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Log Title: Storytime and Skinheads

Log setting: Jackson Square, then the Cafe du Monde

Log Cast:
TooFar
Trace
Christian
Kathy
Julien
Beau
David
Alisynde
Jean-Batiste
Jason
Tony
Liz
Cross
Deacon
Ryan

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Anyway, regardless of the time, TooFar and Trace wander in from the direction of the river, talking amungst themselves like friends tend to do. The former is smoking a cigarette, as is his habit, and the bluehaired one is... well, talking.

Christian murmurs to Julien, "Everything looks different allath'time, f'ya look close enough." Beau gets a little smirk at that- Yes, Spooky-Alligator-Bit Man, that comment was meant for you too. "S'all in perspective. Sometimes cats look like pilesa dirty socks."

Kathy exhales a little cloud of smoke, almost as if she was slightly embarrassed to be smoking at all. She enhales justa little at a time.

Julien turns away from Christian and starts off down the street, his clove perched between his lips as he sticks his fingertips into his front pockets. "Sure," he murmurs to Christian, continuing on his way a few steps before an annoying beep sound comes from his pocket. He removes the beeper from his pocket and hits a few buttons before he diverts his course and heads toward a payphone across the street.

Beau turns against the lightpole so that his back is against it. He crosses one ankle over the other and adds a puff of smoke to the smoke-party. Blue hair catches his eye and he tilts his head slowly, bird-like, to study the pair coming down the street.

Kathy rubs her eyes again, and leans forward, elbows on her knees while she smokes, and looks at people. She looks tired.

Spooky-Alligator-Bit Man. Beau would like that. He misses even the little smirk, unfortunately, though it's a good bet he heard the words. He watches Selena go. Why not?

Kathy crosses her ankles.

Christian muses softly "An' by night all cats are grey..." Damn Julien for a rogue and a scoundrel anyways. And Damn Beau, and Damn TooFar. And damn Kathy, too- Christian just watches her as he digs out a packet of smokes from his pocket and lights one, with a zippo that looks to have seen more of the world than any three of the walking denizens of the square put together. Draaaag, exhalation of smoke that curls up his face like a strange sort of veil. How dare you people make him smoke.

Yes, Trace is talking, and TooFar is listening. It's a healthy arrangement they've had going for awhile now. Yak yak yak, as he walks along, thumbs hooked in his pocket. "...So anyway this guy with a sword walked in, and he sets it down onna bar like it ain't nothin unusual 'bout it. Jest like it was an umbrella r'somethin. And then when he gets a phonecall later, he says he gotta take care of a 'bug' problem, picks up the sword, and goes. I mean... If that guy's an exterminator, I'm the Prince'a Ethiopia. *I* think he was gonna get hisself some sewer bugs." Eyes roll. "Or gators. Whatever."

Kathy turns her eyes to Christian, watching him silently as she sits, and savours her cigarette. Her eyes search his face, his clothing.

Yep, TooFar is another smoker. Viva la Cancer! It's a good thing he's still in his teens, cuz his nicotine habit must really be shaving off the years. Live fast, die young, leave a corpse. Usual story. The cigarette is withdrawn from his mouth, waved vaguely in gesture as he speaks, "A friggin' /sword/, man?" the waifish little gothling asks in disbelief, "Wh'th'fuck was he doin' wit' a sword?" The gator/bug remarked is pointedly overlooked.

Julien hangs off the side of the phone booth while, apparently, checking messages or some such- whatever it is people with beepers do when they're paged. Whatever it is, he looks slightly irritated about it what with the way he stabs at the numberpad like a child might poke at a dog. The phone, however, doesn't appear like its going to turn and bite him any time soon. Julien hangs up the phone and sighs melodramatically at it before turning and cutting across the street again, dodging a carload of tourists in an early morning cab ride to the airport; or so the suitcases on top would suggest. A few explatives here and there and he's safely across the street again, heading straight for TooFar and Trace. This, finally, brings something of a smile to his face, "Hey, TooFar.." he calls, giving the youth a wave.

Shared misery. And damned he is, this Beau, holding up the pole. He finishes his cigarette and drops it to the ground, bothering only just barely to uncross his ankles and press a heel onto the smouldering butt. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, not too deep. No point in starting rumours or getting arrested like that old toothless man down on Bourbon. Imagine scaring the wealthy, gray-haired tourists like that. No, no pocket billiards allowed here. Beau studies Christian's method of smoking. It tells a lot about a person.

Christian takes another drag on his smoke, squinting at it- then at Kathy- then at, oh look, it's Trace of the Infinite Conversational Capacity. A brief little smile- back goes Christian's gaze to Beau, with an expression that is best described as a wary sort of '...what?'.

Trace, lacking a cigarette or any desire for one, shall remain shrouded in mystery. Beau shall never know the workings of this boy's soul, mua-ha-ha. Well, you could prolly just ask him, really, and it'd spill all over his expression, transparant boy that he is, but still. "Yeah, swear t'God, he had this sword... It were strange. Neat lookin though. An' some'a the people inna Crossroasd din' even bat an eye at him. Guess they're useta him bringin' weird weapons in there, who knows. But--" He falls silent as he sees Julien approach, and tips his head to TooFar questioningly before offering a smile. Okay, you know TooFar. Yer cool til you prove otherwise. Then again, that means a helluva lot of people get that benefit, since TooFar gets around, but it still stands. "Whose yer friend?" the boy murmurs, with a nod to the older boy.

Jean-Batiste comes into the square from downtown Decatur.

Kathy puts out the cigarette butt.

Hey, look. It's Julien. The streetkid calling himself TooFar returns the wave of LeatherMan, waggling blacknailed fingers in his general direction. The teen evidently likes Julien - of course, TooFar likes everyone - and he glances over to see what sort of reaction Trace has at the man's intercpting course. "Trace, this here guy's Julien." And vice versa, thus the two are introduced.

Jean-Batiste's looking over his shoulder as he walks into the Square, perhaps considering the wisdom of leaving Cafe du Monde behind without stopping for even just one beignet. One hand's dug down into his pocket, the other holding a trusty and half-consumed licorice clove. He seems a little pensive -- nothing new here, really -- and glances around with listless curiousity once the Cafe is put firmly out of mind.

Julien's lips curl into a half smile that springs from one side of his mouth first where it lingers as if in an unconscious decision to spread to the other half of his mouth or not. But, as it appears this young man can't stay irritated at a telephone for long, his mouth parts in a smile that could dazzle a crowd if he desired it to or, at the very least, offer light to read by his teeth are so white. He pauses in his approach on Trace and TooFar so there is a good four or five feet left remaining and the two can choose to keep coming or not. He seems to be doing good so far at not proving himself a complete idiot- then again- he hasn't opened his mouth to the bluehaired boy. "Nice to meet you," he says, smile dipping for a moment in thought as if he recognizes the name. It brightens once more and he takes a drag on the licorice clove he holds once more before looking back at TooFar. "Look what Holly, Bat and Ben have done to me!" he pronounces as though he were about to say something profound. "Cloves. Christ, I get any more sterotypical and I might as well start a band and wear eyeliner." He laughs amusedly.

Pink-gold light gilds the land as the sun creeps over the eastern horizon into a cloudless blue sky. You paged Jason with 'Okay, this... basically, Trace has had a 'strong' night as far as junk craving and what not, enough to refer to it as a disease and lecture Bat that he should quit sometime. But something Bat said made him a little more shaky as far as resolve, and he steeled himself with a pose 'Clean Trace. Hang onto that. Wrap your fists around it tight'... Bat's response:'.

Beau laughs to himself, meeting Christian's '...what?' head on. Not too long. He relents and looks away. Something amused him. Imagine that. He sacrifices his interest in Christian and turns his amused gaze upon the boys. Teen boys. But he remembers what that was like and figures they're even more likely to grow uncomfortable in his sites. He slides another look at Christian, then resorts to pulling another cigarette from his pack from his pocket. He even looks at /it/ for a few long seconds. Maybe he's considering what a disappointing transmitter of personality the sticks have turned out to be after all. Then again, maybe not. Something serious slinks through his mind, no doubt, washing away the amusement.

Kathy looks up at the sky, watching the sun come up with some amount of relief. She rummages around for a minute, finally coming up with a hair-thing from her pocket. She starts to gather her hair up into a ponytail.

You paged Jason with 'Okay, this... basically, Trace has had a 'strong' night as far as junk craving and what not, enough to refer to it as a disease and lecture Bat that he should quit sometime. But something Bat said made him a little more shaky as far as resolve, and he steeled himself with a pose 'Clean Trace. Hang onto that. Wrap your fists around it tight'... Bat's response:'.

Christian takes the relenting of Beau's glance as a triumph. He has succeeded! Spooky Gator-Munched-Guy looked away! A contented smirk as Christian's attention goes off over there- back to Kathy- thereby enabling him to completely miss the fact Beau glances again. And enabling him to, in turn, squint at Kathy... and by such tiny increments does the world turn.

Kathy looks at Christian again, quickly. She smiles tenatively, and bows her head.

Trace's eyes widen a little as Julien puts out that little announcement. "You, uh. You know them?" Another glance to TooFar. This guy ain't gonna kick my ass, right? Or bitch me out? Gonna protect me? Ugh. Back to Julien. "They, um. Yeah, it's like a requirement of the household or something... Everybody left there all smokes 'em." A half-smile is offered, unsure of himself. Then the boy sees Batiste off in the distance. Rather odd, this being aroudn 5 in the morning, but who knows where Bat's duties might take him. So a hand is lifted to the blonde boy, and a shouted, "BAT! Hey, c'mere!" So there's one in that house with whom Trace can still holler at without any sort of trepidation anyway.

Well, the TooFar /does/ wear eyeliner, as a matter of fact, but his musical status is currently unknown. He grins at Julien, and his horrible new clove vice. Why don't you just stick an IV of tar and nicotine right into your arm? Faster. Of course, the gothling makes up for that with sheer numbers of cigarettes smoke on any given day. "What's new wit' you, man?" The waif asks of Julien, glancing over in Bat's direction as distracted by Trace's bellowing.

Kathy asks Christian, "What do you think of it?" motioning to the statue.

Kathy motions up at the tree.

Beau ponders. As the World Turns. In today's episode, will Julien find out that his phone has been cheating on him with every Tom, Dick or Harry that passes and puts a quarter in its slot? Will we find out whether Kathy's comfortable shoes mean she's a lesbian or just a sensible Irish girl? Will Beau and Christian come to blows over the staredown? And will we find out what /exactly/ TooFar is? Stay tuned. Beau flicks his lighter and lifts it to his cigarette.

