maskormenacelogs | You are so rock & roll

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You are so rock & roll

WHO: Handsome Bob & YOU
WHERE: PICK A PLACE all prompts can be applied to any city
WHEN: MARCH
WHAT: Mostly a March catch-all but includes Bob trying to be good at his job and just... not. CR building. Potential road trip. Potential crime-y connections.
WARNINGS: Violence, fight club, ~~semi-friendly~~ savage punch ups, blood & injuries

{ 01. Workin' 9 to 5 / What a way to make a livin' | 18+ }

Bob's able to count the number of different jobs he's had one one hand (crooked pinky and all).

Sweeping the floor at his mum's best mate's hair salon didn't last long. Weekend work at Asda was a laugh right up until he got fired for racing the forklift up aisle twelve and taking out a lovingly stacked display of Heinz Baked Beans. The ones with the sausages in. Working in a factory making and packaging air fresheners for cars had given him a natural aversion to never hanging anything 'pine fresh' from the overhead mirror in any of his cars. His last job had been getaway driver for his gang, the Wild Bunch. And now he's a spokesmodel, his first and only current gig for a company trying to launch a competitor app to the well-known dating app, imPress.

It's with a belatedly regretful realisation that not only has his new employer set him up on the app to make it seem more relatable, but they've already made all his dating decisions for him. Some which aren't exactly in line with his current preferences. In fact, according to the app, he's up for dating just about anything that moves. Dressed head-to-toe in an outfit that's a lot more purposely put together than his own haphazardly casual style, he's wandering around with his usual swagger, grinning at anybody he makes eye contact with.

"Hello, you. You look friendly," he delivers charmingly, handsome smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he falls in step with the latest person who's shared more than a split-second of eye contact, comms device in hand. "How's your day going? Can I nick a couple of minutes of your time to make it even better?"

{ 02. You got a fast car / I want a ticket to anywhere | OTA }

Sometimes, there's just something relaxing about sitting in the driver's seat of a car and letting the engine rumble quietly. Pulled over and with no fixed destination in mind, Bob's playing a game on his comms device, enjoying the gentle purr of his car (it's his now, anyway) and a rare moment of feeling almost content at being on his own. His usual need to be with other people is dampened only by a long day at work and the prospect of taking the car for a spin in his very near future is making him feel better.

The past month has seemed to rush by, faster than he could have imagined, and with its steep learning curve, a strange sense of freedom he hadn't realised he'd been missing before. A fresh start hadn't ever been something that he thought he'd needed and while he still misses his family, his mates, he's found new people to bother. He smiles to himself as the thought of new friends warms him from the inside, only looks up when he clocks somebody standing right in front of his stationery car, not moving an inch. It's not like he'd planned on racing off just yet, but his eyebrows raise all the same, a slow hand reaching up to signal a wave.

{ 03. But I take care of my fam, I'm a gangster | 18+ for option a, option b (closed) }

It feels like a while since Bob's been in any kind of scrap. He'd thought Ronan might have kicked his arse for taking a lightsaber that didn't belong to him, but that didn't happen and instead he came away from that meetup feeling like he really wished it had. So it's exhilarating to feel deep in his bones that familiar sensation of danger. Of walking a fine line and not knowing how he's going to be walking away from it. From feeling the adrenaline pouring into his blood until he's almost high off it.

He's ready to walk a little more on the wild side and if he can't race anybody on the streets he'll have a friendly punch up instead. How he'd heard about this particular fight club he can't quite remember, but he's here, stripped down to his waist and ready to go.

option a.
"We avoiding the face or...?" he asks his opponent, question genuine and smile real as he rolls his shoulders in an attempt to loosen up. It doesn't really make much difference, he's a bit out of shape. Too many burgers and not enough running from the police. It's been a bit boring, honestly.

option b. - later | Closed » Kaz Brekker
Sitting on a low wall outside the seedy looking establishment he's just emerged from, Bob's holding a bag of frozen peas to one eyebrow and trying to stem the flow of blood from his split lip. Don't ask him where he got the peas from, he really doesn't know. He might look like he'd lost that fight (and maybe he did) but he's in a good mood regardless.

"'scuse me, mate," he asks the next person to walk by, trying not to come across as intimidating as he might look, shaved head and obviously having been fighting.

"You got the time by any chance?"

{ 04. Post your own }

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Without the name of the bar to locate it, Bob finds he almost enjoys the feeling of not knowing where they're going. Since he got here, nowhere he's been has been difficult to find, not with his brain serving as a satnav.

