing to remove the pack entirely. He coaxes two out, actually. The first he lays right there on the bar in front of him, as if to tell it 'You're Next', and the second he hangs in the corner of his mouth while he searches just about every pocket he's got until he finds the cheap plastic lighter he's looking for. It's tucked down in his boot, of all places. "You oughta see the other guy." he promises, before lighting up. He watches Leonie make his drink.
He turns his attention over his shoulder for a minute to watch Molly finishing up, then looks back to the bartender on duty. "Anyone causin' shit yet?" The other thing that's said finally catches up to him, penetrating the thick fog of drunken sleep that's still looming within his hard head. "You don't want a sip of that shit. She only makes it like that because she's trying to kill the hell out of me. She took a big policy out on me a while back. Fuckin' Black Widow."
"I don't even know what half that shit -is-. But if it gets me in the mood to buy five or ten lapdances, I'm interested." Splash swigs his Long Island and then gets a phone call, stepping away from the bar and towards a dark corner of the seedy joint.
Yet more things are being added to that shaker. Donn's Mix. Lime Juice. A splash of grenadine - close enough to a teaspoon, right? "Oh, it'll get you in the mood, alright.." she assures Splash, absently, "..whether you'll be able to see the good stuff, well, that's on you and your stomach." She flashes the celeb another of those feral grins, nodding slightly as he takes himself off for a better view of proceedings. And then it's back to the bouncer. "So over dramatic. If I wanted to kill you.." She adds a dash of bitters to the mix, then closes the shaker and begins to shake vigorously, holding his gaze all the while. "..well, you'd be dead. But what a way to go, right?" There's nothing quite like a buxom bartender with a shaker to give the eyes a treat. But she's plainly daring him to shift his attention from her own emerald hues..
As to the matter of business? "No shit causin' yet. Sorry, big bad, guess you'll have to wait til Happy Hour. Bound to be some student types come in then, with eyes much bigger'n their wallets." Slamming the shaker down in front of Wolf, she doesn't even bother with a glass. One added flourish, though. She drops a couple ice cubes onto the gross bartop, mashes them with a sound *thump* of a fist, scoops the broken bits into a palm and drops them into the mixture. "You want a straw, sweetness?"
The rapper returns to the bar in a few moments. "Alright told my agent that I'm not sending new demo tapes for at least another month, you know? Gotta recruit my backup singers, dancers, talent. But he keeps pestering me like he's my boss or something. Told him I had more important thing things to do -- sippin' on this sweetness and lookin' at dat ass." The gregarious performer re-seats himself on a barstool, taking another sip of his Long Island.
"You think maybe I could do a concert here sometime? I mean, -concert- ain't really the right word. But I could do a little diddy on stage with some of your performers, get those tips flowin' and those asses jigglin'."
"I've died in worse ways." Wolf Casanova says, meeting Leonie's green eyes and holding her gaze. He deadpans the delivery of the line, then reaches up to take the cigarette from the corner of his mouth for a second, exhaling a cloud of silver-blue. It really is a long moment after that in which the bouncer doesn't say anything else. An accomplishment on the bartender's part. His chocolate-brown eyes are too full just at the moment and he's only got so much processing power to work with that it shuts his mouth down.
When he does look away, it's down to where the shaker's slammed. He gives the drink a doubtful look, but it's not real doubt so much as it is him, being intolerable about basically anything right after waking up. "Yeah, give me a straw.", he says, but he doesn't wait for one. He picks the shaker up, extends his pinky in a pointed fashion, and chugs half the witch's brew that Leonie has cooked up for him. The issue of the straw is exposed as sarcasm after he makes a deep, gasping, satisfied sort of sound from the drink against his throat. "Give me a straw. And one of them tiny little fucking umbrellas, too. And a yacht, so I can drink it on with my yacht-friends who pass out after two drinks."
