Welcome to the Apocalypse

[JellyPooga]

Prologue

As with many great saga's, this one starts in a tavern, a public house, an inn, or more commonly; 'the pub'. Your local in fact. For a while now, it's been closed for refurbishment under new management. It only reopened last week under the new name of "The Brass Rings", it's shingle ('sign' to those of less educated background...) is a fancy construction of 3 interlocking brass hoops hanging conspicuously above the front door.

As it's been advertising an open mic night all week, you decided to bite and see if it might relieve the tedium of your dreary existence. Anything's got to be better than just plodding along, finding what work you can in between reading about nothing happening in the papers, right? For some reason, the past few weeks have been somewhat subdued; no-one wants to talk, there seems to be less people out on the streets and even the various skirmishes and conflicts going on around the world seem to be on hiatus. It's as if a world-wide malaise has hit the human race and no one can be bothered to do anything about it, least of all you.

So you find yourself in the Brass Rings, some woman on the small stage screeching a folk song that you barely recognise whilst what you assume is her brother mauls a guitar next to her. On the stage is an assortment of crappy looking amps, mic stands and even a small drum kit set up. The barman, a short, stocky, bald man with large sideburns, looks familiar for some reason, but you can't place why because you could swear you've never met him before. He's not very talkative, but he pulls a decent pint and clearly knows his job well. The main bar is not crowded by any means and no-one looks as if they're having a good time.

A guy who's clearly a biker, by the leathers, chains and Metallica t-shirt, is hustling pool with a couple of toughs in denim with mullets (they clearly think it's still the 80's...some people never let go). Despite the fact that, through intimidation and no small amount of skill, he's winning the biker does not look as if he's having a good time, most likely because of the horrendous music that's been played all night. A tatty looking electric guitar stands propped against his chair, on which is his helmet and heavy leather jacket.

In the corner, where the light is low, his face shadowed by the trilby he wears, a man sits still wearing his trenchcoat despite the fact that it's still dripping wet from the rain you can still hear pittering against the window. He appears to be happy just to watch the bar, or more accurately the people in the bar with a look on his face that just screams "internal monologue".

Sitting at the bar, half a bottle of tequila in one hand, guitar case at his feet is a burly man who's clearly of hispanic descent...the rather large sombrero kind of gives away that he just might be mexican. By the empty bottle next to the one he's holding, he looks like he's been there a while and by the look in his eye he looks like he might be there a while yet. He has one eye on the stage, clearly waiting for the appaling act that's on to finish, the other eye is on his bottle, making sure that the amber liquid goes nowhere but down his throat.

Across the bar from the mexican is a man; washed out clothes, despair written across his face as he sucks at a beer, glowering at the clientele with a look that only the truly down and out can acheive. A tatty notebook lies forgotten on the bar next to him, a ball-point pen jammed in the binding. The way he looks at his beer is somewhat similar to the way a hobo looks at a pizza box that's actually got a whole slice left in it...the best thing that's happened to him in far too long.

Perhaps the most noticable person in the room is a rather well dressed man who's clearly enjoying himsef immensly, though it's unclear as to why. His maroon suit shimmers in the light and his smile is more of a smirk as it alights on the other patrons. He sips at an exotically coloured cocktail with a chile pepper in it, occasionally pulling a tin of snuff from his inside pocket and taking a hit. Though he sits with one arm around a stunningly beautiful woman, she does not appear to be the source of his enjoyment; in fact, he does not appear to be paying much attention to her at all and nor she to him. The group he's sitting with aren't enjoying themselves nearly as much (though they seem to be having the best time anyone's having in here), but for some reason, they fade in to the background in comparison to the man in the maroon suit such that you can't quite distinguish anything about them except the occasional brash laugh or flash of colour and money as one gets up to get another round of drinks.

A small group of girls, obviously dressed up for a night out on the town, sits by the jukebox, but they look nervous and bored. Clearly expecting more from the night than they're getting, a few empty glasses sit on their table and they're clearly wondering whether to buy another round or brave the weather and move on to somewhere more exciting. One of them occasionally takes an appreciative glance at some of the more attractive male patrons, but there's not really any effort in it as if she's wondering whether it would be worth the effort to try flirting with anyone.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The pub suddenly goes quiet and a smattering of applause goes around the bar as people realise that the folk act has finished. The woman and her brother step down from the stage and go to the bar as the compere comes out from the kitchens and steps up to the mic.

"Well, how about that ladies and gents? Lets have another round of applause for, er, Sarah and George."

He clearly thinks they don't deserve it by the monotony in his voice, but he's got to go throught the motions. Another smattering of claps comes from the table of girls, but otherwise the bar is silent. You half expect some tumbleweed to blow across the stage.

"So, who's up next? Don't be shy"

He pauses ther for a few seconds, sighs and goes back to the kitchen. The only sound in the bar is the sound of weather outside and a low murmur from the group surrounding the man in maroon.

[MrEdwardNigma]

With a soft thump Manuel's boots hit the barfloor. He looks around the bar, tipping his sombrero somewhat to allow him to see more, and more importantly, to be seen. Manuel grins as he spots the hurdle of girls in the corner. He also ventures a glance at the woman who seems to be boring herself to death in the maroonsuited man's arms. He gives her a sly wink and then picks up his guitarcase and walks over to the stage, tequila still in hand. Manuel quite purposefully passes by the girl's table and briefly stops.
"Hello, señorita" he says to the one closest to him, and clearly the most attractive one of the bunch.
"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, indicating the Sarah and George with a nod of the head.
"Or do you think this place needs some livening up?"

Having said this Manuel downs what is left of the tequila, which is quite a bit actually. He puts down the bottle on their table softly and says "This is for you, señorita", and then continues on to the stage, where he starts playing a quite lively serenade.

