2020-01-02 - But Is There Goose in the Nachos?


Ambrose wanders into Luke's and meets not only Hod, but Anya, Thea, and Rebecca as well. Good times are had by all. Also, they serve nachos on garbage can lids here!

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Thu Jan 2 08:28:32 2020
Location: Luke's

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Theme Song



The bar isn't busy but it's not dead either, doing a low level of fairly constant business. It being Harlem and Luke's all at the same time, it's clientel is distinctly black, matching the over all theme and atmosphere of the bar. Which isn't to say it's not welcoming! It is. But it's also not appologetic about it's origins or intentions. Much like Harlem is it what it is and feels no need to make allowances.

Which is why it's a little where when the barman is a /pale/ white guy with jet black hair and beard threaded with a few strands of silver, made more outlandish and less inconspicuous by the black cloth wrapped about his face. Literally the man is blindfolded. Like a childs game or something. Currently he's doing the traditional barman thing of cleaning a few glasses over a sink run a gentle stream of water, towel going to work. He's wearing an 'ugly' sweater, possibly in an attempt to be traditional despite being a bit late to 'ugly sweater season' as a whole. It's black with a white image of a bearded skull resting beneath a traditionally 'viking' style armored helm. There are a pair of crossed axes behind it, and a long spear thrust down through it's eye socket and sticking out the mouth. In delightly cheery scarlet lettering the sweater proclaimes "Fa La La La La" above the skull, and beneath it, "Valhalla La" beneath it.

He turns his head a bit to the side when Ambrose walks in and speaks up without turning to 'look' at the visitor properly, "What can I get for ya?" he asks in a clean crisp unaccented voice.

It's been some time since Ambrose wandered Harlem itself (about twenty years, give or take with his true wanderlust and indulgent sampling of each borough that he might learn its heartbeat — and sup of its life-force), but tonight's wanderings bring him into Luke's bar. In a dark-grey beanie pulled down over his medium-length brown hair, he's warm within his dark near-trenchcoat and boots beneath standard jeans. About his neck, a black scarf wrapped multiple times up and over his mouth at one point like a friendly snake.

Gloved hands pluck the scarf down to return the greeting given to him by the truly singular bartender. "And good evening to you too. If you've the means for a gin and tonic, I would appreciate it — and three fingers of gin, would you please, in the glass, order of ingredients and all…" He gestures a small wave as if he might dismiss his fussiness. Ambrose takes up one of the barstools and idly looks around the place again, appreciating its nuances as he waits for his drink. He's not prone to being chatty right off the bat. It might take a drink or two.

It's about then that a pretty young blonde, a bit taller than average, slender and fit, comes out from the back room, carrying a plastic-wrapped bundle of cocktail napkins. She's dressed in 'Daisy Duke'-style jean shorts over black leggings, a black 'Luke's' tee with a flannel shirt worn open over it, its plaid involving white, green, blue, and black, and a pair of blue-and-white Nike cross-trainers. "Got more napkins," she says to Hod, as she's unwrapping the stack and starting to refill the supply along the bar.

Even in that brief moment of speech, a bit of an accent can be heard in Becca's voice. Sounds like Texas.

Thea slips on through the door in the wake of another patron leaving, immediately pulling off her dark gloves to tuck into the pockes of her black wool peacoat. There's color riding high in her cheeks from the chill in the air outside, assisting her eyeliner and mascara in making blue eyes seem brighter.

She will give a cursory glance around the room, eyes lingering on a face or two. She's unbuttoning her coat even as she crosses towards the bar, exposing a black henley style shirt paired with her blue jeans, and casual black boots. She hasn't accessorized much, just a thin chain dangling a tiny clear crystal and a silver Rod of Asclepius pendant. She smiles as she eases up onto a bar stool, and it gets brighter at the sight of Becca. "Evening." She'll say in a general greeting to those at the bar. "Hey, Becca."

Hod snorts, "Gin is a very broad topic of conversation, gonna need you to narrow that down a bit. You looking for sweet, floral, London Dry, something from Japan? They have a new love of gin that shows some promise, if it's still a teensy bit raw." Someone for Hod to talk with about his most common love, liqour. And while he talks, he reaches about beneath the bar, pulling out a handful of bottles, each in time with his question, and setting them up on the bar for inspection. Noteably, 'on the bar', does not mean 'unguarded' as the blindfolded man in the ugly sweater hovers over them like an impatient soldier awaiting marching orders.