He falls easily in step with the other man, allowing enough space to not get in the way of the cane he seems to be favouring. He'll probably ask about what happened later, curiosity always getting the better of him, but for now there's a question to answer.

"I'm Bob."

No last name provided - nobody needs it, he thinks to himself. He's not even sure if some of his mates back home know his last name. Shrugging off the thought, his gaze flicks aside so he can look at the man asking the questions.

"You?"

"Kaz Brekker."

Bob gives no surname but that isn't exactly unheard in the underworld. Seemed like those were reserved for bosses, maybe lieutenants if they're anything like Kaz. Little Boss, someone called him once. Only once, because Kaz is not a little anything.

In the right circles in Maurtia Falls, he's developing a reputation.

Kaz stops outside a relatively unimpressive building and ducks in through the door. It's a seedy little bar, the kind of place where no one is going to look twice at Bob's bruises and cuts.

Open-mouthed, because he'd been about to say something (of no real value, probably), Bob watches the bloke - Kaz - duck into the kind of bar that he feels most at home in. He's been to swanky bars but none of them were fun or entertaining and that's a prerequisite for a night out, in his opinion.

Following the other man's lead, his eyes run over the interior's aesthetic, catching mostly on the bottles behind the bar rather than anybody in particular. He knows not to look at anybody for too long until he's got a better feel for the place and the people in it. At least, not until he can defend himself a bit better than he can at the moment. Those aches are starting to make themselves known.

Switching his attention to the man he's following he speeds up, realising he's been dawdling in his distraction, and only just manages to not bump into him as they stop.

"Interesting place," he says with a grin and it's a genuine observation. He doesn't like to assume things if he can help it, so follows up with: "you come here a lot?"

"I do," he answers.

Kaz slides into a booth - he likes having something against his back - and a makes eye contact with one of the bar tenders through the relatively small crowd. Business will pick up as more and more people trickle away from the fighting.

As he settles, Kaz rests his cane across his lap. Keeps it within reach and it's good for jabbing people that can't take a hint to leave, if it comes down to it.

"I'm considering buying it."

"Yeah?"

It’s not that Bob’s overly surprised, but he just hadn’t been expecting that answer. He takes a moment to look around the bar again, this time with more curious looks on things and people that are grabbing his attention.

He’s never been one for the business side of life, preferring instead to take things at a more casual pace (unless he’s behind the wheel of a car). Still, it’s an interesting idea and a little snippet of information about his new friend here.

"You into all that business lark, then?"

"Yes, I'm into all that business lark."

Their drinks arrive. Well, a bottle of liquor and two empty glasses arrive.

"Easier to control something if you own it. And then there's the income." If he does manage to find himself a business with space he could use to live, that would be an added bonus. The information is given without hesitation - they're just talking about real estate, after all - and Kaz reaches to open the bottle and pour them each a healthy dose of whatever's in it. Whiskey, vodka, rum. It'll be a surprise, but it'll also be top shelf.

Kaz doesn't remove the thin, black leather gloves he's wearing, though he does shrug out of his coat and belatedly unbuttons his suit jacket.

"I'm a business man."

Not designating himself driver for one night has its perks. The main perk is being poured out of the bottle the other man is holding and liberally filling the tumblers with on the table between them. Bob knows he could do with a drink if only to help dampen the throb hammering away at his temple.

With a grateful 'cheers mate' he lifts the glass up to toast the night. It's been a good one so far, better for the fact that he'd been expecting to drag his arse back to the house and struggle to sleep. He can still hear the noise from the crowd down at the fight club ringing low in his ears. The ambient noise in the bar soothes it, but only a little.

"Yeah, you look like a business man," he says, eyes dropping down the other man's torso as the buttons of the jacket are popped open before adding "decent suit".

Decent? An eyebrow ticks up, then Kaz laughs quietly. He lifts his glass and takes a drink from it, if only to figure out what's been brought to them. It's good.

"What do you do, Bob? Other than getting the shit beat out of you in back alley fights."

Okay, so it was a little more organized than that, but it amounts to the same thing: illegal fights, illegal betting.

Mirroring Kaz, Bob takes a large gulp from his own glass, the whiskey burning at his split lip but his brain telling him alcohol is probably a good thing for it. He's not exactly a connoisseur of fine whiskeys but it tastes good and that's enough to make him smile through the sharp pain.

"Just fancied a bit of a scrap," he explains, deciding that it's safe enough to share why he was at the fight club in the first place. Given the opportunity, he'll probably come back next time when he's feeling antsy and in need of working out some of that excess energy.