((OOC: Quite obviously the song is for the girl, not the empty bottle of booze, that was simply to establish his place at the table.
I'm doing a check, in case it's necessary:
Womanising Mariachi: [roll0]))

[JellyPooga]

The girl seems taken quite by surprise by Manuels' forward nature and merely sits stunned, mouth slghtly agape as he begins his serenade. The rest of the girls giggle and whisper amongst themsleves, ending with what is obviously a question to the girl Manuel approached, but she seems oblivious to her friends, a slight smile on her face at the attention given to her by this masculine hunk of mexican.

After being jabbed in the ribs by her friends, she seems to come out of her reverie and turns back to them, answering their question in low tones. As the serenade goes on, however, she keeps looking back over her shoulder at Manuel, not really paying attention to her friends, clearly impressed by his playing.

[Uncle_Putte]

The bum at the bar gives the mexican a look as if he'd be trying to crush him with his mind as he mounts the stage, but seems to look genuinely surprised when it turns out that, against all universal laws of propability, someone with musical talent turns up on an open mic night. He actually seems to lighten up a little, which he obviously hasn't done in quite a while. He picks up the notebook, pops out the pen and scribbles a little, while thoughtfullly draining his stout in steady swigs.

Mariarchi, goes on the first line, and after a while of deliberation the next words come in fluid succession. Mistaken for gunslinger by crime lord, fights for survival. A new stout, and ballantines, since it seemed to be the cheapest. He's hitting the hooch like it was going out of fashion. Rocket launcher guitar case.

He stops writing, re-reads the notes, frowns, and adds a final note before returning to his usual, vegetative state. Completely retarded. Would not go over even in Hollywood.

[Vespe Ratavo]

The man in the trilby smiles and nods to no one in particular as Manuel begins to play. From his pocket, he produces a pipe, a notebook, and a pen. A few bubbles float out of the pipe as he begins to write.

My city screams. She is my mother. She is my lover. He stares blankly at the page for a few moments, then crosses out that line. Found Ms. Higgenson's cat. And Ms. Todd's cat. Is the only value of a detective finding flustered felines? Clinic doing slightly better, but few customers take me seriously. Always joking if I've busted any mob bosses lately. But that's the thing. No mob bosses here. No supervillains. Just lost cats and jeering patients.

Surely, in a world such as this, there's no place for a doctor-detective. He glances around the room. A few more bubbles float out.

Wrong. Something is going to happen here. Tonight. I can feel it. And don't call me Shirley.

Dr. Detective

He puts away the notebook and pipe, and watches Manuel play.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Smiling at the ladies, Manuel continues playing. He also glances over casually at the bored woman who was with the man in the maroon suit. It would be good if the girls got slightly jealous. He knew how to play this game, because he played it every night. Taverns in Mexico, America or Britain, they were all the same, and the women even more so. All beautiful unique snowflakes, and they all fell for the same tricks. Manuel turned his attention back to the girl and slowed down. His music turned from what had been a quite fast-paced, happy serenade to a slow, passionate lovesong. he sang to accompany his guitar. His voice sounded nothing like the deep bass it was when he was talking earlier, nothing like what you'd expect from such a big, buff man, but sensual.

[JellyPooga]

Ronnie ((the guy with the notepad)) seems to feel the effects of the booze he's drunk a little more than he would normally have expected. He sways a little on his bar stool as the barman serves him another stout. As he looks at his notepad, the lines blur slightly in his vision but then the feeling passes and he once again feels like he ought to; slightly depressed and not drunk enough by far. Something doesn't quite seem right, though he can't quite put his finger on it.

As Dr. Detective puts away his notebook, his feeling that something's not right intensifies. Puzzled as he looks around the bar, he can't shake the feeling that something definitively weird is happening or is going to happen. It's like a pressure in his head that won't go away and it consumes his thoughts for a moment. The click-clack of the pool table interrupts his reverie, bringing him back into focus, the pressure gone but the weird feeling on wrongness lingers.

As Manuel plays, the woman with the maroon suited man starts paying him some attention, much to the dissapointment of the girl he dedicated his song to. Playing 'the game' is clearly working as expected because one of the girls at her table gets up and orders more drinks. As she sits back down with the round, a distinct jolt runs up Manuels' playing arm, causing him to hit a bum note...something he's not done since he can remember. The note goes largely unnoticed except by Manuel himself, but after the mistake, something seems different about the place. The woman with the maroon suited man has clearly taken an interest at the mexican on the stage, a smoldering look on her face as she sips at the expensive looking cocktail she holds. She whispers something to the maroon suit and he looks up at Manuel, raises his eyebrow and smirks. He winks once at Manuel and raises his glass before returning to whatever converstaion he was having before he was interrupted.

((O.k. a note on play, re: making a cliche test. I will only call for a specific check rarely, so if you wish to use a particular cliche, go right ahead and roll it, along with the requisite "use description" and I'll incorporate the result into my next post. For example, Manuel rolled his Womanising Mariachi, scoring 11, which was enough to play a decent tune and get the attention of the girl he was playing to. The same goes for if you want to counteract something I've written...e.g. if I say you're feeling drunk and you wish to contest it, roll a relevant cliche in you next post. If you roll/describe it sufficiently well, then I'll make the relevant correction in my next post after that (to continue the example, if you succeed the test to counteract feeling drunk, in my next post I'll just add something to the effect of "it was just a brief feeling of wooziness before you feel ok again"). Oh and anything I write in double brackets like this is OOC, just an FYI.))

