1/29/2005

03:55 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (70% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 46 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.25 and rising, and the relative humidity is 87 percent. The dewpoint is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

McDonald's(#1393RJ)
A small McDonald's which is devoid of any sort of garish trappings. Instead, it seems to focus on fast, friendly service with a smile and good food. Above the counter to the north, you can see the glowing yellow billboard which details the food and prices. Behind the cashiers, a few people can be seen scurrying about near the grill, making drinks or tossing finished burgers down a small metal chute toward the cashiers. Along the side wall, children's high chairs can be seen, each with the grinning face of Ronald McDonald. A wall poster asks you to donate money to the Ronald McDonald House. Opposite the cashier counter are both Smoking and Non-Smoking sections for in-house dining. Fake plastic plants hang from the ceiling and below the skylight in the center of the room is a square wooden basin that rises 3 feet into the air. In the basin are live potted plants, including a rather stumpy tree.
A glass door on the western side of the fast food joint leads back out onto the street.
Obvious exits:
STreet

Sitting at one of the far booths, alone and clearly uninviting, is Kenneth. At least here, the server is forced to take the money and give him his food. Fries strewn on the tray, drink half drunken and burger already eaten, the halfmoon idly stirs the end of a fried potato in ketchup.

Dillen slips into the booth across from Kenneth. His tray in front of him and he begins to unwrap a burger, looking over to Kenneth. He doesn't say anything, just a nod to the other.

Kenneth blinks as someone slips into his booth without invitation. Looking up, as he realizes it's Dillen, the halfmoon fights down the upwards curl of his upper lip away from his teeth. It's clear he doesn't care for the Get's presence, but at the same time he doesn't want to start anything over it. Pointedly, he looks back to his fries and the red ketchup he's drowned a stick in. No nod, no 'hi'.

Dillen starts to eat, basically having set down across from Kenneth to keep the ire down in the restaurant. He just eats, quiet and not asking anything, waiting for Kenneth to speak.

Speak he doesn't. Kenneth moves like a machine, dipping the end of a french fry into the pool, taking it out and chewing down. Rinse with a sip. Repeat. The halfmoon makes like he doesn't even know the galliard is there. The pair of them must appear to be quite odd indeed, sitting in the same booth yet not passing a word to each other. The mounting Curse factor empties out the surrounding booths within minutes.

"Just gonna sit there and not talk?" Dillen wipes at his mouth. "If so, let me know and I'll leave you alone."

Kenneth stops with fry dipped. "Nothing to talk about," he replies, slipping the end into his mouth and chewing. Rinse with soda. Naturally, the philodox is simply rather poor at lying.

Dillen raises a brow and simply says, "Bullshit."

Kenneth looks up, chewing away. "You're the galliard." His voice is low, but just bordering on the edge of being loud enough to be overheard by the next booth over. Good thing no one's in it.

Dillen just takes a deep breath. "Kenneth. Ya gotta talk to me. Ya don't have to, but it would sure make things easier."

Kenneth stares at the Get now, eyes half-lidded with an ultimately disinterested gaze. "I'm talkin' to you now aren't I?" he snorts.

"Yeah. Whatever." Dillen shakes his head and digs back into his food. "As much as someone can without saying anything.

Kenneth grabs his soda, shoving the straw with dangerous speed to his lips. A moment later it's pulled out and set down with a thin, near inaudible growl. "What do you want from me?" he hisses, Rage coiling about him.

Dillen lets out a deep breath. "What do I want? I just want someone who listens. Guess it ain't you." His head shakes and he plays with some of his fries.

"I /am/ listening, right now," Kenneth growls out with growing rancor and frustration. "What the fuck more do you want? When I've got nothing to say, then I've got nothing to say. When I have something to say, I'll say it. What more could you possibly want outta me?" At this point, the drink in the halfmoon's hand seems to get just the slightest crinkle in its waxed paper side.

Dillen holds up a hand. "Dude. Calm down. It's okay." He picks up his own drink, sipping at it. "Tell me one thing. What do you have against me?"

Kenneth snaps his fingers apart of the drink, leaning back against the booth's cushioned backing with a sour expression. "The same thing I have against everyone else."

"And that is?" Dillen sits back as well, his hand playing with the cup, turning it gently.

"That you can't leave well enough alone," Kenneth growls out, arms folding as he stares down to his lukewarm fries. "I said it before. I don't want your charity. I don't need you to care."

