Happy Hour - Now With Extra Shots

[beautiful_bullets]

The door opens on the sounds of screams and gunfire, the smell of smoke and explosives; Carmine Zuigiber, war reporter-at-large for the Weekly World News, slinks through with the poise and sang-froid of a supermodel on a runway, smiling to herself at a job well done.

"Excellent," she says crisply, smile broadening as she realises where she is. "I could kill for a drink."

(Or, perhaps, ensure someone else kills for a drink. Just so long as there's blood and alcohol.)

But when she gets to the bar, what she gets instead of a cocktail is a note from Bar. She doesn't argue (mainly because the possibilities involved here have previously occurred to her), instead removing a small gold lipstick bullet from an undisclosed location and using the reflection from a three-pint glass to freshen up her perfect lipstick while she considers her options.

That done, she uses the same lipstick to print the specials on the board:

SHOTS FIRED TONIGHT:
151 Ways To Die
Snakebite
Kamikaze
Four Horsemen

ANYONE WHO CAN OUTDRINK ME GETS ALL THEIR DRINKS FREE
Never let it be said that War doesn't have her rewards, after all. (Or that she's subtle.)

Job done, she perches on the bartop, crossing her incredible legs with the faint rasping noise of denim-on-denim that can, nonetheless, somehow be heard across the room, and grins.

"Come and get 'em, boys!"

Or girls, of course. But she's always found her appeal is greater with the lads.

Comments

[quick_clean_pure]

Graverobber is very easily swayed by the flirty nature of a good-looking woman. It's a fault of his, he knows. He'd managed to not embarrass himself at the bar so far because all the women he'd run into were either teenagers or kindly offering to psychoanalyze him.

And then he spotted War and hello.

He reads the specials menu casually and walks over with his hands in his pockets, sizing her up and guessing that she's probably not making her challenges lightly. "You look like a woman with the liver of a champion," he says, which, as far as opening lines go, is not the dumbest thing he's ever said.

[beautiful_bullets]

He may come to regret being swayed by this one.

"Oh, I have several," she agrees, and grins at him. It's not an entirely comfortable grin to be the cause of, somehow.

(It's even true. She did once consider starting a collection, but decided against anything that would tie her down.)

"What'll it be?"

[quick_clean_pure]

He smiles slightly at the grin and the odd return comment, though he does sense something mildly uneasy to it. Still, it doesn't deter him, nor does the livers quip. Hey, he's from a world where some people go through a new liver every couple months. Maybe she's just a surgery fan.

"Snakebite for me," he says. "And what'll you be having?"

[beautiful_bullets]

"I think I'll join you."

Stilettos narrowly avoid scoring deep gashes in the counter's varnish as she swings her long legs over the bar, to drop neatly down behind it and reach for the bottles of spirits.

The shots she serves up contain, as far as science and the professional bartender's dark arts could tell, exactly as much alcohol as the recipe says they should. And certainly they look innocent enough - at least, for a given value of innocence.

They burn, nevertheless.

[quick_clean_pure]

Graverobber watches with an impressed expression as she hops over the bar and immediately begins pouring the shots. He accepts his easily enough, clinking his lightly against hers. "Cheers," he says before downing his without a second thought, taking it all down his throat without hesitation.

And wow, holy fuck, does it burn. Holy shit.

[beautiful_bullets]

"Cheers!"

She knocks the shot back with apparent relish, and grins at him as she licks a stray drop from glossy, cherry-red lips.

"Delicious."

[quick_clean_pure]

Graverobber coughs after his shot more than he'd like to. Still, he took it down without any issues, so he clings to that point of pride. He definitely looks impressed when she knocks hers back so easily, though that only adds to his belief that she's a knockout.

"Nice," he says, his voice raspier than he'd like. "Which one do you want next?"

[beautiful_bullets]

She chuckles, and her laugh is deep for a woman, as if she might be a smoker.

(She isn't, particularly, but that doesn't matter.)

"You're the customer," she reminds him. "What'll you have?"

[quick_clean_pure]

"All right," he says. He glances over the menu, already knowing full well that another Snakebite was not in the cards. "Kamikaze, then, let's switch it up a bit."

[beautiful_bullets]

"Consider it done."

This one's simple enough, as shots tend to be; she makes two, adding each ingredient to both glasses before moving onto the next.

"I suppose the competition's only fair if I match you."

[quick_clean_pure]

"Suppose so," he says, picking up his glass with a little less confidence than when he'd held his first one. "Cheers," he says, clinking his glass against hers before taking his down in one long swallow. This one burns less, going down his throat a little more easily.

[chartreuse_eyed]

She is beautiful, indeed. And Micah is not a saint.

But still.

"What's in the Kamikaze, if you don't mind me asking first?"

[beautiful_bullets]

That's a shame: some of them had the most interesting lives before they got religion.

(And after they got religion, of course, most of them had the most interesting deaths.

Or caused them.

Or both.)

"Vodka, triple sec and lime," she says, smiling at him as if daring him on.

[chartreuse_eyed]

"Hopefully it's not as deadly as its namesake," he says, leaning on the bar and smiling back, though the black sunglasses mean she can't see the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Micah isn't speaking to any degree of interest his life may have for other people. As long as he's here he can ignore it.

"Two shots, then. If you're attempting a drinking contest."

[beautiful_bullets]

"Attempting?" She looks amused, but swings her legs around to drop back behind the bar and grab the spirits.

...The drinks she serves also happen to be on fire.

Hey, war isn't often a subtle art.