Second floor common room, Tuesday afternoon
Priestly was perched on the counter again, this time next to the coffee pot. His mohawk was still green from yesterday, but it matched his "I sell crack for the CIA" t-shirt and he didn't want to risk getting dye on his clothes. He had his legs crossed -- never fear, he was wearing pants, no danger of accidental flashing here. And he was talking seemingly to mid-air.
"I'm just saying, man. I totally respect what you're fighting for, but you've got to be careful. Too many of you guys go on strike at the same time and it'll be really hard drumming up the right kind of sympathy for your cause. Plus you're totally risking potential union-limiting legislation. And look what happened to Hoffa. Okay, not what actually happened to Hoffa, but what people think happened to Hoffa. Not that I'm saying you guys have ties to the mob. And, anyway, you got to watch out for the scabs and stuff, undermining what you're trying to say. Are the French presses in the union? These are important questions."
The second floor common room had coffee. Caffeinated, even.
But only if you proved you supported the coffee makers' cause.
[ooc: open!]
"I'm just saying, man. I totally respect what you're fighting for, but you've got to be careful. Too many of you guys go on strike at the same time and it'll be really hard drumming up the right kind of sympathy for your cause. Plus you're totally risking potential union-limiting legislation. And look what happened to Hoffa. Okay, not what actually happened to Hoffa, but what people think happened to Hoffa. Not that I'm saying you guys have ties to the mob. And, anyway, you got to watch out for the scabs and stuff, undermining what you're trying to say. Are the French presses in the union? These are important questions."
The second floor common room had coffee. Caffeinated, even.
But only if you proved you supported the coffee makers' cause.
[ooc: open!]