maskormenacelogs | Pretend all the good things for you

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Pretend all the good things for you

WHO: Sam Merlotte, OPEN
WHERE: De Chima & other places
WHEN: Throughout the month
WHAT: February catch-all with open starters for his bar. Action or prose welcome!
WARNINGS: TBA

Morning
[given the recent whirlwind of blackout and bullshit (the least of which involved a guard dog role he got more grief than reward for, and the most a body to hide), Sam's downright ecstatic to lose himself in work for a few days. Even with the week's worth of lost revenue, Merlotte's is doing well. Word travels fast in De Chima, and at least for now the good food and imPort novelty has meant steady business.

Sam tends to reserve the mornings for interviews he may have scheduled, happy to chat with a potential hire in a booth or in his office, whichever they prefer. Each applicant gets a handshake, a grin, and the offer of a cup of coffee on the house. This early in the restaurant's life (and with a long memory for the high-turnover troubles at his place in Bon Temps), Sam hardly turns anyone away before he's had the chance to chat with them first. He's got his fingers crossed for more imPort hires in particular, but the ads he's placed online are careful not to mention that. He wouldn't want to look discriminatory.]

Afternoon
[De Chima's a place of businessmen and tech innovators, which means a swarm of quick customers for the lunch hour. So Sam already has both hands full when a weasel-eyed journalist for some sensational periodical strolls in to try and goad the shifter into an impromptu interview. Every time Sam crosses within earshot, here's this little asshole flashing a slick smile and the ugliest gator-skin loafers Sam's ever seen in his life, tossing out boisterous questions: How's Sam's love life? Anybody warming the sheets lately? The papers know he gets around. Guess he's giving the word 'dog' a new meaning, right? And hey, since he let the cat out of the bag - excuse the pun - on that shapeshifting thing, does he mind going into detail on that? Give the people a little taste? And is that a health concern, a guy who turns into animals working in a restaurant? Why hide it for so long in the first place? Or himself, for that matter? Good-looking guy hoping to run his own business, poster boy for a vineyard, and then that run for Ambassador even, and he's never reached out to a single media branch. Does Sam have any answer for people thinking that's kind've weird? You know, they say it's the quiet ones for a reason; they say they're the folks with something to hide. Those are the sorts of rumors people start, he wouldn't believe the shit that gets published these days, and if he'd just sit for a quick interview, they could jump in front of them...

Sam ignores the bastard until the exact moment he can't anymore. He whirls around in the middle of the restaurant to step into the other man's space, barely-leashed anger cording up his forearms and into the set of plaid-dressed shoulders.]

You want some words for your article? Huh? You really want some goddamn words from me?

[the journalist's unperturbed, shit-eating smirk suggests maybe that's exactly what he wants.]

Evening
[the closer the restaurant gets to closing time, the less hustle and bustle left to slog through. Tonight's seen mercifully smooth dinner service, guests coming and going in easy streams. Sam splits his time between his little back-office and the bar, mixing cocktails to get away from inventory orders and sales numbers.]

Get you somethin' cold? [is the little greeting he chooses for the next body to sidle up to a stool, offering a beverage napkin and a friendly smile.]

Or hot, if that's more to your tastes. No judgement. I mix a pretty damn good hot toddy.

Threaded | Flat

[ Near the entrance, a new arrival is making small talk with the hostess on duty. Grey hair, dark attire -- a robust canvas coat and black gloves to keep his hands from the cold. Standard fare for the afternoon hour.

It isn’t until he turns at the sound of Sam’s raised voice that the gun at his hip stands out in sharp relief.

That and the badge gleaming silver at his breast -- the block of a radio clipped over his shoulder.

The man in black approaches from behind the journalist’s shoulder with his hat in hand, closing in like an eclipse between restaurant seating and easy escape. His insignia marks him as part of the De Chima Police Department. The look in his eye marks him as the man Sam squared off with in Chilton’s house in Maurtia Falls, bright and sharp as broken glass in the bar’s warm light. ]

There a problem here, gentlemen?

There's a deck of cards being expertly shuffled in Kaito's hands as he looks up from them to eye Sam up. He stops shuffling them and sets them down neatly on the table before crossing his arms.

