[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

[damnyank]

He's waiting for that punch in the jaw-- well, would'ya look at that, Trevor's decided to play nice. That's encouraging. Jackson puts on his best grin, and proceeds to keep on talking.

"Apologies. Left my propofol in my other bag." Jackson gives his messenger bag a pat, and shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Still, I promise I'll treat you right, pal." Says the guy, er doctor, who actually does carry morphine in his bag for Special Purposes.

He pats his fellow American on the back, leading him over to a table in a sparsely populated corner of the bar. Won't stop him from being loud and ragey, but at least it takes Trevor off center stage. 'cause Jackson knows how these Brits work: they seem mild enough, until you get a pint or two in 'em and ruffle their feathers.

Too damn early in the week for a bar fight.

"So what brings you across the Atlantic, over to this here shit-pit?" Jackson steals two empty glasses from a table behind him, slides them across the table, and fills them liberally with the bourbon. "Something tells me it ain't the sightseeing."