Today, I made an appearance downtown. I'm an expert witness, because I say I am.
On Monday morning, a limo pulls up in front of the Conrad and Adam Monroe, plus a few ranking Organization personnel and all their individual security details, arrive at the Conrad Hotel for a meeting. They head straight to the meeting room without lingering too long outside or in the lobby, and while Adam is choking down a deep-rooted urge to kill, he looks completely calm and collected. He hasn't lived this long to come unraveled, even for something as ominous and foreboding as the Trust.
That's just not classy, after all. And we all know how classy Adam is. Goddamn.
The Trickster is everywhere. No. Really. In his ongoing mission to see just how badly his existence is screwing with Chicago, he's been flitting from place to place around the city for the last several days. No one's just really noticed, but he's there, blending in with the shadows, pretending that he totally belongs here, there, and everywhere. That electrician? Totally him. That bartender? Also him. That homeless guy on the corner. ...Probably not him. But it could be. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker? GUESS WHO?
Basically, he's around. And no place is sacred. NO PLACE. ...Okay, some places are sacred. You get the picture.
And if he's been flitting a bit more furiously since conversations with certain Knights of the Cross, it means nothing. NOTHING.
That's just not classy, after all. And we all know how classy Adam is. Goddamn.
The Trickster is everywhere. No. Really. In his ongoing mission to see just how badly his existence is screwing with Chicago, he's been flitting from place to place around the city for the last several days. No one's just really noticed, but he's there, blending in with the shadows, pretending that he totally belongs here, there, and everywhere. That electrician? Totally him. That bartender? Also him. That homeless guy on the corner. ...Probably not him. But it could be. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker? GUESS WHO?
Basically, he's around. And no place is sacred. NO PLACE. ...Okay, some places are sacred. You get the picture.
And if he's been flitting a bit more furiously since conversations with certain Knights of the Cross, it means nothing. NOTHING.