2013.09.25 - Nothing Better at the Corner Store

It's amazing how brightly an old, neon 'Bud' sign can be, hung upon the gate-covered and tinted windows of an old bar. The place has stood here for decades, the neighborhood untouched by the gentrified influence of the RWF (Rich White Man, for those clued in on street talk). Even during a bright, sunny day such as this, the old beer sign is like a beacon of hope for the destitute, alcoholics, and others who see fit to drinking at ten in the morning.

There are reasons Kwabena finds himself in this old place. He used to haunt it years ago, and it's in close proximity to a certain building he's been casing for two days. Also, it's a place where he can find whiskey. He's not had a drop since discovering that, frankly, his best defense against enemy telepathic invasions is a clear head. However, casing the joint three blocks away has become so tedious and boring that, well, a mutant just can't help himself.

"Crown." The old bartender sets a bottle down, fresh, slipping it free from its blue velvet sleeve. "That's the best I got."

Kwabena peers at the unopened bottle of whiskey with a reproachful look. Dressed in his black riding leathers, his Harley parked outside? Seems he fits in well enough. The whiskey, however, is about as befitting to this neighborhood as it's going to get. "I couldn't find anything bettah at a cornah store," he murmurs in resignation, then gestures at the bartender to proceed. "Fill it up, boss. Make it a doubah."

There's a distinct thrumming sound of an engine rumbling outside. Anyone with an ear for bikes would immediately recognize the tell-tale rumble of a classic Indian, lovingly restored and with custom exhaust pipes singing a husky song. The engine revs once and cuts out, and a shadowy figure rolls through the door.

"So dis where Kwabena been hidin'," Remy says, easing onto a barstool next to the mutant. He eyes the Crown Royal, then rolls his eyes and holds up a fifty dollar bill for the bartender. His fingers slide apart, making it an even hundred. "Mon ami, you go in de back an' fin' de stuff de owner keepin' foah hisself, an' bring it heah," Remy instructs the fellow. The bartender eyes the Cajun a bit dubiously, but seeing no good reason to tell the Cajun no, snatches the cash and ambles in the back.

Remy pours each of them a shot of Crown, whiskey splashing over the ice in their glasses. "Dis jes' a warmup drink till de good stuff git heah. Levots nos verre," he adds, by way of toast. He clinks the glass against Kwabena's and promptly slams back the double.

While Kwabena has a penchant for Harley's, he knows enough about bikes to recognize that sound. Halfway through paying for his booze, he seems to perk, eyes glancing toward the painted black windows, then lazily drifting toward the door when it opens. Remy's greeting is met with a slightly amused smirk. "Damn," he breathes. "And here I thought de girl of my dreams was about to walk through dat door." Beat. "You made off with your moddah's bike?"

The African meets the toast with a similar clink, and a similar oath. "Mo de ekohu."

Down the hatch goes that amber love, and Kwabena's teeth are borne with an expression of mild distaste. "God, de burn is so worthless," he quips. "Dat shit isn't good unless its aged. You're wrong, by de way." He glances Gambit's way with no shortage of mirth. "I've only been hiding out here for de last two days."

"Could at least hide out at Harry's," Remy sallies back. "At least he got some food an' better drinks. Merci," he says to the bartender, smiling brilliantly despite the ill-timed comment. The Cajun taps the bar for him to leave the bottle- good Maker's 46- and Remy pours each of them another belt.

"Been a bit worry 'bout you. Ain't see you runnin' roun' de Institute, but word was you lef' Genosha." He sips this whiskey a bit more slowly, savouring the potent spice. "Word was der someone writin' yoah name in blood on de walls." His black and red eyes flicker left and right, and though no one is nearby, his voice drops to a murmur that can't go more than a foot or two from them. "Word was it some of yoah ol' hangouts. Bit worry you be spendin' too much time wit' yoah ol' friends, you start fallin' off de wagon." He arches an eyebrow and gives Shift a pointed look. There's nothing outright accusatory in his tone- just the blunt statement of a friend concerned for another friend's well-being, if not his feelings in general.

Fair point made there by Remy, but Kwabena had reasons not to hang out at Harry's. He shrugs, not committing to a response on that one just yet, instead eyeing their newest arrival with an expression of greater approval.

"You've been running around de Institute?" he asks, casting a glance Remy's way. Seems Kwabena is a touch out of the loop on that one. "I've been on assignment," he explains. "First one was... heavy covah. Current one? Not so much different." That's certainly one way to put it. The way he's speaking leaves a few holes to be filled.

Now, when talk is brought up about his recent arrival in global news feeds, Kwabena's tone visibly sours. "Yeah," he nearly growls. "Dat's why I'm here, now." A meaningful glance is given to Remy. "You figured de connections too, huh?"