Becca's arrival gets a grunt from the blind man, a sound that she knows well enough by now means he heard her. Hod communcates often in such monosylabic ways. "What about you?" he asks without turning his 'eyes' Thea's direction, "What'll it be? While this fella tries to wade through the murky waters of gin selection I've got time to kill."

"Hmm." Melodious, the sound of contemplation to slip from Ambrose. He gives the arrival of the fellow blonde barkeep and the wearer of the silver pendant cursory glances before returning to muse at the bottles set before him. Blunt nails briefly scratch along his jawline sporting five-o-clock shadow before he looks up at the blindfolded man beyond the bar.

"If you've faith in Japanese gin, who am I to say no? I am not disinclined to try new things," he decides, nodding towards one of the 'promising' bottles of gin before Hod. Ambrose's accent is crisply British but for foreign roundings on certain vowels, as if he'd learned the language elsewhere than Britain itself. "I shall inform you of my thoughts on matters. I consider myself a connoisseur of the liquor." And whether or not that's a good thing is for the world to decide.

Pulling his stocking hat from his head now and tucking it away into a coat pocket, the master-thief does glance over at Thea now in polite curiosity. Hod did call her out.

Becca's generally-upbeat demeanor notches up to a warm, friendly smile as she sees Thea, and the woman greets her. "Hey," she says, nodding in place of a wave, with her hands still full. And then she stops talking, to let Thea get in with the important business of making her drink order, but remains smiling as she finishes restocking the bar napkins.

Despite the blindfold, Thea still flashes a bright smile in the bartender's direction. "Bourbon, please. Neat. Maker's Mark." She sees the line up of gin, and there's a gleam of amusement over her features. She's got her preferences, and hopefully this will let her skip the pop quiz.

A hand lifts, to ruffle and push through her currently black hair, as if to dispel the chilled air still trapped and clinging to the strands. Then she slips it into her pocket, to produce cash with which to pay for her beverage of choice, and lays some bills on the table.

Hod starts moving almost the instant Ambrose make's the call, his hand pulling out the appropriate glass by patting about on the shelf until locating it, then adding it to the train of bottles on the bar. The bottles all disappear again until only the Japanese one remains, a hexagonal bottle, and he gets to work. Ice cubes join a glass with fizzing tonic and a /heavy/ splash of gin. There's a quick stir, a sprig of mint that the barman slams on the bar top once with a loud THWACK! that bruises the leaves before draping it lightly over the rim of the glass without letting it so much as touch the drink inside. Then he slides that Ambrose's way.

The bourbon is sliding down the bar in a tumbler before the G and T even reaches Ambrose, as if he didn't have to search for /any/ of it's componants at all. He ignores the money, that's for Becca to pick up. It's subtle, but if one were to give it any real thought, a blind bar man is a ridiculous thing. For starters…. how does he know Ambrose or Thea are of age? It's not like he asked for ID, and if they showed it to him, what's he gonna do? Lick it for a authenticity? And for that matter, when they pay, how would he know the denomination of the bill!?!? Seriously. There is a serious flaw in the logic of this tavern. Then the barman, as if asknowledging all of this, pours himself a solid triple of bourbon and begins to drink it. Without paying. Without giving a shit about being in the open. On the clock. Nothing. Just. Drinking. Right there. Blind folded. Wearing an ugly sweater. If one searched the entire bar top to bottom it's clear this man would not be hiding a single fuck to give anywhere inside it's walls.

Poor Hod. He gets to miss the overtly impressed rise of Ambrose's brows, this a thing of rarity on par with unicorns from the jaded centarian appearing no more than thirty at most. With practiced timing, the brunet reaches out to catch the gin and tonic in its glass. He sniffs at it first after plucking the precariously-perched mint sprig from the rim. Then comes the first testing sip. He frowns down at it, but then sips again.

"Cherry blossom…?" comes the Brit's rather flabbergasted mutter. A third sip confirms it. "Well, ruddy hell. It is not terrible," he reports to Hod. Mission: success.