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel finished up his song and took a brief bow. He then went to the girls' table and slid onto the bench they were sitting on. He stretched out his arm and put it around the girl's shoulder. The sudden strange atmosphere was bothering him somewhat, but he'd found that nothing helped him get over a spot of bother like that like a hot girl's love. Well, that and liquor. He signalled to the bartender.
"Tequila for me and the ladies!"

[Vespe Ratavo]

With the reassuring sounds of the pool table restoring his focus, Dr. Detective decides to get down to business. He pulls out his notebook again, narrows his eyes, and pulls down the brim of his hat. He casts his gaze around the room, taking in everything, trying to write down every detail, no matter how insignificant.

Hispanic man playing guitar. Sombrero indicates Mexican, could be deliberately misleading. Playing excellent, one bum note. Signal? Burly. Drinking tequila. Playing up Mexican identity? Hiding something?

Other man with notebook. Clothes and book in bad condition. Homeless? Wrote very short note. Writer? Reporter? Under cover?

Biker playing pool. Tough guy. Also has guitar. Nothing unusual.

Group of people. Man in maroon suit, has arm around woman. Seem apathetic towards each other. Looks wealthy. Woman appears interested in Mexican. Man winked. Curious.

Group of young women. Mexican man seemed interested in one. Previously looked bored, now ordering more drinks. Is the man working for the bar, keeping patrons interested?

Mexican man now drinking with women. Will continue observations.

He keeps watching, hoping to catch something particularly out of the ordinary.

[roll0]

[Vespe Ratavo]

Boop. Roll messed up. Let's try that one more time.

[roll0]

[Vespe Ratavo]

ARRRGH. I am stupid. That is supposed to say "Detective." Sorry for the triple post. Won't happen again. >.<

[JellyPooga]

As Manuel steps down from the stage, he receives a round of applause, most notably from the girls and the woman sitting with the man in maroon. A few moments later, the compere comes out from the kitchen and heads for the stage. As he's about to step up, he stops, his gaze on the man in maroon, then suddenly he turns and heads for the jukebox. He pulls a few coins from his pocket and slots them in, tapping out a selection of tunes. Clearly the open mic is now closed. The bartender places a bottle of tequila, 6 shot glasses, a cut lemon and a salt shaker on a tray and takes it over to Manuel and the girls. Before heading back to the bar, he whispers to Manuel;

"You've got a tab now, I expect it to be paid before you leave"

As the country and western tones of The Charlie Daniels Band fill the bar, the mood seems to improve somewhat from the general boredom that pervaded before. The girls, with the patronage and attention of Manuel, start looking like they might be enjoying themselves. Manuel is clearly soaking up the adoration of his senorita and enjoying every minute. The group with the man in maroon are talking in less subdued tones and the laughs seem less forced and more natural. Even the toughs at the pool table seem to have perked up a bit, though that might just be the booze they've been drinking finally hitting them.

As Dr. Detective studies the bar, his attention focused mainly on the large mexican and his new found harem, his eyes are drawn to the bar tender as he brings the bottle of tequila over. Though he can't quite place what, he's sure that there's something different about him. Pondering what it could be, he starts thinking about the only other member of staff, the compere. He suddenly realises that it was somewhat odd for him to have not declared open mic finished and further that, after looking at the man in maroon, his actions were somewhat wooden as if he was slightly dazed or he was thinking about something else.

After a round of tequila, the girls introduce themselves to Manuel as Claire, Chantelle, Fi, Laura (Manuels' senorita) and Getty. They are a typical group of early 20's girls out on the lash, looking for a bit of fun. They're chatty and flirty with Manuel and don't seem a bit put off by him being so forward, though more than one of them has her hand firmly fixed to her handbag.

[Vespe Ratavo]

Compere didn't declare open mic night finished. Actions seemed wooden after seeing man in maroon suit. Thinking about something else? Familiar with? Positive relationship wouldn't have caused daze. Negative? Obligation to Maroon?

Suspicious, to be sure, but the good Doctor doesn't have any real substantial proof of anything unusual. Yet.

He stands up and walks over to the bar. I'd like a dry martini. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet, and a large thin slice of lemon peel. Shaken, not stirred. Incidentally, do you know who that man in the maroon suit is?

Not sure if I need it, but...
[roll0] (to see if the bartender will tell him)
[roll1] (in case the bartender happens to be a James Bond fan :smalltongue:)

[Levyathyn]

They called him the Jackal. Not these cardboard cutout, dime-a-dozen barflies, but the real people. The road people. Dissatisfied with the game, he lays the pool stick down and collects his meager winnings. The night picked up a bit when that mariachi, of all things, made a scene to impress some small town party girl. But the country/western thing wasn't going down with the Jackal at all. Open mic night seemed to be closed for the evening. With a slight feeling of regret, he looked at his beautiful guitar. Beaten as it was, he still got play from it. He takes another look around and cracks his knuckles, wondering if he should start a fight.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel pulled the girl a little closer to his muscular chest. They'd been talking and joking for quite a while now. His charm was working, and he expected no less. This was what little talent God had given him, and Madre Dios, he was going to use it. He leant over and whispered something in the girl's ear, making her giggle. They'd just finish the tequila, and then he'd take her up to his room. He'd pay the bartender the next morning, or perhaps while exiting the bar on the way up. He'd been here more often, the bartender would trust him enough. he knew Manuel would come by for a coffee in the morning, usually with a girl on his arm.

[JellyPooga]

The barman simply gives Dr. Detective a withering look at the Bond reference, but dutifully mixes the martini to order. Serving the drink he says plainly:

"Mr. Natas? Yeah, I know 'im. A lot of people know 'im, if not personally, if you know what I mean."

With a slight smirk on his face he goes back to polishing glasses. The folk singer and her brother decide to call it a night, put on their coats and head out the door.