It's certainly worth noting that Remy was looking out for him.

Lifting the glass, he knocks back the second round, then proceeds to fill their glasses again. "Someone's tried to send me ah message. Soiled my name in de process." His fingers tighten around the shotglass, skin cracking here and there, though he maintains his anger over the whole situation so as not to shatter the innocent glassware. "Don't like having my name thrown around like dat."

The skin smooths out to normal.

"Man," he suddenly says, "if I evah fall of de wagon again, you won't find me in here. You'll be checkin' guttah's for a fellah who can't stay in one shape." He lifts the shotglass indicatively.

Don't worry, Remy. Shift hasn't relapsed.

"So you git stoned an' jes' trickle down de gutter?" Remy cackles. "Holy shit, dat be a funny sight." He abruptly sobers, though his eyes twinkle still. "Ah mean, dat terrible, mon ami. Hate t' tink of my goo' buddy tricklin' down de storm drain an' washin' out to sea."

He chuffs and snorts, holding back another laugh, and sips more of the Maker's. "Ok frien', won' bring it up again. Jes' makin' sure you keepin' it... solid."

Remy howls and slaps the bar several times, eliciting a few frowny looks from the bar. This isn't a place for people to laugh. This is a place of /serious drinking/.

"So you need some backup? Been itchin' t' do sometin' outside de damn cafe," Remy grouses, half-seriously. "Crack a skull, save a pretty gal or two who is in ovah her head. Dis guy, he tryin' to make it personal. He livin' rent free, up heah," Remy says, thumping the side of Shift's noggin lightly. "You nee' someone along to show him- all of dem- dat you ain't stupid enough to run solo no more. Smart man brin' a gun to a knife fight. /Long lived/ man brin' two frien's with guns to a knife fight," Remy says, tapping his nose and winking.

A heavy snort is given at Remy's response, and Kwabena comes close to snoring Maker's Mark right out his nose. Forcing it down with watery eyes, he joins in the laughter for a moment, before reaching up to pinch his nose and steady the burn attacking his sinuses.

"Yeah, just one more reason to avoid de needle," he quips, though it's not without a hearty smirk.... one which abruptly breaks open when Remy makes yet another joke.

It's not really a good one, either. The Cajun's laughter is just infections as hell.

"You know what, LeBeau? World needs some few more fuckers like you around." Looking past Gambit toward the bars patrons, Kwabena provides a wave of apology, before settling back in his seat and eyeing the next glass of whiskey. This one won't get knocked back... this one is for enjoying.

"Might," he answers agreeably. "I got one along for de ride already. Teep. Smart girl. Bit of a firecracker, willing to throw herself to the wolves to draw out de responsible party." Remy gets one of those looks. "I must have made an impression."

"Still," he adds, breathing a deep breath before lifting the glass. "Sure as hell could use anodah trusted hand." Lowering his voice, he seeks to make sure that Remy alone can hear what he says next.

"Dose numbahs? It's an address. Old dope house I used to crash at for weeks on end. You're goddamned right, it is personal. Someone went to great lengths to figure dat out. Druggies don't talk about dere dope houses, you know? Thing is, I've been keeping an eye on it, checking things out, looking for any funny business." He snaps his fingers. "Nothing. Whoevah dis is? Whoevah dey are? I can't draw a bead on 'em, not by hanging out in a flophouse across the way, smoking squares and munching on cheetos all day. Gonna have to spring de trap."

"Dat soun' too easy," Remy says with a broad shake of his head. "You jes' let ol Remy take care of it. Ah walk in, strut my stuff, an' start askin' questions ah shouldn'. Dey won' know what t' make of me," he assures Shift. "Ah ain't reputable lookin', an' ah figger ah go in an' drop a hint or two, mebbe someone der start talkin'. Ah kin tell 'em ah heah dey lookin' for yoah skinny ass," he says, poking Shift's shoulder, "and den ah pretty sure dey start tellin' me when an' where t' be at so we can stomp on yas. How dat soun' to you?" Remy asks his friend, taking another loitering sip of the Maker's.

"Hey, you know me," answers Kwabena. "I like de hands on approach. You want to take dat one on? By all means. I'll hang back like a cloud of smoke ovah your shoulder, so to speak. Still, we ought to bring de teep. I drug her off assignment 'cause she offah'd to help, would be an insult not to bring her along for de ride." He pauses, considering Remy while enjoying a sip of his bourbon. "I don't think she realizes it," he murmurs, adopting a more severe tone, "But she's Omega class. At least she's got relations to Omegas. If my instincts are right, I think I've seen about..." He pinches two fingers. "Ten pahcent of what she's capable of. If de shit hits de fan? We won't want to leave her in de dust."