"I am impressed at your skills. Does the blindfold not get in the way of your work?" Ambrose asks of Hod, completely out of fucks to give as well in his usual brazen manner. He glances between Thea and Becca again to see if they too show any signs of acknowledging the oddity.

Thea puts her hand out to catch her glass, and she smirks at it. She'll glance over at the man with the gin, a little lift of her glass in a not quite toast. Her eyes then shift to Hod, a slow smile blooming. She's noticed the oddity, but she's also heard of the man.

She'll glance at Becca, a tip of her head to silently ask how the young Texan is doing. "So, if you're out here, does that mean the kitchen is closed?" She'll address Hod.

Hod is halfway through his bourbon before he pauses to answer the question, "I mean a little, but mostly it's the whole being born without eyeballs thing that's the real hinderance. The blindfold is mostly okay, just the trailing ends tickle me neck a smidge from time to time and that's irritating." he says honestly, "Usually have glasses, but mine broke and I can't trust a single fucker that sells shades in this town not to saddle me with some cheerily colored shit show of a translucent plastic rim with glitter imbedded in it. So, until I can find a dealer I can trust not to fuck me with another pair of 'My Little Pony' shades," he air quotes, glass in hand, "whatever the fuck /that/ is, then the neck tickling blindfold it is. Well," he pauses as if to consider, "I could take it off, but that's been known to cause a lot of compulsory vomiting from the clientelle and leinant as my employer is, he has fucking limits." he sets the empty bourbon down, "Making the paying people wear the ribs they just bought… turns out, that's the line. Right there." he draws it in the air in front of him with a fingertip.

"Naw." he says in Thea's direction, "Just means that I have to go back there and make something if someone orders something. Since everyone was feeling a lunch of a more liquid variety tonight, I was serving that instead. Also, myself." he refills his bourbon from a nearby bottle, the practiced art of pouring from the bottle while judging the location of the glasses rim with the opposite fingertip on full display this evening.

Ambrose tilts his head, readily intrigued by this explanation as to proceedings. He squints and there's a moment where he does consider reaching out towards the blindfold to either A: figure out whether or not the guy is ACTUALLY BLIND, NO LIE, or B: he's faking for better tips, or C: he really doesn't have any eyeballs.

A short juvenile streak really wants to follow up on option C, but that's in poor taste even if people are only drinking liquor and not eating some oil-cooked, hot sauce-basted small chicken wings.

So the brunet contents himself with leaning forwards onto the bar after another large sip of gin and NOT reaching out towards Hod. "You have eaten here before then?" This question is directed towards Thea in particular, Hod in glancing with his knowledge of the menu. "What is their best fare?"

Becca's been busy with the tasks she was part-way through when Thea came in, having signaled the woman through hand gestures that she'd be more free shortly, so as not to get in the middle of the conversations going on. After vanishing into the back again for a minute or two, she's back, just in time for Ambrose to ask that question. The blonde resists the impulse to interject with her own answer, seeing as the point of the man asking Thea was clearly to get the opinion of someone not among the bar's staff. Instead, she waits behind the bar, smiling and listening.

"So if I'm hungry, I should probably go fly a kite?" Thea asks, humor in her voice. She glances at his refill. "I thought that was standard fare for you bartenders here." The tone is still light, as she sips more bourbon. After all, she's seen both Luke and Anya drink behind the bar.

She looks towards Ambrose, brows lifting. "I've only eaten here the once. Big platter of stuff. Ribs, chicken, greens, cornbread.. it was all pretty fabulous. I've only heard good things, even for the stuff I haven't had." Then Becca gets a smile.

Hod shrugs in responce to Thea, "If you're hungry you should order food, not sure why indulging in childish toys would satiate your rumbly tumbly but fuck it, you diet your way and I'll not ever diet ever for any reason and we can both die happy. I mean, I'll die happi/er/, but still. What do the kids say these days? You do you?" he puts his second triple down on the bar, the glass empty, and crosses his arms over the idiotic ugly sweater he's wearing, "Have the Shitty Nachos." he says more or less in Ambrose's direction. "They're a good place to start. Save up for the ribs on a later visit, when you've earned the privledge by tipping to excess and making your wait staff deliriously happy."

