Post by Prosper Andrews on Aug 12, 2009 1:14:15 GMT
Time: 10:45, Evening
Ah, the working poor. Didn't they have the dignity to go work and be poor somewhere else? He'd seen the impoverished underclasses of many lands (and been a socialist for about a month and a half, before deciding that the pay wasn't good) and found them difficult even to look at. Sometimes there would be a pretty face, or a willing volunteer for one of his more dangerous stunts, but all in all, the anonymous mob ought to remain so. In a city such as New York, this was even more difficult. No one seemed to really know their place any more.
The washroom attendant, a lithe young mute in a tailored tuxedo coat and garters, made politely to ignore him entirely.
Plunging his forearm under the faucet, and scrubbing. There was a distinct... mark, there, that was either spontaneously generated (and a sign from the Beyond) or something he'd drawn on himself while well and truly tap-hackled the night before. And yet hadn't noticed. Strewth, maybe he'd even gotten a tattoo. An uneven little starburst of lines, like scratches-- had he hurt himself somehow? It didn't look quite like ink, come to think of it-- he gouged at it with his fingernails until the flesh was raw, and managed nothing.
Well, on with the show.
Prosper rolled his sleeve back down again, heedless of still being sopping wet from the elbow down.
On with his suit jacket, push back a few stray hairs, and there you go. He had to clutch the sink for support, being more than slightly unwell. A few rounds of drinks might inflict that on a man. But the night was young, back to his table and his cards. Maybe they'd have enough to play tarocchi with. Some of these demons had to know the game. For a moment in the mirror, he pinned his hair with a hand, scrutinizing his features for any newfound flaw, then turned to go. Picking up with his train of thought where he had left off.
Ah, the working poor. Didn't they have the dignity to go work and be poor somewhere else? He'd seen the impoverished underclasses of many lands (and been a socialist for about a month and a half, before deciding that the pay wasn't good) and found them difficult even to look at. Sometimes there would be a pretty face, or a willing volunteer for one of his more dangerous stunts, but all in all, the anonymous mob ought to remain so. In a city such as New York, this was even more difficult. No one seemed to really know their place any more.
The washroom attendant, a lithe young mute in a tailored tuxedo coat and garters, made politely to ignore him entirely.
Plunging his forearm under the faucet, and scrubbing. There was a distinct... mark, there, that was either spontaneously generated (and a sign from the Beyond) or something he'd drawn on himself while well and truly tap-hackled the night before. And yet hadn't noticed. Strewth, maybe he'd even gotten a tattoo. An uneven little starburst of lines, like scratches-- had he hurt himself somehow? It didn't look quite like ink, come to think of it-- he gouged at it with his fingernails until the flesh was raw, and managed nothing.
Well, on with the show.
Prosper rolled his sleeve back down again, heedless of still being sopping wet from the elbow down.
On with his suit jacket, push back a few stray hairs, and there you go. He had to clutch the sink for support, being more than slightly unwell. A few rounds of drinks might inflict that on a man. But the night was young, back to his table and his cards. Maybe they'd have enough to play tarocchi with. Some of these demons had to know the game. For a moment in the mirror, he pinned his hair with a hand, scrutinizing his features for any newfound flaw, then turned to go. Picking up with his train of thought where he had left off.