Summary:A pair of patrons, Jubilee and Eddie Brock, happen upon Luke's just before the bar opens. Anya is tending bar, and tries to help them own in their own ways. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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"Nononono don't—"
*CRASH*
"…. put them there."
Anya Corazon sighs, staring at the beer delivery guy with wide eyes and an angry expression. The delivery man had just set down a dolly loaded with assorted Budweiser products, but he chose one spot on the floor that has a bad habit of buckling and causing beer cases to fall. Which is exactly what happened. Now, there is beer leaking from the crate, undoubtedly with half its bottles smashed on the inside.
"You should'a told me -" the delivery driver starts, but he's cut off.
"I DID tell you! Estupido!!" Her towel comes out and she waves it in the air toward him angrily. "I told you, do not put them there, twice! And if you expect me to sign for those, or clean them up, you've lost your fucking mind!"
Out from her pocket comes a quarter, and she flings it over the bar toward a glass jar, half full, marked 'SWEAR JAR' on its exterior.
The delivery guy looks at her helplessly, but Anya waves her rag again. "Go! Get that mess outta here, and clean up the mess you made! I'm not your mama!" For a young woman who can't be much older than 21, there is a fire about her that doesn't seem easily extinguished. With an exasperated sigh, she turns and marches around the bar, rubbing it down with her towel to let off some steam.
Venom makes his way in, a denim jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled back from his face as he steps inside. He's rugged looking but handsome, a little worse for wear and with some stubble marking his face, just short of blossoming into a proper beard.
"Draft beer, whatever ya got," he says, settling into his seat. He regards the angry delivery guy for a long moment, as if watching to see if the man will acquiesce to her fiery demands or put up more of a fight. The stranger is broad shouldered and has a bit of a dangerous air. He can't really help himself anymore.
"You oughtta be more careful, pal," he says simply.
The delivery guy looks as if he's about to level a retort to Anya; he even goes so far as to lower a finger in her direction behind the bar, but then he sees the look in her eye… and hears word from the new patron. Turning, the driver looks Eddie up and down, swivels his attention back to Anya, and grumbles to himself. The dolly is hefted back up and he makes a retreat to the delivery truck parked outside, leaving a trail of leaking Bud Light on the floor.
Anya is dressed in a pair of ripped up, black skinny jeans and black combat boots. Fishnets poke out from the holes in her jeans, and also run down the half length of her arms in the form of a bodysuit. A denim sleeveless jacked is worn over her upper body, with a black sports bra beneath the fishnets, and her hair is cut into a bright pink mohawk. Not exactly what one might expect to see behind the bar in an old Harlem joint, but, it is what it is.
"I'm pouring a lot of Brooklyn Pilsner," Anya tells him, and shoves a pint glass under the tap, propping it up to take the pour. "You'll like it," she says, but doesn't seem to be paying Eddie too much attention yet; while the beer pours, she's rushing around the bar with a 'WET FLOOR' sign in hand, placing it somewhere between the front door and the spill point. As she does, Eddie will likely hear the young woman grumbling under her breath in Spanish. "Estupido saco de carne sin educacion."
It isn't until she's back behind the bar before she really lays eyes upon Eddie, and the sight of him seems to slow her down a bit. She pulls the pint glass back just before it overfills, and walks down with it to set it upon a napkin. "On the house. Thanks for backin' me up. Luke would kill me if I punched the delivery driver in the nose on my second day."
Venom runs a hand back through dirty blonde hair, "We ain't picky," he says.
There's definitely something off about the guy. He's not dirty or particularly unkempt, but he seems like someone on the edge, even at a simple glance. Whatever ability to disguise his inner conflicts seems to have worn thin and he wears it on his sleeve. His pale blue eyes look a little haunted. The smile that he musters in thanks for the beer seems a little wan.
"Guy would've had it comin'," he says. "That ought to count for something. I don't mind being a little scary, though. One of the few things I'm still good at," he says.
