#mwstarter

He heard someone take the stool at the bar beside him, torn between telling them to find another seat and begging whoever they were to stay with him. In the end he just pushed the half-eaten basket of mozzarella sticks in their direction, reaching for his drink instead. “Knock yourself out, if you want.” He offered grimly, fully intent on ordering the potato skins next. 

Dusting his hands off after throwing yet another scumbag out of the bar, he strode over to his table and his waiting drink...only to find someone sitting there. His expression darkened. “That’s my table. Move or I’ll move you.” He would give the person about ten seconds before he followed through on his threat. 

Applause thundered out as the next stripper took the stage and Nicky smiled as he put the mike down. He headed for the bar and almost absently flexed his hands at his sides as he did so. They were sore, though he’d had to get used to the fact that they were always kind of sore now, but if he was starting to feel it so sharply it meant that his painkillers were wearing off. He had the bartender fill a glass with whiskey and shook some pills into his hand as the alcohol glugged out of the bottle. Nicky tossed them into his mouth like they were candy and washed them down with the booze, pleased by the warm burn that chased its way down his throat and chest. He wasn’t supposed to mix the two, of course, the doctors gave all sorts of dire warnings about it, but whatever. If you weren’t living on the edge, etc. Besides, Nicky tried to avoid being completely sober at any time these days. If he wasn’t at least a little numb or high, he didn’t know how to handle himself anymore.

Nikita’s set was going to last a while so he had a little time to slug back some drinks before he actually had to work again, though calling what he did here ‘work’ was kind of laughable. They’d tried giving him scripts at first but he never really stuck to them so he just made up whatever he wanted about the girls that he thought the crowd might like and it seemed to have worked out so far. He hoped he could find someone amusing or at least interesting to talk to while he waited, even better if that person was willing to share a drink with him. Glancing over, he noticed someone at the bar a few paces away and smiled at them. “Not that interested in the show, or are you just more interested in me?” It wasn’t his best line but he was famous (had been? He still didn’t like to think of it in the past tense) so it wasn’t that far off to think someone had recognized him. It still happened quite a bit.

Abi looked over the poster in her hand one last time before taping it up next to the door that lead into the morgue. Her boss wasn’t crazy about her advertising her unauthorized grief counseling there, especially since the image she chose strongly hinted that she could also communicate with the dead. She felt that her lengthy research on the matter and her attendance of several seances when she was living in LA qualified on her enough on the matter to start trying to make some money off of it. 

She finished smoothing out the paper on the window before stepping back to observe her work, turning her head and squinting at the person she heard approaching from the sidewalk. “Lost anyone recently?” she asked boldly, not realizing how insensitive that question might come across. 

He’d checked the parking lot and asked the attendee inside if they’d seen anything unexpected. Again. Walking back to the patrol car, he noticed someone who had pulled up at the pump. “Hey,” He called, reaching for the handle of his car door. “You the one who keeps calling?”

It took a second of close observation before he noticed someone close to him that he recognized also perusing the aisles. He had lived in Muddy Waters nearly his whole life, save for his time in the marines, and could hardly go out without getting stuck talking to someone, this time, drunk. His intoxicated brain told him it would be a good idea to duck behind a shelf of booze, so as not to be noticed in such a state. The outline of his body could still be obviously seen behind the little stand, though that didn’t stop him from looking like an over-sized child, too big for his hiding place. It was when his shoulder bumped into a tower of wine that the pork rinds went toppling out of his grasp and onto the floor, causing his eyes to meet with the person before him. He bent over to pick up the bag, making it dance in the air to the music a bit. “When pigs fly, huh?” he said with a grin, missing front tooth evident as he had forgotten to put his denture in at home.

He hopped down when he heard a customer asking for help at the counter, turning towards them with the chalk still held between his fingers. “Sorry, I don’t make the drinks. I’m just head of marketing.” 

There was something about the clinking of cups, the smell of freshly made coffee, and the sounds of college students tapping away at their laptops to get that essay in just in time. It was always a conventional way to start the day but it was something Test just never grew tired of.

He always fancied himself a table by the window, looking out on the town outside. Soon he felt the usual sense of melancholy that often went unsaid. He didn’t enjoy the company of the entire squad, knowing what he knew, save for a handful of them. It was a pill he put in his mouth and swallowed, though, without complaint. Despite hating where he worked, he loved what he did.

So there he sat, mentally preparing himself for a new day, wearing a small and worn smile as he watched the public do their thing out the window.

“Huh… That guy does not know how to park.”