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Eder & Nolte's,
Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009
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Cylar wasn't in the best of moods.
First, the past solid week of torrential rain had deemed it necessary to sandbag his drains twice daily, a down right tedious task that was both physically and mentally draining. Any and all of his daily ventures now required wrapping a scarf around his arms and hoisting a newspaper over his head as he ran through the streets carrying a reservoir in his shoes.
Secondly, he currently sat in a low key, middle class bar with twenty odd forty-somethings leaning against walls and stools to support themselves while he plucked stiffly at his chipped acoustic guitar and tensed against the wet shirt that relentlessly clung to his skin. Every so often a tall, loosely put together woman with a pale, sickly face and bleach blonde hair would give him a meaningful look that may or may not have meant to be an expression of come-hither before turning and disappearing into the crowd.
Thirdly-- well, thirdly, he'd forgotten to bring his dinner. Perhaps not the biggest of deals, but certainly the olive on this piss martini that was his day.
He was onto his fourth melody, mumbling lyrics into an aging microphone that smelt of tonic and gin, when come-hither returned with a smirk and an umbrella, perfectly put together and frighteningly beautiful. Cylar continued to pluck at his guitar, frowning without meaning to, pretending not to notice as she bent down -- revealing far too much of herself, not that he was complaining -- to drop a small velvet bag into his open guitar case. He probably should have finished his song, he was playing to an audience after all -- a blind, ridiculously oblivious to all of its surroundings audience, but an audience nonetheless -- but it wasn't every day that a once-hag-now-stunning-woman dropped a velvet bag into your case. Pushing his guitar to one side and pulling himself forward from his chair, Cylar crouched down and cupped the small pouch in his curious hands; two calloused fingers began pinching at the opening, all eager and hope before suddenly wrenching backwards.
"Great," he said shortly, scrunching the bag in his fist. "A lizard. Fantastic."
What he didn't expect was the lizard to catch on fire.
First, the past solid week of torrential rain had deemed it necessary to sandbag his drains twice daily, a down right tedious task that was both physically and mentally draining. Any and all of his daily ventures now required wrapping a scarf around his arms and hoisting a newspaper over his head as he ran through the streets carrying a reservoir in his shoes.
Secondly, he currently sat in a low key, middle class bar with twenty odd forty-somethings leaning against walls and stools to support themselves while he plucked stiffly at his chipped acoustic guitar and tensed against the wet shirt that relentlessly clung to his skin. Every so often a tall, loosely put together woman with a pale, sickly face and bleach blonde hair would give him a meaningful look that may or may not have meant to be an expression of come-hither before turning and disappearing into the crowd.
Thirdly-- well, thirdly, he'd forgotten to bring his dinner. Perhaps not the biggest of deals, but certainly the olive on this piss martini that was his day.
He was onto his fourth melody, mumbling lyrics into an aging microphone that smelt of tonic and gin, when come-hither returned with a smirk and an umbrella, perfectly put together and frighteningly beautiful. Cylar continued to pluck at his guitar, frowning without meaning to, pretending not to notice as she bent down -- revealing far too much of herself, not that he was complaining -- to drop a small velvet bag into his open guitar case. He probably should have finished his song, he was playing to an audience after all -- a blind, ridiculously oblivious to all of its surroundings audience, but an audience nonetheless -- but it wasn't every day that a once-hag-now-stunning-woman dropped a velvet bag into your case. Pushing his guitar to one side and pulling himself forward from his chair, Cylar crouched down and cupped the small pouch in his curious hands; two calloused fingers began pinching at the opening, all eager and hope before suddenly wrenching backwards.
"Great," he said shortly, scrunching the bag in his fist. "A lizard. Fantastic."
What he didn't expect was the lizard to catch on fire.