Christian startles at Trace's shouting, arm jerking, and winding up wearing some of his coffee. Staring over, Trace gets a look that- well-- if looks could kill, Trace would be laying on the floor saying 'Et tu, dude?' after having been stabbed in the back a few dozen times. If looks could maim, Trace would be finding out what being curbstomped three times in a row feels like. But looks can do none of this- Christian just scowls. Julien grins and looks over his shoulder as Bat's name is called- he, too, gets a wave and a quiet yell, "Hey, Bat.." Pleasantries all around and not a fake one in the bunch. He looks back to Trace and chuckles a little. "Yea, met them through Nelson.. nice bunch of folks all around," he says rather non-descript. If he's going to kick anyone's ass, it doesn't seem like its anyone in this group. "I've heard tons about you, Trace.. nice to finally put a face to the name. Good to meet you," he says, sincerity not a question. He turns himself a bit to sort of open the circle, so to speak, as Bat walks this direction.

Jean-Batiste, SuperStreetratMan, or something. Attention moves from the listless panning of the Square to the sound of Trace's voice, steps petering down to a halt as he looks that-a-way. Trace. Julien. TooFar. Hmm. Bottom lip vanishes into his mouth as he nibbles dead, clove-flavoured skin from it, then lets off the toothy assault to take another drag of nicotene into his lungs. Not too certain about heading over, it seems. But they're all looking, and Julien's smiling one of his high-octane grins, and it'd be even more uncomfortable to walk away, and so he starts to walk again, that-a-way. "Hey," he murmurs, as he draws near, offering an uncertain smile to the group.

Welcome to Omaha's Wild Kingdom, today we watch the curious TooFar bird in his natural habitat. A well meaning, cheerful sort of creature, the TooFar is a social animal, perhaps out of necessity. Being such a small, waifish sort of thing, if he weren't liked he'd probably find himself easily killed by the other, larger animals found in this sort of enviroment. A pretty thing, he often attracts members of both sexes, which isn't at all good for matters of reproduction, but that's androgyny for you. Today his winter feather have molted for the summer heat, and he wears a small amount of eye makeup just because he can. Right now he's grinning, as TooFar birds tend to do, and he's talking along with Julien and Trace. Oh look, a Bat joins the trio. Let's look in to see how this effects the delicate social balance... "Hey man, what's up?"

Poor Trace, he's not in today's episode of American daytime trash. But that's alright, coz he gets to be in Christian's Super-Glare for some reason completely unknown to him. And that's also okay. Because damn straight Bat's coming over! Uncertainty is completely ignored as the bluecap as he claps the blonde boy's shoulder cheerily and says, "Look, I met yer Julien friend." Said Julien-friend gets another look. "So you know Nelson too?" Apparantly this is cool, much cooler than knowing Walker and Ben, if Trace's grin could measure such things. And well, looka there, it can. "Hope both'a them been gettin' their word in, else this tons you heard might make things less'n cool between us. But Nelson rocks, anyway... Haven't seen him in too long." Then again, Nelson could despise him by now, the company he's been keeping, but Trace is an optimistic child.

Beau and his pole. The one he's leaning against, that is. Still watching. 'Omaha's Wild Kingdom' indeed. And Beau is Jim. Wrestling with gaters on command. Doing all the hard stuff. What a good boy. Right now, however, he's on break. But never let it be said that Beau isn't one to add to the atmosphere of an early morning on the streets of N'Orleans. He puffs a solid cloud of smoke out into the air, in to the atmosphere. Keeps the skeeters at bay.

Julien slips his arm about Bat's shoulder in a light greeting of a hug. "Hey you.." he offers, quietly, before retrieving his arm and hooking his fingers into the beltloop of his leathers. There's a soft, unspoken version of that high-octane grin, oh lets call it diesel, that echoes in the rumble of his softspoken voice toward Bat- friendly and warm. He blinks a little at Trace and shrugs, "Yea.. I know Nelson," he murmurs, the smile on his face something more akin to super-high-octane- the kind of smile that people get after a really good fu-- err, evening spent in sin. He also seems to be entirely too empathetic for his own good and he tells Trace, "And as far as what people say about other people, I prefer to make my own judgements. Screw what other people think. Honest." He glances at the other two and, as he seems to have age on the three which, at this point, makes him Marlon Perkins, that he is standing with, he plays pied piper and asks, "Anyone besides me up for a five am sugar rush of french fries and hot fudge sundaes?" He eyes each of the wild street boys in turn before adding, "I'll buy," as an incentive.

Christian slips off the newspaper stand, muttering darkly and dripping dark coffee. Folding his arms over himself, he makes as if to darkly withdraw from the darkness of the dark square with his dark mood, rubbing pale fingers against the contrast of his dark t-shirt. Dark: it's what's for breakfast. Trace, impervious to scowling through some dark and occulted plot, chatters on obliviously. Christian makes for Parts Elsewhere.

Alisynde enters the square from St. Peter.

Kathy moves away, stepping over stuff as she walks.

Kathy steps deliberately over giant fae tree roots.

Alisynde whistles a jaunty tune as she strolls along - her carrycase slung over one shoulder. Another day, another hat full of change.

David has arrived.

Well, all right. This is possibly good. Potentially good, even. Trace and Julien are both happy to see him, and TooFar's greeted him in a cordial way, at the very least. Batiste relaxes, just a little, and musters up a warmer smile that lightens the weariness in his eyes. "Hey, man," he murmurs to TooFar, nodding again to him. "Going okay. How about with you?" Trace is gifted with a gentle tousle of blue rope-braids, and Julien receives a quiet, fond smile and a slight shoulder-lean as he murmurs, "I could do with some french fries. French fries and a chocolate milkshake." One of his odder culinary habits.

Christian, wet, is edging away from the square. Kathy, meanwhile, is coming back in, Beau leaning against a lightpost and watching Julien, TooFar, and Trace chat. Christian seems irritable, as well as wet. Perhaps he is a cat.

Kathy starts looking around, rubbing her eyes.

Jean-Batiste, not wet, is perhaps shooting a discreet sidelong look Christian-wards. Perhaps. It's discreet, after all.

David comes strolling in from St.Peter, eyeing the crowd suspiciously. He has an excuse for being out at this hour.. but what's with the party?

Free food? Perfect! TooFar never turns down free anything, grinning as he nods at Julien's offer of complimentary fodder, "Oh, sure man, cool." The perkigoth is quite the grinner himself, but rather than the highoctane glare, he goes for the subtle variations. A new cigarette is sparked up to continue his nicotine chain, and all seems right in the world, "Y'in for that food, man?" TooFar asks of Trace. C'mon, man. Free food is better for you. Good for the wallet's metabolism.

Kathy sighs, and sits on another bench. "maybe I'd better have another one." she pulls out a cigarette. "Where the -hell- did I park."

Alisynde, bone-dry, continues to whistle cheerfully. Fortunately (or unfortunately), she seems to be able to carry a tune - even if the tune is that annoying 'Good Morning' song from 'Singin' In the Rain'. She shifts her carrycase strap a little, into a more comfortable position, and scopes out possible tourist-drawing locations. A cheerful nod to another early riser, and she pauses to chat street-performer type talk to the busker.

Don't you hate that good-samaritan urge that sneaks up on you? Beau does. He frowns to himself and pushes off the pole, taking long, lazy strides in Christian's direction. "Hey." he calls in his warm-chocolate voice.

Christian is en route St-Peter's wards, as luck would have it. Wet Christian, meet suspicious David. Christian blinks up at him, myopic like a kitten who's just opened his eyes. Someone is calling to Christian? Blink blink. Blink. Drip drip drip little coffee spatters, all down Christian's front and his lap. Blink blink at Beau.

"I am SO in for that," Trace agrees heartily. "I'm *starving*. I'm gunna get like three sundaes and a huge pile of french fries and..." A glance to Julien. Uh. "And help ya pay, a'course. I, um. I got a few bucks t'spare and if I'm gonna pig out, ain't gonna put a crimp in yer wallet, man." He glances around before wondering, "So where we gonna go fer all this?"

Kathy notices David, and stares, the cigarette going unnoticed in her hand.

David decides to hold his ground on the edge of the square. Coffe and first morning cigarette still in hand.. he doesn't want to deal with large groups.

Trace nudges at TooFar and mumbles softly among his little huddle of street- and leather-boys before giving David a pointed yet brief glance.

Julien puts his hands up in the air and shakes his head. "Oh no.. I said I was buyin' so I'm buyin'. Besides, I can probably out pig you any day, Trace," he winks at the youth and turns to start heading out of the square. "Dunno.. du Monde or maybe Crossroads?" he asks, starting to walk and acting as though the other three are just going to follow him- though he does keep his head turned back over his shoulder and his pace slow. "I'm used to vending machines on campus so.. you pick."

Kathy nearly drops her cigarette, and notices it before she burns herself.

Julien pauses and looks over toward David for a minute- this leans him into Bat slightly.

Beau says nothing more until he's managed to step up beside Christian. It's so easy to leave the crowds behind, so easy to move on, confident he'll see the passersby again, or someone else just like them. Beau waves his hand at Christian's shirt-front-coffee problem. "You burn yourself?" Maybe he's a lawyer looking for a potential lawsuit to run.

David just keeps himself inconspicuous. Well.. as inconspicuous as he can get. Which pretty much means jack, but he's trying. Eyes listlessly flow over the morning crowd, occasionally turning face-upwards to glance at the sky above the square.

Kathy takes a long drag of her cigarette, and looks down at her feet. Elbows on her thighs.

Christian looks up at Beau- and up, and up, and up. He shakes his head, silent, eyes wide-open and Keane-orphan-disturbing. You've seen a Keane painting of an orphan. Those paintings from the late 60's with kids in tattered clothes and eyes large enough they threaten to devour the canvas? Christian, the tattooed Keane orphan, blinkblinks at Beau.

Oh, dear. Oh, woe. Batiste is being leaned upon by Julien. Isn't this against the Geneva Convention, or something? "The what?" he murmurs, looking from Trace, back to David, then to Trace again. "Huh." He shrugs gently -- mustn't dislodge Julien, after all -- and softly comments, "Du Monde sounds cool to me. I don't think Crossroads has french fries." A weak excuse to avoid the place, for certain. But he's, uh, not in the mood for pepper shrimp. Yeah. He looks back to David, then scans the rest of the Square, pitching his finished clove at the cobblestones.

Alisynde nods in response to something said to her, then catches glimpse of familiar blue hair. "Trace!" And... "Bat! Morn-ning!" God. She's smiling. And cheerful. At ungodly early hours of the morning. Definitely deserving of strangulation, yup. A bright and very animated wave is given to the two boys. Don't you just hate morning people?

