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

[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.

Threaded | Flat

Heiji hadn't been the one to buy the bar lager, but he was watching now with some interest as Trevor went off. Was there going to be a bar fight? Because that could be exciting.

"Oh, piss off," muttered the man on the stool next to him, almost under his breath, but not quite. Certainly loud enough for Trevor to hear.

What.

"What." Clara winces, realising how rude she must have sound. She smiles at him apologetically, wondering what on earth is going on. "That's very kind of you but ah... Well..."

Looks like cat got her tongue but can someone blame her? When she came inside here earlier, she didn't expect anyone to notice or see her since this is one of the 'safer' places to be if you were a ghost from her experience. Little activity from any parties here. Low population of witches and werewolves and such. She didn't think someone could spot her, let alone try and talk with her and offer to buy drinks.

"You can-- You can see me?" Might as well get to the point of it. Especially with how some of the regulars are looking at the man in a funny manner, no doubt wondering why on earth he's talking to literal thin air.

"Do go on," the Irish vampire encourages, his feet not even touching the floor as he sits on his stool. He's got a pint of beer in his hands and is thoroughly enjoying the clearly unhinged American going off on anyone within shouting distance. Ignore that smirk on his face, Trevor. He's not laughing at you. Promise.

Wow.

It's not often you see a guy causing this much of a stink in the middle of a pub, and Eames is watching this unfold with a mix of amusement and fascination. He almost wants to take credit for buying the drinks just to see what Trevor would do.

He spots someone out of the corner of his eye, obviously wanting to 'deal with this' and Eames puts out an arm to stop him, shaking his head and not even bothering to lower his voice so Trevor won't hear him, "I want to see where he's going with this."

The loud American is loud and American and all ears in the pub are, unfortunately, trained on him and his very loud rant. It was only a matter of time before someone got tired of him blabbering on and decided to deck him, for how uncomfortable he was making the usual air of the crowded pub.

But then he went around threatening the air, and a few more patrons, glaring at him, left, and Nancy had had enough. Standing from her seat at the corner of the bar, she approached the man and gently tried to lay her hand on his back, sending as much calm through it as possible. She did not want a scene today. It'd scare away customers.

"Not all of us are fans of Lager, sir. But you'd have better luck starting a fight during football season." English football.

"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.

Jackson had been keeping to his game of poker in the corner, fixing his cards in the company of three of those pip-pip jerkoffs, when Trevor and his American accent come crashing through the pub's casual carousing. He's like a flashing beacon of "White Trash Here!!," and even Jackson, Yankee king of Talking Too Much, is getting second-hand embarrassment.

But he feels you, man. Homesickness. It kicks you right in the teeth, and keeps on kicking, until you suddenly find yourself kicking somebody else in the teeth.However, this pub doesn't need another loud-mouth Yank, 'cause that's Jackson's role. So he decides to give a brother a hand and help rectify this situation.

Getting out of his seat, Jackson saunters right up to Trevor, close as friends. "Hey, brother." Jackson slinks an arm over his shoulder. "After centuries of them drinkin' swill, you think you're gonna change their mind?"

Jackson slips out a bottle of bourbon from his coat, presenting it to Trevor like Jason's Gold Fleece. Good stuff. Imported stuff. "How 'bout we find ourselves a space in the corner over there. Leave the limeys to their lager, hm?"

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