A young woman emerges from the back room, hoisting a black trash bag over her shoulder. She's wearing black combat boots, black skinny jeans and a black t-shirt bearing the KMFDM band insignia. She doesn't even look at who's gathered; she's been here not to rem bar or to cook food, but rather, to help Luke with the serious state of disarray the back room was in.

A few moments later, Anya returns from the back door and the dumpster beyond, following a bout of shrieking that can be heard inside the bar. "AIEE!! No! Shoo! Shoo, you filthy f… flipping… go south! Shoo!"

Anya doesn't appear embarrassed. She just walks up to the bar, settling disgruntled eyes upon Becca. "Tequila. Double."

"Mayhaps I'll try the ribs," replies Ambrose to Thea before he takes another dip sip of his gin. However, Hod's contradiction has the brunet now giving him a bemused look. It's clear Ambrose is trying not to smile at the attitude on display.

"Shitty Nachos." It's so delicately pronounced in the way that only Brits can manage. "I do hope that is a friendly euphamism for their color and not their quality. However, if the quality of the food is indicative on tips…"

It's while he's rifling around in an interior pocket of his coat that he heras the high-pitched squealing from outside. He gives a mildly-concerned look in that direction, but the shrieker appears to have come to no harm other than needing a drink.

"Why not two," the master-thief says in Anya's direction as he then slaps down a few very large bills. These get scooted in Hod's direction. "If anyone chooses to take up upon it, their drink is on me. Oh, and an order of those delightful nachos mentioned, please."

A look of controlled mirth came over Becca's features at hearing the goings-on out back, and she's already reaching for the tequila before Anya even asks for it. "You got it, hermana. Our feathered neighbors out there again? Could be worse. The diner I worked at down home, the one year a bunch o'geese decided to nest out by the dumpster. I was like, 'Y'all lost? 'Cause this sure ain't Canada.' But you couldn't get near there without them tryin' to chase you off. Good thing my, um, throwin' arm's pretty good." She laughs, as she's finishing pouring Anya's drink.

Thea laughs. "I was saying, in a polite manner, that could I order something to eat, or would you tell me to fuck off." She half rises off her stool, hearing Anya shriek.. but she didn't swear, so Thea relaxes a little. She will look at Becca and Anya. "Well, have I tipped enough to make the two of you happy, so you can assure Hod I'm a good tipper?" There's a cocky little smirk, there.

She winks at Anya. "I think you drank that whole bottle of Espolon, already, didn't you." She means her holiday gift for her spider-friend. There's a glance at Becca. "I'm surpised some of the folks around there didn't shoot them for dinner."

Hod snorts, "Shitty Nachos is what they were called before. Change the recipe, seemed blasphemous to rename them." that's mostly true, the name also amusses Hod and he'll keep whatever gives him a chuckle around as long as he can. Gotta enjoy the little things he's learned. Hod seems, obviously, unimpressed with the sound of bills hitting the bar, "Uh-huh." he says in the tone of a man that someone has attempted to sell on being a 'big tipper' in the past by laying down a hanful of 1's and claiming they were something else. "2 Shitty Nachos coming up." he motions to Thea and Ambrose both, just assuming she'll have whatever he's having. As he passes he taps the bar in front of Anya with a fingertip, which is as much like a wave as he's likely to manage, "Heya Pinkie." he mutters as he heads past her and towards the kitchen, "Goose is delicious, I'm just sayin'."

Anya's expression settles upon Ambrose for an elongated moment. Perhaps she's trying to determine if the man has an angle here. Following that pregnant pause, she upnods in his general direction. "I'll take it," she says, and turns to Becca. "Two doubles."

A visible shudder runs down the young woman's frame. "Fucking pigeons." Rack one up for the swear jar. "I swear to Jesus, we get a few warm days and they all come back, with a hard on for garbage and… garbage. Blegh!!!" She happily takes her first double and downs it like its water.

"Vouched," she says to Hod, for Thea's benefit, before swinging her attention to the SHIELD agent proper. "Drank it that night. Passed out on that booth." She nods her head in the general direction of the booth in question. "Thank you, by the way."

