Double Cuppa was fairly packed, not unusual for a Live-Mike-Monday, but the band was still setting up their gear. The roadies were inexperienced, taking thrice what any good crew could put forward. In fact the whole lineup of Apodyopsis seemed young and clueless with the ins-and-outs of making due in a small space. It was a small joint, 300 for the fire code, but antique tables she’d done up for Justin, the owner, took up plenty of room. As did the assortment of wingback chairs, 1920s police-station desk seats, diner booths and paraphernalia that made the place homey, bookish and closer than most coffeshops-c**-unplugged musical venues. The whole event was an impromptu, arranged in 150 character (or less) texts between both parties, and Justin kept her in the know as a regular. A perk for some items done gratis. Besides, if the band was good, it was usually a given she’d buy the place a round of au lait.
The one visible technological concession to the otherwise eclectic, historic décor was a 50” plasma HD number pasted to the side wall with complementing alcove for any sort of movie events. Right now there was news on, and the motion and noise of the thing made it impossible to keep her mind on much else without her attention being irritatingly drawn back to the garish thing.
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"Another night in Destiny City, and another night of horror. Here's Tag Swagger with the full scoop," the mustached news anchor solemnly segued as the television cut to the field report. Tag Swagger emerged on the screen, blonde and handsome as ever, with a smile far too white and far too optimistic for such a dreary report."
Eccedentesiast p***k…. She didn’t watch the news too often, but whenever she did see that guy it made her skin crawl. It was probably the dentiloquence, since his teeth seemed almost permanently bared in a 1950s advertisement smile, like he was going to hypnotize viewers with the power of Colgate. His hair was even sort of slicked that way. It made her want to corner him against a bar, run her nails through it and wipe that smile off his face with her tongue. Arrow brand men's wear was still a brand, right? Maybe with a few well-placed props from her studio and a photographer, Swagger could strut his way into some lucrative vintage-throwback fashion rag ads. Stroud filed the thought away for a little later. She'd fish around some websites and get the appropriate emails in the set interim should the band suck. No use wasting time when there could be art afoot, and no use doing it now when the show starting would be an unwelcome interruption.
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"Thank you Rick," he smiled. "As we come to a new year, it does not look like things are getting any safer here in Destiny City. The most recent victim of the terrorist crusade that has been plaguing this city for the past few years was attacked right here outside of Papa Joe's Bar and Grille. The victim, Linda Paolini, claims to have been attacked by one the terrorists, but began to feel weak around them until she eventually fainted. When she awoke, her jewelry and purse were missing, and she knows nothing of what happened while she was unconscious."
“Have you been following all that?” Stroud threw the words at the barista, Denise. “About the terrorism for years?”
“Less drivel than centenarians or the mayor giving a speech, yeah. You can’t watch the news without something about it coming up.”
“Like the attacks in the parks all the time? I guess it's dropped itinerant bench-hoteling, even if crime still gets about as much as Chicago or San Diego. Hasn't hit the nightlife except for the timid suburbanites, anyway. Good riddance."
"Says you, who only shows up when the sun is changing horizons. It's hurt daylight tills, the suits stay indoors if they can manage."
"Tell Justin get a couple bike boys and skate girls with some thermal keeping camp carrier stuff from Cabella's or Gander Mountain and get a delivery going. Hell, I'd buy often enough to pay for one kiddo. I could have a dumbwaiter installed of the smokestall so they didn't even have to come up." Stroud finished her current cup and pushed it forward wordlessly. The telepathy-of-regulars worked, and it was seamlessly refilled. "They'd need to be fast and ballsy with terrorists. Have any ultimatums or agendas...manifestos been made public and delivered for broadcast? Even the Unabomber had enough courtesy to tell us what all the fuss was about."
"You can't joke about rub like that," Denise ducked below the counter to excuse herself to rotating the soy gallons in the frig.
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"She claims the attacker was tall, blonde, and handsome. Further details have not yet been released, but the police are looking for any witnesses to the case. If you have seen or know anything, please contact the number on your screen."
"Odd for a guy caster to go on about handsome, eh? Do you think he swings, or is just reporting word for word what some stockholme syndrome victim reported about a 'dreamy' rufees pusher?"
"He's got a kid. " Denise didn't bother coming up yet, so her voice was muffled a little. "Why do you even think of that sort of thing anyway? Who cares; he's a news reporter. He reports the news. "
"Pity. " She sipped, "It's a great deal more fun to think of someone outside of their mask than in it. They could be hiding anything under there. Anything at all. "
Denise finally came up to fill some regular blacks, looking skeptical. Stroud laughed, "Live a little. Take these terrorists for example. YEARs in a city, and no one has gotten a solid crack on them or their operations. They're doing something right that the 90's Bloods and Crips got wrong. Tight operation, dedicated and stalwart. Makes me wish other people would take note and port that sort of virtue into their daily grind- which, mind, doesn't involve blasting about property damage or date-raping hideously average civilians."
Denise rolled her eyes, "Going to throw it all away and sign up for guts and glory?"
"I'll at least call that number on the screen and see if it connects to the police precinct or the news center. Maybe I can flirt with Mr. Swagster."