Beat.

"Besides. I'm kinda sweet on her. Gotta know how she handles herself in a fight, case de bad man comes knockin' on de hotel room door."

And that, my dear readers, is the bourbon talking.

"Dat some soun' reasonin', der," Remy says, shaking his head in the negative even as he sips back the bourbon. Shift's a good drinker, but he's nowhere near the professional alcoholic that Remy is. Even on his sixth- eighth? bourbon, he's still upright and talking easily. "Don' like dem Omegas," Remy confesses to Shift. "Dey scary as shit. Some of dem kin turn you inside out wit' a thought. Dey all telepaths, too. Guess 'cept for Magneto," he says, frowning. "But de rest of de ones ah heah about, dey say dey kin bust down buildin's an' tear your brain apart jes' by lookin' at ya. Make me a bit nervous," he admits. "What you doin' runnin' round wit' one of dem? Women bad 'nough as it is, even worse she know read yoah mind," he adds with a derisive snort.

Hey, Shift's a good drinker and all, but his time in Genosha has given his liver some time to repair itself. His tolerance? Suffering.

"I know what you mean," he answers. "I don't like someone snooping around up dere. Thing is? Girl's seen some ugly things in her time." He considers something in silence, before cocking an eyebrow at Remy. "You evah met someone who claims to be from some dark, evil future time?" He nods his head. "Doc Brown kind of stuff. Anyway, I trust her. Dat's sayin' something."

Beat.

"And I think she caught wind of some dirty thoughts. I got a reputation to defend here."

"Don' believe in it," Remy says, shaking his head. "Anyone who say dey from de future is nuts. Dere can't be such a ting. Else you go back an' step on a butterfly, change de future, now how you exist?" Remy clearly does not subscribe to the Back to the Future, slapdash 'let's leave her on the porch' theory of time travel.

"Man, jes' be careful wit her. Girl like dat like to take it real personal some day if she catch you lookin' twice at a pretty gal passin' by. Shit, gal like dat could jes' take your brain an' make you tink dere ain't any othah gals in de world." He eyes Shift with an upticked brow and slams back the rest of his bourbon. "Sometin' to tink about."

"I hear you," answers Kwabena. "Only she makes de tird pahson I've met who claims dey from de future. And half de peopah I run with believe dem." He shakes his head, considering all of the advice. It's good advice. The real question is, can Kwabena go cold to her?

"Gonna have to cool it with de dirty thoughts," he murmurs. "I'm on assignment. With her. So like, we're a team, and stuff." He knocks back the bourbon and goes for another glass. "Dis team stuff. It's something else. Good to have de extra guns and all, but sometimes? Sometimes." He shakes his head. "You know I don't shy away from knife fights."

"Old thieves, an' bold thieves, but no old, bold thieves," Remy counters, with the manner of a man quoting a rock-solid axiom. He sips more of his bourbon, then waggles the glass at Shift. "Lissen, mon ami. You be careful, all right? Bad to get involved with a mind reader- bad worse to do it in a mission. You not thinkin' on de guy ahead of you one hunnered percent, he shoot you wit a ray gun or sometin' an' you don' just whisk it away. You kin still git hurt if you ain't careful. Gettin' mixed up wit' someone on mission, dat a surefire way to end up deaded." He clinks his glass against Kwabena's, hoists his in salute, and knocks back another healthy slug of the bourbon.

Good advice is always worthwhile. "Nah, I'm doing well enough," he argues. "But, I know. You're right." Clinking the glass, he takes another sip and seems to just enjoy it for a while. He enjoyed the flavor, after all, not just the side effects.

Then, with a dubious look, he eyes Gambit and remarks, "Just wait til de next time you see me get hit with a ray gun."

Remy grins at Shift. "Ok, fair 'nuff," Remy says. He's working at the Institute- word gets around. He slams back his bourbon, puts a twenty in the tip jar, and adjusts his collar. "You be careful, mon ami," he cautions Shift, rising to his feet with a fluid ease. "You call Remy if you need some backup. Hell, you call if you /tink/ you need backup. Ain't no one gonna say at yoah funeral 'it's a good ting he didn't call for help'." He pats the man once on the shoulder, firmly, then turns and saunters out of the bar.

A look of thanks is tossed Remy's way, before Kwabena gulps the last of his bourbon. "I'll throw an Ace of Spades up into de sky," he quips, before tipping his head Remy's way.

"Take care of ma's bike."

"Yeah, ah tell yoah mom ah said hi when ah see her tonight," Remy quips over his shoulder, before disappearing through the door.