(Untitled)

[themanclion]

He will never understand this place. Time moves in ways it bloody well shouldn't. It's only been twenty minutes since he was last here, only now it appears to be Christmas, if the decorations are to be believed.

He walks to the bar. 'You're tryin' to tell me somethin', aren't you?'

There is no reply. He waits a moment, then sighs. A pint appears.

'

Comments

[themanclion]

He opens his mouth. Then closes it again.

'...what?'

[themanclion]

His eyes cut left. Then right.

He doesn't think Bar would suddenly develop a voice - particularly a male one - but what does he know, really, about magic bars?

'...who'm I talkin' to?'

[themanclion]

Hang on, he knows this one.

So he scowls, because someone is taking the piss.

'Soun's more like Dorothy, if you ask me. Evens says you're wearin' a gingham dress back there.'

[themanclion]

He looks alarmed. And vaguely outraged.

'...if you're not wearin' knickers pal, I don' want t'know. What sort of bloke d'you think I am?'

Definitely the sort of bloke who'll hit another bloke at the vaguest suggestion of anything untoward being directed towards his person.

[themanclion]

'Well, it should,' he says, after deciphering exactly what was said there.

'An' at this point, I've only got your word for it that you're actually a bloke at all.'

And here he is, talking to him anyway. It's just going to be one of those kinds of days, isn't it?

[themanclion]

'...don't do that.'

If this were the 70s version of him, or he was just having a better day, that statement would be followed up with a threat of violence. So perhaps this is better?

...or perhaps he's just less likely to warn anyone today.

He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead.

'Y'know, I've tended bar here more times than I can count. An' I've never done it while sittin' on the floor. Plus, you can't actually be workin', seein' as Bar's awake. She served me this pint. So am I gonna have t'come back there an' make sure you're not stealin' bottles out the fridge?'

[themanclion]

His buttons are nothing if not easy to press.

'Mike.'

He looks blank.

'...oh right, I've heard about you.'

He drags on his cigarette, and blows a plume of smoke into the air.

'You can read her mind? That must be...borin'. Unless you're an alcoholic.'

It says something that Gene probably wouldn't mind a pub having direct access to his thoughts. It'd save all that boring asking for drinks off some tosspot barmaid.

[themanclion]

'...you don' drink?'

Everything else must, of course, take a backseat to this piece of news.

'Hang on, what?'

Seriosuly. What?