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[ronstadt]

Hey, it's Ronstadt. You dropped your dime, now dish your deets. I'll get back to you.

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For Loki - Action continuation from BBS

[ronstadt]

((From here.))

Thankfully, as Ronstadt makes his way to the living quarters, his Craydar doesn't go off and warn him of any impending traps or hexes. He steps inside and looks around, trying to figure out where best to start looking for a God of Mischief. His Valhudor robes make him stand out like a sore thumb, and he's caught between hoping that a faculty member will wander by so he can ask, and praying they don't show up and give him hell for being here.

Re: For Loki - Action continuation from BBS

[whose_son_am_i]

It wasn't as if 'students' weren't allowed so much as the living quarters were clearly for adults, versus those who weren't adults. The school's criteria was some arbitrary age... Loki was also probably well above that cut-off.

It was also fortuitous timing, as Loki himself was wandering the halls back to his room from the library. Dressed in his own usual green and black with gold accents, he had a new addition. That of a long deep-green snake with gold-yellow underbelly draped around his shoulders. "Ah, so you actually came." There's a pleased grin in greeting.

[ronstadt]

"Sure did," Ronstadt smiled at him, glad that Loki was in a good mood. He wasn't about to get on an actual god's bad side if he could help it, after all.

"Neat place you've got in here. ... and a new friend. Where'd you find him? ... Or is it a her?"

TFLN Overflow for John

[ronstadt]

((From here.))

Yeah, that ... that's so right it kind of scares me. Is this another magic thing you do, or am I just that damn easy to read?

Re: TFLN Overflow for John

[abracafuckingdabra]

No, mate. I'm shit at relationships. Never had one that I didn't ruin somehow. I know how to fail them and how to see when they're failing. It doesn't take magic to know when someone's miserable and putting themselves through hell.

Re: TFLN Overflow for John

[ronstadt]

I can't decide if that's really reassuring or just plain depressing. Least I know I'll always have company at the Hula Shaker if I want it.

... Speaking of. If I'm really gonna do this, that's exactly where I'm headed. I'm sure as shit not doing this sober.

o/

[abracafuckingdabra]

Maybe it's both. But I mean it, I know a losing hand when I see it. And you've got one here. Sometimes it's just time to fold.

Getting absolutely wasted tends to be the best way to deal with something like this.

[ronstadt]

Care to join me? Doesn't even have to be at the Shaker... Casey's Pub on Grand Avenue's got the kind of vibe you'd probably feel right at home in.

[abracafuckingdabra]

Count me in. I'll even cover the first round.

We'll get drunk wherever you feel best getting drunk. I'm easy.

[ronstadt]

Probably not Casey's, then, because if you say that too loud there, you'll be crawling with drunk college girls looking for tough guys.

I say that because you, uh, actually Look Like One. Unlike yours truly.

[abracafuckingdabra]

I must be getting old. There was a time where I'd be thrilled to be drowning in a sea of bevvied birds. Now? It sounds like a chore.

Let's go to your favorite place. We'll get some mai tais, I've heard they pack one hell of a punch.

[ronstadt]

Bevvied. That's a new one. I like it. ... Can you be at the Shaker in, say, half an hour?

[he realized that one of these days he should probably ask John where, exactly, in LA he was staying, as he shoved his feet into his sneakers and fumbled for his subway pass]

[abracafuckingdabra]

Old term for me, new term for you. Get me drunk enough and I'll introduce you to a whole world of slang. It'll be like word of the day, only plastered Liverpool drinking culture.

Ill be there. Wouldn't miss it for the world.

[He might just find out then that John doesn't stay in LA at all. He's teleporting to see Ronstadt at every chance he can get.]

Text -> Action

[ronstadt]

Sounds great. See you in 30!

[When John arrives at the Hula Shaker, Ronstadt's commandeered the booth in the corner, under the warm yellow glow of a pendant lamp that was probably scavanged from someone's 1960s rumpus room. The booth seats are a pea green, and the tables lacquered, deep-red wood. Kitschy carved Tiki masks and prints of topless hula dancers grace the walls, and fake vines and hibiscus flowers twine around the wooden false trellises over the booths.

Ronstadt's got two empty drinks at his elbow and his phone in hand, but he's not really looking at it so much as through it.

