Post by Bryden on Oct 2, 2010 16:58:01 GMT -5
Drunk today. Drunk tomorrow. Drunk forever more.
Thus spake the script above the door. On the inside, mind you. That was to remind those already on the inside about what those on the outside had to say to get on the inside. Because the inside was where all the good in life was. And the inside had to be discerning.
Can’t just be letting anyone into a speakeasy, can you?
Ever since they went and outlawed all the fun shit in life, life wasn’t worth living. Or, at least, that was what a law abiding citizen might tell you. Or write in the note you’d find next to the body dangling from the rafters.
Prohibition was the worst thing that had ever happened to this fucked-up little country. Damn fool lawmakers didn’t know what was good for them and what was bad. But Truck knew. And Truck’s bosses knew. And they knew that what was bad news for the government was the best news of their lives.
Prohibition was the best thing that had ever happened to Truck. Prohibition gave a returning veteran a job. It gave him something to do as well as a steady paycheck. It gave him respect amongst his peers. It gave him a leg-up with the fairer sex. And it gave him free access to an always-open bar. Life was sweeter than sugared bourbon and richer to boot.
At least, that was what the man was thinking when he showed up for work that afternoon. (Afternoon, canyabelieveit? A man can sleep all damn day, rid the hangover, then show up late-as-you-please and get plenty of the hair of the dog that bit his ass. This was the sweet life and no doubt.) The big guy- and he WAS a big guy, standing a damn imposing six-foot-three and built like a brick on legs- was perfect for his job. Guard the door. Stand there in a sharp suit and look scary. Toss out the wet bums and grunt “Eh, password?” when people knocked. Look scary. Don’t talk much, but when you do, SOUND scary. It was easy. Even with a decent brain in his thick skull, Truck didn’t need to think about it. Relaxing. And as long as he held his liquor, he could drink all he liked.
The bar was a covert little piece. Hidden in a docking yard, underneath a warehouse. Basement was damn cold, mostly, but it warmed up quick enough with the body heat from the patrons packed in like sardines. Two rooms: the big front one and the smaller back one. The front room was where you entered- through a thick metal door (Truck’s post, of course)- and you walked into red. Red carpet, red wallpaper, red paint, red backs of playing cards, red dice, red leather seats and red wood tables. All the employees wore red: dresses and suits and vests and ties. And the typical fashion was for patrons to wear read, too, even if it was only a pin or a clip on a tie. Even just suspenders. It was still the hot look. Like fire. Like danger. Like Hell. It made people feel wicked and wonderful. Great atmosphere for boozing.
The backroom was, in comparison, dull. Plain concrete and cinderblock, stacked high with crates and containers. No booze was made on-site, of course. Just stored here. Couldn’t risk a raid, now could they? Truck’s bosses weren’t stupid enough for that, and Truck wasn’t stupid enough to work for someone that stupid.
He grinned as he walked in. “Ey, Gloria,” he called to the girl behind the bar counter, giving her a wave. Did he mention the babes? Oh yah. The babes.
Heaven on earth. The 1920s had never been so good. Chicago had never been so good. And Truck had never been so good.
((Ooh, 1920s Chi-town. Can you say ‘Capone’? Let’s get illegal people! Be a boss. Be an old war buddy. Be a patron. Be Gloria. Be anybody! Just join it. No, don’t ask. No, don’t plot. No, don’t look for an info sheet or a bio. What you see is what you get, because THIS, guys and dolls, is a quickie. Be spontaneous. Join. Now.))
Thus spake the script above the door. On the inside, mind you. That was to remind those already on the inside about what those on the outside had to say to get on the inside. Because the inside was where all the good in life was. And the inside had to be discerning.
Can’t just be letting anyone into a speakeasy, can you?
Ever since they went and outlawed all the fun shit in life, life wasn’t worth living. Or, at least, that was what a law abiding citizen might tell you. Or write in the note you’d find next to the body dangling from the rafters.
Prohibition was the worst thing that had ever happened to this fucked-up little country. Damn fool lawmakers didn’t know what was good for them and what was bad. But Truck knew. And Truck’s bosses knew. And they knew that what was bad news for the government was the best news of their lives.
Prohibition was the best thing that had ever happened to Truck. Prohibition gave a returning veteran a job. It gave him something to do as well as a steady paycheck. It gave him respect amongst his peers. It gave him a leg-up with the fairer sex. And it gave him free access to an always-open bar. Life was sweeter than sugared bourbon and richer to boot.
At least, that was what the man was thinking when he showed up for work that afternoon. (Afternoon, canyabelieveit? A man can sleep all damn day, rid the hangover, then show up late-as-you-please and get plenty of the hair of the dog that bit his ass. This was the sweet life and no doubt.) The big guy- and he WAS a big guy, standing a damn imposing six-foot-three and built like a brick on legs- was perfect for his job. Guard the door. Stand there in a sharp suit and look scary. Toss out the wet bums and grunt “Eh, password?” when people knocked. Look scary. Don’t talk much, but when you do, SOUND scary. It was easy. Even with a decent brain in his thick skull, Truck didn’t need to think about it. Relaxing. And as long as he held his liquor, he could drink all he liked.
The bar was a covert little piece. Hidden in a docking yard, underneath a warehouse. Basement was damn cold, mostly, but it warmed up quick enough with the body heat from the patrons packed in like sardines. Two rooms: the big front one and the smaller back one. The front room was where you entered- through a thick metal door (Truck’s post, of course)- and you walked into red. Red carpet, red wallpaper, red paint, red backs of playing cards, red dice, red leather seats and red wood tables. All the employees wore red: dresses and suits and vests and ties. And the typical fashion was for patrons to wear read, too, even if it was only a pin or a clip on a tie. Even just suspenders. It was still the hot look. Like fire. Like danger. Like Hell. It made people feel wicked and wonderful. Great atmosphere for boozing.
The backroom was, in comparison, dull. Plain concrete and cinderblock, stacked high with crates and containers. No booze was made on-site, of course. Just stored here. Couldn’t risk a raid, now could they? Truck’s bosses weren’t stupid enough for that, and Truck wasn’t stupid enough to work for someone that stupid.
He grinned as he walked in. “Ey, Gloria,” he called to the girl behind the bar counter, giving her a wave. Did he mention the babes? Oh yah. The babes.
Heaven on earth. The 1920s had never been so good. Chicago had never been so good. And Truck had never been so good.
((Ooh, 1920s Chi-town. Can you say ‘Capone’? Let’s get illegal people! Be a boss. Be an old war buddy. Be a patron. Be Gloria. Be anybody! Just join it. No, don’t ask. No, don’t plot. No, don’t look for an info sheet or a bio. What you see is what you get, because THIS, guys and dolls, is a quickie. Be spontaneous. Join. Now.))
Congrats grimn! You're in the real mode, now. I've no doubt that you'll surprise yourself on just how tough and mature you can be.