The 80's boys look sullen and mutter to each other in the corner, clearly a little disgruntled at having lost to this stranger. They take a few more swigs of beer and seeing Jackal crack his knuckles, start to look as if they might kick off before he does.

A couple of the girls with Manuel are starting to look a bit worse for wear after the tequila shots and the group start making 'perhaps it's time we got going' motions, though nothing definite. Laura seems reluctant to leave Manuel as she's clearly enjoying his company, but her friends wanting to leave has put her on edge slightly. She shuffles away from Manuel a bit and excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

The man in maroon looks up at them as the 80's boys finish their beers and with a smile on his face gives a simple nod to them before returning to his drink. The boys look slightly bewildered, shrug and one of them picks up a pool cue and they both circle round to opposite sides of Jackal as the man in maroon leans over and whispers something to the woman he's with. She frowns slightly at whatever it was he said, stands and puts on her jacket. As she does, the rest of the group gets up with her, finishing off drinks and generally making ready to leave. The man in maroon just sits there watching Jackal, a curious look on his face and takes another hit of snuff.

The track on the jukebox comes to and end and a strange silence descends over the bar for a few moments. The woman and group that was with the man in maroon pauses slightly, a couple of them giving wary looks to the bartender, before making a somewhat hasty retreat.

The next track that comes on blares out in jarring contrast to the mellow C&W that had been playing; Iron Maidens The Number of the Beast roars from the speakers as the 80's boy that picked up the cue swings it at Jackals back and the other moves in in an amateur fighting stance.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel looked at the jukebox dissaprovingly. He could enjoy Iron Maiden sometimes, when hanging out in the rowdier biker bars or while driving, but right now it was a real moodkiller. The girl in his arm had left and Manuel was feeling uneasy. Something about the atmosphere was quite wrong but he couldn't put his finger on it and his glass was disturbly devoid of alcohol. To top things on there was a barfight starting up, and nothing ended a night at the pub like a barfight. He could see the looks on the girls' faces, they'd clear out as soon as their friend got back. He'd have to do something to turn things around.

Manuel got up, shot the lady with the man in the maroon suit a questioning look, as if saying "leaving so soon?", and then turned to the jukebox.
"Happy music... happy music" he mumbled as he idly cycled through the songs on the jukebox. A pool que snapped somewhere behind him and there were some thuds.
"Ah, here we go..."
Manuel pushed a button on the jukebox and Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash started playing as The Number of the Beast ended. Not exactly what he'd been looking for, but suitable enough, and certainly less off-putting than Iron Maiden. Ignoring the fight entirely Manuel walked up to the bathroom as the girl walked back into the tavern and grabbed her by the waist. He smiled.
"Wanna dance, señorita?"

[MrEdwardNigma]

Another check, in case it's necessary:
Womanising Mariachi: [roll0]

[Uncle_Putte]

Somewhere in the middly of his fourth pint and twentieth bad idea of the night, Ronnie's Drunkard Senses start tingling. There's a distinct, uncomfortable change to the readily murky atmosphere, the kind he remembers most from five seconds to go-time. He looks the bar-room over, and spots the mulleteers surrounding the biker.

Jesus Christ. The McGyver sisters versus the runaway Village People. You can't get away from chavs anywhere these days.

After that, he spends a moment idling over the sobering thought of whether he himself actually counts as a chav. One look in the mirror behind the bar confirms he's not wearing fake burberry, though, but the irritation doesn't quite completely subside. Ronnie's starting to feel mean. He looks over at the three would-be-combatants, and comments loudly enough for the three of them to hear.

"Oi, nancy, would ya put that stick down? I know ya take bigger all the time, but this one's bound to hurt ya the most!"

((Rolling Raconteur (2) to [roll0]))

[Vespe Ratavo]

Dr. Detective sips his martini while writing. "A lot of people know him, but not personally." Mr. Natas signaled men in mullets to surround biker. Brawl imminent. I believe I shall take my exercise.

He finishes his drink, pays for it, puts his journal away, and walks over to the mullet-men and Jackal. Didn't your mother ever tell you fighting was wrong? He punches his open palm with his other fist. Someone could get hurt.

[Levyathyn]

Seeing the discreet nod from the well-dressed, pompous man, Jackal notices the thugs start to circle around him. Slowly, a smile spreads on his face. He gives a slight nod of thanks to the man, and turns to face one of the mullet-squad. The man picks up a pool cue just as Iron Maiden kicks in, and he swings it with vigor. The Jackal moves to block, and the brawl commences.

Biker (4) - [roll0]

[MrEdwardNigma]

The brawl was getting load, and too many people seemed to be joining in. Manuel looked the girl in the eyes.
"Maybe we had best leave? This is no place for a señorita"

[JellyPooga]

((I'm dubbing the 80's boys 'Pool Cue' and 'Punk' for the sake of ease, even if 'Pool Cue' somehow loses his weapon...I'm sure you can guess which is which!))

Punk turns, midswing, to Dr. Detective and follows the punch through in an attempt to connect with the be-trenchcoated man trying to interrupt him.


Pool Cue: [roll0]

Punk: [roll1]


Jackal goes for an overhead block, but at the last second, Pool Cue brings his swing down into a side-swipe at Jackals ribs, snapping his weapon across his opponents torso ((You're at -1 Biker until you've rested up Jackal)). Throwing the stump of the cue to one side he backs up a bit as Jackal recovers. A fierce look on his face, he turns and points at Ronnie;

"You're next, if you're man enough to stick around. No-one calls me a nancy and gets away with it"

he growls before turning his attention back to Jackal, waiting for his next move.