From Anya's perspective, she's seen that look before, but she associates it with addicts. Y'know, withdrawals. Her fiery nature immediately softens, her motions a little slower. "Dark," she answers, though it doesn't seem to be particularly judgmental or worried; it's more of an observation, with perhaps a touch of attitude. "I'm technically not open for another ten minutes, but I'll let it slide. And no, I'm not Luke." She grins mischievously before settling down opposite Eddie, happy for the distraction. "I'm Anya. Just drinks, for now. Kitchen's… in a state of evolution."
The strange man nods and answers, "We are…er…I…I'm Eddie," he says. He takes a long sip of his beer once it's passed to him and nods, "Evolution, huh? Ain't we all?"
"I don't exactly keep regular hours, so I appreciate the slack," he says. "I feel like I heard of this place. Think you probably will see your share of troubles as it is."
"Doesn't seem like it sometimes," Anya answers, regarding evolution. "Seems like half the world's de-evolving, you know?" She shrugs at his offer of gratitude. "Not a big thing, you get to be my first customer." She seems momentarily distracted.
The delivery guy has come back inside, and he does, in fact, have a bucket and a mop with him. This draws a mischievous smirk from her face, and she looks back toward Eddie with a grin. "So much better than a punch to the nose," she whispers, then leans back and begins working on prepping for the happy hour crowd. "So what's your story, Eddie?" she asks, and can't help but eyeball him from the corner of her eye.
Venom shakes his head, "Long story. Ugly story," he says. "Kinda bloody and not always legal story. Enough to say I got plenty of dark side and we…I…am tryin' to get a handle on it. Not always successfully," he says.
"I kinda alienated most o' the folks on my side, either by pushin' 'em out of harm's way or just…not showin' up," he says. "Kinda easy to end up alone, even in New York City. Don't really deserve any better," he says.
"We don't mean to sob story at you. You probably get plenty of drunks in hear whinin' into their hops."
Interestingly, Anya doesn't seem put off by the conversation. Her hesitation does become empathy, to a point; a woman's always got to be guarded around unfamiliar men these days, after all. Eventually she grins a little and explains, "Actually, it's my second day. Haven't really had to hear any drunk sob stories, so, congrats. You're my first one there, too."
Anya goes to pour herself a drink; tequila, clear, straight, and not top shelf stuff either, because she's not a mooch. She's about to put the bottle away, when she considers the man sitting at the bar for a moment. Another glass is taken, and she fills it. A double shot for each of them.
"It's a make you, break you town," Anya tells him. "Really easy to get lost, but, it isn't that difficult to get found." She slides the glass over toward him, keeping hers for herself. "Everyone always thinks you have to shoot tequila. You might try sipping it. World's best kept secret."
He takes the tequila and does as he's told, taking a slow sip. "Not easy to do. I tend to have something of an appetite. Bad habit of gulping things down," he says.
"We've been broken more than once. Still in pieces, parts of us," he says. There's a slight twitch, at the corner of his mouth, half-smile and half-grimace.
"I'm not exactly a drunk. The stuff I'm addicted to, the rush I get…it ain't from booze. Or drugs. It comes from…" he tries to find the words, "Can't really explain…" he trails off, even as the voices tug back and forth in his head.
-Don't. Can't you give me a god damn minute to myself?-
The dark chuckle in his head makes him strike himself at the temple, putting his head down, "Sorry. Sorry."
Taking a drink of her tequila, Anya remains perched there on her side of the bar, listening. She isn't a judgmental type, and she's also not one to shy away from ugly things. Her eyes show a sense of concern; something about this doesn't seem like any sort of mental illness. Not anything textbook, to be sure.
"Do ya hurt people?" she asks, point blank. "Been to a few BDSM clubs, so, you know. There's hurting people, then there's hurting people." The other kind that doesn't involve consent. "Is that it?"
As for striking himself, she shakes her head a bit and says, "Aim anywhere but your head or kidneys. The human body can take some real torment, but there's no sense giving yourself brain damage or busting your mids."