"Fine." Dillen pulls his tray away and shakes his head. "Fine." As he walks over and dumps the last of his food into a trash can and heads for the door.

As the Get heads for the door, Kenneth watches him go. It's just as the galliard starts to depart, that the halfmoon allows himself a stiff sigh and slumps forward, elbows thunking onto the table on either side of his tray and putting his head in hands. "Goddamnit. God Fucking damnit."

[later, still in McD's...]

Much of the night's business has picked up as people are moving in and out of the McDonald's. One figure, a youthful looking teen, hasn't moved much though from the far booth at the back. He's taken up the whole space to himself, and the booths on either side have remained empty since he got there. A smattering of ketchup and very cold, tasteless fries are his claim that he isn't loitering on the premises, even though he absently stirs the end of one through the thick condiment.

Tamara enters the McDonalds and looks around with small beady eyes and a somewhat vacant expression. Oversize lower jaw hanging open a bit, the woman slowly makes her way toward the counter.

A police cruise pulls off the street into the parking lot, sliding into a parking spot. Two late-teens/early twenties types coincidentally exit the McDonalds on the opposite side of the restaurant, leaving scraps of their meals on the table.

Kenneth, as he's not paying attention to the parking lot, continues to jab his fries into the ketchup sauce. The counter jockey swallows down hard at Tamara's entrance, and those who were in line suddenly decide that McDonald's is too unhealthy anyway, leaving with a wary glance at the white-hatted woman. "W-Welcome to McDonald's." Practiced and practiced, literally mastered are the words, but failing in the sight of the woman. "May I take your... your order?"

Tamara smiles widely, probably making the poor fellow even more nervous. "Two. Number two." The woman points at the BigMac picture on the wall.

Nicodemus exits the police car out in the parking lot, adjust a weapon or two on his belt so they're no longer laying at an uncomfortable angle, and heads into the "side back" entrance near the bathrooms. He makes a direct path into the Men's room.

"Uh.. uh..." Stuttering again, the targeted employee forces a nervous smile and looks immediately down to the register, as if the text on the buttons would instruct him how to act in the face of this ugly, creepy woman. Punching the order, realizing that he punched it too many times, the cashier fumbles around with canceling it and repunching it in. "That'll be..." The words stop with the sight of Nicodemus, cop. A nervous flicker back to the tall woman, the cashier rambles out the price quickly, and stands there like a frozen rabbit.

Kenneth meanwhile, finally directs his eyes up off the fries and looks over the general eating area. It's Tamara's white hat which catches the halfmoon's eye first, and then Nicodemus, coming closer to head towards the restroom. Immediately he ducks his eyes back down. Nope, nothing wrong here.

Tamara fishes a fistfull of bills out of one pocket and drops then onto the counter. Scowling, she begins poking through the one's and assorted change. Her appearance would sugest that she isn't very bright and while there probably is enough money there, she is having one hell of a time counting up the correct amount.

[look Tamara]
Tamara is a tall woman, just under six feet in height, with a heavyset body. She is wearing a pair of well-worn blue jeans, with frayed hems and torn knees. Her upper body is covered in a red t-shirt and a blue winter jacket. Overly large hands are decorated with several cheap bits of gaudy jewelry: plastic, tin, and pewter.
A wide brimmed white Stetson hat tops a head that seems to be somewhat malformed. The woman's face is longer then usual and her skull seem to be too big. Her lower jaw is huge and gives Tamara a painfully noticeable underbite. Small beady brown eyes are set too far apart and her nose is set too high on her face. It altogether gives her the appearance of someone with a 'mental disability'.

[look Nicodemus]
You see a thin and wiry young man in his early twenties--and a bit on the short side at about 5'4" to 5'6" in height. His black hair is cropped short in a 1950-esque crewcut.
He's currently decked out in the traditional dark blue SCPD uniform. His badge identifies his number, rank (Officer), and last name (Dalton).
Officer Dalton is carrying several obvious weapons, as police frequently do. Under his left arm in a shoulder holster is the lethal option: a no-nonsense Glock 21 .45 caliber pistol. On his hips are the non-lethal options. Left hip: chemical mace/dye. Right hip: taser.
A "hands free" police band radio is mounted on his left shoulder. Two necklaces are around his neck, tucked inside his uniform so as to be inobtrusive. He's wearing black, form-fitting leather gloves. A faint hint of fine incense lingers quietly about his immediate vicinity, almost like a unique, well-selected cologne or aftershave.
Nicodemus exits the Men's bathroom, wiping the last trace of water off his hands using the sides of his police uniform pants. As his priorities seem to have recently shifted, he now takes the time to do a quick looking over of the restaurant. His gaze lingers on a few individuals--notably Tamara when she doesn't seem to be looking in his direction. Though that seems to be the fun activity of the night with the majority of the restaurant.