"But when I'm not doing that I'm a spokesmodel." Essentially getting paid to stand around looking handsome in order to promote certain products. It gives him a good excuse to have a chat with people but the actual promoting part is a bit boring.

"That and working on my car."

"What did you do before you ended up here?"

Spokesmodel isn't particularly helpful to him, but Kaz is curious. The kind of people drawn to illegal fights are usually not exactly upstanding citizens themselves. This isn't exactly the Hell Show, but it's a solid place to recruit.

Bob might have lost, but he also stuck out a beating instead of tapping out. Kaz relaxes back against the back of the booth and keeps his drink in hand. Hands that are still gloved in thin black leather.

Cocking his head a little to the side, Bob looks across the table at the other man uncertainly, weighing up how much of a good idea it is to be honest about what his former employment involved. He's already managed to tell a copper via the network exactly what he thinks of the police. That was a bit awkward.

But Kaz doesn't really strike him as somebody who's going to judge him for how he made money before here. Considering the bar they've wandered into is more like the kind of bar Bob's used to, he reckons he might be alright. So he inwardly makes his decision and puts his glass back on the table.

"Driver. Mostly away from places. Pretty fucking fast. Bit of protection work. Mostly for my stupid mates who don't know how to get their arses back out of the trouble they get themselves in to."

Kaz seems to consider the answer. Bob looks like he could be a bruiser, but it's the driver part that catches his real interest. Away from places, very fast. A skill he could use in the future, he thinks.

He says nothing for a moment, lingering over his next drink from the glass.

"Would you be willing to get back into that kind of work again?" He pauses, then adds, "And, if so, what kind of compensation would make it worth your time?"

Might as well ask.

"Willing? 's what I do best, mate." Bob replies quickly, not so much desperate but excited by the idea of being able to use his best skills that he can't really talk about much. Even he knows there are some things he shouldn't chat about in polite company. Not many people understand what it's like having that kind of sweet pressure to not fuck up behind the wheel of a car at high speed because the alternative is a hospital or, worse, prison. And, honestly? Bob loves it.

"Used to split the jobs I did with my boys. Three of us did a thirty-split. But depends on what jobs you got in mind. Risky shit pays more."

"I always pay my crew. Equal shares after the house gets its cut."

Per Haskell always got his percentage, which is why he likes Kaz so much: he rakes in earnings. Per Haskell isn't here, though. Kaz is debating building some kind of nest egg: a small cut of the profits as planner and financier, plus his own share. He has plans.

"Can't guarantee steady work, but my contracts are good and I won't fuck you over as long as you don't break with me. The deal is the deal."

"Yeah, yeah. Alright. Sounds fair enough."

And it does, even if Bob isn't used to running with a gang outside of the Wild Bunch. He'd been with them since he was a teenager. It's all he knows. With the stipulations in place, he nods once and plucks up his glass from the table again, lifting it to toast their agreement but pausing before he follows through. His glass hangs mid-air, one more condition for him to lay down on the table.

"Driving. Bit of scrappin'. But I'm not a killer. Know what I mean?"

"Not everyone can be," he says, casually referencing murder. Kaz finishes his glass and sets it on the table so he can pour himself another. Bob doesn't need to worry: Kaz very rarely asks anyone to do his killing for him.

"But a bruiser and a driver are still useful to me, I think. Where are you living?"

"Not everyone wants to be," Bob returns after a moment of strangely quiet contemplation, a serious expression at his features. There's a lot of morality suddenly tangled up in this conversation, more than he's used to. With the boys it was something he hadn't ever had to talk about, just went unsaid. It feels uncomfortable broaching the topic now, but he's sure he wants to be clear on this point even if he talks utter bollocks the rest of the time.

"The other stuff sounds like my kind of party though," he finally adds, grin brightening up his face, and he takes the sip of his drink he'd been meaning to.

"Over in Heropa. Got a houseshare over that way."

Kaz makes a face at the mention of the house-share situation. He's eager to get out of his own as soon as possible. He's used to sharing space with people, but having just a little room to himself is starting to feel cramped. He's used to having the whole attic of the Slat.

"Are your roommates nosy?"

If anything, Bob's the nosy one, but he doesn't think mentioning that is going to help. The one and only time in these early hours he might actually use the brain-to-mouth filter he generally tends to bypass. Still, he shrugs an aching shoulder and sips at his whiskey medicinally before he answers, sure at some point it's going to kick in and help him out.

"Nah, not really. I'm not exactly there much anyway. Just sleep there, that's about it. Why?"

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You are so rock & roll

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