#boneyardstarters

Maybe renting Carrie for the sixth time in two months could fix her. Maybe a stiff drink would do twice the damage. One could only hope, as Lilura stood before the shelves transfixed. She wasn't looking for something new. She was looking for something known to her.

Her eyes continued to scan, wandering over title after title before she finally reached for an age-old comfort; The Lost Boys. Nimble fingers reached for the spine in unison with another, and the realisation sent a sigh—perhaps impatient, perhaps in concession—through her lips. It was pushed far enough back into the shelf to be the last available, and as much as she'd love a little vampiric horror to lift her mood, she turned to the other with mercy in her gaze.

"All yours," she surrendered. "You've got taste." Without so much as an adjective, Lilura's tone was as warm as it could be toward a stranger, and her eyes gentle despite their haunter gleam—the implication was clear. It was a compliment.

Perhaps a stiff drink and the sounds of a killer prom queen would have to be enough, after all.

It was a simple game. A pencil holder sat on the far side of Wolfgang's desk. With one eye shut, he would simply fling a pen at it. If he got it in? Three points. If he hit it? One. If he missed? Minus one point, unless he forgot. Wolf was currently on fifteen points. Or, at least, he thought he was. It was hard to write down his score when his pen was regularly on the other side of the desk.

Wolf closed one eye, lined up his shot and -- damn. Fourteen points. He went to mark down the loss only to realize his pen was on the floor on the far side of his desk. With an annoyed tsk, he stood up from his chair and circled around to retrieve it. He scooped down, picked up the projectile, and paused, trying to remember what his score was now. It didn't come to him - and no bother. It was written down on a sticky note on his desk.

He stood back up and, as he turned, caught sight of someone just entering the office door. He popped up with a bright smile. "Oh, heya. Is there something I can help you with?" Wolf moved back to behind his desk, taking a quick glance at his notes. Fifteen points. Nice. "Or - wait. I was supposed to have something ready for you, I think. It's probably almost done. Just, uh... what was it?"

She's beaming by the time she bounces off the make shift stage, giggling and letting her friends know she'd be back after getting a drink, stopping at the karaoke sign up list again to see if there were any other songs that stood out. Eyes dart to the side, her body shuffling over a bit so the person next to her could read teh book.

"Please, if you know what you wanna sing go ahead, I'm not sure I'm gonna go again." She smiles, handing the pen over to her new counterpart. Were they here for karaoke? Who knows, she can't hear much, but she does know one of the bands is going to go on soon, and the host would probably be wrapping up. But if they wanted to be brave beforehand, she wasn't going to stop anyone.

location: random cafe

Harsh hadn't picked an occupation as an actor because he wanted fame and fortune, neither because he'd grown up thinking he was made to be a star. He'd wanted to prove to himself that all the things his mother had said about him were untrue, he wanted a life away from everything she'd build. He didn't just audition for every role he could find, he picked the ones where he could make people fall in love with him. The charmers, the bad-boys, the love-interest.

When he landed a guest role on Las Vegas Emergency, a hit series about a local hospital that dealt with all matter of unbelievable cases, led by the amazing and wonderful Jane Masters as Dr. Emmy Roberts, he threw all his boyish charms into the game.

Yet, three years later and now with his name appearing in the opening title sequence, he was faced with the very real danger that he couldn't walk the streets of Las Vegas without being spotted and recognised.

Out of breath and unsure if he was still followed, Harsh barged through the doors of a cafe and sat down at the table next to the window, quickly looking in his bag to produce a cap and throw it over his long brown hair. He bit down on his lip as he checked the street through the window, then turned to the occupant of the table with an apologetic smile, hoping that they were unfamiliar with him and he was safe from writing authographs.

"I'll buy you anything off the menu if I can hang out here for a bit." Hide out was more the term.

"Betcha' I can stay on the mechanical bull longer than you," Ace said with a grin, a taunt if it was anything else. "Twenty bucks to see which one of us can ride it longer? Although I think I already know the outcome, but you can try."

In all honesty, Ace doesn't even know if he's going to win. But, it was always fun to make these kinds of bets. He likes the thrill of things and adding money to it doesn't hurt. It's also to make the stakes higher or just plain entice the other person to take up his challenge.

Ace is a local, has been going to this event for a majority of his life. He's had his fair share of riding that bull and has definitely lasted in riding it for at least eight seconds. He's going to try and break his record and having someone go against him is getting him excited.

"Would you prefer a higher amount? I don't mind it." he says before looking over to the mechanical bull. The person who was riding it is barely three seconds in and they're already slipping, then falls off of it. Ace laughs, amused at the person who fell and couldn't last a mere three-seconds on it.

If nothing else, Graham was thankful to be indoors. He reminded himself of this fact as he emerged through the basement door, dusting off cobwebs that - no matter how he tried to avoid them - always managed to find their way onto his clothing. A small device beeped slowly in his hand. As expected: there were no ghosts, only spiders.

“Yeah, no, I think we’re good down there,” he said to the person on the other side of the door. “Thanks for waiting. I swear Mrs. Dennison calls me out here every month, and I keep telling her - it’s not a haunting, just your pipes.” He took a few steps forward and let the door to the cellar swing shut behind him.

“Problem is, this door sticks every time. And I don’t wanna get stuck down there.” He stashed the device in a messenger bag hanging off his shoulder. “So thanks for keeping me from the horror of Mrs. Dennison’s basement. Technically I could be done with this sweep, but if you’ve got a bit more time… would you mind helping me finish the rest of the house? She’s a good egg, so I like to keep her happy.”

"This fucking guy." Jimmy turned to the person behind him, his thumb jutting out toward the butcher. This guy had been giving him a hard time lately. Prices were going up, slowly, few cents here, few cents there. He wasn't sure if it was the butcher of Searchlights greediness or if the apprentice were just trying to pull fast ones. At the end of the day, Jimmy got the original price but it took some ball busting.

Jimmy had a way of busting balls that felt friendly, a smile on his face, a nudge on the shoulder. There was an ease to his voice, something reassuring. He would act like your friend, make you feel as if your company were to be enjoyed. That is,until it was serious enough that he had to lock in to business.

"This is the third week he's tried to overcharge me for Prisciutto. Another week and I'm going to have to break his fingers." He delivered it as a joke, tone amused and animated. Something in his eyes though. It was subtle, the butcher here would catch it but anyone else, well it wasn't likely. Not unless they were pros at the poker table, had a knack for reading bluffs and truths.