Eddie rolls his neck a bit, "I try only to hurt people who deserve it. Don't always work out that way. I ain't no mind reader. But I do try," he says.
"But you might say I'm of two minds about it. Parts of us don't feel quite so picky. Parts of us get bored with playing the hero and parts of us get tired of whining and complaining and acting like a little bitch about a few devoured organs," he says. His voice changes in the last part, growing harsh and grating. Veins of black bleed around his ears, skeins like spiderwebs starting to spread.
He drives his face down into the bar again, a hard shock of pain directly into his forehead, but the veins retreat and his eyes clear.
"I can take more punishment than most," he manages.
As for hurting people who deserve it, Anya nods her head and shrugs. "Some people deserve it," she offers during a brief point of interjection. She's certainly dealt her fair share, but there isn't a chance to speak more on the subject.
The young woman stands more upright when something changes on Eddie's face. Hackles are clearly raised, and she draws a deep breath through her nose, only to make a short yelping sound when he bangs his head into the bar to clear things up. Her eyes are wide, clearly ready for a fight, but after a moment or two, she reaches her hand across the bar, intend on resting it upon Eddie's forearm as long as he doesn't pull away. "Easy, hombre. Believe it or not, I'm not freaked out yet."
Eddie's hands rest on the edge of the bar. They are white-knuckled, for a moment, and perhaps almost put a strain on it, a soft creak in the heart of the wood before he lets himself go. Wouldn't do to damage Mr. Cage's property.
"I believe you," he says, forcing himself to straighten up, "But you should be. We are not safe. Not ever. Most especially when we smile."
Still, he seems to have gotten a grip on himself, at least for the moment, taking another sip on his beer. "Like I said - sorry."
"I tend to be a little dangerous myself," Anya tells him. She lets that linger for a moment or two, before pulling her hand away and reaching for her tequila again. "There's a time for sipping and a time for shooting." The glass is tilted back and she downs the stuff in one gulp.
Stepping away for a moment, Anya makes to give Eddie a bit of space. She goes over to the cash register where her cell phone sits, and picks it up, dabbing at it for a moment. For all anyone knows, she's sending a text message, or answering one, or Snapchatting or whatever it is 21 year old punk girls are supposed to do these days. Looks, however, can be deceiving.
In the back room, buried within a backpack inside of a backpack, a small black drone comes to life. Arana, Spider-Girl's custom built spider-drone, has received a command. It begins scanning for cellular phones in the immediate proximity, and it locks upon one of them in particular; the one carried in Eddie Brock's pocket. Nothing harmful or truly invasive takes place, but a code is implemented. A contact number, paired with a time delayed code that will send the contact information to Eddie via a SMS message to himself, but not until his cell phone is more than 150 yards away from Anya's phone by way of GPS tracking.
The worm is planted, and Anya sees the response on her cell phone with a grin. "Got nothing to apologize for, Eddie," she tells him, truthfully. "Not unless you bust the place up or cause a fight, at which point you'll be apologizing to my fist. I think we can keep it on the level, but if you keep that shit up, I'm gonna have to install a titanium plate on the bar, just for you. I'll even mark it." She raises her hands in the air to create quote marks. "Reserved for Eddie's forehead."
Eddie smirks, "I'll try not to make it too regular a habit," he says.
If he finds anything suspicious in Anya's actions, he doesn't show it. Probably a bit too preoccupied with himself. He mutters under his breath a little bit, now and again, talking to himself - or, rather, to his other self, although thatmight not entirely be evident.
He flexes his fingers, looking at his hand for a moment, "I used to be a writer. Guess I still am. Not that I put out much anymore. I was good at it. Not a world-beater, but I could hammer out an article under pressure. Make it read good, suck people in. Some people said I was a little too harsh, a little too biased," he shrugs. "Neutral doesn't really pay well, in my experience."
With out preamble, the front door swings open, and a petite Asian girl stumbles through. She looks…HOT. No, like really hot. Like she has been pushing a dead Harley for a handful of blocks, hot. She is dressed in a turquoise tanktop, faded jeans, and black riding boots. Her hair, once twisted up neatly and stabbed through with a pair of red chopsticks, is now loosening and falling down around the nape of her neck, wet with sweat.