Kathy gets up again, and tries another direction.
Kathy heads downtown.

David finally deems the little people worthy of his acknowledgement, or at least one of them, as his voice rings out bell-clear over the square, "Hey, Christian!" My.. ever the eloquent one.

TooFar smiles faintly, at whatever Trace had muttered at him, peering appreciatively over at this David person. It's a harmless sort of grin, from a harmless looking streetkid. And this is where Alisynde comes into the picture. Bat? Trace? What about me, hmmm? Ain't I worth saying hi to? TooFar grins at Ali, simultaneously forgiving her and inducing guilt for having been overlooked. He's the perkigoth, for Pete's sake. You don't ignore perkigoths.

Jason has arrived.

Christian, little person, flinches at David's shouting, fists balling a little bit as he looks over to see who the perpetrator of the vile deed is. No, Christian's name is not to be shouted. Whispered in fear, certainly; muttered in darkness, perhaps; left unspoken for fear of invoking horrors from beyond, ideally; whispered in the throes of trysts involving unknown pleasures and other Joy-Divisionesque moments such as erotic autoasphyxiation-- okay, we're going way too far here. But shouting Christian's name, it seems, is a poor choice in Christian's list of priorities. A frown at David, Christian holding his ground near Beau, the Very Large Scarred Person.

Remy LeBeau has arrived.

Remy LeBeau emerges from a cab across the street and heads into the Square.

David mumbles, "Sorry, man."

"You sure?" Beau asks Christian. Dumb question, sure, but maybe Christian isn't looking too convinced himself. He doesn't pay any attention to David's shouting, until Christian frowns that way. Good. That fist clenching wasn't intended for him.

Alisynde is getting to you, TooFar. Remain patient, for all good things come to those who wait. Or Ali at least comes over to greet."Hey guys. Mornin', TooFar. Where y'at?" A wide grin appears as she shoves her hands in her pockets and bounces a little in place.

Julien chuckles a little at something or another and, with his arm slightly lifted to scoop around Bat's lower back- but not quite- its one of those light movement things people employ when they're headed off in a direction with other people. "So du Monde it is," he announces to TooFar and company.

Enter unton the scene from the right stage is a character that hasn't been seen in a loooong time. Mikaela. She just slinks her way into the Square, looking wholely unherself. Drawn, tired, pale and on the whole, freaked out.

TooFar, the impatient, grins over at Alisynde, "Oh, pretty cool, thanks. 'Bout t'head off t'th' Monde f'some breakfast. What you up to?" His spent cigarette is flicked into the grass, while he and the group start walking over towards the Du Monde. If yo uwant to answer, you'd better follow.

Jean-Batiste glances over his shoulder, and offers a weary-warm smile to the newcomer, raising his clove-freed hand in a wave. "Ali. Hey. Yeah, we're going to du Monde for food, Julien's treat. C'mon." 'Cause surely Ali will tag along, won't she? Surely.

Bench. Okay, bench is spotted. Mikaela heads for what used to be her usual perch, offering only the briefest of scowls when she finally notices it's taken, and moves on. How very...odd. Not like her at all. No blood was shed or growling made.

Alisynde pat-pats her carrycase. "Gettin' ready for another day at t'office." A hand indicates the square. Although. "Breakfast? Hm. Temptin'..And it may be early enough I can get away with it an' still have a spot when I get back.."

Okay, yeah, this should be fun. Don't you people have someplace else to be? Jason doesn't. That's why he's here, see. But, unlike the emit may have suggested, he did NOT step out of a cab. That requires money. Jason does not /have/ money. /You/ people have money. Tee hee. Anyhow, the buzzed redhead comes wandering aimlessly (like you people didn't 'wander aimlessly' to the square) through one of the gates with a self-satisfied little smile goin' on, hands shoved loosely in his pockets (he's off-duty). Just strollin' along on this fine... night? Day? Somethingoroether.

Trace doesn't have money. Well, he has a little, but he's not gonna have to use it, coz Julien's waycool like that. He follows the troop with a slow, aimless gait, just following the herd, thumbs still tucked in his pockets. "Cafe du Monde even got french fries? I know they got ice cream, at least." This is the important part. The sweetstuff. We're trying for maximum calories and as few ounces of protein as possible. French fries are made out of potatoes, which is sorta a veggie and easily passed up.

Alisynde mms as she trails along after. "They got breakfast, an' that's all I care 'bout."

Um, so... Y'know, that whole 'wandering aimlessly' thing doesn't work when the people you're planning to 'meet accidentally' all flee like rats from a sinking ship. See, look, there they go! Jason notices the horde of familiar faces and changes tack, 'wandering aimlessly' that direction.

Julien walks backward a little and looks at Ali and Jason. He pauses to stare at both of them briefly before giving them a grin. "You're Ali, right? I think I remember you teasing me relentlessly one night with Bat.." he winks at her and then looks to Jason, tilting his head to the side. "Oh yea.. you're Jason.. cool. Come have sundaes and french fries with us.. chocolate fix, you know how it is," he says, seeming to get more excited about this simple concept of a completely terrible breakfast.

TooFar grins as he, while wandering with an aim towards the Du Monde, notices the buzzed redhead aimlessly wandering in right at them. How opportune. The waif waves over at Jason, beaconning him to join the group. As if he wouldn't anyway. "Free food!" Ah, an invitation. Watch the whole neighbourhood converge.

"Yeah, they have french fries," Batiste murmurs, speeding up a little to keep close-ish to the group. "I think I had them here, once, with a milkshake." Because good french fries deserve chocolate milkshakes, not ketchup. He grins a bit at Ali, sidelong, and murmurs, "Ali? Tease someone? She wouldn't do -that-. She-" He pauses when Julien continues, steps faltering as if he was on film and a couple frames somehow vanished mid-stride. He glances down, mouth pursed, then reaches for his clove and determinedly lights up another. Alisynde grins at Julien. "And you're still the infamous Julien. And now that you've mentioned chocolate, you'll never be rid of me." Just what Julien wanted. His very own street magician. She grins over at Batiste. "C'mon, slowpoke. There's /chocolate/ awaiting."

Julien laughs at Alisynde and then looks over at TooFar with a mock glare. "Hush, featherboy.. or you'll just have to lick the bowl for my amusement," he says with the smile tugging at his lips.

Alisynde oohs, cheerfully. "Can I watch?"

Woo! Jason has power over the life and death of Bat's good moods! At least the death part, which certainly determines the life part at least somewhat. Muhuhahaha. So anyhow, the redhead blinks a little at this person calling him over - once again, he's at a disadvantage with this one - but then TF calls out those two words that just light up Jason's day. Woo! He gets a bright, crooked grin and shares a look with the featherwaif, then trots faster to catch up to the gothie's side. Trace gets a whistle for his attention and then a wave. And, yes, even you get a smile today, Batty. Jason's in a generous mood. Cuz, see, he has power! And someone else has money. Soon, oh yes, soon the two will mix.

Okay, this calls for a pause. No, it calls for a rambling train-wreck crash of thought. Trace stops, looking at... Jason. And Bat. And we're all gonna go for ice cream and fries? And... yeah. Warning look to you both , although brief. Y'all better stay civil, y'hear? Because Trace is in this awesome mood and he just wants his fucking ice cream. But Jason DOES decided to play nice, and surprised, Trace gives him a wave, and a welcoming grin finally. "Hey, Jason. Good t'see ya." Wait, y'know what? Julien just... "You know Jason too?" the boy thinks to blurt, looking to Julien curiously.

Jean-Batiste lights up his clove with an orange-flaring crackle and lets out a smoky chuckle at Julien's words and Ali's response. "Someone, um. Someone got a camera?" he wonders, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He fidgets with his softpack and lighter, turning them around in his fingers several times before he finally slips them back away, leaving his hand there. He doesn't see Jason's smile, or Trace's warning look, 'cause there's a...rock. Yeah. That needs to be punted a little, and the resulting trajectories studied with the utmost scrutiny.

Julien looks over at Trace and grins. "I know everyone and everything," he says, spinning around in a circle and then dropping into a melodramatic half-bow with his arms out at his sides. Righting himself, he tosses all that midnight hair back over the top of his head and grins. "Though, seriously, I've just met him really briefly one night when he was doing a bird imitation on the top of a castle. Nothing big. Tequila. Lots of it," he winks at Trace and then and turns to start walking again. Yup. Everything is right with the world. There's chocolate to be eaten.

On the street, Alisynde grins a little as she strolls into the cafe.

Julien grabs an extra chair so there are six and drops himself down into it after turning it around so he can straddle it backwards.

And if you want TooFar to be licking bowls, there's gonna be a cover charge. That's the way it is. And he's worth it, babe. Every cent. The gothwaif grins at Jason - the buzzcut redhead gets his own smile - and the two work their way into the Du Monde, working so that they're sitting together. "So, what's new wit' you, man?" TooFar asks of Jason, after having withdrawn a fresh cigarette for nicotine extraction, "Ain't seen ya fer a couple a' days."

Jean-Batiste settles next to Julien, hopefully in a manner that keeps him from being directly across from TooFar and Jason. He glances restlessly around the cafe, tapping ash into the ashtray about fourteen times more than is strictly necessary as he reads and re-reads the menu and prices listed there in coloured chalk.

Tony's seated all over on his lonesome, a comic of comics called 'Knights of the Dinner Table' in front of him. He appears to be flipping through one slowly, occasionally snickering.

Alisynde turns her chair around backwards before plopping into it. A delicate sniff at the scent of nicotine. "That's a fine idea, I think." She taps two fingers against the table, and slowly, you can see a cigarette pushing out from inbetween them. No pack in sight, however.

Hey, /Jason/ isn't planning on bringing anyone down today. He's in a damn good mood too, y'know. Artificially enchanced? Prolly. But it's still a good mood. And encourages the consumption of lots of fries and ice cream. Fuzzy flops into a chair next to feathers, draping one arm over the arm of TF's chair and lounging back in a comfy sprawl. "Thought ya was rid 'a me, huh? Jus'... I dunno, been 'round. Slept all day yesterday, tho. Sucked." Bright eyes flash up and go about the table. "So, we gettin' the food yet?" Mmm, food. Jason's had this before. A long long time ago, it feels like. Before an answer can even be thought, he tilts his head backwards and grins upside-down at Trace. "Sorry 'bout that, by the by. Was wasted."

Julien leans into Bat as he sits up on his chair, calling over this devilishly cute waitress who just looks pale to have to wait on such a grouping of misfits. "Alright.. basically. Its chocolate, french fries, and lots and lots of whipped cream and hot fudge.. one each. And yes, I'm paying.. " The waitress blanches a little more and scurries away after Julien makes an almost lewd little wink her direction. That taken care of, he plops himself back down on the chair like the king of his realm- so what if its just a cafe. "Alright.. my fee for this little excursion is simple. Everyone shares their smokes.. cuz I'm almost out."

