[OPEN] HERE IS SOMETHING YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND:

[crystalmethod]

[open to all]

They call them pubs here. Trevor dislikes this. He refuses to use their slang, and he has already gotten into a verbal fight with someone over language. Of course, this was all incited by Trevor himself after some hapless bar patron decided to insinuate that "English" was better than "American." Or maybe he wasn't insinuating anything; Trevor just assumed he was. Or maybe the man just politely told Trevor to calm down. Trevor can't remember the reasoning anymore because it was a blur of rage.

He now can be found in the middle of a rant - one in a series of many - shouting out into the dingy pub and attempting to cause another scene, which for some reason hasn't gotten him kicked out yet.

"Lager is a fucking scourge. It's goat piss. It doesn't get the distinction of being bull piss, because that shit is strong. Which one of you pip-pip jerkoffs tried to buy the whole bar pints of lager? Is that how you show your affection, you sadist? I know you're still here! I'm gonna find your presumptuous hide and carve it right off!"



[closed to clara]

There is one ray of light in this shithole. An older woman who seems content to just watch him do his thing. He's caught her looking at him and, fearless, steps right on over and takes a seat right next to her. Leaning on the table, he turns on his "charm", which just consists of him lowering his voice and staring at her with an intensity that'd make most people uncomfortable.

"Now this is a fucking crime. Beautiful girl like yourself all alone, having to buy your own drinks. Here, lemme handle that." He takes out his wallet, picks through it and procures a-- £50 note. God dammit he hates pounds. Forgot he had some of his money converted the other day.

Comments

[entitles]

"I'm curious as to how you know the difference," Balem said, picking up on Trevor's accent, "I've never been to America, but I'm fairly certain that piss-drinking isn't a common hobby there."

Balem didn't look like the type of person who ought to be in this bar - he was dressed more like a rich trust-fund student that ought to be in some fancy coffee shop with a laptop and a pile of books - and he wouldn't usually be here, except for the fact that he was scouting for potential allies among the werewolves and Circle Midnight witches and figured they might frequent seedy pubs.

[crystalmethod]

Who the hell is this guy. He definitely doesn't look like he belongs. Nice clothes, face like a model, he sticks out like a sore thumb and Trevor instantly dislikes him. Of course, that hate is only cemented when the kid (or so he thinks) speaks.

"Because I've participated in watersports." Said in a very matter-of-fact tone. "You know what those are, pretty boy? I'd be fully willing to educate you on the ins and outs."

[entitles]

"I have no interest in being educated in that particular topic, but thank you for the compliment," he said. Pretty-boy was a compliment, right?

"What brings you to London? I'm not from here myself."

[crystalmethod]

"Accident." Spat out in response. (Then being too lazy to actually leave, despite a seed of hatred for this country sprouting and flourishing within him.)

"You though? You look like you fit right in, fucker. Maybe not in this particular dump, but the vast, all-encompassing trash heap where souls go to die that is London? Yeah." Trevor steps closer, points a finger in his face. "A regular citizen right here."

[entitles]

He had to laugh at that. "I lived in Greece, before I came here. And believe it or not, I was considered the life of the party. Drank nearly every night with actors and singers and learned types."

Of course, that was a few thousand years ago, and he was more lighthearted back then.