A wayward eye is given to Hod, paired with a smirk. "You gonna make it for me some time?"

All that Anya gets in reply for her consideration of his offer is a slowly-appearing smile a la the Cheshire Cat, his eyes half-lidded. Admittedly, it's trouble, but it's mild at best…for now. Ambrose lifts his sweating glass in her direction in salute for her acceptance.

"Goose is delicious," the Jackal agrees quietly as he nurses his drink now. The floral notes are fascinating; he thinks he can suss out a green tea or two. "Mayhaps you could include goose in your nachos? A thought, for variety." It's a comment tossed in the direction of both Anya and Becca both full of repressed laughter. Thea gets another side-long glance to bring her into the Brit's moment of dry amusement.

"Those geese got a rep, even down that way," Becca replies, to the suggestion that some of the generally-more-armed public 'down home' might have decided to solve the problem their way. "Like folks might've been afraid they might shoot back." She laughs, as she's pouring Anya's second glass. "Personally, I wouldn't put it past 'em. Nasty fuckers." Yeah, she owes the jar now, too.

Turning to Ambrose, she asks, "So, Mister Suggestions, you got a name?" The blonde is smiling as she says it, though, all good-natured playful friendliness. "If you feel like sharin' it, that is. If'n you don't, that's fine, too. Don't need to give your name t'drink here. We know some folks'd rather not."

Thea isn't at all bothered by Hod's doubt - after all, the guy doesn't know her, even if most of the rest of the staff does, at this point. She laughs at his intention to feed her shitty nachos, a glance at the girls. She will finish off her bourbon, before she glances the Brit's way, snickering. "Goose /can/ be delicious, if it is done correctly. If it isn't, it can be greasy and gross." There's a wrinkle of her nose. "Not sure if goose goes well with jalapenos." Then there's a quick grin.

A glance at Anya. "Well, I knew you liked it. Made shopping for you easy. Did you get your unitard? I had it sent to you, after the whole thing in the park. " A glance at Becca. "I had the jean jacket I got you sent here, since I didn't know where else. Luke will have it." After all, the ladies all deserved something after that awful night. She will slide her glance Ambrose's way with Becca's question.

The double doors that head into the back swing as Hod makes his way through them. If's not super obvious, but it's there. The walk he affects, one that seems slow and unhurried, is actually careful, his hands and feet moving in a very general swing around him, testing the location of walls and objects. It's not unlike having his cane in his hand, but something affected more for when one is in mostly familiar surroundings and not completely strange ones. He vanishes into the back, where the kitchens are, "You know the house rules, Pinkie!" he says over a shoulder, "You bring it, I'll cook it. Don't matter what 'it' is."

In the kitchen there's only a short pause before the bang and clang of metal implements can be heard… along with a muted if somewhat talented version of 'Ain't No Sunshine'.

Brown eyes look from Becca to Ambrose with a certain sort of mischief; familiar to some. Anya's blue mohawk, with hair shaved to the scalp on either side, might be telling of her demeanor. It almost seems as if she's debating whether or not to misbehave.

"Oh, I got it," she tells Thea, breaking her attention away from the other two. "Thank you. Just waiting for the right moment to bust it out."

The young woman stifles a giggle (barely) at Hod's words, before she's swinging her attention back to Ambrose. She can't help it; she's insatiably curious as to whether the guy will cough up a name or not. She hasn't thrown back her second double yet; likely because she's made a little bet inside her head.

Hod startles a laugh out of Ambrose for his apparent willingness to add goose to the nachos, greasiness of the meat be damned. He gives Becca a look almost surprised at her question to follow.

"Ah, of course, the importance of names." Upon his musing, the brunet sets down his drink and leaves his barstool. He then enacts a very courtly bow, palm to his sternum; the entire display would seem very RenFaire but for the absolute assured grace of the entire motion, as if he'd practiced it for years in Queen Elizabeth's court.

"Lieutenant Atherton, at your service. A pleasure to meet you this evening, ladies," comments the master-thief, looking between them all with a curl of a smile. "I presume you all have names as well?"

"I got it, it's in back, thank you," Becca answers Thea. "You didn't have t'do that, but I 'preciate it. A lot."