On the street, With a brisk stride, Deacon walks up the sidewalk, approaching the tattoo parlor better known as Flesh Wound. He pauses in front of the door, peering in through the glass door, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. "10 o'clock? Shit." He turns away from the door just in time to see Liz walking into the cafe. With hardly a pause, the man walks towards the eaterie, "Breakfast sounds decent, I suppose," he says to noone in particular.

Okay, so things are calm. This is good. Trace dunno how long it will LAST, but as he pointed out earlier, he's got optimism if nothing else. So he follows over to a table and decides to place himself stratigically in between Batiste and Jason. So no fighting or anything, it all has to go through him. Coz y'know, he's so buff, he shoulda been a bouncer or something really. Ugh. He looks to Julien with apology, pointing out, "I doan' smoke. Sorry."

Deacon comes in from the street.

Tony takes up his coffee, lifting it up to take a drink of the nearly full cup. He sets it back down, careful not to spill any on the pages of the comic he's reading, and then goes back to flipping to the next page. After one glance up and around, he *does* spot Alisynde and tries to catch her attention with a wave.

Liz tromps into the cafe, boots stomping on the ground. Romper Stomper but with a feminine flair. She stands in wait, a look shooting over her shoulder as she spies Deacon checking out the inking store. Of course they aren't open. It's 7am. But well that is neither here nor there. As he enters the cafe, she easily takes her position at his side. Young skinheads in love. Should be a movie title. Something to show late at night on USA right after all the T&A flicks. The toned length of a tanned arm furls about Deacon's waist, fingers clutching possessively at a belt loop. This here is Liz's man and lord help anyone that tries to get between her and him. "Where do you want to sit?"

Alisynde holds up her cigarette and makes a tossing motion towards Julien. "Catch." A flicker-quick twist of her wrist and the cigarette seems to vanish in mid-air. Ali grins a sunny smile at her benefactor.

Jean-Batiste clears his throat and calls to the waitress, "Just, um. Just a chocolate milkshake for me, thanks. And some fries?" A glance back to Julien, and a twitchy, apologetic grin. "I'm, um. Don't feel like a sundae." He pulls out his Marlboro softpack full of licorice cloves, and fishes one out for Julien, offering it out between two fingers. His hand wavers in mid-air as he starts to lean back to avoid being pelted by Ali's hurled smoke. Of course, it magically disappears, leaving him with a sheepish expression. Whoops. Means she's good at what she does, though.

Julien grins devilishly at Trace at his pronouncement of no cigarettes. "Well then, it falls upon you oh bluehaired one, to tell us a story. What's a good, decadent meal without a story attached, mnn?" he plucks the cigarette thrown at him from the air and lights it with a flourish best left for the street magician. He does, however, snatch the clove from Jean-Batiste and tuck it behind his ear, murmuring softly to him.

The man with the shaved head and the lady's arm about his waist raises his right arm and points to a table away from the crowd, "Over there," Deacon says. He starts to walk then, placing his left arm about Liz's shoulders, more a casual drape than anything else. As the couple pass TooFar, Deacon makes it a point to turn his head as they walk, obviously looking for something about the little guy, before continuing on to the chosen spot.

The waifish gothling twists a little in his chair, so that he can lean in it at an angle. Closer to Jason, it looks, but that's probably just a coincidence. That kid TooFar is all grins and bright blue eyes ringed in black eyeliner, his long strawberry blond hair tied back in a loose ponytail. The trademark feather jacket is gone for the season, summer too warm for feathers. He glances at the buzzed redheat sitting next to him for a moment, then grins over at Julien, "I can go fer some fries, a sundae an' some coffee, thanks." Yes, according to the sign outside, this is a rare 'Icecream & Fries!' day at the Du Monde. No, really. Honest. As for the skinheads looking him over, TooFar just doesn't notice quite yet, being a bit distracted.

See, Trace happens to like those T&A flicks. When he has access to a TV anyway. So something like that coming afterwards would spoil the mood. "I want... a double-fudge sundae. And beignets. And... Orange juice." Citrus and ice cream go swell together, honest. "A... um, a story?" Trace murmurs, but he's grinning a little. Pleased to have been asked. "Bout what? Anythin?"

Alisynde chuckles. "Good thing I actually threw it that time instead of vanishing it like I like to do. Didn't wantcha t'grab air so soon in out aquaintance. I can wait til after breakfast."

The redhead leans forward and plucks at TF's tank, then makes a finger-gesture towards the cigarette. Someone's sharing with Jason. Once he gets what he wants (and he's /gonna/ get it, thank you), he flops back and kicks that draped leg back and forth lightly, dragging on the cancer-stick. "Y'know, Bat, the best time fer sundaes is when ya don' /feel/ like 'em. Cuz, y'know, that's just how they work." He quirks a crooked grin to the blond kid, then leans back on one arm and peers to the pair tromping in. Oh, this has a slight possibility of fun. Green eyes flick to TF and there's a look shared, chin jerking a little. Okay, /finally/, to Julien: "Yeah, same here. Fries 'n ice cream. In the same dish fer Trace there." Woo. Almost feelin' /manic/ here. Soon he'll be babbling along nicely.

Alisynde waggles her brows twice, then smiles at the poor waitress. "Beignets. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. An' some chocolate sauce drizzled on one of the beignets, s'il vous plait? Merci."

Julien nods to Trace. "Absolutely anything, Trace.. its your ballgame. No smokes, you have to tell a story. But it has to have three parts to it," he begins, scootching his chair a bit closer as he leans his elbows on the table with his chin in his hand. With the thrown cigarette firmly perched between his lips, he begins explaining. "It must have a hero, a battle, and a melodramatic ending." That settled, he leans into Bat again to sit back and await his food and the story.

"I don't feel like ice cream, thanks." Softly said to a spot of table nearish Jason, that. Batiste glances away again -- maybe the waitress has rewritten something on the blackboard behind the counter in the last four minutes or so? -- and drags heavily on his clove, making it crackle with nicotene-laden glee. He looks back when Julien leans on him, and shifts a bit to make himself a more accomodating leaning-post.

Every faithful, Liz remains a fixture at Deacon's side, crossing Cafe territory with little difficulty. A slightly disdainful look washes over her face as she glances down at the boi catching Deac's attentions. Recognition does seem to light in her eyes. Hard to not recognize someone like Too, really. As they reach their preferred table, Liz drops down into a seat, nudging her chair next to the one Deacon just occupied. Yeah, they are one of those couples, the type that need to sit next to one another at an eatery. Never know if the urge to grope under the table is going to arrive and all. You know those ever so horny skinheads. They are just overpumped rednecks, right? Means they must love to breed like rabbits, or so the propaganda would have you think.

Trace isn't a morning person, really. This is all an illusion. He hasn't slept yet, so technically this is still yesterday. If he'd slept he'd be a zombie and cranky as hell right now, but as is we're riding that lovely sleep dep high. And on such a high, it's easy to ramble on and produce fantastic three-part stories for Julien. "Kay. This is the story takes place in a black bog. The blackest bog y'ever saw, all draped in creeper vines and carpeted in a black sludge that'd t'ooze up yer leg if ya stood in one place too long. An' that was the *safe* part t'walk in, coz the rest was all suck-sand and hidden spike pits. There was a girl. A sprite. Her name was Sylvie, and she had to cross through this bog.."

Picking up the napkin holder at his table, Deacon furrows his brow at the printed menu, "This all they got to eat? Shit." He turns the thing over, hoping to find something more substantial on the back. Hmm. No such luck it seems as he sets the thing back on the table with an audible slap. Right about then he notices Cross enter the establishment, "Hey!" he shouts across the cafe, "White boy! What the hell'd you eat last night? I couldn't wake your ass up for nothing this morning." He laughs lightly, grabbing the napkin holder and holding it aloft for Cross to see, "Come have a sit. We can all have orange juice and shit."

With mild irritation, TooFar pulls out a replacement cigarette. Yes, TooFar actually surrended a nicotine product to Jason. A hand cups around the flame, coffinnail withdrawn from his lips as he exhales that first puff of smokey toxins. Mmmmm, carcenogens. He shakes his head at the redhead in bemusement, reaching over to snag an ashtray for their use. Indeed, even without his jacket, TooFar is recognizable. The feathered coat just made a very good giveaway. He hasn't really noticed his fanclub's arrival, somewhat distracted with the person sitting next to him. He'll occasionally glance around the table, to see what the others are up to.

Alisynde takes a long drag of her own replacement cigarette, sending carcinogens floating up to the ceiling of the Du Monde while she listens.

There is a sound at the entranceway akin to the pounding of several pairs of heavy boots on the floor. Not a moment after, several young men emerge into the doorframe, Dixon Cross and his two cronies Kyle and Paul from the looks of it. The Aryan leader is of course at the head of the pack, and perched in his hands are the recently used keys to a vehicle that one can only guess was used to bring this posse to the Du Monde. The shaven man's eyes scan the room, but it is Kyle who catches sight of Deacon first and points to the man and his girl who have seated themselves across the room. Tapping Dixon on the shoulder, something is exchanged in mutters before the trio make their way down into the room with a wide, confident step. At his compadre's words, a grin is cracked, "I was catching my beauty sleep, Deac. Cut me some fuckin' slack, okay?" Approaching the table, the leader grimmaces at the concept of juice, "I think I'll pass on the OJ, man. It wasn't what I had to eat last night that had me sleepin' in." With a slow movement, he places his hand on his stomach.

"Yeah, that's all they have, but well these beignets are better then the ones I make." Not only is Liz a fashion plate for young girls all throughout New Orleans, she's also a gourmet cooker of less then puffy french market doughnuts. Deacon's call towards Cross causes Liz to look over towards the entrance. A genuine smile grows upon the silken folds of her mouth. Yeah, she's happy to see the fellow baldy. "You were so out of it." See, Liz was there too. But she falls silent. Giving Cross crap isn't really her thing. The others in the crew, Paul and Kyle, get a little nod from the skinbyrd.

Tony closes the comic, setting it down and picking up the other 'Knights of the Dinner Table' issue. His coffee, long since cold, was mostly finished anways from the looks of it. He does get himself a fresh cup, though. Beyond that, he remains where he is, quiet except for the occasional snicker.

"Well, they serve coffee too, though it's seems like it's all that weak ca-fay oh-lay shit," Deacon offers Cross. He squeezes Liz's shoulder, looking at his woman again, "Bullshit. Aint no caf e chef gonna make better pastries than you." He kisses her forehead then, a rare moment of sentimentality from the aryan brother. "Besides, it wasn't until some nigger stole your recipe that any of these cafes and shit actually started making 'em edible."