"Yeah, I gotta get some new jeans.." Leo deadpans this at the rapper as he makes the - ahem - crack about watching dat ass. Yes, she's just all out assuming he means hers. Because why wouldn't he mean hers? "But seems like my tips are always just that liiiittle bit better when I wear 'em, y'know?" There's a lightning-flash of a wink, before she's moving on.. and yes, she's obligingly finding a straw from somewhere beneath the bar as she does so. "Sure, I don't see why not. I can talk to Mama about it, but seems like it'd be pretty fuckin' hilarious to have you actually perform, while Mercedes is up there. You read about her in those reviews? She's a rare vision. Ass like two Pringles hugging. Could put Beyonce-Z right in her goddamn place when it comes to twerkin', too. I'll pitch it. You got a card or somethin'?"
Allowing Splash a moment to mull this over, Leo spins the discovered plastic straw in her fingertips like a mini baton, before plopping it into Wolf's drink. "Not good for the environment, y'know. And you think I got a yacht hidden down here..?" Shaking her head, grinning, well, wolfishly, the brunette tugs momentarily at the neckline of her tank top. "Newp." A 'pfft' sound follows. "..like anyone who could drink on a yacht would invite you anyway."
Pivoting on a heel, the oh-so-pleasant bartender heads down a short distance, flinging together rum and coke number five for one of the regulars who has approached, leaving the boys to their musings for a little while.
"Yeah, you know. Get 'em twerkin' on stage, just like the dancers at my shows. But then they can earn tips and sell lapdances too, right? Shit. Maybe you charge forty bucks cover or something for it. Good publicity for me -- get a lot of the college crowd out here, too. Fraternity bros love shit like that, big fans of -Splash.-" The rapper pronounces his own name like it's some term of reverence, eyes obviously tracking the bartender for a few moments before he looks to Wolf.
"Hope you don't get too many assholes in here. Not the type of shit you wanna deal with when you're just tryin' to relax." The hip-hop artist gulps his Long Island again, by now about three-quarters of the way through the drink.
"I've drank on all the finest yachts in Fallcoast, you know." Wolf Casanova declares, looking down at his drink. He fishes the straw out of it, shakes it off, and gives Leonie a look as he drops it on the bar. "A couple times, I even drank on 'em while the owner was around." He finishes the concoction in a second drink, then, putting it back like medicine. Already, he seems to be getting himself together a little more. Well, at least as together as he ever does get. "You might as well have one hidden down there. Got enough waves." He pushes the emptied shaker back across the bar, but fishes out an ice cube chunk before he relinquishes it, popping it into his mouth to crunch on it noisily. A wink, then. "Gotta get my water."
Then Wolf turns on his stool a little, regarding Splash. He gives the rapper a look, then he gives the rest of the bar a look also, like he's doing some not-so-quick mental math. Finally, he says, "This whole fuckin' place is assholes. Sometimes I gotta throw out the staff as much as the drunks. When there's a difference." He shoots Leonie a quick, smug look, before going back to Splash. "And the normies. A lot of normies wander in, get their britches twisted right the fuck up over shit."
It's been quite a while since Dahlia prowled this side of town. The woman steps inside and gives pause, blinking a few times at the haze that seems to linger, initially making her squint before she adjusts. Almost as if it inspires her addiction, or the need to add to the pollution, one hand drops to worn pocket of her jeans in search of a cancer stick. A slightly crumbled hard pack is pulled out, agile fingers flipping the top open. Moving inside with that usual light step, she heads to the bar. All the while, cigarette between her lips, as of unlit, she turns on her journey to alcohol with a inquisitive gaze of what makes up this lovely establishment. Putting forearms on the bar, she digs into her back pocket for her wallet. "Lemmie have a double shot of jack, coke chaser." Mumbled around her smoke.
"Suuuuure, Wolfie. And on the weekends I wear my gown of finest silk from Tralalalaleeday." Leo doesn't miss a trick. Nor an excuse for a Game of Thrones quote. Exchanging drink for cash with the regular, the brunette drifts back up the bar as she spies a newcomer entering the dive. But, first things first. Scooping up the emptied shaker, she discards it, one presumes in a sink, under the bar, before she flits a green-eyed glance toward Splash. "You need another?" Regardless of his answer, the tattooed brunette unapologetically scoops up Wolf's 'next' smoke from where it lies on the bartop and sets it between her lips as she braces the heels of her palms on the counter's edge once more.
