ArchivedLogs:Drugs Are Not The Answer
| Drugs Are Not The Answer | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-04-19 They are the question. The answer is "YES". |
| Location | |
Friday night is a night for excitement. Especially in New York. The city seems to pick up an energy that vibrates through the concrete and glass and works its way into its denizens, forcing them out and into the night to seek their weekend fun. In many parts of the city, there are long lines of people awaiting entrance into clubs or movies. Parks almost teem with young lovers who walk with hands entwined as they murmur to each other. Restaurants bustle with the beginnings of the post-Broadway rush.... And in Molly's, it is...empty. Well, mostly empty. There's Frankie (of the Molly's Quartet) at the end of the bar, the big dark-haired man looking miserable as he downs whatever number beer this is tonight. He's not talking, though. Or maybe he's talked out. Behind the bar, Dan sits in his customary spot on his stool. He looks much like he always looks while tending bar -- white t-shirt, blue jeans, cigar, book in hand ('Beezus and Ramona', by Beverly Cleary). He pays no attention to the morose Frankie as he reads, leaning forward to tap his cigar quietly into the ashtray. It's eerily silent -- or would be, if it were not for the soft croon of Big Band-era music being smoked into a microphone by Julie London, provided by the recently-updated sound system. Maybe that New York weekend energy hasn't made it down to the Lower East Side, yet. THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. This is Murphy, arriving in the bar. The tip of his cigarette gleams in whatever dim illumination Molly's provides; he glares through the smoke with his peepers, like he's trying to /drill/ his way through it. He's clad in a black wool coat - white shirt, black tie, black suit - and carries a near permeable /cloud/ of negative mojo around him. He's also got what looks to be a black eye that's a good ways along healing - and when he walks, he favors his left side. Just a bit. He saddles up to the bar, dropping into a stool - like it offended him somehow. Like this is his way of /punishing/ it. Whump. Smoke, smoke. Tendrils of soot swirl out of his nostrils; he glowers at the drinks behind the bar, like he's trying to develop the ability to teleport the alcohol contained within them directly into his veins. Dan's eyes slide up from the book when the door opens, and he carefully marks his place with a piece of -- okay, that is a /hair/ ribbon -- before he sets it down gently and stands up. Clamping the cigar in his teeth, he moves to the taps, and pulls off a mug of the cheapest beer there, wrinkling his nose at the /thickness/ of the liquid. Then he moves to set it front of Murphy, breaking that alcohol transference with the sheer bulk of his body. The mug is set down firmly, and Dan gives the other man a long, studious look before he moves to the well, and picks up the whiskey bottle there. Setting a shot glass in front of Murphy, he pours out. "What's the other guy look like?" "Alive," Murphy states, flatly; as if this alone was remarkable - a demonstration of extraordinary mercy. He looks at the mug in front of him - wrinkles his nose - and proceeds to down it. It's quite a trick, downing a mug of beer in one swallow; Murphy somehow manages to pull it off. The whole thing disappears down the vacuum of his throat as if it were a golden slug - now you see it, now you don't. Right down that mighty gullet, sloshing into an empty stomach. The glass hits the countertop with a vicious *CLACK*. And then Murphy talks: "Everybody in this city's got a fuckin' deathwish." Doesn't sound like he's complaining; nope, just sounds like he's stating the facts. "Yep." Dan doesn't seem surprised by the statement. Instead, he takes the empty glass and goes back to refill it. "You new here, or something? 'Cause that's been the case here since I was born." He offers a tight smile as he returns and sets the beer down. Then he slides the shot glass towards Murphy. "You can't live here if you're afraid to die." This does not sound like he is joking. He taps his cigar in the ashtray, and frowns. "You get mugged, or something?" Murphy eyes the glass. As if its presence /offends/ him. Tiny little thing. He flips his finger at the ridge. Not /nearly/ enough booze. "No," he responds to Dan's inquiry - then, he lifts it up. "I ain't afraid of a lot of things," he tells Dan. "That don't mean I /want/ 'em." And now he looks past the glass, /peering/ at Dan. "I ain't been mugged. You know," his attention slings back to the glass - like he can't decide which one is offending him more, Dan or the booze, "I've seen some shit. I know a lot of people say that. 