Claire! In the bar!

For those with good noses, she smells vaguely of perfume (not hers), zombies (maybe a pet? probably not) and blood (is it hers if she's imbibed it?).

Also, she's trying to think up slogans for a grassroots Anna for sheriff campaign.

All she's come up with so far is, "Stop being idiots. Vote for Anna."

Claire enters the Wasteland in two efficient steps, striding up to the bar and placing an order for two drinks, one for her, one for Les who's trailing behind her.

Leaving him to carry them, she finds a table with a good view.

[oowl: The story of 8 whores and a madam.]

Claire Pullman is in the house!

Ok, so without any bling, just a business skirt and high heels, her shirt casually unbuttoned down to here. She's sitting at the bar, a book of accounts in front of her.

Who knew operating a business in a barter-based economy would be so difficult!

Today, Rebecca told herself, she was going to go to the Wasteland for a drink come evening. (Early evening. Dusk's dangerous; nighttime's more so.) This is maybe one part PR, one part socializing impulse, and one part a fervent desire to get the hell out of these same few buildings, even just to an only marginally less familiar building ( Read more... )

Preston ambles into the Wasteland and slings his backpack onto his seat ( Read more... )

Snapping her umbrella closed, Claire shakes out the rain and glances around the Wasteland.

She doesn't look tired at all, but there's an edge to her, revealed only in the length of her skirt - knee length - and the buttons her blouse. Who knew being a Madam would be harder than being an evil mastermind apocalyptic businessman ( Read more... )

First, Anna's been traveling most of the day, stopping at an exchange or two, and then running out to do some scavenging for useful trade materials.

It didn't go well.

Then it started to rain.

And then on her way to the Wasteland for a drink, she ran into a group of vampires attempting to turn in a werewolf for--being a werewolf. And scavenging ( Read more... )

Russ started off the evening in a less than great mood -- it's January, it's Chicago, it's cold and windy and it makes his ribs ache -- and then Armand and his flamingos showed up.

Fucking world's out to push his buttons tonight, huh?

He's acquired a glass of moonshine and is alternating sips of it with drags on a cig.

Here is a Wasteland. It is a club, among other things. There is even a stage. And on this stage, there be a couple of garden flamingos ( Read more... )