She sighs with ecstatic relief at the air conditioned bliss inside, and takes a deep breath before moving to the bar to sit down. "My God, isn't there a gas station left in this city?" She is asking no one in particular, but takes a napkin to blot her glistening forehead.
"A writer?" Anya answers, blinking. "Really? Like, what, fiction? Editorials?" She's done her fair share of reading and is wondering if she's ever read any of his stuff. "Hey, biased isn't always bad, just depends on which side of the bias you're on."
As Jubilee walks in, the young girl behind the bar blinks and looks worried. "Jesus, my girl. Sit down." She quickly goes for a pint glass and fills it with water and some ice, offering it to the woman. "You have a break down or something? Water's on us, okay?"
Eddie finishes his first glass of tequila, nudges for a second. "Freelance reporter. Crime and corruption beat. Whatever I could find really. Got a little more desperate, just doin'…vice stories, I guess you'd say. Findin' the real underbelly of the city. Of course, there's some that like things to stay under rocks, nurture 'em that way. They don't usually like me. And I don't usually like them," he shrugs.
He raises an eyebrow at the sweat-afflicted young woman, "Drivin' in the city's a fool's errand. Why I usually stick to the subway."
Jubilee reaches up to let her hair down, and it falls in dark waves down to her shoulder blades. She is running her fingers through it, smoothing it, trying to get it twisted back up, before skewering the twist again with the chopsticks. "Nah, Bump was on fumes when I left. First thing I was gonna do was fuel up, but then there was a bake sale in the park, and I HAD to stop. Y'know, for the kids. And I got some brownies, and cookies, and a loaf of banana bread, and I was SO excited….I totally forgot about the gas, and next thing I know, the engine's missin' every few strokes, and I looked for gas. I really did! But he died on me just the same. Been pushin' the bike for a while, but can't find a station. And my cell phone's dead." Spoken like a true scatterbrain.
"War on Drugs is a joke," Anya tells Eddie. "Bunch of B.S. started by Nixon and his gasbags just so they could shut up hippies and blacks. Oh, and you do realize that the whole crack epidemic was caused by the CIA, right?" She shakes her head. "Now we got heroin, and Big Pharma to thank for that. The whole thing's a game. A wicked, evil, twisted game."
She's likely gonna google him later.
Eddie's glass is taken and she gets to work on refilling it with a fresh shot of tequila, but as she does, her eyes are on Jubilee with a grimace. "Got any cash on you? I know a couple of boys who can fix you right up, twenty bucks. Just a phone call away."
Eddie nods in agreement, "Absolutely. And the prison industrial complex and a lot of other powerful interests are invested in maintaining the status quo in order to perpetuate profits and keep marginalized people drugged and docile," he says.
"If she doesn't, I have a few bucks," he says, reaching into his pocket. If there's a few blood spots here and there on the bills, well…money's money.
Lifting her glass and drinking half of it before she takes another breath, Jubilee shakes her head. "Nah I got cash on me, that's no—" She freezes for a moment. The bake sale. "CRAP….wait, brownies happened. No no…I still have…" She reaches into one pocket of her jeans and pilfers. "CRAP!" She rolls up that pant leg, and wedged in the top of her boot, there's a twenty. "VICTORY IS MINE! I forgot there was a hole in that pocket. Wonder where my chapstick went…" She wiggles around a little, to see if she feels it anywhere, then shrugs.
"I thought that was Reagan," she says off handedly to Anya. "Thanks for the water, by the way. Could ya spare a beer? Debit card, I /do/ have." Somewhere. Probably.
"My dude." Anya looks toward Eddie with a big grin. "I think we could be friends.
"Reagan made it worse, for sure," Anya tells Jubilee, "But it all started under Nixon." She laughs slightly at the news that Jubilee has in fact found a twenty, and nods her head. "Yeah, just gotta see ID. It's my second day, and all." She then turns and heads toward her cell phone, dialing in a number. "Gimme a sec, my girl. We'll get you sorted."