Turning to Ambrose, she watches and listens as he introduces himself, then says, "Y'all didn't have to get all fancy about it, but I like it," giving the man a smile that's equal parts genuine warmth and playful amusement. "My name's Rebecca, but 'Becca' does just fine." She looks to the other two with a clearly-implied 'your turn'.

Thea smiles at Anya, something almost shy about the expression. "Well, I figure you might want to make some alterations, or whatever. But I figured we all deserved something." Thea may have gotten herself a few things. You never know with the biokinetic, what she might wear. "We'll have to go shopping again."

The biokinetic will hook hair behind her ear, looking at the accented gentleman. "Lieutenant in what?" She doesn't bother not being blunt, and there's maybe just a glint of suspicion or cynicism in her gaze. She will, however, slide off the stool, and curtsies as if she's been trained in courtly manners. Which she has. "Thea."

"Corazon." A glimmer of mirth enters Anya's eyes, which remain settled upon Ambrose. "Anya Corazon."

Yes, she did just 007 his ass. Mischief it is, it would seem.

Eyes dance from Becca, to Thea, to Ambrose. Then her next shot is knocked back with ease, and she leans an elbow upon the bar, eyeballing the interactions with nothing short of a simper upon her face. Behaving, perhaps? To be determined.

"BECCA!" comes a bellow from the back, right in the middle of a spirited rendition of Bill Withers 'Use Me' with a touch less soul and a bit more blues in the stylings. Low blues, darker and sadder, not the high optimistic blues. "Need youthful vigor to carry this shit out!" the second part is clearly however as a foot kicks the double doors open from inside like the owner had a warrent. The blindfolded man walks out into the bar with a shouldered platter roughly the size of… nope, nope, not the size of, it is in /fact/ a trash can lid. And it is covered in a small mountain of nachos. Chips layered with toppings, but unlike most nachos which are just various ingrediants hurled atop a mountain of chips, no no, /these/ chips seem to /all/ have toppings. As if perhaps each individual one were painstaking loaded with toppings, then baked, then /reloaded/ with the cooler toppings, /THEN/ assembled into a pile as to appear haphazard while being distinctly anything but. Peppers, onions, three cheeses, seasoned ground beef mixed with what may very well be a sort of carne asada, the aroma carries citrus notes with guacamole and sour cream in carefully placed locations that make them both topping /and/ dipping location for any chips that may have not been fully kitted out.

This trash can lid lands atop the bar with a clatter and a bounce and Hod pulls a towel from an apron, wiping at his completely sweatless forehead before tucking it away. He then walks carefully down the bar, dragging the metalic serving dish with him so that it makes the most unholy scraping noise imaginable before coming to a rest more or less in front of Ambrose, "There ya go fancy pants. Shitty nachos. I don't care what you told these people your name was, you don't finish thses and still return, I'm callin' you Princess."

"Becca." Ambrose nods to the barkeep behind the bar, eyeing her face. The curtsey from Thea earns her a lift of brows yet again in plain surprise. "Thea," he then echoes, marking her face as well. Lastly, his regard flickers to she of the mohawk. Her quip earns her a sharp bark of a laugh — oh yes, the Brit definitely gets the reference. "And Anya Corazon. Well met to you all..and, to answer your question, Her Majesty's Army. I am a field lieutenant in the infantry."

Was a field lieutenant — 'luftenant' as he pronounces it — back in 1902 or so. Being marked as KIA never seems to bother Ambrose; after all, here he stands in defiance of one hundred and twenty-odd years of life.

He reaches to capture up his drink again. It makes it to his mouth before pausing. The master-thief's cerulean-blue eyes go wide.

That is…a literal garbage can lid. His eyes squint as the lid lands and then is delivered along the bar with the most obnoxious sound the Jackal has heard in a very, very long time. It stops in front of him and he looks up from it at Hod.

Again, another bark of a laugh, and Ambrose remains standing now, his weight leaned against the bar. "Well, it would not be the first time someone has called me as such and learned otherwise as to the appellation's veracity." He gives Hod a sharp grin. "Do tell me you give your guests garbage bags in which take home leftovers? I do have a family to feed and they would benefit from such a motherload of food."