Behind the bar, a blonde with her hair up in a messy bun is mixing drinks, wearing a white Hawaiian shirt with pink and orange blossoms over a black t-shirt, shorts, and bar apron. She looks up at the opening door and calls out: "Hey! John, right? He's over there. Save him, wouldja? I don't wanna give him another Mai Tai until I know he won't try to drown himself in it. His tab's still not square."

Ronstadt's eyes get a bit of focus at that, and he blinks up out of his stupor as though Monty had just woken him up from a nap.]

Action

[abracafuckingdabra]

[It's so fucking kitschy. Walt Disney would certainly nod in approval to the sheer level of theming. It's the Tiki Room in the flesh, Don the Beachcomber's own type of work, all it needs to top off the awful show of tropical nonsense is old Bing himself singing something from Waikiki Wedding. It's over the top and gaudy and ridiculous and frankly trashy.

But honestly, John doesn't hate it. Theme bars usually have more character than the slick nightclubs anyway. Those are only good if you want to look important and pat yourself on the back for having a good chunk of change in your pocket while trying to woo overpriced birds in tight dresses and designer heels.

This is worlds away from that.

This is definitely the kind of place he can see Ronstadt loving.

The bartender catches his attention quickly, and he nods in response. Looks like he's on drunk wrangling duty here.] No worries, luv. I've got him. Need his tab covered? I don't mind paying up. [Ronstadt is one of the small handful of people he'd actually say that for. If this was a bigger place, he'd trick them into thinking he'd paid. But this doesn't seem like a corporately owned place at all. No, it's more down home than that. And those people tend to actually deserve the cash they get for their services.

If she doesn't want him to pay up now, he'll just continue on to the booth.] Have a nice nap?

Re: Action

[ronstadt]

Wasn't asleep...

[he gestures to the opposite side of the booth, his movement slow and sluggish, as if some demon of depression is sitting on his arm like a falconer's bird and weighing it down]

Just kinda got a head start.

[his phone slips from his hand and clatters onto the table, unlocked]



That went real well.

[abracafuckingdabra]

[John moves towards his seat, but when the phone clatters he doesn't have the slightest bit of self control and he has to look. He almost wishes he hadn't. But selfishly, he's glad. And he fucking hates it. He's a bastard for being quietly pleased that the bird is off shagging some drummer. It's a horrible feeling. And he forces that wicked bit of happiness to the back of his head for now.

But he's so glad for a little less competition for his best mate's heart.] Oh, Ronstadt. [It's such a sweet tone for him, quiet and comforting. And he settles, rubbing his arm gently for a moment.] You deserve better than to find out that way. But birds usually fly away. Especially from people like us. Probably for their own good too. We're in another world, friend.

[ronstadt]

[He slurps at his third mai tai, slightly diminishing the pool of blood-red grenadine at the bottom, then plucks out the cherry with a rueful smile. He'd wanted to bring Faye here, he thought miserably. Wanted to see her reaction to all the kitsch and the tinny luau music that played softly in the background. But instead she was playing half-grade bars with some band he'd never even heard of. And letting their drummer play her in ways he'd never even -]

Ugggh. Shit. I'm so - I'd hoped that wouldn't matter!

[Ronstadt slurred a little, putting his free hand over John's, holding it there, as if he'd lose his new friend forever, too, if he let him move it away]

It doesn't matter to Vez. He thinks it's awesome. What the hell is the matter with her?

[abracafuckingdabra]

[John is really hoping a waitress will pop by soon, if this place has any. He's never been here before, so he doesn't know. But he does know that he doesn't want to leave Ronstadt alone right now. Even if that means missing out on the boozing for now.]

I'm sorry, mate.

[He hates that nagging awful guilt that comes with the contact. He's so fucking selfish, and he does mean that he's sorry. He's sorry that Ronstadt is hurting, it kills him. He's also sorry that he's such a selfish prick, that he's thoroughly glad she's not in the picture right now.

John Constantine knows he's awful. And he knows he's a mess. But he damn well will be there. He'll do his best to help his friend get through this. And he'll do it without villainizing the poor woman. He's a bad person, sure, but he's not a homewrecker in any sense of the word. And he wouldn't make a move on someone who was happy with a sweetheart...

He owes her, honestly. But how she went about things wasn't right. And that's irritating him.]

It shouldn't matter. You're right there. But she's made her choice, even if it's a hell of a bad one. You're a good man. Anyone would be happy with your company. [He leans in more, closing some of the space between them.] But I'm here. I'm hardly some little pretty thing to take your mind off of her, but I am recently paid and I'll cover drinks. And get you home at closing time safe. So I guess that's good for something.