Shuffling in place, wishing to god why Tamara couldn't just have a ten or twenty, the counterboy does spot Nicodemus looking in his general direction - or rather Tamara's. As the Strider is currently occupied with counting change, the cashier bites his lip and flicks his gaze from the customer to cop. One could almost hear the 'help me' screaming in his gaze. Kenneth keeps his head down, though occassionally swings his eyes up when he thinks Nic isn't looking in his direction. One cold fry makes it to his mouth.

Tamara's smiles grows wider, as she pushes some of the money toward the cashier, supposedly the correct amount. The remainder is scooped back up and placed in a pocket.
Gert pages to Tamara, Nicodemus, and Kenneth: Is it a private party, or may anyone gatecrash?

God helps those who help themselves. So, naturally, the police officer turns his back to the cashier's plight and rummages through the newspaper stack looking to see if there's anything left of one of today's complimentary local papers.

Whimper. Swinging his gaze back to the change pushed forward, the cashier doesn't even make quick stock of whether the amount is correct. He rings up Tamara, nearly yanks the receipt right out of the slot before it's printed and puts it in front of her. Not even a 'your number is X'. Then, he turns on heel and starts towards the back kitchen, supposedly to put the order together. It leaves the counter empty though - most of the customers in line have left. Kenneth watches this unfold furtively, but his eyes stay much longer on the cop than what would be considered normal for a youth.

Tamara waits for her order to be filled calmly enough, gaze wandering all over the menu on the wall in a distracted manner.

Gert pushes the doors open and lets herself in, a back backpack hanging off her shoulders and, coupled with the sweatshirt and heavy gray-green, shin-length coat, making her look well-bundled and bulky. Earbuds trail off-white wires from her ears down into her left coatpocket. She heads for the front counter, paying little attention to anyone else just yet.

What normally takes a minute or so to complete, is done in near record time. It isn't the cashier who comes to the counter with Tamara's order though, it's the floor manager. Seeing first hand the reason why said employee had retreated, there's an evident scowling furrow of the brow on the manager's features before the brown tray covered with advertisement is set down. "Number..." the manager starts to say, before simply scooting it towards Tamara. Gert's entry is received with a focused crinkle of the brow, but the manager stands her ground.

Kenneth's gaze recycles, flicking back tensely towards the counter activity. Then he spots Gert, and his black cloud around his head deems it appropriate to rain on him.

Nicodemus raises his head slightly, taking his direct line of sight off of the newspapers and apparently looking out the window of the restaurant--or at the reflection of everyone inside, looking them over when they think he's not doing so. He keeps his back turned to Tamara and the freaked out employee waiting on her--possibly intentionally, possibly just a normal human reaction to the misshapen individual.

Tamara takes her tray with a had-bob and a "Thankyou," before leaving the poor staff behind and locating a seat in one corner of the fast food resturant.

Gert doesn't look at Tamara directly as the ugly woman in the cowboy hat goes past her. It's that glance-and-lookaway that bespeaks of someone too polite to stare. She just gets into her place in line and, while she waits, stares up at the brightly-lit menu of horribly unhealthy food.

As the counter-worker doesn't return just yet, the manager adjusts her glasses as she peers at Gert. The woman is more patient, and a bit more tolerant of this one than the handicapped looking Tamara. Naturally though, the suspicious glare is sent at the Strider's back. The Shadow Lord snatches up his drink, starts to sip and realizes nothing's left. With a low, near inaudible huff he pushes the cup away and simply eyes the rest of the restaurant now.

Nicodemus selects the Arts and Entertainment section and managed to find the Local section as well. With the two abused bits of local newspaper, he heads over to get into lone now that Tamara has departed. The cop ends up behind Gert. "Nice jacket," he says, announcing his presence shortly after recognizing her.