A more appraising look is given in Dahlia's direction, seeing as she not only lights up, but takes a pew at the church of alcohol.
And, right on cue, to a chorus of drunken whoops and some other less palatable vocal encouragement, Def Leppard blares over the sound system, encouraging the audience to 'pour some sugar on' the next performer.
"Ugh." Not much of a first impression, that greeting, but Leo bodily moves in the other woman's direction, quirking a brow. "You sure you want the chaser..?" A curl of her upper lip and an inclination of her head implies the dreadful song as the reason for her question.
"Sure, sweetie. You know how to mix a Long Island -- best way to start off my Saturday night. And the scenery's good, too." Splash finishes off his first mixed drink, casting a look -- accompanied by a solid grin -- to Dahlia, before bringing his eyes back to the stage.
"I've seen that gown. It ain't silk." Wolf says, always ready to match words with another smart-ass. His brows knit a little, as if he's thinking about what that gown really is, but then he's caught up on someone else coming in, and he's got to turn and check them out and make sure they're not wearing any Harry Potter bullshit or anything else that might get them mugged when they inevitably stumble back out later. It pays to pay attention. He's not looking, but somehow he knows, and he slaps a hand down to keep Leonie from stealing his cigarette from off the bar, despite how he's got half of one hanging from his mouth still. He's not fast enough, so he just gives the bartop a bit of a good time with the hard smack.
After, he spins around on his stool in the other direction, to keep an eye on things. But he fishes around in his back pocket for a little black flip-pad, and he drops it on the bar, then he turns it nearly to the back. All the pages, if anyone's looking, are just absolutely marred to death with scores. An uncountable mess of five-count tallies, crossed by a sixth. He makes another mark with a pen he scavenges off the bar also, and when he closes it, he just leaves it there. The front reads, 'cigs leo ows me.' with the 'e' actually missing.
Dahlia lifts her eyes to meet that of Leo's briefly, that drooping cigarette still unlit between full lips. Not bothering with pretending she isn't doing so, she gives the woman a once over and plucks the cancer stick from her mouth with lithe fingers. "Well, you being the bartender and all, I'll take that suggestion." Giving the other woman a saucy little wink. "Two shots, no chaser." She puts slightly wrinkled cash on the table, before she tucks the wallet back into that worn back pocket.
As the hair band fires up, inspiring all listeners to possibly gain diabetes. Or possibly sex... she glances over her shoulder briefly then plucks a lighter from another pocket. The cigarette is lit up and she takes a long, grateful drag before tilting her head up to make a few smoke rings for fun. Catching Splash's grin, she chuckles and grins back. Hearing the smacking of the man's hand on the bar, she now turns to Wolf. Raising up slightly as if peeking into that scored book, her eyes go wide but it's a comical expression. "This man's keepin' track, luv." She remarks to the 'tender. "I think you're in the red." She muses.
Having already swung around and skooshed two shots of Jack into a tumbler, Leo casts a glance over her inked shoulder in the direction of the rapper - whose shirt, by the way, is emblazoned with a logo for 'SPLASH, 2018 TOUR' - indicating he'll be next. Dang, it's not usually this busy at this hour. On the plus side, the Zombie she mixed up for the bouncer seems to have done the trick. He even looks coherent, for the most part. Always a plus. Still with the unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, the bartender returneth, and she bringeth Jack. The glass is set down before Dahlia; enough of a momentary pause given for a decision to be made on the Coke, and in the meantime she casts a grin toward Wolf, teasing the filter with the tip of her tongue so the smoke dances enticingly. Bitch. "Sure it is. Same high-quality shit those Homer Simpson boxers are cut from, stud." Given the teeth-tongue placement, yes, there's a subtle lisp. But the wit remains.. blunt as a spoon.
Her grin widens still further as Dahlia - wisely - heeds her sort-of advice. "Attagirl.." The glass is nudged a touch closer with a flick of two fingertips, then the cash is snatched up and vanishes. Fortunately only as far as yet another 'ka-ching!' from the register. En-route to fixing Splash's next Long Island, the bartender lights her own cigarette with a Zippo she keeps by the till. For emergencies, obviously. "Meh.." she replies, looking as unperturbed as she sounds while dosing a fresh higball with spirits. "..I look good in red." One can only imagine, in comparison to the threadbare jeans. Drag, ash flick, on with the drink mixing.
