(no subject)
Ellen Harvelle doesn't know her bar like the back of her hand. As folks like to point out sometimes, who goes around staring at the back of their hand like they're out to memorize it? What use'll that ever be?
She does, however, know her bar like she knows the gun she keeps on her as often as possible (one of her late husband's, modified to fit rock salt and ordinary rounds both), and like the bottles of holy water she keeps alongside the whiskey, and like the look she'll sometimes catch on her daughter's face as they work their shifts: less like you'd expect a young woman to look when she's in a barful of men, more like she's reading a bunch of walking, talking textbooks on how to jump headfirst into hunting.
And even if Ellen didn't know her bar, she'd know damn well that its back room ought to look a hell of a lot different than this.
The door swings shut behind her with a bang; Ellen keeps a hand on it as she narrows her eyes, sizing up the room. "The hell?" she mutters under her breath.
She does, however, know her bar like she knows the gun she keeps on her as often as possible (one of her late husband's, modified to fit rock salt and ordinary rounds both), and like the bottles of holy water she keeps alongside the whiskey, and like the look she'll sometimes catch on her daughter's face as they work their shifts: less like you'd expect a young woman to look when she's in a barful of men, more like she's reading a bunch of walking, talking textbooks on how to jump headfirst into hunting.
And even if Ellen didn't know her bar, she'd know damn well that its back room ought to look a hell of a lot different than this.
The door swings shut behind her with a bang; Ellen keeps a hand on it as she narrows her eyes, sizing up the room. "The hell?" she mutters under her breath.