♠︎ | PICK A CARD.

There’s no getting out of this one; he’d be more of a fool than he already is to think anything different, that a silver tongue might help him out here. He knows resilience when he meets it, his own stubbornness getting him nowhere against a brick wall no matter how much he wishes it to ( and he can only hope, however slim the chances, that thieving fingers have gone unnoticed by the other’s eyes ).

           “Alright, alright—”

Although reluctant he manages somewhat of a mirroring smile, charm easy enough to slip into when all else will prove futile, people easily brushed aside as he makes his way to the front.

      ❛ That’s the spirit. ❜

In regard to the applause, sure, though a part of him didn’t expect acquiescence. If the roles were reversed, he’d probably disappear in a proverbial puff of smoke before things escalated this far. So, then, credit where credit is due — he might be a dick, but he recognizes obstinance when he sees it. Which means this just got a little more interesting.

Grinning in the wattage of a Broadway marquee, he holds out a deck of cards.

  ❛  Sort of. My dad ran a cheap mini mart type place out of here, then I took over and changed everything.  ❜

“I’m more into that whole D.I.Y. thing.”

There’s attempts to make the travelling cave homey– a few rugs thrown here and there, a tapestry draped and pooling over shelves and gold and trunks. Though, most of the artless flourishes are instinctual. He walks ahead, slinks up into the seat– lounges like a cat sunbathing,

“I highly suggest it, actually. You get that artistry of detail, you know? Less musty than an antique shop. More or less free– just have to take labour into account.” 

      ❛ I can see that. ❜

For a minute there, he has to wonder if he’s actually seeing what he’s seeing — or if maybe it’s all just a result of the potent hallucinogens he didn’t take today. Apart from the raised brows, however, there’s barely an imperceptible trace of surprise in his expression. He loiters near one of the shelves, resisting the urge to start snooping.

Another giggle escapes as she gets to her feet, leaning against him to steady herself. “I should leave him a good tip then.” She digs into her wallet and takes out a fifty dollar bill, leaving it on the counter. “There. He can buy himself a new mop now since you won’t magically clean the floor for him. Maybe you should get a job as a magic floor cleaner.” A pause. “Wait, what did you say your name was again?” 

The fifty, apparently, is enough compensation — the bartender snatches it up with a deadpan expression, but declines comment. Spade’s more concerned with keeping the girl vertical so she doesn’t face-plant in her own mess before they make it outside ( and he’s kind of hoping no one within earshot takes the whole magic thing too seriously ).

     ‘The true measure of a magician is their ability to pull magic outta their ass even when the magic-ee is bein’ a dumbass. So. Three of diamonds, punk.’

Luther was always careful hanging about small towns. Get too close, and people start to question you. Get too far, and, well.. There’s nobody around. He wasn’t a big fan of people. Crickets were better conversationists, to be blunt, and they were always so suspicious.

He had been pondering why exactly they had to target him, of all people, when there was something like an itch in his bones. Rattling him up. That didn’t happen too often, not at all, and it made him more than a bit uncomfortable.

The hill he was sitting on gave him a good enough view of the little path below, gravel and dirt that would eventually lead to a highway or something. It also gave him a good enough view of the stranger below. Just looking at the man made him want to skedaddle. Luther doesn’t like to ignore what his bones tell him, but goddamnit, he had five months left and he was twenty two short of his end of the deal, so down the hill he went.

‘Heya.’

Old southern hospitality, and the tip of an imaginary hat.

And here he’d caught himself beginning to wonder if there was anybody within a hundred miles of this place. Reason number five hundred and three why he avoids rural — the lower the population, the more conspicuous he is. Big cities equate to anonymity. Being just another face in the crowd. Arguably the most important, avoiding situations that could potentially progress into the opening scene of a bad horror movie. Gravel road, seclusion, stranger on a hill; you get the gist.

‘Hospitality’ is one word for it.

      ❛ — how’s it goin’. ❜

No inflection; simply a noncommittal upward nod as he moves a few paces closer, one hand lifted to shield his eyes from the sun. Makes it harder to get a clear read, harder to pick up nuances. He flashes a quick, tourist-friendly smile regardless.

‘ S’fine, I think. Been gettin’ used to it since bein’ a bartender, y’know? If he, like, tries to do anythin,  I’ll probably call my fiance quicker I’d call the cops, so. Figure it’ll do more damage in the long run. I mean. If that’s, like, what you’re tryin’ to say. Uh. ‘

( hoodwinkxd​. )

      ‘’ it’s not that you look like a            BAD person, you just don’t            have a particularly HONEST            face, you know? like, i feel             like i shouldn’t buy a car            from you. ‘’

      ❛ So I’ve heard. But that’s probably wise —         I wouldn’t buy a car from me, either. ❜

      ❛ You got insurance for that? ❜

He hasn't been back to Texas since the Revolution, when the Alamo was barely yesterday's news and mass executions were just another day in the neighborhood. Not that he's here for a history lesson; he's passing through. He's always passing through. Or maybe wandering is a better word, because the former implies an actual destination.

It's quiet. Nothing like the bright lights and heady smog of silicone-veiled Los Angeles, where he'd been slipping through the cracks for the better part of a year. It's quiet like Andover three hundred years ago, and that makes his skin crawl.

You'd think he would've grown accustomed to this by now.

He knows all too well how this’ll go; he tries to decline and he’ll be goaded, badgered until he changes his mind and reluctantly agrees like every bit the skeptic he’s been pinned as. Agreement doesn’t come easy for him, not when the wallets and bills lining his pockets won’t go unnoticed forever, when his face hardly proves difficult to pick out from a line up, a lesson learned far more quickly than he’d ever admit; if he had his own way he’d be out the door by now.

           “I’m not a big fan of magic, buddy. You’d do better with someone else.”

      ❛ You don’t have to be a fan of magic. That’s the point. ❜

Actually, the point is more about who’s pulling the real scam here -- but for obvious reasons, he isn’t saying that. It’s not like he needs to paint this guy a picture, anyway. The small crowd’s already engaged, waiting for whatever comes next; anticipation is half the appeal. A rakish smile, a gesture to stir things up as he addresses the onlookers instead.

             ❛   —- you guess?   ❜

         lighting the cigarette, she places it between her lips and inhales the smog, letting it filter through black lungs before handing the carton and lighter back to its rightful owner.

      ❛ What, too ambiguous? Okay -- I’d be honored. ❜

witches are relentless, as wolf has begun to learn. 

their tricks of the trade are more tricks than trade most of the time. but it’s natural, considering how often they’ve been shunned over the decades. she’s heard plenty of stories during her travels. enough that she doesn’t necessarily fault the witch that gifted her. she did it with good intentions. 

or so wolf thought. 

“hm – i would. like. to find something.. someone else ——– first.” 

Honestly, he can’t even be sure what prompted him to make the offer. Politesse, maybe, except that’s usually reserved for holding open doors or helping little old ladies cross the street -- not volunteering for what might well be a goose chase, in regard to something that, really, is neither his business nor his concern. But it still stands, regardless.