"I sure as hell do. An' when the book's all full, she gets a trip to Disney World." Wolf says to Dahlia, and the troublemaker's smile on his lips is more than enough to betray that he might be tossing around veiled threats or trashy promises. He picks up the little black flip-pad, which looks pretty much beat to shit, and he leans forward enough to tuck it back in his pocket again. His chocolate-brown eyes drift back over to Leonie, and without missing a beat, he stands on his stool a little, leans over the bar, and whispers to her like he's spilling the beans on a conspiracy. "You know you look better in the Homer Simpson boxers. But they still ain't silk." It's not a real whisper. Anyone close enough could hear - and he means for that to be the case, with Dahlia being so close.
Wolf Casanova leans back a bit, regarding both the smoking bartender, the smoking stranger and newest arrival, and he takes the cigarette from his mouth, puts it out on his jeans in an officious manner, and says, "Ladies. I gotta go take a piss." Then, more to Leonie than Dahlia, he adds, "If I ain't back in twenty minutes, I hung myself. Don't wake me up for at least three hours. Get Molly to toss the garbage. Y'know she likes the extra scratch at the end of the night." He slides right off his stool, then swaggers off toward the restroom.
Dahlia takes the blessed shots like communion and she's a big ol sinner. Down they go, one and two and she ends it with a little closed mouth moan of pleasure. Licking her lips, she clears her throat and pushes the empty shot glasses aside for now. "Built like you are, I imagine you might look good in just about any color." A glance to wolf again, and her brows raise, "Well, fuck you get a trip? Where is the wrong in that?" She replies. Ashing her cigarette, she leans into the bar and watches him rise with the same long lingering gaze that she gave the bartender. "Honey, if it takes you that long to piss, you must be doing it wrong!" She calls after him, glancing at the bartender now as she's left with her. "Let me have another couple." Again the wallet is brought out.
"That's right. I'm gonna be the new Snow White." Setting down the decidedly strong Long Island in front of Splash, Leo accepts the cash in exchange and waves him off toward that darkened booth he'd claimed earlier. "Enjoy the show, darlin'. Hang out til 10pm, one of the girls does this thing with ping ping balls.." Aaand leaving the rest to the imagination, the feline brunette is right back to those who remain at the bar. Well, one more than the other. "Wolfie, I'm more likely to use your body like a pinata. But don't let that stop you." There's a pause as he rises and sets to swagger off. "..do I get your record collection? Or just the boxers and thanks for the memories?" The question is left to hang in the air, having never really expected an answer, and she swivels gracefully to dash another two Jacks. Into a fresh glass. Star treatment.
"Why yes, yes I do." she offers, returning to the banter with Dahlia without missing a beat. "But whatever shade you pick would look better on your bedroom floor, that much I can pretty much goddamn well guarantee." Come on, you don't work a place like this if you don't have the stones to play!
It might well be noted, too, that Leo helpes herself to a shot of Jack. Well, when in Rome.
Wolf does have an answer somewhere in him - but after Leonie's attempt to poison him, it doesn't really catch up to him until he's just about to shove the bathroom door open. He pauses, hand on it, and turns, letting that swagger bring him right back over to where Dahlia and the bartender are. He lifts a hand, and points a finger down and taps it right hard against the bar, looking between them. Seriously, almost soberly (for a man like Wolf Casanova) he declares to Leonie. "We don't tell anyone about the pinata game. Or the stuffed unicorn." There's not even a smile from off his troublemaking lips. The whole exchange is as somber as death. Maybe he should have been an actor.
Then Wolf does smile, quick-like, mostly at Dahlia since he's addressing her now, "I only piss for a minute. But someone's gotta call all those numbers on the inside of the stall, and hanging myself is a bit of work too I'm real stubborn like that." That's all he's got to say on the matter, except for a quick, "You already got the records, darlin'. You ain't returned any of 'em yet." and he's gone again, heading off restroom-ward.