Thea's questioning of Ambrose gets a curious look from Becca as well, but then Anya's 007 bit pulls a giggle or three from the tall Texas blonde.

It's about then that duty calls — or, well, bellows — from the back, and she turns and hustles to help, giving Hod ample room in passing before going out of sight herself. A moment later, she's returning bearing a second order of nachos, on a second trash lid, and sets it down — with less drama, and considerably less noise — in front of Thea.

And then she playfully steals one deliciously-topped chip from her friend's order and pops it into her mouth, grinning as she chews.

Thea will glance at Becca, batting her lashes before she nudges her glass towards the blonde. "Please, ma'am, I want some more." It's done in an English accent - crisp and fairly proper, despite the fact she is quoting the orphan Oliver Twist. There's the nudge of bills closer to the Texan, with a wink.

She laughs at the trash can lid settling in front of Ambrose. "Princess LT?" She askes, before Becca is returning with another improbable lid full of nachos. "Well, it's a good thing I'm not one of those girls who worries about her figure." Of course, she doesn't have to worry.

A slow turn of the head is given to Hod's antics. Anya watches as the trash can nachos (potential new name? up sell?) are brought out, and her eyebrows rise against the forehead when they are set down.

Then comes a snorting laugh at the Princess remark. She tries to hide it behind a spent shot glass.

A slender finger taps upon said spent glass, indicating that she'd like some more. Then, she scoots off her bar stool, slides around Thea, and adopts a stool next to Ambrose and his gigantic order of the so-called Shitty Nachos (Trash Can Nachos?). Her eyes roam from the ample amounts of garbage food, to the world be luftenant, and clearly, mischief has won out this evening.

Settling down upon the bar stool, she crosses one leg over the other, a combat boot bouncing dangerously close to Ambrose's leg.

"Princess is a good look," she quips, and reaches out with a pair of fingers, snatching up one of Ambrose's nachos with an expression that is nothing short of flirtatious.

Hod shrugs, "I'd recomend getting them home in your stomach, best done after suffering a repative motion injury to the shoulder from this," he pantomimes picking up a nacho and stuffing it in his face, "sort of gesture followed by copious mastication and a sort of swallowing action. But sure. If you don't want a to go box I can find you a trash bag to haul it home in, why not." he shrugs nonchalantly.

He gestures in Anya's general direction now that she's moved, "Good look. Blind joke. I see what you did there, Pinkie." he smirks, "Lookie there, I can make a blind joke too." he covers his mouth with a hand, "Oop! Just made another! I'm killing it tonight!" he then starts groping around under the bar, presumably looking for still more bourbon. If you work at Luke's, you know that Hod is in no way sensitive about his deformity, he's accepted it and made it his own. Doesn't mean he won't occasionally wield it like a weapon however. See previous statement about things making Hod chuckle.

"Lieutenant Princess, please, though most recently, I was informed that my new title was 'Lord Asshole'," Ambrose informs the gathering with a painful dryness. He lifts his glass to the terrible nickname with potential to be earned and kills the rest of his gin and tonic in one fell swoop.

He then plucks a nacho. His chewing is thoughtful, his brows furrowed. The dish is apparently not terrible to the master-thief, but then again, having no necessary need to eat means he's developed somewhat of a 'garbage disposal' outlook on platings. He has his favored foods, yes, but this is good stuff. Anya earns herself an eyebrow for her chip-filching.

Hod's commentary has the Englishman adopting a face of absolute innocence, as if he'd not had a single bit of input to earn this spark of ire. However, once Hod begins rustling around for the bourbon, the master-thief glances over at Anya.

"Truly a look? I'd rather have to earn myself a tiara first, don't you think? I have no royal blood to my name. I needs must marry into it." He flashes a quick grin and eats another nacho.

Becca grins at Thea, and quickly gets her her refill, with an amused glance aside to Anya and her antics. "I love this place," she says quietly, as she turns her gaze back to Thea — before stealing another one of her chips.