Gert is not to be rushed, but she doesn't take terribly long to decide, either. Dark eyes turning back down to the manager, and she's about to make her order when Nicodemus speaks up behind her. Frowning, she turns, notes the uniform, and nods with a polite, automatic, "Thanks," before recognizing him. Then it's, "Oh, it's you." While not brimming over with warmth and friendliness, at least she doesn't sound hostile; she's stating a fact.

Tamara sits down at her seat and begins munching away on French Fries.

The manager continues to wait, but finally speaks up. "May I take your order?" Accompanying the question is another push of the glasses on her face up. Nicodemus is treated much more politely with a slight nod to the officer.

"You're not under arrest," the young cop says with a smile that's about as tired as he probably is of saying that line to put people at ease. "Promise I won't horn in on your booth this time, too. Thanks for the other night." He motions for Gert to go first at the counter, even though it looks as if the staff is willing to bump him in line.

"No problem," says Gert, and then turns an irritated look onto the manager. "Number one combo with Sprite, thanks." She gets out her wallet and glances back at Nicodemus. "You just get off duty or something?" When the price for her food is given, she's got the money ready to hand over, and despite the earbuds, she doesn't seem to be having any trouble hearing (and there's no tinny mtoo-loud usic leaking out of her ears, either).

The order rings up, the receipt is passed with the 'Your number is' and all said and done, the manager looks back behind her to summon the former cashier worker. Passing the register handling back, the counterboy clears his throat with residual embarrassment and paranoia. Tamara, after all, is still in the restauarant and Gert's cold manner somehow puts him off as well. Nicodemus is received with much more friendly smiling service McD's is supposed to be advertising. Kenneth's gaze has since slipped off of Tamara and settled into watching Gert and Nic's small interaction.

"Nope. Just on my break," Officer Dalton says. He starts eyeballing the menu board, stuck with the problem a lot of people face at McDonald's: the need to eat something and yet not really seeing anything that seems appealing. He doesn't push the conversation further than that and flicks the Arts and Entertainment section of the newspaper, trying to make the rumpled paper less rumpled and not really succeeding at it.

Tamara finishes off her fries and starts work on her burger.

Gert takes her receipt and steps to the side, leaning against the counter while she waits for her food to arrive. She nods at the cop's reply and, as his attention gets distracted by the crinkled section of newspaper, turns her gaze away from him and lets it wander the restaurant in general, mouth twitching into a slight frown as she does so. She looks right past Tamara, once again avoiding looking at the ugly woman too close and, noticing Kenneth, watches him for a full two seconds before smirking and looking away.

Nicodemus edges closer to the counter after Gert's order has been taken and gives the cashier his order. "Cobb salad with grilled chicken. Low fat vinaigrette. And... A bottled water, please." He fishes in a back pocket for his wallet, taking out a few folded bills. "How're things tonight?" he asks the nearby manager as sort of of ritual that pretty much all cops have to do whenever they stop someplace to eat.

Kenneth goes so far as to smile back at Gert when she looks at him, though that smile is utterly lacking in friendliness. The cashier punches the buttons, gives the amount total, and while things are being paid for generally stays quiet aside from the 'here's your receipt sir, your number is...' The manager smiles amiably to Officer Dalton. "Things are fine, good... a bit slow for a Saturday night. Yourself?" Another couple of customers enter the joint, scoping out the surroundings. One of them whispers to the other and they exeunt quickly.

"Haven't had to shoot anyone yet, so pretty good." Officer Dalton is more than likely joking. He sidles down the counter a few steps to make way for the next person in line, getting out of the way so he can wait for his meal and leave the employees alone.

Gert raises her eyebrows at the people who walk in and then walk right back out again. She sniffs the air once and then shrugs. Straightening up from her lean against the counter -- still waiting on her food -- she stuffs her hands into her coat pockets and continues to let her gaze wander. She shows subtle signs of tension in the stillness of her face and the set of her shoulders.

Tamara finishes up her food and carries the tray over to a garbage can. After clearing off the tray, she leaves the tray ontop of the trashcan and heads for the exit.

As Tamara stands up, the cashier retreats again and goes back to the kitchen. The manager, about to make further chitchat sighs roughly, saying a quick "excuse me" and turning around and retrieving Gert's order which is slid down the chute. Cashier turned fry-boy scoops up the woman's order into its handy red paper pouch and the manager fills up drinks. Nic's order too, is gotten and both complete orders arrive at the same time. "There you go," the manager says to the officer. Nothing too polite save a curt smile is given to Gert.

