The man across the bar is utterly unremarkable - greasy black hair, watery blue eyes, the kind of posture that screams 'unremarkable schlub wasting his time in small-town America's shittiest little dive bar". Probably some former highschool hero turned into another alcoholic.
He flags down Danny regardless, and for a moment there's something gleaming behind those deadened eyes. "Hey, aren't you that new journalist? Fuckin'... out here to solve whoever burnt down that silo."
He snorts. "Good luck."
Speaking of unremarkable sclub wasting his time in small-town America's shittiest little dive bar, Danny is also there. While a dive bar isn't the best place for getting to know all the little intricacies of someone, it's great for meeting people, and for finding his way into their homes. Danny's attention snaps to the stranger across the bar before he lifts a hand, but the way the lights glint off his glasses make it hard to know where he's looking. He lifts a brow all the same, like it was the hand that caught his eye and not the prickle on the back of his neck, and leans his elbows on the bar.
Ah, yes. The arson cases. Part of Danny is glad that the heat is off the Ghostface murders for the time being, but he can't help being resentful of sharing his spotlight with some pumped-up teenaged hick arsonist. "Yeah, you got me," Danny says, dragging his fingers through his hair like he needs to make it even greasier. It's a Friday, after all. He's allowed to look a little rough. "Fuckin' glad I don't have to do the investigative work, though. I've just gotta write about how shit the cops are doin' until they get on my ass about their portrayal in media, or some shit."
He sets his air quotes down and takes a swig of his drink. "If you've got any theories, just start talkin'. I've gotta write another article on it for Sunday's paper, and the sheriff's had his finger up his ass since Tuesday, so I'l shit outta luck."
