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Log Title: Waking Up in Strange Places

Log setting: Storyville Apothecary

Log Cast:
Trace
Jean-Batiste

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Log start at 11:40pm on 10-21-98

Trace is sprawled on the bed where he was unceremoniously dumped the night prior, one arm above his head, fingers gently curled, the other across his abdomen.

Jean-Batiste sleeps - or is passed out - on his stomach, a pillow pulled over his head. He looks like he crawled onto the bed, or was laid out, and didn't even have time to take his boots off before unconsciousness hit. If he's snoring, it's muffled by the pillow. Must have been snoring - something triggers a bout of coughs, and he pushes up to his elbows in a start, looking around with muzzy eyes.

Trace stirs slightly as Batiste jumps up and jostles the bed like that, but doesn't wake entirely. A faint, sleepy frown touches his features, pulling his brows tense for a moment, pursing his lips tighter. The resistance of waking. Not a morning person.

Is it morning? And if it is, what -day- is it? Batiste coughs into the pillow a couple of times, then sinks down a bit with a low groan. More sleeping could be good. He considers it, then sighs to himself and pushes up onto his side, trying not to jostle the bed too much. For his next trick, he'll try sitting up. For now, he rubs his eyes and tries to figure out -what- he's tasting on his tongue.

Trace's eyes flutter very heavily, and he mumbles a protest, grasping for a pillow or something... but you've got it. And he doesn't feel any blankets readily nearby... He rubs at his face with both hands, eyes clenched shut. "Ugh..."

Trace blinkblinks, as he blearily focuses on something... gun shaped. It IS a gun. A big rifle right next to his mattress? Oh, wait... He looks around squinting, groggily mystified.

The pillow is dropped gently onto your face and hands, along with a scratchy chuckle from Batiste. "Hey. I think it's morning." He sits up slowly, stringy hair falling around his face as he bows his head and digs the heels of his palms into his eye-sockets. After smacking his mouth a couple of times, he starts patting himself down for a cigarette.

Trace mmphs as he gets a pillow in the mouth, and shoves it away, sitting up slowly, scowling a little. "Morning. Uh." He peers around. "This.. your place?"

Backroom - Storyville Apothecary

Yellow lighting casts a dingy glow through this cramped back room, a secondary addon to a shack that is left over from a bygone era. Along the front wall, split in the center by the door that leads back into the shop, are musty shelves filled with clay pots, extra inventory for those who are serious practioners of voodoo and herbalism. Boxes press around one corner, filled with brilliantly colored baubles and authentic voodoo dolls (made in China) for the tourists that bring in the real money.

A bed has been made up in the shadows, over in the farthest corner, faded quilts carefully folded, with a fan set on a small dresser to stir the otherwise still air. An old TV sits on a crate beside the door out to the projects, with an overstuffed chair in front of it, another crate turned over and holding a half drank can of pepsi and a glass filled with deluted soda. A rifle is propped up next to the bed, within easy reach of even the deepest sleeper, amidst a wide scattering of books that are constantly underfoot.

Jean-Batiste locates a bent, wrinkled cigarette in one of his pockets, and starts searching for the lighter. "Huh?" he replies, looking over at you. "Oh. No, I...never seen this place before. Must have crashed here, I guess." Like -that- really answers anything. He shakes his hair away from his face, looking around the dusty room again.

Trace digs into his own pocket, and when he speaks, it's with a drawl that suggests he's still pretty sleep-muddled. "Mm... that stuff last night. Freaky, man... agh." Upon running his fingers along the bottom seam of that pocket twice, he tries a new one.

"What all d'you remember?" Batiste asks as he looks around the room, squinting even against the dim light. He snuffles, wipes his nose on his sleeve, then goes back to hunting for his lighter. Not two seconds later, his head comes up with a start. "Shit! My backpack-" He starts to get up, then sees it hooked over the corner of the bed, and slumps back down.

Trace comes up with a lighter for you, at least, in that second pocket. He hands it over, but still hasn't found what HE's looking for. There's a new tenseness to his face as he mumbles, "Mostly weird shit. It's... kinda misty. I think.."

Trace halts his futile search for a moment, to consider this. "You became a girl once," he says with a sudden, small giggle. "You were this girl, I donno... Red hair? No, that wasn't you..." He shakes his head a little a sits up a little to check a back pocket

Trace shrugs vaguely, writing it off. "Just seein' stuff... weird, weird trip."

Jean-Batiste lights the cigarette, drawing in once, coughing, then taking a longer drag. "Thanks," he murmurs, handing the lighter back, then offering the cigarette. "You want a drag?" he asks, then, "A girl? Geez. Thanks." He grins a little, confused by his own muddled memories. "That voodoo woman from last night, she...like, she killed a chicken and everything, did you see that, too?"

Trace declines the cigarette with a brisk shake of his head, but assures you, "Yeah! Yeah, I saw that... Gross. She like... licked at it's neck afterwards, too. You saw that? Gross..."