((I'm gonna need a combat roll from Dr.Detective (I'll leave results for you to describe vs. Punks roll above...assuming you know Risus' combat system?) as well as another Biker roll from Jackal if you want to keep brawling))

As the sharp retort of the pool cue snapping across a mans body rings out across the bar, the girls panic, obviously not wanting to get involved in any way. They quickly gather up their things and head towards the door. Laura, entrapped by Manuels manly grasp and smouldering gaze, looks uncertainly between her friends leaving, Manuel and the brawl going on the other side of the bar. At Manuels' question, she looks at him and nods, grabbing her purse and coat.

As the two of you turn and head for the door the man in maroon is suddenly blocking the exit as the last of the other girls disappear from sight. You're sure he wasn't near the door before and you certainly didn't hear anyone moving behind you. He smiles and takes a sip of his drink.

"I'm afraid I can't be letting you leave just yet. Excuse the, uh, commotion but I have a proposition for you. Shall we?"

His voice is smooth as silk and you feel compelled to listen to every word. He holds his hand out to Laura, who untangles herself from Manuel and takes it as if in a trance. The man in maroon leads her to his table, sits her and himself down and gestures to the barman who, apparantly oblivious to the brawl, begins mixing two cocktails. As the barman brings over the drinks, as well as a bottle of tequila, the man in maroon beckons to Manuel.

"Come, sit. We have much to discuss"

His suit shimmers in the light, entrancing, his voice irresistable to refuse. The noise of the brawl fades into insignificance as Manuel finds himself proceeding towards the table, guitar case limp in his hand, a glazed look in his eye.

((apologies for a bit of a time-warp going on, The Number of the Beast is still playing (it has, after all, only just come on) but Ring of Fire should be up after a couple more rounds of combat/conversation...can't be helped with the nature of PbP I guess))

[MrEdwardNigma]

This wasn't normal, Manuel thought. He'd been on his way out to his motel room with a beautiful girl on his arm, and nothing had ever stopped him from doing that as far as he could recall, and certainly not some pompous suit. Did he have his paws on Laura? Manuel could feel his Latino blood boiling.
"I am sorry, hombre, but we were just on our way out. It's been a long night, see? But if you've got some offer, you tell me in the morning. Eight o'clock, eh? I go here every morning before work"

He extended his hand to Laura.
"C'mon, muchacha, I'll show you a good time"

[Vespe Ratavo]

Like any good hard-boiled (or possibly deviled) detective, Dr. Detective is no stranger to love bare-knuckled brawling. He moves to dodge Punk's punch and returns the favor with a strong upper-cut.

[roll0]

[Vespe Ratavo]

Punk's punch goes sailing harmlessly through the air, as the good Doctor applies pressure to the man's mandible.

(Punk loses -1 Barfly.)
((Am I doin' it rite?))

[Uncle_Putte]

((Changing speech colour to avoid confusion with Manuel. In case the punk tries to jump me, the GM may feel free to roll on my stead to keep the game moving fast.))

The punk's promise seems to have the exact opposite of the intended effect on Ronnie. He straightens his back, leans an elbow against the bar and turns halfway towards the brawlers, after which he promptly proceeds to add even more gasoline to the fire, in hopes of making a lasting impression.

"You think you can, nancy? You look like a pair of bollocks short of a pikey to me. I'd figure you for an uphill gardener, actually. Thing is, I'm also thinking you ought to have kept that stick intact 'cause yer likely goin' ta need one ta walk fer the rest of yer life!"

There's a half-triumphant half-loony, coffee-yellowed grin on his face, denoting the fact that mentally he's looking firmly downwards at his opponent even from his seated position.

((Rolling Raconteur (2) to [roll0]))

[Vespe Ratavo]

I know I said I wouldn't be doing another triple post...I'm sorry, so sorry. I need to plan my posts better. :smallsigh:

But anyway, my next combat roll -

Dr. Detective follows up his argument with five good points. To the face.

[roll0]

[Levyathyn]

The Jackal smiles as he touches the bruise on his ribs. He lunges forward with a tight snapping arc, bringing his fist around at the tough.

Biker (3) - [roll0]

[JellyPooga]

((Gah! Sorry about the delay but I lost my job last Friday and I've been trying to sort out my life these past couple of days...doesn't leave a lot of time for recreation :smallfrown: @Vespe: Yup, spot on.))

Punk:

Pool Cue: [roll1]

Punk recoils from Dr.Detectives' uppercut, putting him off guard and off balance for the crushing blow to the face that follows. With a sickening crunch, blood spurts from his, now obviously broken, nose and he reels backwards, stumbling over a chair. He barely stays upright and pauses to wipe blood from his face with his sleeve. With a quick shake of his head to clear the daze, he lurches towards the doctor and clumsily throws a punch. Though it lacks style, the rage driving it makes it a blow you wouldn't want to connect.

Punk: [roll=Barfly]1d6

Pool Cue barely dodges Jackals' swing, jerking his head back just in time. Before Jackal can recover his equilibrium, the mullet-ed man ducks low and delivers two swift jabs to Jackals already bruised ribs. Though not particularly strong blows, they hurt all the more for being precisely placed in an already injured location ((that's another -1 Biker)). Ignoring the taunts directed at him from the other side of the bar and thinking that he's got the upper hand, Pool Cue decides to go for something flashy and leaps into the air for an impressive aerial roundhouse kick.

Pool Cue: 3d6

((@Vespe + Levyathyn: Results down to you guys for this round!))

The smile on the man in maroons' face becomes a smirk.

"I'm afraid I insist Manuel. I have an...interest...in your particular, hmm, how can I put this? Talents? You really should sit down."