[ronstadt]

[when John calls him a good man, that seems to slam him out of his funk. Is he, he wonders? Sure, he'd done all he could to stop Kenner Lash from that nasty business with the Shadowmancers, he'd given some ghosts and humans alike a little relief from the stress of their existence, but ... well ... he'd done some awful things, too, in his ignorance. He's trying to balance them out, but it feels like the scale is constantly tipping and will never settle.

But he wasn't expecting John to lean in like that, somehow, and he pulls up out of his self-hatred spiral, chuckling softly at the comment about 'pretty things'. Ronstadt takes the umbrella out of his mai tai and tucks it into the lapel of John's trenchcoat.]

There. Now you're prettier.

[He raises his arm and his voice, trying to keep the slur out of it]

Monty! Bottle of your good whiskey for my buddy John?

[abracafuckingdabra]

[Oh no, that's cute. It's weirdly adorable, and even if he's an older rough looking man suddenly there's this bit of absolute delight at being told, even jokingly, that he's prettier than the object of Ronstadt's affection.

It's probably the booze he had before even showing up, more than anything else. But it's still something that holds appeal.]

All it takes is a little umbrella and I'm a right beauty queen. Don't let the ladies in on that secret, or there'll be one hell of a tiny umbrella shortage.

[Oh, he's already so drunk. Or at least it's got it's hold strongly. Those silly looking little drinks are always deceptively strong. John wonders, idly, if he'll have to haul him out himself.]

Oh, so I'm getting the good stuff tonight? Let's celebrate then. She's made her choice, but mate, the world is your oyster. You're free, and there's going to be a queue forming to get to you before you even realize it.

[ronstadt]

A Q? What happened to A through - oh, right. [he laughs a little] British. ... You know, I don't even like oysters. Where does a saying like that even come from?

[he leans his chin in his hand and makes an exaggeratedly thoughtful face, as Monty comes over with a bottle of Glenfidditch. While Ronstadt's preoccupied, she pours plain mix into his glass and winks at John. Monty's done this dance a few times, it seems. Maybe not over girls, but at least over Ronstadt's waves of misery, watching the tide. He only notices motion at his elbow, not detail, and grins]

You're the best, Monty. ... See? This is why I come here, she keeps 'em comin'.

"I'm just glad to see you stayin' alive, Ronstadt."

[she claps him on the shoulder and heads back to the bar]

You wanna talk about someone with girls linin' up waiting for them to be free ... there she goes, man. There. She. Goes.

[abracafuckingdabra]

Dunno. They're slimy, awful things. No one would eat them if they weren't aphrodisiacs.

[Oh, Monty is a good one. A true keeper. John nods at her gratefully, she knows how to take care of her patrons. And has obviously done so for Ronstadt in the past.] She does, mate, she does. A good bird, that one.

[John snorts a little at the comment about her going.] Alright, so a lesson from someone who's been around the block a time or two and knows a bit about ladies. Don't date the people who serve you beer, who cut your hair, or who write your legal papers. Bad news all around, those relationships. [He takes a drink from his glass, and blinks at the quality. Not bad at all.]

[ronstadt]

Yeah, but you gotta hope that how gross they must feel goin' down isn't enough to keep things from goin' up, am I right?

[he snickers a little, glad that for once his company at the Hula Shaker will appreciate a dick joke.]

I wouldn't date Monty, her girlfriend would kill me. And I don't have any legal papers. Maybe I should. Not even sure how that would go, to be honest. Nobody to leave anything to.

[that's a grim thought, and he takes another long drink of Mai Tai, draining half of what Monty filled in.]

[abracafuckingdabra]

[John snickers in response, just as much to Ronstadt's snickering as the joke itself. It's such a cheap, immature joke but it's amusing none the less.] Well, I can't say that's never been a problem for me.

[He honestly should lay off on it, but it's amusing to him anyway. And it's the truth, he's never had a problem with anything going down...

He still doesn't like oysters though. Not unless they're served deep fried.]

That's a good reason. Never get between a girl and her girlfriend, it never ends well for you. I'm not one for legal papers either. You're in the will though, I hope you know. [Since they've gone down the death route already, he's going to play with it.] When I kick the bucket finally and old scratch comes to drag me down to my reserved suite? You'll be the proud owner of one book of obscene and potentially illegal magics, two hundred packs of my brand of cigarettes, and the lucky boxers I stole from Batman himself.