"Sylvie was little," Trace continues, smiling down faintly at his hands, "But she were beautiful and quick, with milk skin and long red-gold hair. And she was a warrior. She'd done battle with a fierce creature earlier, and she won, but it had torn her wings... So she hadda cross the bog on foot. She were a smart sprite, an' she stuck to the trees mostly, an' tamed the creeper vines with her magic, an' used 'em to swing her cross gaps and called to the ones on the other side to snatch her back up t'safety. But there were a dark savage who ruled the bog. His power spread all through it, and it were like a spider's web. Any disturbance made it quiver in his thoughts, and he could *feel* Sylvie charming his creeper vines. Sylvie heard his angry bellow from a mile off, an' she were scairt but she pressed on... An' after that it were silent, but she knowed' the dark savage were stalkin' her..."

"Don't sprites got wings, tho?" spouts out Jason as he takes another drag off the pilfered ciggie, not even really looking Trace's way. Nope, too busy being way too active for this hour. Jason's not a morning person, he's just so /night/ person that the rising sun is usually his bedtime. Anyhow, poor TF's being narrowly missed repeatedly by the bouncing leg that's draped over the arm of his chair. Finally, over to the blue-top, rubbing the cigarette-bearing hand across his red fuzz. "Or she that new wing-less model? Tell Bat to eat some ice cream." Like that was one thought. But Trace keeps babbling on anyway. Okay, we can be quiet. He nudges TF in the arm with his toe and flashes an inquiring grin. Y'know, like, 'yo, whassup?' or something. Only in a grin. Use your imaginiations, people.

Julien listens raptly to the story as Trace tells it, hardly even remembering to drag on the cigarette he holds as the ash grows longer and longer. A waitress looking like she'd rather be -anywhere- else but bringing food to this ragtag group of miscreants, approaches with a huge tray full of chocolate, pastries and of all things on earth, french fries. Items are dolled out with Julien playing tour guide; sliding milkshakes here, sundaes here, and buckets of hotfudge everywhere.

Alisynde waggles fingers at Tony, tearing herself away from Trace's story long enough to wave. But it is brief, for the story calls. And so, Ali leans her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand and listens - until Jason interrupts. Then the fuzz-head is treated to Ali's best librarian imitation. "Shh."

Paul, a medium-built young skin with really pronounced eyebrows follows behind Cross towards the table, his hands shoved into his pockets. He scans the room with some intent, catching sight of TooFar, he stares and then taps his buddy Kyle on the shoulder. Pointing, he smirks and then starts to chuckle, "Hey man, look who it is. Mascara Man." Kyle who was busy staring at a young woman sitting alone at a table snaps his attention in the direction of the feathered patron and smiles, "Man, wasn't that the guy you almost spilled that fuckin' syrup on?" "Yeah." Paul answers. The two hang back a bit as Cross approaches the table. The larger man in the front hooks one hand in his pocket and comments to Liz, smiling just a touch, "Is this some kind of a goddamn past-time. Watching what time I get up and go to sleep?" A mild chide and he speaks to Deacon, grappling with a chair and sitting, "Don't try to pawn any of that bean-picker coffee off on me, okay? You know how that shit makes me have to fart."

A tiny smile births, holding in place upon Liz's mouth as she gives Deacon one of those 'awwww shucks' type of glances usually associated with just having received a compliment. Her cheek finds a momentary resting place upon a sturdy shoulder, brushing against Deacon's shift. Azure blue, eyes find Cross again, letting Kyle and Paul go off to do whatever it is that they are going to do. "It's more fun then keeping track of Sammy's periods..."

Tony looks towarsd Alisynde's fingers being waggled in his direction, and returns the favour to her, tossing her a little wave. He doesn't call out, though, since Trace is in the middle of his story and such. He sinks back into his seat, slumped.

Well, it took him awhile, but Beau found the party. Surprise! It's a small world. He wanders in, in no hurry. The party will wait for him and if it doesn't... well, he'll make his own. Pausing just inside the door, he looks around, scopes the joint, so to speak. Interesting. Anyone doing anything they shouldn't?

Jean-Batiste finishes his clove in a couple quick drags as the food arrives, and crushes it out in the ashtray. The clove, that is, not the food. He draws his milkshake over with a weak smile at Julien, then tugs the little basket of fries in front of him, peering down at the sticks of golden-greasy goodness as if they'd suddenly been transformed into the noxious creeper-vines Trace speaks of. He picks one up and nibbles at it, then dunks it into his milkshake and pops the rest into his mouth. The fries and milkshake are riveting, however -- he glances away from them only briefly, studying Julien and occasionally Trace from beneath his ballcap's brim.

Julien dives into the concept known as 'Skip and Dip'; a french fry is procurred- then skipped through the top of his sundae before dipped into the hotfudge. This produces the perfect amalgamation of chocolate and whipped cream sweet with the sugary center to satisfy all major areas of tasty goodness the tongue could ever ask for. That eaten, he repeats the process almost religiously. Bat is given a smile here and there, but most of his attention is evenly divided between food and story.

Alisynde snatches up a beignet - the one drizzled in chocolate sauce, and tears off a piece. Popping it absently into her mouth, she watches Trace with the intent look of a child who has just found a new toy. Although her attention span seems to be considerably longer than said child.

TooFar returns that gaze of Jason's, grinning rakishly before leaning over towards his foot. Ketcup is applied to the fries, copious amounts of sugar added to his coffee. Conforted with his condoments, the gothwaif enjoys a spoonful of his icecream, pointedly smiling across the table and addressing Jean-Batiste, "So, man, what's new wit' you?" Yep, TooFar is gonna drag Bat's attention right over here, like it or not. The kid is totally oblivious to the Aryan Mousekateers. He just needs to look some sixty degrees away from the table and he'd see his friend Paul, but the table holds his attention for the moment.

Tony's attention now slips back to the comic that he had in front of him. He leans over, resting his chin on his hand and letting his eyes shut halfway. He's probably been here a while, at least from the tired look on his face.

On the street, A taxi pulls up, dropping off Ryan.

There's a table and a cup of coffee calling Beau's name. He responds without a second-longer's hesitation. Hello, darling. Papa's here. He wiggles a bit as he settles into the chair and lifts his chin to search out the belle person who'll be bringing him his espresso once he can order it.

On the street, Ryan enters the cafe.

A waitress takes Beau's order.
A waitress brings Beau his coffee and sweet cream.

Hmph. Ali gets a tongue stuck out at her for her librarian impression, but Jason does at least seem to have gone quiet temporarily of his own accord. As Bat's addressed by the de-featheredwaif (who is Jason's personal ottoman at the moment), he just kicks back with his recently-arrived sundae and peers past TF towards this Paul-person curiously. Here's a story he hasn't heard yet. Though, at the moment, one that doesn't seem that terribly unique. Skinheads harassn poor, scrawny gothboi, stop the presses! Anyhow, that little curiosity only lasts a few moments before Bat's response becomes interesting. Oh, and Trace's story. We're listening. Honest. Kid's like a ferret right now.

"Two days passed without incident," Trace continues, and seeing as how he's not touching his sundae yet, he must be pretty involved in his own fantasy. "Well, course there was plenty'a incident what with the toxic fog that rolled in, and the demon-moss, but Sylvie had tricks fer all'a those. The Savage kept close watch, staying jest a few paces behind her, watchin' her cleverness. And he decided that steada jest destroyin' her fer bein' an insolent wench who dared t'tame his creeper vines and cross his bog, he decided it'd be better t'keep her fer his own. So the third day he leaped outta the treetops an' tackled her, an' both'a them fell t'the ground. They wrassled a moment, and the Savage were stronger, but the sprite were fast an hard t'hold. She wiggled free an' darted back, and drew a silverstone blade she carried. He leapt at her again, an' she called up the black ooze, and asked it to snatch up his feet. The dark savage howled, already knowin' what she was doin' and shriekin' out at the betrayal. All he had was this forest, jest the ooze and muck and a lotta loneliness. And she got the blade up to his neck and held it there, but he slumped down without no protest. Sylvie held him in check, but she weren't sure what to do.."

Tony flips to the next page, and the next. Eventually, he gets to the end of the comics and stacks it with the other two he went through, then slips all three into a little plastic bag that was at his feet. He glances towards Trace, then Alisynde again, looking curious, then shifts in his seat and pulls out his wallet.

Yah, so it's cafe au lait, but coffee and sweat cream sounds sexier. Beau pays immediately when the waitress brings his order. Safer that way, in case he has to flee on the moment. Never know in a city like this. Better not to stiff the waitresses, even in an emergency. Skimming the room with his gaze, over the top of his cup, Beau kicks back and stretches out his legs, crossing them at the ankles.

With an impatient gesture, Deacon motions a waitress over to his table. "Whatcha want?" he asks Liz while waiting for the help to arrive. Once it does so, the man places an order for an orange juice and a coffee. Black. He looks at Cross then, "Hey Cross. What's funnier than couch full of lesbians eating tuna?" There's a purse to the man's lips, hard to tell if it's a symptom of humor or anger.

Jean-Batiste stirs his milkshake with a french fry, and takes the time to pop it into his mouth and swallow it down before gifting TooFar with one of his more withering looks. It's the sort of look Wile E. Coyote might give the Road Runner if he was bright enough to realize he was about to be pummeled with a large, pointy boulder but did it anyways 'cause the script told him to. Go on, kick him while he's down. He doesn't even need to dare you. He stares that way at the perkigoth for several seconds, then looks away. It's unlikely the look does anything but rebound off TooFar's smiley-shield, anyhow, and he's got a fascinating milkshake to pay attention to. "Not much," is answers, much belatedly, a split-second before he takes another bite of milkshake-covered french fry.

Alisynde tugs off another piec of drizzled beignet,a small frown crossing her features. Very very faintly murmured is, "She'll figure it out. She's got to." Someone's totally immerested in fantasy-land here. Good storytelling.

Cross is abandonned, the easy focus of blue eyes sliding towards Deacon as he asks his question of Liz. "Just some doughnuts and some orange juice," Liz offers in response to Deacon. And now, back to Cross. It's Aryan ping pong. Does he know the punchline to the joke? She stays tuned to find out.

