▌◊ Cyrek - Blog Posts

Azazel held his gaze on the other, unbroken, for a time, before he blinked, almost too slowly. Then turned his head and muttered, “The fuck does it look like I just did, hm?” The other usually wore on his patience, but not enough before now to have him reacting anymore aggressively. But notably, at this moment, he was. Of course, at this moment, he had a lot more lore than he had some of the previous times they had run into one another. Azazel moved to rest his head in his left hand, bringing his left elbow to rest on the counter. He still knew not to press more than necessary, lest he end up breaking the mask more than it was able to bend in these conditions. Forcing a smile as Cyrek went on, he shook his head a bit, “Oh. Come now. I'm a reasonable person, even if I'm not your favorite at times. I can be very-ah, companionably.”

He glanced around the bar, sighing at it being one of the few he liked to go to, even if it belonged to the wrong team. Though he had never concerned himself with that, as long as his team was on top of the pile of skulls, in the end. Turning his gaze back onto Cyrek as he went on, he nodded his head a bit, “You think I would?” He laughed, biting on his bottom lip, not sure the other could be trusted to read others. Though he was in no mood to dissuade the others' wrong assumptions, if The Art of War taught him anything, like the most basic and sensible advice in the world, it was to just ignore such attempts at slights by the supposed enemy. Cyrek wasn't seen as a threat to Azazel, however, more like a tick that just needed to be burned off every once in a while to go spin his head in a different direction.

Grinning, Azazel wondered how many of those silly drinks ever really got sold, probably a reasonable amount for them to be on a menu, instead of some secret order a dumb college kid created while high off his ass during a bender for some pledge to a sorority or fraternity. Azazel was an adult, however, long since passed mixing his drinks to create some bullshit, he just wanted to roll his blunts, smoke off the nerves in his living room while watching Care Bears, in the sanctity of his own home. A few shots deep, surrounded by other things. Though he didn't choose to do that, on this night. He was here, instead. Listening to this acquaintance of his trying his best to stand next to him on that pile of skulls, Azazel narrowed his eyes a bit. At least, that's what he assumed, or was it the workings of his paranoia trying to make a threat? He sucked on his teeth a bit, “Powder my nose?” He scrunched his nose a bit, not sure what to make of that comment.

“Aww, Cyrek, do you think I'm pretty? Only the most vain of people powder their noses, though.” He grabbed the drink then, downing it like a champ and huffing out a breath to one side, “It's alright. But it could be stronger.” Tipping the class upside down, he pushed it gently from him, “I bet I could breathe fire, in some circumstances, but, like I said, I'd need something, like--… Gasoline? What do you think?” Though gasoline didn't taste all that pleasant, not, that he had ever tried to breathe fire before, of course not. He had absolutely tried before.

"Alright, then don't order it," the bartender threw up his hands in mock surrender at that, the folly of showperson's charisma ebbing out of his pores, replacing any sense of congeniality with a wrinkle of his brow and a thin-lipped grimace. Half the time, it seemed like it was the agenda of people who walked through the door to make his job significantly more strenuous than it had to be — though, in the case of anyone involved with the Vitellis, he kind of leaned into the inclination that that was their quid pro quo for strife he'd eventually reaped what he sow. "No harm, no foul to me. You'll probably stiff me on the tip anyway." Which begged the question why Azazel would bother entering a biker bar that was arguably outside of the comfort of the family bounds, and there was plenty of alcohol they could get for free at one of the casinos, surely. Now that he wasn't under the guise of playing nice, he let out a snort, reaching for a clean glass to serve him. He didn't feel like getting shit on the job at Azazel's expense, if nothing else. "Think you'd crack for the feds a lot faster than I would. Sure that you got some secrets you'd squeal over."

The laminated sheet clattered noisily back to its resting place under the bar, to be turned down by another dozen patrons before he finally could hightail it home for the evening, or a couple blocks over where the lights on the Strip were crystalline enough to illuminate the shadowed building of the future home of Skratch Records. Thank you. "Oh, surprised you remembered manners." Cyrek certainly let it slip his mind if people gave him reason to. Pouring out the drink, he narrowed his eyes to catlike slits, he slid it over to him, chewing on his inner cheek and itching to reach for the pack of gum in his back pocket and unroll a strip. "Uh-huh," he grunted out, unimpressed with the pass, "Good luck breathin' fire with this, mate. You might be goin' through a lot of drinks if that's what you're after. Might find it easier if you powder your nose in the bathroom instead."

At the question, Azazel just narrowed his eyes a bit. He didn't have time for this level of stupidity, right now. Maybe it was because he had been gone for such a long time, and had only recently been going back to drinking at places that weren't his house. But, still, he stood silently in front of the other. Thinking that, this, this was someone who would be a great reason for why he hated listening to people talk, “Yes.” Azazel finally answered to having the 'usual'. His eye contact maintained on the other's own gaze, intense, as if he might be challenging the other to say something else just as abysmally stupid as what was just said. Azazel could only imagine it wouldn't take long, and he was right. Because, as Cyrek continued, he could only imagine at this point, just to annoy him, he stood quiet. Listening to what the other said, almost against his will. Tapping his fingers tips on his hands against the surface of the bar, he dropped his head down, sucking in a breath, “No? And, I don't fucking care right now.” Okay, maybe that was a lie. Lifting his head back up, he put on a grin, his head tilting slightly. Blinking, he continued, “They should put you on the case. We'll have it solved a lot sooner, I'm sure.” Maybe he should have toned it down, he told himself. He was simply just on edge, for a multitude of reasons, and Cyrek's yapping, considering their history, wasn't helping level off that edge he was on, “Mmm.” That was all he could initially offer to Cyrek, bringing up the month's specials, suddenly feeling exhausted. Inhaling, he glanced up, considering some thoughts before suddenly turning his head, then looked back to the other just as quickly. Azazel looked at the sheet that was now on the countertop and frowned, “I, hate, all of these.” He commented, unkindly, expressionless. Then placed his left hand on the sheet and pushed it back toward Cyrek. Only to bring his left hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Sure, okay. Okay. Thank you. Just, give me the usual, the hardest stuff you have. None of that crap you're peddling on that sheet. I need something that would let me breathe fire, or that could run a car.”

@boneyardstarters at the mean-eyed cat bar

After giving a PTA mom a covert look of judgment for ordering a Bloody Mary, of everything on the menu of specials, and scraping some asshole's tip in change off one of the booths and side-eyeing the coins to count them rather than look directly into the ugly mug of old George Washington, Cyrek was ready to give his attention to a regular at the bar who wasn't bitching and moaning into his deaf ear. "The usual, or you want somethin' else?" A pair of mismatched eyes hovered over their shoulder to stare at the newscasting of the latest about a victim with no blood and guts, and Vegas' finest doing really fuck-all beyond spinning their heads. "You hear the news? Bet they got no idea who it is this time, either. You'd think they would've pinned down a frequent spot and staked it out or whatever." As if the MC needed the potential for a detective to breathe down their neck more than one already was, but he digressed; small talk about local happenings keyed him up to where they should avoid, and the rumors circulating around. "I got this month's specials out now, too." Reaching under the bar to slap down a laminated sheet for some Boozy Bunny or carrot juice-infused cocktails, the latter of which reminded him of when he'd pureed the vegetable into baby food with a pot and a processor. "Unless someone gets mowed down by a guy in a bunny suit next and we gotta put those on hold, too."