One minute Manuel was standing, taking offence at the smug ponce. The next thing he knew, he found himself sitting opposite that same man, a glass of tequila in hand, not entirely sure how he got from one to the other. The strangest thing though is that the rage that had pricked his thoughts only moments before was simply gone, replaced momentarily by quiescent compliance. Laura has a glazed look in her eye as she looks around the bar with complete antipathy, clearly not interested in anything going on; odd given the brawl occurring not fifteen feet from where she sits. It strikes you that she's acting in a very similar manner to the woman that the man in maroon was sitting with earlier.

"Now Manuel, please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste, as you can see. I've been around for a long, long time, though you may not have seen me around. Pleased to meet you...Again"

The man in maroon reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a snuff box, takes a pinch for himself and offers it to Manuel.

[JellyPooga]

((bugger, I was hoping those extra rolls would come through on the edit...no matter, here's the rolls for the next round of combat))

Punk: [roll0]

Pool Cue: [roll1]

[MrEdwardNigma]

Somewhere in the back of Manuel's mind a voice was screaming, but the rest of him seemed to have decided not to fight back. He took the snuffbox and stared at it, unsure what to do with it. Finally Manuel put it down on the table and downed his tequila instead.
"You say we have met before, señor?"

[JellyPooga]

The man in maroon puts the snuff box away, pushing the bottle of tequila closer to Manuel instead.

"Indeed we have, but I very much doubt you'd remember it, so don't fret yourself. In fact, the subject of our last meeting is rather why I really need to talk to you. You see, tonight, at oooh...around midnight; don't you just love cliche'd stuff like that? I know I do...positively thrive on it!"

You double take as you swear his eyes glowed red when he says 'thrive', but you dismiss it as he continues to speak.

"By-the-by. At the stroke of midnight, I shall be ending your world and I want you and your friends here"

He gestures to all the other people in the bar

"to partake in a little game of mine."

He sits back, nonchalant as if he was just talking about the football or the weather and takes a sip of his cocktail.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel shook his head. The fellow must have drugged his drink. He thought he saw his eyes flicker there, and he didn't seem to be able to get up and leave, which is what he would have done in any other situation.
"Ending the world?"
Manuel laughed loudly.
"You must be drunk, señor. You drunk too much, eh, and now you're talking bull****. Sound like a madman, hombre. And I don't know you. I think I would remember, eh?"

[Levyathyn]

The jukebox stops and starts playing some Johnny Cash. The Jackal doesn't seem to be enjoying this anymore.

Lead Guitarist (pumped) - [roll0]

Pumping an Inappropriate Cliche; Allowed, right?

[Levyathyn]

The Jackal easily dodges the kick. He leaps backwards and grabs his Stratocaster in a swift movement. He lunges at the man with a feral roar and brings the guitar to bear violently, swinging it with all his might. The heavy guitar connects with the punk's face and sends him hurtling into the pool table head first. He falls to the ground, limp, as The Jackal stands smiling over him.

So I'm at Lead Guitarist (1), and the punk's at Barfly (0), if I did it right.

[Uncle_Putte]

Disappointed at the lack of attention, Ronnie takes a look at the bartender. It strikes him as a little odd that the man seems completely oblivious to the propability of property damage to his establishment, but concludes it to be none of his concern. What does concern him is, though, that he's missing out on the party, and since the authority in the house isn't reacting, he takes it as a signal for a nice late-night free-for-all. He drops out of his chair limberly, grins like a loon and quips; "Go time, nancy!"

He hustles the few feet apart to the cue kid, and makes an attempt to give his ninja antics a hurtful interruption. Left foot, left hand lead. Right heel pivots out, pelvis following the motion, then the rest of the body. Right hand begins extending, chin tucks in the nook of the shoulder, fist rotates mildly inwards, hopefully for a satisfying impact in the facial area.

((Scrappy Drunk (4) on Pool Cue for [roll0]))

((Edit: It appears that for some god-forlorn reason I entirely missed page 2 before posting. Not knowing the proper order of progression of the whole thing, I'll leave resolving the outcome of the actions to the DM.))

[Vespe Ratavo]

Dr. Detective grins. Time to finish this. He dodges, turns behind the raging punk, and tries to connect one solid punch to the back of the head.

[roll0]

[Vespe Ratavo]

The punch connects. The punk collapses. The Detective laughs. The Doctor sighs. I suppose I better patch you up. He mumbles something about the Hippocratic Oath, reaches into his medical bag, pulls out some medical...stuff, and starts trying to fix up the punk. His player isn't very good at that, so he'll let the professional handle the details.

Punk drops to 0 Barfly, and gets knocked out.

[JellyPooga]

((@Levyathyn: I think you rolled too many dice for the Pumped Cliché, but that's ok, 'cos beating someone round the head with a guitar is just too damn cool! Oh and pumping an inappropriate cliché is fine.

I think we'll have a little time-warp to account for Uncle Putte))

As Jackal leaps back for his make-shift weapon, Ronnie makes his move, launching his attack just as Jackal swings his guitar. Ronnie connects, spinning Pool Cue on a heel in time for Jackals' guitar to crash into the back of his head, sending him sprawling into the pool table head first. The Denim Knight bounces off the corner of the table and crashes to the ground, definitely out for the count.

The remaining Punk is made to look a fool as Dr. Detective neatly sidesteps, causing Punk to overreach by a mile. It takes the barest of taps on the back of his noggin to bring him to his knees where he makes an executive decision to stay. A couple of seconds of swaying later his eyes roll back and he crashes out, scattering a couple of chairs as he goes down, a small puddle of blood spreading from his smashed nose as the Doc hunkers down and begins tending his wounds.

As the second figure crashes to the ground, an eerie hush descends, the bass vocals of Cash the only sound for a second. The man in maroon, having paused for the twin crash of barflies hitting the deck, grins at the sound and breaks the 'silence'.

"I am most definitely not drunk Manuel, I'm just not made that way."

He seems amused by the notion.