"I don't know man? Enlighten me." Cross smirks just a touch and leans back in his chair, listening to it creak beneath the weight of his body mass. The look on his face is about a mix between attentiveness and not feeling one hundred percent. As he moves in his chair, one might notice that the large skin's hand comes to a rest on his stomach. "Coffee. Black." These are spoken towards the attendant who retrieves Deacon's order. Paul and Kyle meanwhile continue to eye TooFar, but the two Aryan's don't go out of their way to approach the table of fudge-eating men. "Creeping vines?" Kyle asks, "Doesn't your old man have some of that shit out in his back yard? I mean, your Uncle Samuel was tellin' me one time about these plants ... "...Paul cuts him off, gripping the other man's shoulder, "..man, Uncle Samuel thinks the dog's his fuckin' wife. Why don't you get a clue. Forget those guys, man. Buncha grown men sitting around a table eating sweets and tellin' fairy tales. Please." Shaking his head, the two men proceed to sit at the table where Cross, Deacon, and Liz are.

Ryan pushes open the door to the cafe and makes his way inside, a little surprised at how busy the place is for breakfast but shrugging nonetheless he looks around the room for a place to sit... Ah cool his usual table is empty... Heading on over to table six the group of skinheads are given a cursory look as he passes where they sit and as he pulls out a chair a familiar voice perks up his ears. With a glance over towards where it's coming from he smiles and gives Trace and the others a wave, "Heya's all," he calls out across the Cafe and then settles down in his seat. Picking up a menu he opens it up and begins scanning through it, time for some quality time with himself and breakfast.

Well, Bat isn't enough entertainment to hold his attention, so he glances around, curious to see what Jason is peering at. Oh, well. I'll be. Paul. And where there's Paul... Oh, indeed. Chuckles and the Gleeclub. With a bent grin, TooFar raises a hand, waving across the tables with a waggle of black painted fingernails, offering a sign of friendly recogition from one side of the Du Monde to the other. Hey guys, good t'see ya. Thanks fer comin' out. Burn any crosses? Oh, that's a pun right there. Oh, the perkigoth likes moments like these. Of course, it means he needs to avoid dark alleys and watch his back a little more often, but buy the ticket, take the ride. No sympathy from the Devil.

Yes, the table of fudge-eating men and Ali. She keeps /trying/ to grow that male part, but it never seems to work. Then again, she doesn't really seem to care. Ryan's arrival drags her away long enough to call over, softly, "Hey-o, Ryan." But then it's back to StoryTime. And Ali looks pleased as punch as she picks up her coffee and takes a sip.

"A table full of fags eating fudge," Deacon responds. He reaches over with his free hand, grabbing a packe of sugar and shaking it from one end such that the granules within collect within the other. "Man, this neighborhood is going to shit," he says to the compatriots at his table, "Next thing you know, Flesh Wound is gonna be run by some tutu wearing faery that wants to tattoo flowers all over everyone's ass."

Attention so distracted, Beau makes a slurpy noise as he sips his coffee. Oops. Not cool. He sets the cup down and crosses his arms on his chest. Maybe nobody noticed. Licking his upper teeth, he studies Deacon, Liz, Cross and their companions. A slight smile curves across his lips.

Julien lifts his head and looks over at Ryan, giving him a wave with a hotfudge covered french fry. "Hey, Ryan!" he calls, looking back at Trace. As he munches cheerily on his food, the annoying sound of a beeper goes off and Julien's n'er care attitude goes up in flames. "Damnit," he mutters, looking down at the annoying piece of machinery. He sighs a bit and picks up a napkin to wipe off what little managed to miss his mouth and color his lips. "I gotta run," he mumbles, obviously none too happy about this concept. He stands from the table slowly, reluctantly, and reaches into his pocket. Bills are removed from a wad of them that looks like it was shoved in there haphazardly and he walks it over to the counter, exchanging a few words with the waitress. He winks at her aga in, "Thanks, babydoll.." he murmurs. Fags indeed. Count this one out apparently. He parades back to the table- okay, maybe he is and just flirts with chicks cuz they notoriously have more cash on them or something- and tells the group. "Sorry to eat and run.. its all paid for, though."

Tony looks towards Deacon, but only briefly. He doesn't *really* look over there, not for more than a a few seconds. He gets to his feet after paying for his drinks and picks up the plastic bag. Hetakes one more look around, then wanders on outwards, tossing another wave towards Alisynde while he's going.

Alisynde surfaces back in the Real World again. This is worse than watching tennis. Both Tony and Julien get good-bye waves, and Julien gets the extra added bonus of, "See you later, o infamous one."

Interracial fairy tales, no less. Trace should prolly be glad this Aryan leader has ordered his flock not to pay any attention. But thank you, boys, for the inspiration. "She held her place, watchin him fer any sudden move, but he din' do nothin. Finally he asked her why she din' kill him, an' din' she know how famous she'd be if she took out the savage of the black bog? She looked at him an shook'd her head, an said no... She on'y wanted t'git t'the valley beyond the bog, coz there was a wise old woman there who could fix her wings. And what would she do with the bog, anyway? She din' see how it could make anybody happy. An' the savage started t'cry, and said she could pass through and fix her wings. An he hoped she would pass back this way, an' even though she woulda had her wings fixed, she tole him she would, jest fer a little while..." He pauses as Julien says his goodbyes, and murmurs with a grin, "I'll see ya, Julien. Thanks fer the sundae." Well, melted sundae. But Trace isn't picky. His own fault for being longwinded. "Oh, an' hi Ryan."

Jean-Batiste looks up from his milkshake and french fries when Julien gets up to leave, pushing the basket and glass a small distance away from him. He watches as the tab is settled, and the waitress is flirted with, then offers a small wave and smaller smile to Julien when he returns to the table. "You take it easy, okay?" he murmurs. "Say hi to Nelson for me, when you see him." He glances down, then, attention distracted by his licorice cloves as he lights up a fresh one.

Tony steps out onto the street.

"Yeah, well, you read that thing in the paper about Indians wanting to take away military bases?" Liz obviously did and it doesn't sit too well with her. Facial feature twist with disgust, near mimicing the look of disdainful tilt Cross exhibitted when speaking of his less then settled stomach. It just makes the girl ill. Orange juice is nudged aside for the time being. Acid in the belly probably wouldn't be a good idea at this time.

"Not much?" Jason gets a little grin. "C'mon, Bat, even from what Trace's been /not/ tellin' me..." At which, the blue-headed storyteller gets a mock glare. "S'clear ya gotta be up ta /sumthin/." And, surprisingly, he doesn't /seem/ like he's kicking while anyone's down. Just making conversation. In the middle of a story, yeahyeah. Shush /this/. Anyhow, Deacon goes and proves Jason right in his thought about the master racists over there being a source of interest with that little punchline. The scrawny redhead nudges the scrawny gothboi with his foot again and murmurs, quieter, "Hey, you gonna sit there and take that?" Which is most likely a joke, considering any one of those bald-headed prime examples of Aryan goodness could break the both of these kids by him- (or her-)self. Smartasses, who would you beat up without them?

On the street, Tony walks out of the Cafe, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He coughs once, then mutters to himself on his way out, "Ten hours my ass." So he starts whistling on his way up the street...whistling badly, admittedly, but he's still trying.

Julien tousels Bat's head over that baseball cap fondly. "If I see him, I sure will," he says, warmly. Obviously there's a brotherly affection of some kind for the kid with the cap. He wriggles fingers at the others at the table and makes his way out. Only once he's reached the edge of the cafe, does he remove his pager and start hitting buttons again- a glance cast about for a payphone- and there he goes.

Julien steps out onto the street.

On the street, Julien heads downtown.

Beau tries this coffee thing again, this time managing to take a sip without making any undistinguished noises. The cup tinks as he sets it back in its saucer. His eyes and face turn to follow Tony and Julien out. Cross listens to Deacon's punchline and his face breaks out into almost an instantaneous grin and then he chuckles heartily, "That's a good one, Deac. I like it. And an original too?" His words fade off as he clears his throat, "This place was goin' to shit long ago. Its been invaded by a whole shit-faced generation of hippie-raised, pot-smoking, spoiled white boys who'd rather have a big fat piece of cock in front of them than face the problems that are plaguing this community. Their parents don't give a shit because they are livin' high off the sweat from the backs of people like my dad." He turns into a scowl and looks to Liz, "Yeah, I heard that shit. What fuckin' /right/ do those red-faced bastards have to even get themselves involved? The best they've done in the last ten years us fund a bunch of gambling casinos and get rich off their people's weaknesses. Now they think they've got a political voice and can get involved in dictating policy. Fuck that."

Deacon nods emphatically, "Soon as I read that bullshit I got on the phone with the offices of both senators and our congressman. Started drafting a letter that will -also- go to each of their offices." He looks to Cross at that point, "Speaking of which, after I get it finished, we should distribute it to everyone, let them make their own copies, sign 'em, an mail them all in."

Paul was apparently glancing over his shoulder at the finger-waving TooFar. He scowls just a touch, but Kyle has drug him into the seat at the table. "What's for breakfast?" the latter young man asks with a small smile, but to no one in particular. Reaching around the table he finds a menu and offers it to his compatriot, who /finally/ drags his gaze from the other table, "Wha?" ...a pause and Paul speaks again, shaking it off, "Oh, breakfast. Yeah." Kyle shakes his head and stares at Paul, "Man, snap out of it. You are still fuckin' asleep. Get some coffee."

Ryan pours over the selection for a while, not that he really needs to but it's good practice at reading, gee look at all the pretty words. Putting his menu back down after a few minutes he looks around for one of the waitresses and flags her down, "Mornin' sweetheart, OK I'm ready to order. I'll have me six eggs, sunny-side up an' on toast. Two steaks, one medium and one well done. Eight sauages, tweleve slices of bacon, six beignets, a pitcher of orange juice, a pint of milk and a pot of that God awful chicory coffee." Once he's ordered Ryan settles back and relaxes, it'll take a while for his order to get here anyway so whilst he waits he takes in the scenery. At least there's a choice this morning, fairy tales or jokes and political commentary, who would have thought you could mix those two?

Since Jeanny-B isn't going to play, TooFar will just grin at him pointedly, as the gothling slowly munches away on his french fries. This fry/sundae thing is attempted... but no. We like our fries hot and our ice cream cold. And never the twain shall meet. The gothboi glances up from the greasy potato product (Ice cream & Fries day here at the Du Monde, in case you were curious. Once inna lifetime) to smile fondly at Jason. "Well, yeah," featherwaif smiles, tapping off some ash in the cheap aluminium ashtray, "They're all bigger then me." Anyway, TooFar prefers to taunt them with his mere presence, rather than activily drawing hostility. For the most part, anyway. "I mean, if y'wanna fire off some choice words, g'right 'head, I'll jus' hold th'door open fer ya so's it don' slow ya down on th' way out."