Eddie raises a finger, "Reagan intensified the isolation of inner city communities. He ramped up the militarization of police forces, normalized swat teams and the seizure of property. His wife's idea of addiction treatment was moralizing slogans and junkies sweating themselves to death cold turkey in cold rooms at underfunded shelters because they dont' want to be 'soft on crime'," he says.
"And it hasn't gotten any better since. Lip service, sure, but mostly it just gets swept under the rug, kept out of the view of the tourists, wouldn't want to lose that fat Disney cash setting up neon-lit princess stores on the site of old porno theaters," he mutters. He's talking to himself mostly, then realizes he's staring at Jubilee as he says it.
"But yeah, uh…still. Don't do drugs. Or something. Well. Pot and Molly are okay, they barely even count. Just don't do coke. Coke'll fuck you up."
Jubilee's buoyant expression falls. "Yeah, maybe…maybe I should stick to water. I mean, I'm gonna be drivin' in a bit and all…" She takes another drink from her glass and sets it down, giving it a thoughtful quarter turn on the water ring beneath it. "You're the best, though. Maybe I'll grab a bite while I wait…."
She peruses the menu, rifling through pockets before finally finding an iridescent metal case. She opens the end of it and slides out her debit card, looking a bit relieved. "Ooh, nachos. Hey, you said you wrote, yeah? Crime stuff?" she asks the man conversing with the barkeep with the adorable mohawk. "Ooh coke….You guys have coke?" she asks the barkeep. "Lil wedge of lime mebbe?"
What ensues next is a conversation held entirely in rapid fire Spanish; your normal 'I learned it in High School' method won't work here, but anyone truly fluent will be able to translate. "«Hey, asswipe. Yeah, I need a gas up. Luke's. You know the place? What do you mean you've never been here? Best barbecue. No, it doesn't come on tacos, you fucking dick! Listen just google it and get over here. I got a damsel in distress done run out of gas and needs a ten spot for twenty. Okay, cheers.»"
The phone is replaced, and Anya quickly retrieves something form under the bar that looks like it may have been pieced together from various pieces of tech acquired from dumpsters. It's a block with four USB ports on it, attached to which are four cables; lightning, 30-pin, USB and micro-USB. She plops it down in front of Jubillee, telling her, "Charge up. Dead phone in this city's worse than being, like, dead, dead."
She glances Eddie's way and adds, "Coke, dope, and meth. All big, big no-no's!"
Jubilee receives a dubious look when she fails to provide an ID, and she says, "I can get you a lemonade or a soda on the house, but yeah. You're sweating harder than a cop on Facebook Live. Maybe another glass of water first, yeah?"
Eddie tries his best to look non-threatening, in which he is dubiously successful. He's a little sweaty himself, his hair a little bit greasy. He hasn't slept in about 56 hours or so at this point and he's a bit bloodshot and bleak. Not to mention just about to finish his second glass of tequila.
"You might be new, but it seems like you got this bartender bit down already. Not just in the drinks, but in the takin' care o' customers an' their troubles."
"Oh my god you're awesome!" Jubilee reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her phone, plugging it in to charge. "Nah, I can pay. And I don't wanna just go eat brownies, cause I'd REGRET it in the gym, later. You guys have a sandwich or somethin', maybe?" Bar nachos are notoriously shitty, anyway.
Jubilee looks back at the somewhat disheveled man who talks to himself. "Hey, you okay? You look like you've had better days than this one." She looks concerned. "You guys want some brownies?"
"I got my first fake ID when I was 17," Anya tells Eddie. "Grew up in Spanish Harlem, back when the Kings were around." She's referencing the infamous Latin Kings, a gang responsible for tearing the neighborhood apart in the early nineties. "I know my way around, but the owner of this place is trying to keep it on the up and up. I ain't gonna be the one who comes in here, serves to underagers and gets him busted." She casts a grin back toward Jubilee. "Now, if you wanna know some places that do serve to underagers, just get Max's number when he shows up. He's good people, show you around, make sure you don't get messed around with by the wrong people."