"And if we have not met, how is it that I know your name? Let me ask you a question; are you a religious man at all? Do you believe in ghosts or ghouls, devils and such? Answer me true."

At his question, his face turns serious for the first time since he started talking, the smile suddenly gone from his face. For some reason, the expression now on his face evokes a memory of something half forgotten, but you cannot place what of. It's as if you were drunk at the time or you were looking through thick fog...you suspect the former more likely.

[Levyathyn]

No problem. =) I guess I pumped it up too much, but overkill is better than just enough kill, in my opinion.

The Jackal smiles and nods at the dishevelled stranger before him. He says his first words of the evening as he playfully twirls his guitar around in large, calloused hands. "Thanks. Folks call me The Jackal. I guess you can call me Connor." He says, shrugging it off. The night's entertainment took the edge off. Up close, some of the tattoos on his arm are a little more clear. His sleeveless Kill 'Em All shirt slightly torn from the fight.

[Vespe Ratavo]

Right. Take it easy for a while. Dr. Detective stands up, and walks over to the Jackal, holding out his hand. Excellent show, sir. My name is Dr. Detective, pleasure to meet you.

[MrEdwardNigma]

"You could have got my name from the bartender, señor"

...
Manuel considered the man's question.
"Yes. Yes, I am a religious man. I went to church every day back where I came from. This tiny little pueblo, see, and everyone went to la iglesia, but we really believed, señor. Pious people. Good people"
Manuel wiped away a tear.
"Churches here, they are just not the same, señor. People don't really believe in the virgin Mary. Not real belief, you know what I mean?"

[Uncle_Putte]

Ronnie rubs his fist for a moment, then nods at the two 'gents' present. He seems to take a bit of a mental double-take on Dr. Detective's introduction, but decides it must be some sort of an obscure surname from some distant parts of the world, since the person bearing it didn't seem an ill-minded sociopath. "Ronnie.", he speaks out, in a voice that brings to mind Joe Cocker after a bottle of brandy. He glances at the downed stooges, tosses a 20 pence on the floor, and mumbles a recommendation for them to get a haircut. "Nothing more sad than dancing with a charva on a friday night", he adds in to no-one in particular, while making his way back to where he left his beer. There's little to hint an actual invitation, but the gesture does seem a little as if he wouldn't mind company either.

[JellyPooga]

((ah crap, sorry guys but my recent loss of job has taken up more time than I first thought it would, which hasn't left an awful lot of time for this game. I'm going to have to put this game on hiatus for a while whilst I sort out my life and such. When I've got more time to myself, I'll let you know and maybe we can continue if you're still interested...with any luck I'll be all sorted by either this weekend or the weekend after, but I can't promise anything...dammit, just as I was getting to the plot :smallamused:...))

[JellyPooga]

"Yes. Yes I believe I do."

The man in maroon pauses, as if for thought, before continuing.

"Everything you have been told by your religion is true. A bit. Sort of. The same could be said for every other religion, folk tale and myth in the cosmos, though, so don't be getting your hopes up!"

He grins, clearly enjoying being ambiguous.

"With your particular beliefs though, you might call me...The Devil! Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!!"

As the slightly maniacal laughter dies off, the bar is plunged into silence as the jukebox changes track. The man in maroon simply sits back in his chair and waits, smirking, for Manuels' response.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The bartender, who calmly stood and polished pint glasses for the duration of the fight, has poured Ronnie another beer by the time he gets back to his stool and is in the process of mixing a martini. As he places the glass on the bar near Dr.Detective, he reaches for the cooler cabinet with his left hand and cracks the top off of an icy cold bottle of beer, sliding it down the bar towards Connor.

"These ones're on the house gents"

His voice is flat and cold, not at all like you'd expect from someone offering free booze.

[Uncle_Putte]

There's no looking into the gift-horse's mouth, as the phrase goes, and even less passing on gift-stout. But there's still something very unusual to the fact that the barman seems to be commending the three for just flooring two paying customers on his shift.

"Y'know, been a bit of an odd night if you ask me...", he ponders aloud to all and no-one in particular "... and I'm not meaning the odd people alone."

He gives a moment to ponder the mariarchi, then glances at Dr.Detective by the corner of his eye, and decides to drop the subject.

"Suppose it's just me being a wee bit drunk. Or not drunk enough."

[Levyathyn]

Jackal leans his slightly worn guitar to it's previous, restful place and shrugs. He lifts the cold beer and takes a draught, enjoying the rare good flavor of a free round. He gives the bartender an odd consideration, but passes the remark off as apathy for ausing a scene in his bar.

The jukebox changes tracks, oddly, almost immediately after the brawl. Jackal just shrugs and watches the man dressed as if he stepped out of a 70's disco exploitation film. His use of an odd nickname for himself is something that Jackal's familiar with, so he pays it no heed.

[MrEdwardNigma]

"Loco!" Manuel proclaimed. In sudden anger Manuel jumped up and toppled the table they were sitting at. He grabbed the girl by the hand, and though his hand shot out to her quite fast, he held it gently.
"I don't know what's going on, senor, but I will not have my beliefs mocked. Me and her, we're leaving. If the world's gonna end tonight, I want to be enjoying myself when it does, no playing some silly game"

[JellyPooga]

The man in maroons smirk dies suddenly and his expression becomes very grave indeed.

"Very well, Manuel. I had hoped it would not be like this, but you leave me no choice."

His voice rises to address the other occupants of the bar.

"I'm decidedly sorry to have to involve the rest of you sooner than I had intended, too"

Still sitting, he takes his snuff box from his pocket and empties a small heap of the brown powder into the palm of his hand. Throwing it into the air he blows softly into the suspension as it starts to drift towards the floor. The particles drift on the air currents and everything seems to slow down. The music playing in the background sounds like it's being played too slow, deep and elongated and movement becomes difficult, as if you're trying to move through thick treacle. The man in maroon stands and gestures toward the front door, which slowly opens of its own accord.

