Environment
xxxxx
Tatsumi Senpai
Better days had been seen, here. The city had been abandoned for some time, yet as the days became weeks and the weeks became months, subtle shifts took place. The poor of the town-- those who could not afford the luxury of packing and fleeing-- had crept from their shadowy alcoves, long nestled in a mixture of ruined buildings and vegetation. They came together and looked at the city that had been their home for so long. They saw the damage, the decay, the destruction. And yet, they saw life, and hope, and inspiration. No longer would the wealthy and powerful rule, tossing scraps and laughing in their faces and mocking their dispositions. No, this was their town now.
It wasn't long before the echo of chainsaws and bulldozers sounded through empty streets. Trees fell, bushes were ripped out, and rubble was moved. The wealth of the city had been left available and now it was used, dozens upon dozens of construction companies brought in to repair and rebuild.
Time ticked by, months crawled on. There are still strange structures of plant and cement here and there. Still the streets are eerily empty, and word is the mayor's house is currently occupied by a family of well-to-do squatters. Word is, this ghost down is haunted by the not quite dead, so you better watch your back. There's no law to be found here. No rules or regulations, no leadership, no morality. Just the eyes that watch from the shadows, protective of the home they could never leave.
Ever been to Seattle? It's like that. It rains. A lot. Crows, pigeons, and seagulls pollute the air with their cries and the sidewalks with their s**t. Downtown dreary streets sidle right up against the water to the west, city stacked high on the hills as they rise to the east. The Bloody Hooker is found near the southern end of the city on the cusp of the International District, far enough away from the ritzy northern half to mirror the pretense that either one exists. The world of the rich floats alongside the reality of the destitute but never quite touches, like the mist which rolls in on the waves.
It's cold. It's always cold here. Temperature never rises above 65 degrees Fahrenheit on a good day and regularly drops below thirty. Streets are dead in the frigid hours of early morning, which affords criminals the perfect window of opportunity.
But more domestic concerns take precedence at The Hooker. Like what if you don't want to s**t in an alley? Well. There are stupid amounts of coffee shops in this city; pick one. The closest is two blocks east of the bar uphill, on the corner of 3rd and Cherry. Fork over two bucks for a cup of coffee and don't forget to ask for the bathroom code; they change it every half hour to keep the bums from falling asleep in there.
What if you want a shower? Tough s**t. Unless you can make nice with the grouchy redhead people keep mistaking for a bartender, he won't let you pretend the kitchen sink is a bathtub. Maybe
Starbucks that generic coffee chain up the street won't notice if you use theirs instead.
Interior:
Dirty. Brick walls decades old seem barely capable of holding up the roof, much less the four rooms above. Nondescript square tiles discolored the shade of dried blood line the floor, scuffed and scraped and cracked in places where fighters fell too hard. Most furniture is made of wood, perhaps antique, perhaps once pretty at some point or another before falling into this classless joint. Two grimy windows face the street on either side of the drafty door, threadbare black curtains pulled back to allow patrons a lovely view of the underside of the overpass.
Past the bar in the far right corner is a door. Through it is a stairway to the left, and another door to the right. Rightmost door leads to the alley and the dumpsters (populated by one black tomcat and his rat collection). Cigarette butts pepper the concrete beneath the broken external lamp.
Upstairs, a long hallway stretches past four identical doors, decorated with a thin red carpet which smells faintly of vomit and wine. Each door locks only from the inside, so don't leave your crap lying around unless said crap can take care of itself. Each room boasts, at minimum, a bed sure to creak at the slightest provocation. Keep this in mind if ever inclined to put one to,
ahem, use. Some rooms have a chair, a lamp, a small table. One even has a desk. The windows don't open, so don't bother trying-- though despite being sealed shut, they still manage leak cold drafts with unbridled enthusiasm.