'I've seen some shit'. Fuck them and fuck what they've seen. I've seen some /shit/," Murphy restates, this time with feeling. "Seen a man take two bullets to the head, then grow the meat right back. Heard about one poor fucker - they put metal in his fuckin' /bones/. Met a woman once, made out of spiders. Nothin' but fuckin' spiders. Big Red Sox fan." The offensive shotglass is hefted up. And thrown back. GULP. Murphy grimaces and brings it back down. "But the one thing I ain't ever gotten over - despite seeing it again and again - the one thing I'll /never/ understand - is a man gettin' in a car with another man who aims to kill 'em." Dan shrugs. "Maybe I meant you can't live here if you ain't ready to die," he amends. Then he's watching as Murphy speaks, his eyebrows lifting further with each new revelation. His expression doesn't change, otherwise. Still that same tight line of a mouth, broken only by the cigar jutting out of one side. When Murphy falls silent, Dan extends it by a long moment, grabbing the bottle and tipping it to the shot glass. "That," he says around the cigar, "is some genuine shit. Sounds a bit like the shit I saw, over in the sandbox." He grabs a second shot glass, and pours one for himself, slamming it back with a wince. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse. "Even Nixon went to China." "I ain't ready to die. Th'fuck that even mean, ready to die. Fuck being ready. I'm living forever. Grim Reaper shows up at my door, I'm gonna break his fucking face." Murphy sounds 100% serious on this point; he's not even joking. Grim Reaper better stay the fuck away from Murphy FUCKING Law. "Th'fuck you see over there," Murphy asks Jim, /glaring/ at him. Like how /dare/ you imply you might have seen something worse. But it's also pushing; like schoolyard kids each edging the other on into bigger and bigger dares. Try and top Murphy's shit, Dan. Murphy /triple/ hot-dog dares ya. Dan snorts. "Man comes in here looking as rough as you and says he ain't ready to die, I'm gonna agree," he says, filling his glass again. "And I'm gonna pity the Grim Reaper when he gets your name on his list." He lifts the glass in salute -- either to Murphy's living forever or the memory of the to-be-late Grim Reaper. The question gets a tightening of his features, and he glances down the bar at Frankie, who's set his head on his arms and might be sleeping. Or crying. It's hard to tell. What's important is that he's not listening, and Dan leans forward. "Got this," he says, running a thumb under his left eye, along the silvery scar there. "From a kid who exploded bones from his body like a fuckin' porcupine. Killed four of my men." He pours another shot, knocking it back and repeating the process before he continues. "Some kid hijacked my brain out in the sand, and used me to take out my own company," he says in a low voice. "And made me watch." His mouth pulls into a tighter line, and his eyebrows pop up at Murphy in a 'top that' sort of expression. Yes, Murphy. Dan has seen Some Shit. Another shot is poured, and downed. "That little bastard got me an honorable discharge and VA psych counseling for the rest of my fucking life." "In your head?" Murphy says, eyeing Dan closely. "How'd you convince 'em it was somebody /else/ doin' the killing?" Murphy's lighter - that brass-fitted thing with the Marine Corps insignia - suddenly emerges. He begins twisting it between his fingers. Clink, clink. Old habit. Calms his nerves. "Or did they find the kid." "Camera on the radio guy," Dan says, twisting his mouth to one side as he chews on his cigar. "Caught the kid's eyes glowing, and me goin' to my knees. Then I got up all jerky, and started shooting." He closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, fingers flexing hard enough to show white at the knuckles. His eyes slide open. "They never found the kid, though. OSI intel said he was likely working for one of the warlords in the hills." He doesn't sound satisfied with that; the note of worry is evident through Dan's natural rumble. The flick of his eyes to the door is probably coincidental. "They made me talk to a bunch of brass I didn't know, and then they sent me home all quiet-like." He presses his lips together, and exhales through his nose. "So yeah. I've seen some shit." He moves to get Murphy another beer, turning as he pulls the tap. "Metal on a guy's skeleton? How's that work, anyway?" "No clue. Don't even know if he lived." Murphy relates this fact with very little aplomb; apparently, he is not in the business of keeping track of Dudes With Metal For Bones. "Surprised they didn't pin it all on you, make it go away. Guess bootin' you out honorably's the next best thing." Then: "You still got nightmares?" Murphy asks, like he's... asking about the weather. Like it's just a Thing That Happens. "They were more interested in the kid, and what he did than they were on making it go away," Dan says with a lift of his shoulders. "Officially, we were hit by an insurgent group, and I barely made it out." He doesn't sound happy with this explanation, and he sets the beer down on the bar, folding his arms over his chest. "Only every fucking night," he answers the question. "My doc gave me some pills for anxiety and shit, but they don't stop the nightmares." He scrunches his nose, reaching up to rub his scar thoughtfully. "At least they don't wake me up as often as they used to." A grunt as he moves back to his shot glass, inspecting it as if trying to decide how drunk a bartender he wants to be. "You found a way to beat 'em that ain't never sleepin'?" "Drugs." For Murphy, this is apparently The Best Solution. And suddenly, he's reaching into his wallet - slapping down a ten dollar bill on the bar. "Otherwise, nope. Just don't sleep. I've gotta go see if a moron's dead yet. Later." And then he's lumbering out with that slight limp. | |
