| Evolution |
[26 Jul 2008|09:59pm] |
The Gingerman Tavern was a bit of an anomaly. While it was a bar boasting its share of pool tables and dart boards and other typical fare, it was one of few that hadn't caved to the trend of mounting enormous plasma screen televisions on every available wall space. In that regard, it was a throwback to a time when ambiance counted for something. The tavern sat in the shadow of Wrigley field on Clark Street and was a refuge for a variety of customers, the least of which was Chicago's omnipresent yuppie. The music came from a behemoth jukebox on one end.
Doug Miles was a human resources consultant. Though his title, power suits, and bravado led some to believe he was an intellect to be reckoned with, the truth was that he was a schmuck. A guy whose attendance at Brown was based on a legacy admission and a hefty donation from his father, and whose only job was to sweep into corporations, slice and dice the personnel list, and get the hell out of dodge before the firings began. At present, he was engaged in a series of dart games, each round going progressively worse as he plowed his way through the beer selection.
At his side, a man stood with his arms crossed and his eyes on the dart board. On his face he wore a sardonic expression, a sentiment that increased with the intoxication of his client. While Doug went to tug his darts out of the board, Darian adjusted the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt.
Faith was in a foul mood as she entered the bar, unable to believe she’d actually just paid money to see that monstrosity. If the Slayer ever stayed in town long enough to begin adopting the local sports fare – which was doubtful, considering how deep her love for the Red Sox and Celtics went – Faith knew she would become a White Sox fan.
Because a night in that run-down ballpark surrounded by all those drunks cheering for a team that couldn’t get out of its own way was not Faith’s idea of fun. She almost preferred being eviscerated by a dun-claar beast – and they preferred their victims alive during the ceremonies.
At least the beer at Wrigley had been good. And Faith would do her nightly rounds soon enough, but for now, she just wanted another drink. Besides, there was no telling who or what was in this place.
“Whatever’s on tap,” she called to the bartender, lighting up a smoke almost immediately.
( Something Familiar )
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