As if on cue, a pair of large, ruggish looking Mexican-American dudes walk through the front door and immediately grab Anya's attention. "Max! Hugo! My dudes." She gestures toward Jubilee, telling them in Spanish, "«Damsel in distress»," before switching seamlessly to English. "You boys got here fast."
"We were in the neighborhood," Hugo says, while Max approaches Jubilee with a portable, red gas can in his hands.
"Ten bucks in gas for twenty bucks," says Max. "Where's the broken ride?"
Anya sighs then, at the talk of food. "Kitchen's in a bit of disarray, but I can throw a burger on for ya. How do you like it?" Talk of brownies has her expression perking. The girl's never one to turn down food.
Eddie manages a hint of a smile, "Seen plenty better. Seen plenty worse," he admits.
"I ain't about to turn down a brownie, though. I ain't picky. This a special brownie or just the usual fattening kind?" he says. "Not that I mind either. I ain't exactly doin' Jenny Craig," he says.
He regards the two men with the wary respect dangerous men naturally have for one another, measuring and keeping his distance. He's not afraid of them, other than afraid of attracting their attention. He doesn't need to pick a fight with anybody.
Offering a sheepish grin to Anya, and clearly caught in her beer attempt, she turns back to the two guys who came in. "Red Harley with flames, out front. Y'know what? I'll show ya," she says, handing the twenty to the one with the gas can. "I gotta grab the brownies outta the saddlebag anyway. Be right back!" And she trots out the door to show them the way.
The two men follow Jubilee as she shows them the way, ready to get her Harley gassed up. "No special brownie's inside Luke's!" she calls after her. "You keep that outside!"
Glancing back to Eddie, she says, "That'll be five for the shot that wasn't on the house. You got a last name, hombre? I'd like to look up some of your stuff, see if there's anyone I know in any of your work."
Eddie pushes his crumpled bills over, a few twenties, "Keep it," he says. "You did good by me. Anything else I'll just waste it on," he says. He sniffs the air, "If you don't want that big a tip, you could throw somethin' in a doggy bag for me. Don't matter what, we ain't picky," he says. True enough. They can literally eat almost anything.
"Lemme know if you boys need any help liftin' anything," he says to the hombres, pushimg himself up at the bar and downing the rest of his beer. "Wouldn't want ya to strain yourselves."
Jubilee is prancing back in moments later with a PILE of individually wrapped brownies. "Some have nuts. Some have chocolate chips. Some have both. Those kids were so cute I couldn't say no. Especially with brownies involved." She piles them on the bar, and a few on Eddie's table. "Nothin' special about these, cept they're baked with LOVE."
Eyebrows rising, Anya takes the bills and throws them into the til. "One doggy bag, coming right up," she tells him. There's some leftover barbecue from yesterday's cook, she'll be sure to give him a double portion since it isn't heated. She's already headed for the kitchen when Jubilee comes back in, and grins at the provision of brownies. "Save one for me," she calls back, before ducking into the kitchen to get some Shitty Nachos and Leftover Pork.
Venom takes the brownie, "Love, huh? Pretty sure that really is an illegal substance in some parts of the city. But I'm down with that," he says. He waits to get his bag of barbecue and tucks it into his coat, starting to munch on the brownie as he heads through the door, "Oh. And the name's Eddie Brock. I ain't that hard to look up. Just…try not to believe the worst parts."
"Take care, Mister Brock," Jubilee calls after him. She sounds genuinely concerned. She turns back to the bar and starts unwrapping a brownie with nuts and chocolate chips. She practically swoons, as she slowly chews it.
A knowing grin is given toward Eddie as he departs, as if she has something special in store for him, but only she knows it. The food is handed out, her brownie is half eaten, but just then, a group of twelve are approaching the front door. It's 5:00, and the happy hour crowd are rolling in.
The poor girl's about to get very, very busy.