June is a good month for roses.

V has set an armful of them on the table, and is carefully examining each one before setting it aside, gingerly, more for fear of hurting the rose than from being scratched by the thorns.

His gloves are thick, anyway.

John is in the bar. Guinness, double Bushmills, overflowing ashtray.

He is Morose, with a capital M. As in, "emo kid in the dark with a clove cigarette and a Cure album on repeat" kinda morose.

Er, but don't let that stop you from poking!

[OOM: (Millitimed to several weeks ago, now. Ahahah er.) All sorts come here. Some bizarre, and some amusing--mostly likeable, all told.

And then some have the most beautiful smiles, and they sure seem familiar.]

And there is Death.

See? Right there. Corner of the Bar. White Russian in hand.

ETA[OOC: Must fade or slowtime. Have to pick up check and cash it before bank closes. Because, you know, being able to eat is nice. Thanks all for lovely threadage!]

Patrick Bateman ( Read more... )

[OOM: Before the bar, before an entrance, there is a meeting that will change a everything.]

Death. Corner of the bar. White Russian.

What else is new?

((ooc: Here till 9 EST. Be gentle!))

Sands is actually looking a little cheerful today.

He’s smiling, at least, though frankly that could mean anything.

Whatever the case, he’s currently sprawled on the sofa, with his sunglasses in place and a cigarette in hand, his head tilted slightly as he listens to the general noise of the busy bar.

It's been a while.

She's been tending to her responsibilities. Now, though, it's time to let her hair down for a bit.

The corner barstool is hers tonight, and she's got a White Russian in her hand.

((ooc: OMG MUST SLEEP. I am sorry, guys, I'm braindead. Slowtime=teh good. I love you alllll.))

Death, corner barstool, White Russian.