For once, Dan wasn't on a job. No calls, no emails, no text messages full of shame or fear. I earned this, he tried to convince himself. Weeks, seemingly without end or break, travel time doubling as downtime. Gods, spirits, deities, whatever the name-- they'd been busy. Violent, horny, desperate, or simply bored. Regardless, it was mortals that suffered, so his phone (virtual and physical) was ringing off the hook.
Seeing as his last job was a woman who was so determined to argue that the bi-yearly battle between the Oak and Holly kings had torn up her backyard, he had a strange desire to find an Irish-style pup. Perhaps, to convince himself that the culture wasn't all loony tunes and lucky charms. (The woman was, gratefully, wrong; neighborhood kids had been using her yard as a demolition arena for their four-wheelers. Turns out, she had a hell of a backyard.)
Just a quick search had him cruising in the right direction, phone re-mounted on that weird non-sticky but-holds-phones-anyway bases that stuck to his dashboard, regaling him with directions in the dulcet tones of Microsoft Sandra. Less than twenty minutes had him in the parking lot, and fewer than five had him seated.
It's always the wrists. They get sore, sometimes when it rains, sometimes around things. May those things be immortal or simply descended deep from a line that once was (he calls those people), either way, it sets the joints off.He takes his ordered glass (tall, mind you) and settles into his booth, taking a casual glance around the room.