Gert turns sharply as the trays are set down and glowers at the manager, anger flashing across her face. She has no smile for the manager, not even a curt, minimally-polite one. Jaw tight, she takes her tray, then stops. She's looking down at it now, at the wax paper cup with "I'm lovin' it" written in a Babel of languages. The liquid in it is dark enough to show through the mostly-white sides. "Hey." She frowns up at the manager. "I asked for a Sprite."

"Thanks. Have a nice evening," Nicodemus says, playing the role of the good cop to no one else's bad cop. He picks up his tray, turns, and gets to eyeball Tamara again--looking just a little too long as she passes by on her way out. Not that he's the only one looking at the misshapen woman with the big cowboy hat.

The manager looks down at the cup first, then up to Gert. "Let me see your receipt," she snaps out a little more clipped than should be. Once the receipt's examined and it does turn out to be Sprite, the woman sighs loudly and turns, going to empty out the cup into the machine and not pausing to rinse or replace. Sprite filled drink gotten, she returns and places it on the customer's tray. "Sprite." Kenneth eyes Tamara as the woman walks off, shaking his head slightly before focusing next on the police officer, trying to predict where he will sit.

Nicodemus drifts into the main lobby and seats himself not too far from the one of the entryway doors on the same side of the restaurant he came in on, facing the restrooms. Coincidentally--or maybe not so coincidentally?--this means there's about three tables separating him and Kenneth, and he's facing towards the loitering garou. Nicodemus puts his tray down on the table, slides into the booth and busies himself with applying dressing to his salad--not paying anymore-than-normal attention to Kenneth.

Gert clearly doesn't fail to notice the manager's complete lack of customer service, and it looks like she might get bitchy. Instead, though, she inhales deeply, exhales, and takes up her tray, letting the manager off with nothing more than a venomous look.

Kenneth holds back a ragged sigh of 'oh great' nature as the cop sits within easy viewing distance of him. Pointedly turning, the teen keeps his attention as unobtrusive as possible, even if he's scared off the clientele around him. Gert's progress into the eating area also draws on his attention, rather than his food which has turned into unappetizing stuck-together potato frites.

Nicodemus applies dressing to his salad, pulls the plastic fork from its equally plastic wrapper, and takes a stab and a bite out of the plastic-tasting salad. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't seem particularly thrilled with the meal, but it's apparently palatable.

Gert sweeps past Kenneth's table without giving the broody kid even a glance, and she sets her tray down on the long counter area set up for single diners. Her back to both of them, she unslings her backpack, and digs her copy of _Christine_ out of it. When she finally sits down and starts eating, it's with the backpack between her sneakered feet and with the book propped open in one hand.

Kenneth scowls as Gert passes him, finding the refuge of the McDonald's to be decidedly not his flavor. As Gert goes to sit, the manager follows after her at distance. It's to Ken's table that she goes, and her short clipped words are now directed at the youth in low tones. Kenneth looks up as he's talked to, and while the manager frowns greatly, she does seem determined to reach her goal. Kenneth huffs and growls out a quick reply, shoving up to his feet with tray in tow. The manager slides out of the way as he moves to dispose of his junkfood. Unfortunate that the trashcan is right off to the side of the officer. The tray is tossed roughly on top after the food is shoved away into the garbage, clattering onto the other plastic trays before the halfmoon turns sharply on heel and starts off out the main door of the restaurant. The manager follows after, frown still on her features, before she comes to a stop at the trashcan. Once Kenneth has left, it's like the employees in the kitchens sigh a breath of relief.

Nicodemus spares a passing occasional glance at the unfolding disagreement of sorts, but as he's not called to intervene and apparently not inclined to do so either, he goes about minding his own business. The moody teen doesn't seem to bother the cop in the least. He probably sees worse several times a day, making him immune to the tension felt by a lot of the other folks currently in the restaurant.

Gert glances up from her book and views Kenneth's ejection from the restaurant with a complete lack of surprise. Turning back to her meal and her King, she mutters to herself, "Woe, weep, wangst," sarcastically.

Once the manager has made sure the trays are back in their order, she takes them with her to return to the employee areas. The only smile from her to Nicodemus is a short one, and then the rest of the McDonald's returns to its daily business.