Trace only comes up with the large wad of money in that last pocket, and looks at it blankly for a moment before shoving it back with frustration. "Fuck," he whispers. Out. In the morning, no less. Afternoon? There's something in him telling him that he slept later than the two of them yet realize... Something in the way his stomach is all cramped, his hands clammy. Dammit.. He looks up at you.

After another drag off his cigarette, Batiste nods to you. "Yeah, I saw that, too. You think..." He looks around for a moment, then asks you with equal parts teasing and nervousness in his voice, "You think she hypnotised us, or something? D'you feel like a zombie?" He laughs a little at that, since it can't be true. Right? He goes to say more, then stops at your expression. "You need to fix?"

Trace gives a tight nod, arms crossing to rub at his thin biceps somewhat nervously. "Yeah.... y-you carrying?" he asks softly, flushed and slightly upset that he should resort to asking in the first place. "I can make it up to you, promise.."

Jean-Batiste bites at his bottom lip. "I'm...not sure. I might...just a sec." He crawls to the edge of the bed, and pulls his backpack into his lap, unzipping the top to start rummaging through the contents. As he does, he says, "I don't -think- so, but...shit. Maybe..." He unzips something inside, still looking. "I know where we can get some, though."

Trace nods a little, "Yeah... yeah, it's cool, I got plenty of money since that dancing thing the violet girl did last night..." He puzzles. What was her real name? "I'm not getting much though; just enough to keep my head straight so I can draw today."

Trace gets up, suddenly quite motivated to leave this bizarre shelter and hit the streets. He rubs at his nose a little, giving the place one last sweeping glance.

Jean-Batiste sighs, looking back at you apologetically as he rezips the backpack. "I don't have any. We'll have to go see Marco." He tucks his cigarette into his mouth and pulls his hair up under his cap before crawling off the bed. "Hopefully we're not way outta town still, or nothing." He looks back at you, worried, then shrugs his backpack over his shoulder and heads for the

"Sure thing," the blue-haired kid nods, tugging the door open for the both of them. "Let's get outta here."

Jean-Batiste checks both the doors, then grins back at you for a moment. "This way," he says, and heads for the exit leading back into the store.

Storyville Apothecary

Bathed in perpetual shadows, the apothcary is as much an experience in scents as it is in sights. Shelves line three walls, broken only by a doorway that leads farther back into the shadows. Pots, crocks, jars, and containers of all sorts rest on the shelves, with such creative names as 'witch's wart,' 'nightshade', 'frog's tongues', and the like. Bunchs of dried leaves hang from the ceiling in one corner, and behind the glass countertop, you can see items floating in their containers. A closer look might titilate the brave tourist, or offend those faint of heart. Large, dusty tomes rest behind the ancient cash register, the titles faded with age.

Trace halts a moment, even in the midst of coming off, to admire the petal drawing on display. "Oh..."

Jean-Batiste digs into his pocket, and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. "Take a look at this..." he says, showing it to you - a $50 traveller's cheque with a blank endorsement line. He glances around, and grabs a pen with a skull-shaped cap, then heads for the counter.

Trace presses his dirty fingers to the glass, but then pulls back with embarrassment when they leave a smudge. "What is it..?" he asks, moving closer and then grinning broadly when he sees what you've got. "Aww, shit!" he grins broadly.

Jean-Batiste smiles angelically at the clerk, and rolls the pen around in his fingers a couple of times before signing the traveller's cheque, talking about the pickpockets in Jackson Square and how he appreciates the clerk not minding the state of his very last traveller's cheque. He signs the cheque - the clerk looks at it, squints, then accepts it, giving Batiste back a wad of change. He thanks the clerk, then grins at you and heads for the door.

Jean-Batiste steps back out into the street.

Basin and Canal -- CBD

Jean-Batiste grins over at you as he steps out and takes a look around, trying to figure out where in New Orleans the pair of you are. "I love traveller's cheques," he murmurs. "Got the signature right there for you to copy from."

Trace blinks in the afternoon light, trying to puzzle out his surroundings. "Oh..." he murmurs, "Recognize those buildings there." He points out the Florida Street Housing Projects.

Epilogue: Batiste takes Trace to a complex of piss-poor apartments just off of Bienville in the red-light district. He knocks softly at a door, then produces a key when nobody answers, and leads his friend in. It's a tiny place, messy but not filthy (if that makes sense). Marco is a dark-haired, muscular guy who looks bored and mean at once - once he wakes up. He's passed out in bed when the two of you first arrive. He knows Batiste, calling him 'Tease', mumbling a greeting to Trace before stretching out again. He explains the situation to Marco, and he agrees, waving him over to a dresser drawer where his supplies are kept. Marco acts rather like the bored and amused big brother towards Batiste. Batiste chats with him a little while you're shooting up, though he seems a bit nervous around him, and seems happy to get out of there. Trace keeps to his word about only taking a little, which is tough because he's got the money for plenty more... But he's serious about this mural idea, and wants to show some priorities here.

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