Thea has not hesitated to start on her nachos. As a true New Yorker, born and bred, she knows you eat and shut up about it. That is, until Atherton says something about marrying into royalty, and there's a snort. "Oh please. There are so many titles for sale cheap out there in the other side of the world, you could totally be Lord Asshole. Maybe even Baron Asshole." She sounds a little cynical and like she knows a little bit beyond the city that has always been home to her heart.

She laughs at Becca. "Well, there must be a reason I come back again and again."

"That was not a blind joke," Anya easily informs Hod. "The day I make an actual one, trust me; you'll know." She sneaks another of Ambrose's nachos, before sliding a bill over toward Becca in payment for her third shot of tequila.

"Somehow," she says, diverting her attention to Thea and then back to Ambrose, "I feel this is dangerously close to 'Russian Mail-Order Bride'. Sorry, Luftenant." A hand reaches out to briefly pat Ambrose on the arm, paired with a wicked grin. "I'm not Ivanka Trump."

Her third shot is downed with ease, before she's sliding off the bar stool and making her way around the bar, toward the back room again.

"Look out, One-Eyed Jack," she quips to Hod, before making her way into the back room again. There's still more work to be done, and she's good for her money.

Hod pffts at Anya, "Who the fuck has an eye to spare?" he quips as he comes up from behidn the bar holding a bottle in hand, it's mostly full. He then turns and heads towards the kitchen again, bottle in hand, a glass to join it, a single monster sized ice cube tinkling merrily inside it. "You children have a good evening, Her Highness Princess Lord Asshole Luftenant Atherton the Third, just guessing on that last bit, pleasure to meet you. Everyone else, enjoy the nachos, Imma be in the back getting smashed. If you need food, shout. Loudly." and then he disappears into the back, the first couple line of Wayfaring Stanger slipping past his lips as he goes. One may note, if they were the sort, /he/ never gave a name.

Despite himself, Ambrose grins at the cynicism on display from the barstool beside him. "I am technically Lieutenant Asshole, Esquire, if necessity demands precision with the titles. I need not buy another title, though…" He nods thoughtfully to himself with another nacho piled and pinched in his fingers. "…it is a thought."

Anya patpatting his arm has him briefly looking down at her hand and back up to her face, his brows furrowed. "I should bloody well hope you're not she," he manages to joke back at Anya regardless, his smile briefly sharp as a knife. His gaze follows the young woman's travels and disappearance into the back rooms. "I like her," opines the Jackal to the group as a whole with a wicked twist of a grin. "She has a streak, doesn't she."

Hod earns himself a hard squint, but the grin doesn't entirely fade from the Jackal's features. "I rather like him too. He has a…detached flippancy to his take upon reality. I shall need to come here more often." He does look to Becca though and adds, "Miss Becca, might I have either a to-go box or three…or a garbage bag, whatever suits the massive plating before me? If you choose the latter, I will not be offended. The expression on my other half's face will be worth it many, many times over."

The large bills he offered to Hod earlier still stand and will remain with the rest of the unused sum as tip.

"That she does," Becca says, in reply to Ambrose's comment about Anya, glancing at her co-worker's departing form for a moment as she does. "Not many people I'd rather have at my back, though. She's a good one."

Turning back toward the man, she says, grinning, "Funny as the bag might be, you'd prob'ly lose all the toppings, an' that'd be a crime." She peers at the remaining nachos and says, "Think two o'the big boxes will do." She fetches them quickly from a cabinet behind the bar, setting them next to the 'plate', along with some extra napkins and a couple of the little packets containing a towelette for cleaning one's hands after enjoying finger food.

Thea looks over at Ambrose, eyes narrowing just a bit. "Esquire here means a lawyer. In the UK, it means you don't have an actual title. It's just a thing showing you're respectable." She sure sounds like a New Yorker - though it's clearly the upper class Manhattan sort, when her 'accent' peeks through.

She glances in the direction Anya went. "Anya? She's got more than a streak." Thea's voice with warm with honest affection. "And, like Becca here, there are few others I would trust at my back like I do her." That's much higher praise than most people know.

"I just met him this evening, but everything I've heard is that he's a good guy." She certainly finds Hod's attitude interesting. She watches Becca go get boxes. "Well, Atherton Esquire,also known as Princess Atherton, now.. it's been a pleasure." She will sip her bourbon, before going back to her nachos.

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