Everyone in the bar, with the exception of the barkeep and the man in maroon (and the two comatose punks), feels compelled to turn and look out through the open door to the street outside. A feeling of dread fills you inexplicably and all of a sudden time returns to normal. A cold wind blows in through the open door, slamming it to, as the sound of a clock on the wall striking midnight penetrates the now silent bar. Perplexed, you look around the room sure that it should not yet be midnight and are astonished to note that both the barkeep and the man in maroon are gone. The two punks still lie unconscious on the floor and Laura still stands with one hand held by Manuel.

Three intricately folded pieces of paper sit on the bar in a pattern vaguely reminescent of the shingle that hangs above the door outside.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel attempts to leave the bar with Laura, possibly grabbing another bottle of tequila on the way out. He's had quite enough of this.

[JellyPooga]

Bottle in one hand, girl in the other, with his guitar slung across his back, Manuel strides out through the door. The night is clear and cool and the moon shines brightly. A breeze makes the leaves on the trees whisper in the midnight silence, picks up a discarded newspaper and flies it down the street. Something doesn't feel quite right...

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel returns to his apartment, which is very near the bar. He chose the bar as a place to hang out because it happened to be so close to his lodgings. Manuel stayed in a rather small, but clean room. The rest of the building was sort of dusty and badly maintained, but Manuel kept his place tidy, as he often had guests. This didn't mean he didn't have stuff lying around on the floor and couch and such, it just meant there wasn't any dust or stains or used articles of clothing about.

Manuel unlocked the door and showed the girl in. It was a three-room apartment, with a small kitchen that gave out onto the fire-escape, a bathroom and a living room that doubled as a bedroom. Manuel's bed was placed quite central in the room and looked cosy, as well as the big leather couch he'd bought at a yard sale. A friend who'd lived with Manuel for a short while (until he was kicked out because Manuel couldn't take any girls home anymore) had done a mural on one of his walls, with darkish red swirls running across the otherwise warmish yellow wall. The swirls sort of seemed to form a sun, disappearing behind the horizon, while emanating it's last hot rays on the plains.

Noticably, Manuel didn't have a television set. It was expensive, and he just knew he wouldn't use it anyways. He did have a recordplayer though, another purchase from a yard sale. The thing made a soft zoom as Manuel put a record on it and it started playing. A low, smoky voice started crooning some Spanish song accompanied by a single guitar and a violin. Manuel put down the bottle of tequila on the coffee table, which featured a colourful mosaic. He shut the door.
"You like this music, muchacha?"

[Uncle_Putte]

"The... just... huh?", Ronnie sputters meekly, slowly shifting his attention from the doorway to look around the bar. The barkeep and the man in maroon disappearing, while disturbing in itself, doesn't come as much of a surprise when adjusted to the escalating scale of weirdness the night has held. To Ronnie's addled sensibilities, the whole situation is starting to feel like something vaguely familiar, a book or play read long ago and forgotten for all but the slightest of impressions. Then the connection hits him, in all it's disgusting implications. That it's not one work of writing that the feeling refers to, but nearly all - that there's something what he'd considered fictious all his life going on. Whether it is his mind, or his surroundings, something in what he's considered natural all his life is starting to decay.

A bitter, mean grin creeps up the sides of his lips, and he chuckles a little to himself. "Knew it... knew this 'd happen one day. Drink enough and one day you can't tell between sober and drunk. Hell, if this is my farewell to sanity, I might just as bloody well enjoy it."

He takes a hearty swig out of his stout, and ambles with pint in hand over to the papers on the bar to drunkenly squint at them.

[JellyPooga]

The intricate origami falls into a heap at Ronnies fumbling; each piece of paper forming a carefully folded circle. The pattern appears simple but even as he holds it, the one Ronnie has in his hand begins unfolding of its own accord. Written on the inside is a script running around the circumference in verse. Squinting until the blur focuses, Ronnie reads:


Hm...I thought it'd be you to pick up this paper,
Ronnie my friend don't use this for taper.
I implore you to listen for Manuel did not,
you're playing a game you big drunken sot!
Your task is survival, not simple, not easy,
I advise you stay clear, not sloshing and queasy!
I've given you clues, by the sign of the rings,
find them and solve them to make out like kings!
If you do not, you'll wish that you had,
for your destiny otherwise is really quite bad.

P.S. help yourself to the bar and I'll see you at the finish line,

Red

P.P.S. don't read the other notes.

P.P.P.S. seriously, don't even think about it.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

On the short walk back to his apartment, Manuel barely notices through the booze and the rage that it is unusually quiet and that the usual sounds of the building simply are not there. Laura is clearly a little nervous of the large mexican, but visibly relaxes when he puts the music on.

"Hmm, yes. I've always enjoyed listening to the spanish language"

She says distractedly as she looks around the small room. She once again tightens up and looks a little undecided.

"Umm...I should be going really. I'm glad you got me out of there and all, but I'm kinda tired, you know...it's been a weird night..."

She leaves the sentence hanging in the air, waiting for Manuels response.

[Uncle_Putte]

"Oh, jeeze", mutters Ronnie, and runs a hand across his eyes before having another squint at the paper.

Sign...? Rings? Ugh, I can't decide whether this is more cheesy or creepy. And what's this first post scriptum about the bar? Does this mean I'll get disqualified if I raid the bar? Bah.

He spends a minute or two wondering about the "rings" in question, then goes red with shame when the more-than-obvious connection hits him. He ambles outside to have a look at the bar's shingle, pint still in hand.