Fingers push the glass of orange juice to and fro atop the table. No, Liz still isn't going to drink from the coloured mass of orange liquid. All things in good time. Respectful attention is paid to Deacon and Cross as they talk business, comfort found once again in Deac's shoulder region. When you got a man this puff sitting next to you, you just got to take advantage of his chesty pillows. "let me know and I'll sign it." Like there was any doubt. "Everyone is trying to pick apart this country. Soon there is going to be nothing left and then where will we be?"

Jean-Batiste's got a long and detailed history of misunderstanding what Jason -seems- to be and not be doing; as such, the fuzz-topped redhead gets the same withering look he gave to TooFar. Well, the table directly in front of him gets it, at least. He's got a crink in his neck, see, that keeps him from looking all the way up at the boy. He glances sidelong to the outspoken table over yonder, studying them through his clove-smoke, then looks out past the awnings to the street as he exhales. Look. A pedestrian. Who'd have thunk it, this close to Jackson Square?

Alisynde mms, pulling out another cigarette, and lights it. "Pity t'have t'scrape y'off the sidewalk, y'know." She tilts her head back, and amuses herself with blowing smoke rings upwards.

Ohhh it shall surely meet. Just you wait. First though, before mutilating the sundae, something must be done. One hand is scooped down into the gooey sundae, the middle part, since the edges have turned into white and fudge-swirled puddles. It's a big, drippy, wonderful spoonful, and he 'airplanes' it in towards Bat's mouth. Vrrrooooom. "Open wide, punk. You need some sundae. Bad." He nods seriously, then ruins the effect, giggling. Can't be serious about forcefeeding someone icecream, nope.

Cross leans forward and places his elbow on the table, holding his head as if this whole topic caused him some sort of a tumor, "Yeah, I planned on going to see some of our regulars and getting the usual battery of signatures. Man, what are those goddamn Injuns thinkin'?" Looking up suddenly, he casts his eyes around the table, the break long enough for Liz's words to come. He agrees a moment after, "Damn right, Lizzy. If I didn't know better, I'd say this was the first move in some kind of fuckin' revolt by those native bastards. Remove the military bases and weaken the country from the inside? Next thing we know I've got some redman comin' through my window with a tomahawk and killin' my family. He's screamin' something about how we stole his lands. Bullshit, that's what it is." His one fist balls tightly and he exhales, clearly this matter giving him some stress, "Its casino money buying votes at the highest levels. But, this shit won't pass. No way."

With deliberate action, Deacon pulls the mug of coffee to his mouth, taking a long sip, "No, I mean everyone will mail in a copy of the letter, signed by them pesonally, indicating that they're a part of that politicians constituency, and that this is not only a matter of national pride and importance, but also a vote deciding issue for them."

Beau chuckles to himself... for some reason. More coffee. It's too late at night (early in the morning for normal people) for this kind of deep amusement. He switches legs, moving the under ankle to the top and vice versa.

Hmm, yep, that experiment pretty much went off as Jason expected, judging from the sullen silence from Bat's direction. See, the redhead didn't even need to look over there. Oh well, we got fun in the form of bigotry and outright, undisguised hatred over there at the corner table. Which is all fun - at least until it turns into bigotry, undisguised hatred and severe ass-whuppin's. "Nah," decides Jason, somehow managing to get some ice cream in around a mouthful of carcinogenic smoke. "M'too comfy, wouldn' wanna haul-ass yet." 'Sides, they're going off about those damned injuns. Go Custer! Or something. Anyhow, another drag from the cigarette and he's scooping some more sundae in. Once again, yes, looking around. Far too awake to go to sleep quite yet. Like, y'know, /FAR/ too awake.

Jean-Batiste looks up as the gooey spoonful of sundae comes vrooming in, and pushes his chair back, making the wooden legs stutter noisily over the floor. "No thanks," he murmurs, looking up at Trace. (Local boy's neck miraculously healed! News at eleven.) "I'm not hungry." He pushes himself upright, taking another crackle-laden drag off his clove as he does. "I'll see you guys around. Thanks for the story, Trace. It was pretty cool."

In time, TooFar has finished up his fries and sundae, and is working on doing the same to his coffee as well. He grins around the table, somewhat pointedly for Bat and warmly for Jason, then starts to pull himself to his feet, "Like, sorry guys, but I gotta get goin', there's some shit I gotta take care of. See y'all later, kay?" The glance falls down to meet the redhead's. Yes, indeed. Later, hmmm?

It's all fun and games until you get your ass handed to you on a platter. Ali exhales a few more smoke rings before setting the cigarette down on the ashtray and returning to her breakfast. At this rate, she's not even going to get a spot in the square at all to perform.

The waitress looks at Ryan and just gives him an exacerbated sigh, "It's to early in the morning for you to be fun and stay cute," he's told and with a grin replys, "Aww ya mean I still can't get ya to cook breakfast for me sometime? Typical, it's the story of my life. OK I'll just have the beignets, coffee and orange juice." I dunno, waitresses, no sense of humour.

Trace's brows lift a little as Bat refuses his ice cream, and both he and TooFar get up to leave. "Uh... see you guys later," he murmurs, and shoots Batiste a questioning look. What's up? The ice cream is deposited someplace where it'll get appreciated. Right in the bluecap's mouth, slurp. After a swallow, "I called that guy, Bat. If you go on over, the one with this lil' red tear tattoo by his eye, that's Mason. He'll prolly be there. Lives with Keats now, I think." Eyes down to his ice cream again. "Later." Sigh. Well, he couldn't expect it to go entirely peaceful.

"Hey, what about that Squaw that was in our face the other day, Cross?" Kyle chimes in over his menu. "Yeah.." ..Paul slaps his hand down on the table, "I bet that little bitch is behind this movement. She's probably running' around and gettin' signatures of her own, Deac. She certainly had a big enough mouth. Maybe she's the daughter of some drunken tribal chief." He looks over at Cross and nods, but says nothing in addition. The coffee that Cross ordered arrives and is set before him, the table's attendant not sparing a great deal of time and not wanting to interrupt this heated conversation.

Whoah, did you guys miss the comfy and amused part? Now both the comfort and the source of some (yes, sorry) amusement are leaving. And both get a petulant little scowl for it from Jason. 'Course, one gets a little grin thrown in too, considering. "Hey, see ya guys later then. Better not be leavin' tagether."

Beau draws a pen from somewhere secret, just like in the movies, and picks up a napkin. He writes. A note. A doodle. A poem. Who knows?

Alisynde hides a grin behind her coffee cup. Hand things, those.

Keeping his one arm around Liz, Deacon's hand gets dangerously close to her breast as he idly strokes the center of her chest. "Collections of signature lists don't carry nearly as much weight as individual letters. It's a lot harder for their office to make sure each signatory is actually in their voting district. But with actual letters, much easier, thus more impact. Not only that, but which do you think looks more impressive... some whiney mud race bitch coming in with a list of scrawled out names, or a fucking office getting flooded with a truckload of letters." He pauses to take another sip of coffee, "Think about it. Any loudmouth can get people to scribble their name in a box. But for s omeone to be motivated enough to send out a letter... it just carries more. A lot more."

Oh. Okay, Trace sees what's up, now. No need to answer that, Batiste. He was pretty involved in that story, but now that he's just picking at his melted double-fudge sundae he can see how obvious TooFar and Jason were being. Heh. Whoops. Did he forget to mention that detail, Batiste? Well... perhaps he needed to spare you. Perhaps it's none of his business. God knows he's had to bring enough unfortunate news to people as is, so he figured he'd leave that gem to TooFar and Batiste. He doesn't look up from his sundae. It's really interesting, y'know. All mushy.

Jean-Batiste takes a final drag off his clove as he listens to Trace's words, nodding once as he leans forward and grinds his clove out in the ashtray. "Yeah? Okay. Thanks." He looks briefly to Trace, then slides a gaze across Jason, to the departing TooFar. He watches there for a few seconds, then turns without preamble and heads out the closest awning-wall, hands slouching down into his pockets, not looking back.

Alisynde demolishes the last crumb of her beignet, and looks wistfully at her empty coffee cup. "I should go get set up before there's nothing left.."

Beau watches the drama unfold. It's his theme for the night. Cheaper than commercial entertainment, yah? He and his coffee cuddle in the nearest thing to a balcony seat. Ah, the joy and challenge of youth. Old age, relatively speaking, makes things so much easier.

Ahem, /TF/ was being obvious. Jason was just being comfy. There's a difference in there. Somewhere. Green eyes meet B-.. not that he'll see, but Jason meets Batiste's look with raised eyebrows and a shrug like 'hey, what could I do?' Ah well, but the kid's outta here. Toodles there. Jason waves a dripping spoon towards the other's back, then looks to Trace and shrugs some more. Same look too. "Wonder what's up with him," Demon-boy comments innocently. He leans forward and stubs the ciggie out in he tray, then gets comfy and starts working on soupy sundae in earnest.

On the street, Jean-Batiste heads in a generally downtown direction, sidestepping slower-moving pedestrians as he walks. The first lakeside-heading turn, a cracked asphault alley, is detoured down, taking him out of sight.

Cross leans back in his chair once again, fingers rapping slowly against the table, his breath coming more slowly after his words, "I'm not arguing that letters have less impact, Deacon. You're preachin' to the choir here. You bet that my letter's in the mail today. And you and I both know we can get probably a hundred or so others when we get the word out. Once others get aware, I bet we'll get that truck-load of letters." Smiling with satisfaction, he reaches forward and pulls the coffee to his lips and takes a sip with a slow motion. A grimmace comes to his face as he tastes it, "Damn." Clearly that didn't sit quite right with him, "I knew I should have quit while I was ahead last night."

Finally Ryan's beignets and drinks arrive, and, with a nod of thanks he starts to tuck in. The first one gets devoured in two large bites and as he swallows down the sticky mass he pours himself a cup of coffee.

"What the /fuck/ is this man?" Kyle looks at the menu and shakes his head, "This place doesn't have shit to eat. Forget this.." ..he lets the paper drop onto the table and looks over towards Paul, "Ask Cross if we can stop at McDonald's on the way back." Paul runs his hand along the smooth skin of his scalp, "You ask him." "Me ask him? He's not going to want to stop at McDonald's .." ...Kyle fades off to silence, folding his hands across the table.

There's a clarity that comes around 10am after you've been up all night. Beau's eyelids droop. He clasps his hands on his stomach, elbows hanging down, ankles crossed. Slouched. Lazy. Sleepy. In that hazy moment between waking and sleep, revelations occur. Beau's mother calls his name from a distant, ethereal realm and tells him to get his scrawny little ass to bed. Of course, his ass isn't scrawny anymore. Not like it was when he was a kid. But, nevertheless, when Maman talks, Beau listens. He shakes himself and slowly sits up in his chair, preparing to stand.

