milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Epimetheus has settled into a table. Feet up on the opposite chair? Check. Whiskey on the table? Check. Guitar in his lap? Check.

A certain un-invitation propped up on the table next to the whiskey, making him snicker every time he glances at it?

Double check.

Nita also has a table and a drink, but in her case it's a pot of strong black tea. Her manual is open on the table; it's projecting, in silvery-blue lines, a 3D map of what looks like a series of mountain ranges and canyons. Nita is frowning in concentration -- and a little bemusement -- as the projection slowly pans along a particularly stark set of conical mountains.

And last but not least, Carmela has laid claim to a stool at the Bar and ordered a drink that is bright purple, sparkly, and heavily frothed at the top.

She does have a tablet with her that's currently displaying a celebrity gossip website (the text is in no earthly language, but there's something about the formatting that's unmistakably reminiscent of Gawker, and it's just possible that one of the pictures in the article is of a much-loved British actor with great cheekbones). That's just there if she gets bored of people watching, though, and really, what are the odds of that?

[ooc: NaNoWriMo is over! Rejoice with me! Open 'till it scrolls, slowtimes are my favorite thing ever.]

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"You know the thing that's always bothered me about that song? It's not actually dueling banjos at all. One's always a guitar."

Lame sauce.
Lame sauce indeed.

"Yeah, but 'Dueling Banjos Except One Is A Guitar' is a terrible song title."

"True, but a crappy title is still better than a bald-faced lie, isn't it?"

He laughs. "Says who?"

"Says...me," he decides eventually.

"Yeah? And who's you?"

Mike hops down from his barstool and makes his way over towards Epimetheus, one hand extended.

"Mike. Pleased to meet'cha."

Grinning, Epimetheus leans over his guitar and shakes Mike's hand firmly.

He has very large hands! Comes of being a Titan.

"Epimetheus. Nice to meetcha."

Mike, my contrast, is kind of a little dude. The resulting handshake is comical at best.

"That...is quite the name you've got there, Epimetheus. Seriously, it's not every day I meet someone with a name that has as many syllables as mine does."

". . . Hate to break it to you, bud," he says, "but I'm pretty sure 'Mike' is only one syllable."

"True, but Michaelangelo isn't, which is why I usually don't introduce myself that way."

"Michaelangelo!" he exclaims. "Good name. You sculpt?"

"I have been known to on occasion, but it's not my preferred medium."

"Watercolors?"

"Baking."

". . . I like you, Mike."

"Never let anyone tell you that you don't have great taste," he says grinning. Then he reaches into one of the leg pockets of his cargo shorts and retrieves a plastic zip-top baggie of brownies.

It should be noted that these appear to be plain brownies, which means they are actually anything but.

"I never do."

He puts his guitar aside and sits up, eyeing the browning with interest, but a little healthy suspicion as well.

"Now, I feel obliged to ask what's in those, because I've heard that the baked goods here can do a real number on a guy, with the transformations and the genitalia swapping and the walnuts and whatnot."

"Not to fear, I made these myself. There's absolutely no chance that these'll do any of those things. I mean, they'll make you high as a kite, but you'll have the same number of parts after as you did before."

". . . Same number of parts attached?"

"That's all on you, I try my best not to judge."

Epimetheus considers.

And shrugs.

"Eh, what's the worst that could happen."

. . . The Titan whose name literally means hindsight, ladies and gentlemen.

"....well now that you've said that, just about anything."

Seriously dude, bad form.
Mike looks like he's considering putting the bag back in his pocket just for his own self preservation.

"Aww, c'mon."

"Dude, for serious? Never say that. Like...outloud. Never. At very least not here. I mean...we could have been fine, but now that you've said that? Sputnik could come flying through that window at any second For. No. Good. Reason."