Bar Crawl, Street Brawl [Open]

[Marcus Brooklyn]

6:00 PM
3rd of March, 2012 A.D.
The Town Tavern, Washington D.C.

It was a dingy place, the Town Tavern, or at least that's what Marcus always thought whenever he stopped in for a drink. It was small and lacked any stretching room for a guy of his stature, and the interior was far too dim for his liking. The dance floor wasn't even as big as their website implied—false advertisement, if you had to ask him. On top of that, it was always noisy and perpetually swimming with rambunctious, horny college students just looking to make a scene and have fun. Good for them; at least they were living it up like kings before the corporate world could finally whip them into the slaves they were cursed to become.

Marcus grinned on that thought and pressed the glass to his lips, swallowing down a good mouthful of the rich, foamy, utterly delicious amber liquid that rested inside. He was nearly three-fourths of the way finished with his third glass, and was well on his way to reaching a decent state of inebriation. His body felt numb, but also warm, like he was sitting next to a tranquil campfire. The noise of the rowdy students became less and less aggravating as well, blending in with the bar noises and the overall ambiance of the venue until he deemed all of it as simply unimportant. Lastly, his crimson eyes, which were commonly bursting with energy and fiery zeal, were partially glazed over in his increasing drunkenness, olive toned lids drooping sluggishly as though he were fending off the ancient god of slumber's comforting embrace. Getting drunk, right here and right now, was all that mattered to the blue-haired man.

Now, the real question was, why was he getting drunk? Was there even an underlying motive, a hidden reason, for him wanting to get as shit-faced as he was trying to at this very moment? To quickly summarize it: no, not really. He just had cash on his person for a change, and simply chose to celebrate this fact. Granted, he stole it from someone else (thirty-six dollars, to be precise), but he had money regardless of how he acquired it, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to spend it all on cheap beer tonight. Besides, it's not like the cops were going to find him any time soon, even if they had several squad cars currently on the lookout.

With that thought in mind, the Ritualist sniggered to himself before taking another swig of his beverage, letting off a refreshed sigh afterward. "Th' sweet taste ah success," he muttered, with every sound that escaped from his mouth drenched in that thick, New Yorker accent he became infamous for as soon as he gained notoriety with the police here in D.C. Naturally, portions of his speech came out slurred, but it was still comprehensible to a degree. With a spontaneous hiccup, Marcus slumped back in the bar's only leather loveseat like a greedy king that just finished gorging himself on a magnificent banquet, wholly enjoying the warmth his inebriation bestowed as he got comfortable. If things continued going as smoothly as they have been, maybe a bar crawl was in order? He was still sober enough to walk around and find his way, at least.

[Alice the Chopper]

This blue haired man. Muscular, early twenties, eccentric behavior. A lot had been picked up on him over the past two days from the shadows alone. From a distance, but never far enough, always there to pick up on the next biggest scoop. A hidden camera, if you wanted to call it by something of well mannered English, but no, if you wanted to be fairly more blunt; this was stalking. Something the pink haired Ritualist was an adept at. Perhaps he may of noticed her here and there, but she was careful to not be seen, and when she was, she was careful to appear different each and every time. This game of spying went on for who knows how long, hours, perhaps days, but it had dragged on long enough. It was about time to reel in the catch.

The man in question was on his third drink, just the right amount to be decently inebriated. It probably would've been wise to wait for a fourth or fifth, but the Ritualist found herself in conversation with the barkeep before then, striking a deal, or rather bribing him to do as she said with a sizable stack of American currency. It was a simple task, nothing illegal like poisoning or anything of that nature, it was to pass a note. Written on a small scrap of paper with a delightful flowery scent not too far off from marigold. It had a short message on it, written in red lipstick(?), and it's purpose was to be delivered to this tracked man with his next order.

"I've been watchin you all evenin, love, and I must say I'd love to know more...meet me out back? I'll be waitin, but only for an hour. -Your secret admirer"

Timeskip, 7:45pm

The girl, Alice, the stalker, she would have already been long gone out of the bar, waiting in the alley as promised. But there was a surprise, as usual with her sort. The walls, they were all painted, well, written on in a sense. It was done in a strange red ink. A faded red, almost. It was actually a little hard to read, but it seemed whoever put it there had a little time, because it was double outlined in crazy fashion in an attempt to make it more readable. The first wall directly across from the back door, the back of another building in the alleyway, would read:

HeY BuDdY....JuST...a LittlE to....THE RIGHT :o)

[Initiate "Investigation" Theme]

An arrow was painted under this message, pointing in the right direction, as to make the strangely written thing even more clear. If one were to follow this and look directly to the right, the would see the alleyway go on a little further. Dark, untouched, and downright creepy. It was empty. Nobody was there. It was silent, well, unless if the person trailing this haunting series of messages happened to accidentally step on one of the many bicycle horns littered near one of the leftmost dumpsters. There was a vast amount of them, strange litter really, but it wasn't all that much of a concern. Another dark red message was on the furthest wall, a fork in the road with an arrow painted left. The message above this arrow read vaguely:

almost. :o) Almoooost...ALMOST. :o) :o)

The left path was obscenely darker than the first path. The paint here seemed more disgusting than the last. Something was off about it. If one were to stay around long enough to get a good look at it, they may notice flies hovering over it, attracted to the stuff. Not to mention, at this point, there was a stink thicker than garbage in the air. It was a long path, and not to mention the darkness, it was nearly impossible to even see your own hand in front of your face. Traveling here might be unwise, but no harm would come. At this point. A faint light could be seen at the far end, which could seem like miles. Messages were scribbled all over the walls here. Reading them all would be impossible and probably repetitive, but they went something like this:

hahahHAhahAHaHA :o)

hE lOvES mE...he loves me NOT..he lOVes me...NOT :o(

oH little HORN how YoU hONK so niCe...ha..HAHa..

:o)

At the end of the alleyway the Ritualist sat, finishing her latest message. A body of a college kid laid next to her, missing a head, it's whereabouts unknown. She did take the time to pick up his awesome shades and adorn them, however, even though it was clearly very dark out (if that wasn't made obvious). Pointed, it was a wonder how they even stayed on her cirque painted face. Her dainty fingers used the neck stump as a sort of pallet, that was, up until a few minutes ago when it ran dry. A new wound was created upon her own hand to finish this work of art, and when the final letter was brushed, the "paint" was wiped off of her hand on onto her face, leaving four trails of red over her black and white face, also smearing this makeup in the process. Before she could be noticed by anybody, she would activate her amalgam, allowing her to simply evaporate into a fine mist, and would reappear in the darkness behind whoever this might be. Not to strike just yet, after all, he hadn't read the message yet:

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