"Yeah, I wonder," Trace chuckles softly, swirling his own soup about until it's a nice even light brown. A beignet is selected, and he starts mopping up the sundae ooze. He's not being judgemental or anything. His original feelings on it still stand -- TooFar's been good for Jason's spirit. Now Bat's spirit is a different matter, but how could that be helped? And Batiste has his boy to love anyway, so it shouldn't be too big a thing. "I'll see ya round, Ali. Go make magic f'everybody." He grins at her.

Alisynde pushes herself away from the table, and re-shoulders her case. She smiles. "I'll see you later, guys." A wink for Trace. "That's my job!" And with a wave, she heads out.

Alisynde steps out onto the street.

"That woman was a fucking psychotic, raving and ranting like she did." Purchase is still found in Deacon's body, Liz continuing her back assault upon his chest. "Makes sense baby." Aaaaaw, pet names too. But then again, Liz is the right sex to be calling Deacon little love names. "Maybe we should go see about those letters. I'm not that hungry anymore." The subject matter has had an adverse effect upon Liz's digestive tract.

"Yeah, Cross, I'm kinda hungry. Why don't we head outta this dive and hit the local McDonald's?" Kyle chimes in after Liz's invitation to leave.

Another beignet is picked up but this time Ryan eats it a little more slowly, closing his eyes to savour the taste, he gets lost in his own head even as the words of the others float around him... Man those guys really do seem to have a little too much faith in good ol' Uncle Sam... Opening his eyes back up again he looks over at the group of skinheads and grins, "A truckload of letters ain't gonna get you fuck all. Money's what makes the world go 'round and seein' you ain't got none and they have then you'll lose."

Leaving a little something silver on the table for the waitress, Beau politely pushes his chair in and straightens his shirt collar before heading toward the door. He gives no particular signal, smile or frown at anyone. He just strolls out the way he came in, flowing with the rhythm particular to New Orleans. Slow and easy.

Beau steps out onto the street.

Well, shit, Trace. Ali was the last defense we had. Oh well. Food's paid for anyway. Joining the exodus isn't an impossibility. Completely unphased by the dark cloud that so recently left, Jason grins lopsidedly to his sole, blue-braided companion and jerks his chin towards the gate. "Wanna jus' head on up ta Cad's? S'gettin' late." In the freakin' /morning/. Jason shoulda burst into flames at sun-up, sheesh. Discussions on who's been good for whose spirits can wait 'til Jason cares.

On the street, Into the growing crowd he goes, Beau, moving around gawking tourists and letting the hurried businessmen pass him. Soon, he disappears beyond view.

Deacon nods his head, looking down at his lady, "Sounds like a good idea. We can get the new ink later. I'm too fired up about this fucking Squatting Bull bullshit to do anything but get on the fucking ball." He digs into his jacket and drops some money on the table, standing. Ryan's comment comes about then, arousing Deacon's attention, "Oh, and look who assumes I don't have big money contacts." He -looks- at the guy, lips tightening, eyes flaring slightly, "You're either part of the sollution, or part of the problem Mr. Sacred Heart. I'm in a FUCKED up mood right now, cock sucker, and you're *REALLY* starting to look like part of the problem, so don't FUCKING PISS ME OFF."

"He's got a point. You, sittin' there like Mister Master of the World, tellin' US, the front line troops that are out protectin' your ass from those people who'd see you be a slave and a second class citizen." Cross rises as well, motioning for the others with him to do the same. He tosses a few bucks on the table after reaching in the pocket of his pants, not really looking at Ryan as he addresses the man, "Just stay outta this if you're not gonna stand with us. Leave the work to the /real/ men." His lips curl into a bit of a smirk and he speaks to Deacon and Liz next, "C'mon Deac. He's not worth it. Lets just get the fuck outta here. I'm gonna go out and get some prints run off at Kinko's and I'll meet you guys back at the house in forty minutes?" Cross Dixon seems to have returned to his usual calm demeanor, but as he's shown before, he's likely to go off at any minute.

Good call, Garth. Trace is so outta here. "Hey, kin I get a go-cup here!?" he hollers to any snotty server that might wanna help him. "A big one, big's ya got," he grins, when he realizes he's actually gonna be heeded as one slender, pointy-nosed lass glances his way and makes for the cups. "Thanks!" He glances over as he hears the raised voices, and sees that Ryan's involved. Yikes. And Ryan's the sort to stand up for himself too. "Could get ugly in here..." he murmurs, glancing at Jason. That means we're still gonna leave, in case you were wondering, not stick around to watch it get uglier. Trace isn't really the type to leap into a fight at all, let alone one that's not his business. The waitress hands him a big-ass go-cup, and he procees to dump what's left of the goopy sundae into the cup. Then the remaining two beignets get tossed in. Then the orange juice. My! Isn't that a pretty color. "Kay, let's go."

Who said anything about jumping in? Jason'd wanna just watch as the place turned into a mosh pit. 'Til someone came his way, that is. The quick kid doesn't like getting his teeth knocked-in. But, yeah, unlike the cartoon skinheads (ARE there cartoon skinheads?), a couple of these actually have calm heads on their shoulders and there's not gonna be any floor show. A shrug and a nod towards Trace's words, long after they've been spoken and forgotten. "After you, fearless leader." He slides from his seat and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. There, all spiffed-up again. We can go.

Ryan arches an eyebrow at the outburst and just keeps smiling his big, dumb shit-eating grin, "Well yeah I guess I do assume a bit now an' again, it's a failin' of mine I s'pose. It just seemed to me that if you were as serious as ya claim an' ya did have some big money contacts you'd be out ringin' 'em not sittin' around in some Cafe an' soundin' like some PTA meetin'." Well he's either really brave or really dumb because he just shrugs his shoulders, "I didn't realise I was makin' any problems though, or even sayin' you were right or wrong. I figured you were so vocal in your believes I'd offer a bit'ta constructive criticism, but obviously not. Enjoy your Big Mac, at least that's still /mostly/ American."

On the street, Christian enters the cafe.
Christian comes in from the street.

Christian glances in, briefly, looking around as he hangs off the post nearest the door. Are any of you whom or what it is Christian seeks. Are you, hmnn... clicking of tonguebar against tooth enamel as he examines you each in turn.

Well, if it's Trace or Jason you seek, they're on their way out, so better move fast. The former leads the way, heading out past the awning with a really big go-cup full of dubious contents. Christian does get a glance. Huh. See, this one's been popping up all over the place lately. Sometimes he's nice. sometimes he's cross... Who knows. The blue-haired boy gives Jason a glance and mumbles something, before peeking over at Christian again.

You whisper "That guy there, he one'a Wendy's 'cousins'... Dunno what's up. He had his eye on me. An' tole me to be nice to Bat or somethin' coz he was all fucked up. Dunno... He's confusin'." to Jason. Christian: ubiquitous, omnipresent, and popping up all over the damn place. He gives Trace a little grin. "Take care of y'rself," he mutters, laconic.

Deacon just -watches- Ryan, not moving with Cross just yet. His steel blue eyes focus with an almost surgical scrutiny, as if he were methodically reading and distending every bit of Ryan's mind. Whatever the reason, Deacon's intensity can be felt; not unlike being on the wrong end of a desert eagle.

Jason's just leaving actually, casually padding after the bluecap with a lazy-sated-amused-tired-kinda look. Just that lazy half-smirk his lips naturally fall into. His tail sways casually as he strolls, ears giving that tired look in that one's sorta flopping to one side while the other's off at a different angle. Durn foxes, hopped up on goofballs or something. And this early in the morning too. What a shame. Anyhow, foxboy tilts his head at Trace's words a little, then flashes the too-bright green eyes up at the patterned snake curiously. And then flashes a crooked smirk, the tail flopping over and caressing against the unwitting kid's legs briefly. Basically a nice little 'Mine.' gesture that doesn't involve urine.

On the street, Harlan enters the cafe.
Harlan comes in from the street.

Ryan is sitting at table six, talking to at least one angry looking skinhead and for a guy that looks like he might have the distinct possibility of getting his lights punched out he seems to be smiling about it. Matching steel blue with deep brown the smile on his lips is mirrored in their depths, "Hmm why do I get the feelin' now it's your turn to be assumin' stuff about me? What makes you think that I'm tryin' to pick a fight? I'm white, I'm male and I'm under 21. I don't remember sayin' there was anythin' wrong with what you were talkin' about now did I?"

Harlan walks out of the fancy lookin' store across the street (y'know, right next to the dindy tattoo parlor) and makes his way up toward the Cafe du Monde. Upon entering the open air cafe, he looks around at the various tables, then heads toward one that's only recently empty. The being being that it has some crap left by the person at the table before him. Like that issue of Watchtower magazine with the Mapplethorpian picture of a long-haired half-naked man, bleeding profusely. Very softcore, baby. Jesus Christ Superstud. Of course, life is never that simple. There are skinheads a-plenty, and someone seems to be trying to pic a fight. Either it's Ryan or the guy Ryan's talking. Sorta depends on who you're talking to. He shakes his head and sits down, then settles back to watch. He doesn't seem too concerned that his color will draw the attentions of the Ku Klux Klampetts. It certainly hasn't in the past.

Yep, this one's taken, Christian. But then again, Trace told you so last night. Okay, so Christian, Spooky Guy, is being nice for now. It changes at random, you know. Confuses the heck outta the lil' bluehaired boy. He gives the man a nod, murmuring, "See ya. Say hi t'Wendy f'me." And then he's out the door with the room's only amiable skinhead.

Liz, standing with her man Deacon, pulls at his arm cautiously, "Come on, baby, we've got work to do" She keeps her gaze on Deacon's face, making sure she's prepared for any sudden change in demeanour. The muscular skinhead maintains his persistant glare for however long it takes Ryan to finish up his most recent speech before looking to Liz, pursing his lips, then to Cross. "Yeah. Let's get before the ragheads start flooding this place and getting me even more worked up."

Yes, quite amiacable. Especially if fed at least thrice daily and given nice, flammable treats. Which sounds about right right now. Jason waggles his brows to Christian and adds, "And some luvin's fer me too," to Trace's request. Then he's gone too, strolling up the street towards the apartments at a leisurely pace. No worries for this kid. 'Least, as long as his last flammable treat lasts.

Harlan looks up at the mention of ragheads and shakes his head. Taking on a scholarly tone, he very politely says, "Ragheads refer to those from India, my dear boy. I am more accurately a cameljockey or a sandnigger. Please, do get your racial slurs correct. Y'all hownky bastads." And that said, he flags down a waitress and gives her his order for three beignets and a cup of scalding coffee.

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