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fissionmailed2008-09-09 12:55 am
xmas-is-here.livejournal.com) wrote in fissionmailed2008-09-09 12:55 am
Entry tags:
Metal Gear Noir
[After the scintillating conversation of this, Novel!Snake and KidNovel!Snake Justin Halley wander the corridors in search of an Otacon. Snake vaguely remembers that one of them lives on this floor, but he's not sure in which room.]
[Snake hears muffled music coming from behind one of the doors. The low mournful wail of a saxaphone - it's oddly compelling. Ignoring Halley's protests and neglecting to knock, Snake opens the door and steps inside.]
[This joint may have been glitzy once, but it's fallen onto hard times. Whichever auteur designed the place oughta be shot - the decor is classic 1940's Americana with Oriental elements. Added for the flavor, I suppose. The contrast is horrible. The cracked paint and chipped tiles don't help.
There's a upraised stage in the middle, surrounded by chairs. The saxophone player looks at the ground as he plays. The chanteuse - a sad-eyed thing with a lovely rosebud mouth - sways in her qipao and begs her small audience to take her away. They are hard men, tired men, and they stare back with cool disinterest.
A large faded poster dominates the right wall, featuring a happy couple dancing and words printed above them. Some comedian's taken a pen and scratched out some of the letters: NO PLACE TOGO? TRY HIDEO'S!
Only the barkeep seems happy, whistling tunelessly as he cleans and stacks glasses.
I settle down in front of him and signal for his attention.]
Two Jack Daniel's. Neat. On the rocks. And before you go...
[There was a man I was supposed to find, but I can't remember his name. The words sound wrong as soon as they leave my mouth.]
...Do you know a man who goes by the name Octagon?
[He smiles apologetically and shakes his head. I sit and wait. For what? I don't know. But it'll find me soon. Trouble always does.]
((OOC: Requesting![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
justin_filtrate and open to anyone who wants to channel their inner Raymond Chandler. You may also suffer slight memory loss, since characters with mysterious/repressed/unacknowledged pasts are a film noir staple.))
[Snake hears muffled music coming from behind one of the doors. The low mournful wail of a saxaphone - it's oddly compelling. Ignoring Halley's protests and neglecting to knock, Snake opens the door and steps inside.]
[This joint may have been glitzy once, but it's fallen onto hard times. Whichever auteur designed the place oughta be shot - the decor is classic 1940's Americana with Oriental elements. Added for the flavor, I suppose. The contrast is horrible. The cracked paint and chipped tiles don't help.
There's a upraised stage in the middle, surrounded by chairs. The saxophone player looks at the ground as he plays. The chanteuse - a sad-eyed thing with a lovely rosebud mouth - sways in her qipao and begs her small audience to take her away. They are hard men, tired men, and they stare back with cool disinterest.
A large faded poster dominates the right wall, featuring a happy couple dancing and words printed above them. Some comedian's taken a pen and scratched out some of the letters: NO PLACE TO
Only the barkeep seems happy, whistling tunelessly as he cleans and stacks glasses.
I settle down in front of him and signal for his attention.]
Two Jack Daniel's. Neat. On the rocks. And before you go...
[There was a man I was supposed to find, but I can't remember his name. The words sound wrong as soon as they leave my mouth.]
...Do you know a man who goes by the name Octagon?
[He smiles apologetically and shakes his head. I sit and wait. For what? I don't know. But it'll find me soon. Trouble always does.]
((OOC: Requesting
justin_filtrate and open to anyone who wants to channel their inner Raymond Chandler. You may also suffer slight memory loss, since characters with mysterious/repressed/unacknowledged pasts are a film noir staple.))
Because apparently Wolf is TL;DR in Noir form.
Normally, I'm not the type to indulge in the pleasures of alcohol, but for tonight, I'll make an exception. I need something to quell the stress in my life, after all. Even if just for a little while.
So I make my way to the bar, not paying much attention to the surroundings that pass me. I'm the type that would typically would know every nook and cranny of the place, but I have a lot on my mind. Surely I can let it go for once.
Once I make it to my destination, the bartender throws me a blank stare. He asks me if I'm from 'around these part of the woods'.
I simply reply with a glare as sharp as the tip of the bayonet that took the life of my mother in Kurdistan.
But that's in the past. There's no need to dwell on that now.
The bartender only gives a slight shrug before asking me what I'll gave to drink.]
Martini. Stirred.
[I always hated the idea of the Bond films. Even if I never did bother to watch any of them.
As the bartender prepares my drink, I take a seat in the furthest corner of the bar I can find. I'm not too keen on the whole social aspect of bars. Especially in ones as run-down as this one was. I find that dilapidated bars produce dilapidated people. My standards are far higher than that.
I get so lost in my own thoughts, that I barely notice when the bartender placed the martini in front of me. Slowly, I tip the gin and vermouth concoction down my throat.
I know it won't change my current predicament and it sure as hell won't make it any better. But all I want is respite. Even if it only lasts a little while.
As I sit, alone, at my bar stool. I wait for my buzz to kick in.]