(no subject)

[evilontheloose]

There is a girl with a cybernetic left forearm at a table, working on her laptop.

There is also a sign on the table.


GENIUS FOR HIRE

Computers and electronics in general, particle and kinetic weapons, advanced vehicles, cybernetic limb replacements, HE suits, robots and androids, inventions.

Inquires welcome.


Hopefully there will be business.

Happy Hour.

[fanofthegenre]

"Shut the front door."

Sounds like someone's found the first part of an otherwise traditional Valentine's Day gift. She reads over the note, rolling her eyes (like she'd expected anyone different), but there's a grin that follows when she leans forward to inhale the scent of the fresh flowers. Bar provides her with her other gift shortly after that, but a part of Beckett wonders if she'd held off to give her a chance to recover from the shock of the ant farm first.

Ten minutes later, amidst flowers, ant farms and bath goodies, Beckett caves to a kindly-worded request from Bar and draws up the specials board. After she steps back to reveal it, it's clear there's a certain theme:

HAPPY HOUR

Banana Split #3
Mudslide Pie
Six Liquor Shake

Everything else available upon request.


Ice cream, anyone?

Millitimed to Mardi Gras

[aeons_crackshot]

Annabelle is halfway across the Bar when her transformation decides to take effect. Her form twists in eye watering ways, and she ends up looking something like this only far larger. Her body is as wide across as a strong man's chest and she's at least 40 feet long.

Please excuse the hissing and flailing giant snake in the middle of the Bar, she's a bit distraught due to suddenly no longer having limbs. Annabelle may never complain about the Landlord putting her in dresses ever again.

(OOC: Open as long as anyone wants to tag it.)

OOM

[pickyourmoments]

[oom: Chandler and Ellen spend a rather pleasant day together in Megaton ]

Fake!Tag: Chandler Bing

(no subject)

[try_corsets]

After everything that has happened since she left Port Royal, Elizabeth decides there is something disconcerting about events that do go according to plan. Raph remains undetected aboard the Empress. Complications have yet to ensue.

Rather than sit around in her cabin and dwell on that, she opts for an evening in the bar. As is customary, she checks the lake for any sign of the Dutchman before settling herself in a booth -- no, make that a table -- and surreptitiously propping her feet on the opposite chair.

Almost immediately, the rats begin ferrying large amounts of food to her table.

"What is this? I didn't... Is that trifle?" Elizabeth licks her bottom lip, tasting salt. "No, I really must protest. I cannot possibly consume all of this. Stop."

The rats ignore her firm request (which really sounds more like a command), and soon the table is covered with platters of food. She frowns and begins eating something with an overabundance of whipped cream so that she might make enough space to put down her hat.