"I don't know what a hot toddy is but I probably can't have it, so water is fine."

In fact, water's the only thing he can drink seeing as human food does nothing for him anymore. He doesn't look it, but he's not human and can no longer imbibe or get any nutritional value via the things probably served at this restaurant.

Does he regret it? Yes. No. Maybe. It's not something he'll ever admit to.

[ Many of these porter given jobs are ridiculous, but Maeve finds hers to be more absurd than most. She showed up for a grand total of one whole day before she left and never went back since. And that was all fine and good, but the monthly stipend of $200 wasn't really cutting it.

So she needed a job. Nonah was a boring place to work, but a quiet place to live. And given that all the other cities were only a single step through the porter, it made sense to look elsewhere.

Sam's place is a stepping stone. Something she knows until she can learn something better or obtain something of her own. So once one potential applicant leaves, Maeve takes their place with an air of confidence. ]

Let's cut straight to the chase, darling. It'll be a mistake if you let me walk away without hiring me. Because this place certainly could use a bit of sprucing up, if I do say so myself.

[ Teasing. Saucy. Maeve isn't going to pander to him just because he's the boss. And with any luck, that's something he respects. ]

[It's been a long day. Long few days. Whatever. Han's been getting his feet under him for a while, pulled as he was from that great big wide awake nothing that had been the carbonite, and scoping out the major cities while he's at it. Pays to be a taxi driver now, apparently.

He's just at Merlotte's now because he wants a drink. Information on top of that would be nice, but in truth that's not what he's looking for at the moment. So when the bartender offers a napkin and a smile, Han takes the napkin and gives his own smile. It'd look friendlier if it didn't have that wary little edge to it.]

Never heard of a hot toddy before, but why not? I'll have that. [It cannot be any worse than the swill some of the rebels would drink in their downtime, honestly.]

I'd prefer something along the lines of cold hard cash.

[ Mark offers up a smile that he thinks, in his head, looks devil-may-care and confident. In truth, it just looks a bit strange and off-putting. The poor kid has all the charm of a sweaty, fat snake. ]

Tell me about your sales numbers, won't you?

Dogs understood the beauty of the world. A full belly and sunshine, something new to smell and something fun to chase, these were the pillars of true joy. But to have a companion to share them with? Ah, now that was the rarest treat yet, and one that flooded Sam's currently canine heart with a gratitude he could only express through bird-scattering barks, leaping over a mossy log as he chased a similarly four-legged Will Graham through Florida forest.

It hadn't taken long after Sam discovered Will's powers for Sam to make the first pass at a play date. At the time, months ago now, he'd couched the offer in something about being a mentor, or just helping the fisherman get a grip on having paws, but to Sam's delight those justifications were never needed. Will always seemed eager to meet with him, whether near his own De Chima cabin or in the tangled Heropa overgrowth, not a hint of shame shared between the temporary beasts as they wasted long hours digging and running, sniffing and tussling, just two wagging tails enjoying all this world had to offer a dog. Sam always came away from their runs (and the inevitable bit of chatting and drinking which followed) feeling as though he'd burned away a layer of whatever current stresses plagued him. Will was just good company, furred or not; he'd proven that.

He also appeared to be damn amazing at hide-n-seek. Sam lowered his nose to the damp earth, snuffling along after Will's scent, his damn bushy Shepherd's tail wagging lazily behind him. He'd thought he was closer to gaining on the other man (well, other dog) for a moment there, but Will must have made a clever turn during their chase. Sneaky. Not sneaky enough though, not with Sam on the hunt, no sir. He was going to -

There were voices nearby. Distant but distinctly male, gruff. Sam caught the slam of a vehicle door and the rumbling purr of an engine on standby. Something small, by the sound of it. An ATV, maybe? He raised his head, both floppy ears lifting. He couldn't see through the grey line of trees and Spanish moss. Despite some wistful consideration that the men may have brought sausages or jerky with them, Sam would have left it at that and returned to his day then, if not for the barking.

Will's barking, unhappy and echoing from the same direction.

Sam bolted towards it without a second's thought.

Threaded | Flat

afternoon

[ evening ]

Morning

[evening]

Evening!

2/18, Heropa || CLOSED to Will Graham