AN AMERICAN WITCH IN LONDON -- Open to all

[damnyank]

TENTER STREET BROTHEL-- open to alll

It's Friday night at Tenter Street and business couldn't be better.

Rooms are booked full for the rest of the night. On the ground floor, there are girls in colorful skirts and corsets, and young men in tight pants, entertaining in perfumed rooms crowded with flower arrangements in ornamental vases, embroidered sofas, and lustful patrons. The entertainers drape themselves, lean close and apply kisses to their clients, coaxing wallets out with overpriced alcohol and paid conversation.

The dress and decor, even the mannerisms of the staff shape the scene into a snapshot of the Victorian Age. The red velvet drapes, dark wooded furniture, and gilded, patterned wallpaper only aid in that illusion. In modern times, consumers would call this theme and gimmick. In the case of Tenter Street, it gives the place a false air of class.

Laughter and muted conversation sets a tone of gaiety and intimacy, but it's all too easily broken by a loud yank.

"Do I gotta say it again? Beat it."

Jackson's got a finger jabbed in a would-be customer's face: a lanky, barely-into-adulthood man with a sharp, jutting nose, and even sharper teeth.

"You know me, Mr. Jackson. I've come here before."

The whole place goes silent.

"You know the policy: no vampires. Ain't my fault you went and got yourself turned."

"That isn't right."

Jackson slips out a cigarette from his front pocket. A few whispered words and the end lights up with a bright, angry flame-- unnecessarily strong for simply lighting a cigarette, but it serves well as a warning.

"It don't count as discrimination, if you ain't people." A beat, as he takes a drag. "Now quit whining and scram."

HOMER JACKSON'S CLINIC -- Open

"Cheers. You have syphilis."

Past the perfumed air and well-dressed providers of pleasure, followed by a right turn down a plain hallway, lies the door to Dr. Homer Jackson's bedroom and part-time clinic. He doesn't advertise its existence to the public, letting word of mouth do the job.

The sign on the door:

WITH PATIENT
PLEASE WAIT OUTSIDE"

To those who know of it, Jackson's clinic provides urgent care service. Healing spells for injured hunters and werewolves. Herbal medicines and potions for elevating the mind. And in this case, modern medicine to those adverse to human science.

"And no, before you go askin' me for a spell or potion, I'll give you something far more efficacious." A beat. "This? Is penicillin-- and no, trust me. It ain't magic, but it'll work even better."

Ten minutes pass before a rather flustered, balding man exits the room, too embarrassed to show his face.

"All right. Next."


WHITECHAPEL CRIME SCENE -- OPEN TO ALL

There's another dead in Whitechapel: a young woman sliced and diced, and left out for the whole damn world to see.

Captain Homer Jackson's supposed to be here to examine the crime scene before the victim's moved to his dead room for a more detailed examination. Horrific as it can be, he enjoys his work-- ascertaining cause and effect, each wound a scattered piece of a story waiting to be assembled.

What he doesn't enjoy, however, is the circus of it all. Hell, the blood's not even dry yet and reporters are already here, clustered around the taped barriers, waiting to pounce. He ignores their shouts as he works, but the moment he steps out to take a smoke break, they're on him like flies on shit.

"Could you tell us the cause of death--"

"Can't you see for yourself? Damn near close enough."

Jackson's shoves his way through, cigarette already in hand.


THE JOLLY ROGER - OPEN

Huddled at a corner table of The Jolly Roger is Homer Jackson and an unidentified fellow. While their conversation's obscured by the din of the bar, the bend of the American's brow suggests that the situation's anything but pleasant.

He's as weary as he looks, his usual flippant demeanor replaced by stress and anxiety. Even the mug of beer beside him sits untouched.

"I need another week. Please," Jackson pleads.

"You know how Duggan feels about waiting"

"It's only a week--"

The rest of their conversation is muddled, but a brief-- very brief-- look of relief crosses Jackson's face. After the man gets up and leaves, the weariness returns two-fold. Downing his beer in a single chug, Jackson proceeds to bury his face in his hands.

Comments

The Jolly Roger

[wolfmarked]

What the patrons discuss is none of Skip's business. She has situational deafness down pat. Blindness, however, doesn't happen. So when there's a turn in the conversation, she looks over immediately. Which man she's actually fixing her gaze on is hard to say. Maybe it's both of them. But there's a clear warning in the look.

Start shit on my shift, and I'll kill you both.

But the moment passes, and they part non-violently. Which means her concern is immediately relieved, and she can return to her duties. As soon as the empty mug hits the table, she's already there, setting down a full one and moving around to the other side of the chair to take the empty one.

"Anythin' else?"

[damnyank]

"How about five more, darlin'?" It's meant to be a joke, but the humor's forced and weak. A shadow of his usual cocky self. As she takes a sit, Jackson smooths a hand over his hair, trying to compose himself before engaging Skip in conversation.

'cause he'd never say go away to a lovely lady, no matter how poor his mood.

"I'll warn you straight off. I ain't the best company right now."

[wolfmarked]

Skip laughed a little, shrugging her shoulders. "Long as you're good for 'em an' don' start any shit? You can have as many as y' want, love."

Those were her only two rules on shift: pay and no fighting.

Which, coincidentally, were her boss's rules.

Granted, 'starting shit' could also mean harassing some young woman or the like. Then, Skip was always happy to put the fear of God into the son-of-a-bitch. But. Well. No need to mention that.

[damnyank]

"And here I thought they were on the house, on account of how eager you were to fill 'er up."

As though to prove a point, Jackson raises the full glass, toasts it, and takes a greedy swallow. At this point, there's really nothing to do besides drink away his trouble, at least for the moment. Even if his problem is lacking coin and burning it on liquor's only going to make it worst.

But one does what they have to do to get through their day.

"However, I jest." He lifts up the glass again. "Need this too much to get myself thrown out today."