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Renegade High Brush
d93696
>>243898
There very well might be ink in there, depending on the age of the drink. Either way, it does not look cheap, and this guy buying me a shot does not look rich. I agree, though, and probably would not try it. Liquid ink is actually highly toxic at a certain quantity because it dries inside of the organs.
>>243583
I do not really understand men all that well. They are at once direct and convoluted. If what you say is true, then you certainly would not have to tell me twice not to spend too much time in places like this.
>Is this going to be one of those rape things?
Wow, I hope not!
***
"Uh..." my thoughts are more coherent than my speech, admittedly, and I do not read well. "In...comp...eh...tence. The one with the triangles."
He looks to be the most gathered of the group of guys as he pours me the clear, bubbly drink. I give it a few sniffs before sipping it. It is odorless, and very weak. It tastes like sparkling lemon water. The man to my left seems to be smiling at me still.
So the drink initiates social behavior? This does not seem all that difficult. "I am looking for a guy named Lucky. First name Peter." The quiet rabble falls silent for a moment.
"What was the name?"
"Peter Lucky," I repeat, and the men to my right and left appear puzzled. The bartender, however, immediately smiles.
"There is a name that, sadly, I have not heard in a number of years," his voice has a relatively high timbre, but is nasally, "The last time I saw him was, hm, about fifteen years ago. He was living in an apartment right on the square. He barged in here and bought the whole house a round of drinks."
"Why did he do that?" I ask.
"Heheh, yeah Barty, where's my free drinks?" one of the others chimes in in a bassy, throated tone. Forced laughter ensues.
Bart the barman begins again twice unsuccessfully over the crescendo of chatter, then finally continues, "He said... he said that he was off to do big things. Haha. Him and his friend were war buddies. You know, I've never seen that guy draw, but from what I hear he could do some pretty great shit."
"Where is he now? Do you-"
Bart interrupts me, "What are you doing asking about him, anyway? You can't be as old as the war's end, can you?"
"I am seventeen. When the war ended, I-" What is that noise outside? All of the large-eared men seem to notice as well, turning their attention to the source. It sounds like popcorn popping.
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