For some, it was already a good night, especially for the burly man at table who was currently working a large cigar. Freud would have had something to say about that, and then would promptly have had his face bashed in as the man in question wasn't keen on either psychoanalysis or having his masculinity called into question. The needle scars on his arms stood testament to the price he'd paid to build his Hulklike physique and he had no interest in being seen as anything less than the best - which was precisely why he was here.

Gore had honestly been a bit surprised when he'd been informed by the little slut carrying the owner's message that he was invited to join the poker game at the back of the club, but not too much. A man of his stature could hardly go unnoticed, even in a club like this where men were men and the bitches knew their place. So he'd slapped her on the ass and told her to get him another pitcher of beer - no sissy cocktails for Gore - and he'd be glad to join his esteemed brothers.

The bitch hadn't been pleased to be of service when she brought it back to him though, he noted as he chugged the beer straight from the pitcher. She'd have to be taught a lesson or two in obedience after he'd won a few hands with the nice gentlemen in the back.

Gore finished the last of his beer, belched and leered at her, eyeing the collar she wore. "All right girlie, let's get this going. I'm sure you have... work... to be doing."

Gavellus Juris sat unobtrusively at a side table in the club's public area.  He was nibbling his way through a plate of cheap chicken strips and a mug of soda water, absently wishing it were roast duckling and wine.  His eyes were on the entertainment, but his mind was elsewhere.

His client tonight was a local businessman, a grafter wannabe working a mid-level job at local law firm Foxhewe & Doe.  Gavellus had pegged him as a small-minded crook who played cards to feel like a big boy.  Not the sort Gavellus would normally associate with, but ever since a certain team of do-gooders had ejected him from his cushy job as the mayor's aide he had been forced to lower his standards more than a little. 

"Fold," he murmured into his discreet microphone.  The sound emerged in his client's even more discreet earpiece.  "There's a flush on the table, and you don't want to be in the pot when it all comes out."  Which, coincidentally, pretty much summed up why Gavellus was out here watching the strippers instead of in the back room playing Texas hold 'em.  The heat was on at the nightclub tonight -- maybe a three in ten chance of a bust -- and Gavellus hated getting caught.  If the raid came he'd hide under the tables with everyone else and gather intelligence until the danger passed.  Otherwise, he'd accept his client's payment after the game.

In the other room, the flush came down, and a few thousand dollars changed hands.  It was a lot of money, but less than it might have been.  As the card players shuffled up for a new hand, Gavellus signalled his waitress.  She sidled over in high heels, not wearing much more than the ladies on the poles.  "The fellow over there's an excellent tipper," Gavellus remarked, gesturing toward an anonymous face on the other side of the bar.  "Get a little cuddly with him and you'll be well rewarded.  Also, more soda water, please."

"Um, thank you," replied the confused waitress.  "I'll go get that water."

"No thanks needed," smirked Gavellus.  "All in a day's work."

That took care of his good deed for the day.  Now to sit back and enjoy what he expected would be a colorful night.

A solitary figure stepped into the dim confines of the bar, head down and moving in a direct line towards the back. Those patrons not too drunk, or otherwise engaged, took a moment to regard this stranger; whose stooped stature still cleared six feet, with a shoulder width close to the bumper of a Buick.

Grave N. Image ignored the stares from beneath his hood, pulling his ragged burlap cloak closer to his chiselled body. Perhaps they sensed his natural refinement, impossible to conceal even in his otherwise flawless disguise. His stone feet pounded loudly over the deep bass permeating the bar as he stepped gingerly, careful to limit his strides to half their usual length. No one must know he was here. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Grave came at last upon the thick double doors, raising a craggy fist to tap one lightly and leaving a sizable dent. The money here was too good and easily gained to pass up. For some reason his opponents didn't immediately grasp the intellect that dwelled behind his rocky brow. And he had a poker face to die for.

The door opened a crack, admitting a singular blue eye to gaze up at him. Grave drew back his hood, allowed his deception to fall just long enough to reveal a glimpse of his grey visage. Both doors were then thrown wide, allowing him to shuffle awkwardly into the room.

As he heard the doors click shut behind him, Grave N. Image finally pulled back his hood, looking around the table at the other players before taking two seats at the table. Laying a large sack on the tabletop in front of him, Grave shrugged off his heavy brown cloak, settling back as the chairs creaked beneath his weight.

"I trust you were not too inconvenienced by my delay," His voice rumbled, glancing in Sammy's direction. "Secrecy is of utmost importance, as I'm sure you gentlemen are all aware,"

Gore bit his tongue to keep from snarling at Sammy - it wouldn't do to have someone that powerful pissed at him. "Of course I'm in, boss. And I wouldn't dream of damaging another man's toy, though I might have some interest in your expendable ones later." He kissed the woman's neck and tweaked a nipple with a gentleness that surprised him, pulled a wad of bills from his inside jacket pocket and stared fixedly at the dealer's hands, trying hard to not look at the newcomer, who was now the only person in the room larger than him.

Zavulon peered through the grate on the air duct.  Sure, it was among the older & more uncomfortable methods of spying, but it was very effective if you could be as quiet as Zavulon.  His eyes narrowed as he looked more closely now at Gore, Sammy, & Grave.  His current mission was to watch them & find out about their temperaments.  He quietly wiped the sweat off his tan brow & continued watching.

He had been there for a little less than an hour watching Sammy & Gore.  Now he wondered in what way Grave was going to affect the situation.  But suddenly Zavulon felt a coughing fit coming on.  He immidiately stifled it & made it sound like air through the vents.  He sighed quietly in relief.  If he wasn't so sickly, everything would be easier.  But, then again, he liked the added suspense of it all.

The color had arrived, Gavellus noted with interest.  From the looks of the last two gentlemen to pass the imposing oak door in back, the club's owner was courting a new clientele -- supers -- and not the trivially gifted kind, either.  Beating them with only a quantum halo to look at in lieu of a card table would be a challenge, especially through an increasingly inebriated proxy.

"Play cautiously.  I think the river will give you a straight, but don't commit until..."

His client pushed half his chips into the pot.  The others folded one by one.  A botched chance for a big win.  Who the hell let this lightweight play cards at a bar, anyway?  If Sammy'd been reduced to filling chairs with guys like this, it was no wonder he was looking to recruit supers for the table.

Gavellus sighed.  The mounting feeling of impending drama was getting to him -- that or the cigarette smoke.  He needed some air.

Sammy eyed the overeager minion that won the last hand.  Interesting.  The man usually had a better poker face than that.  The dealer collected the cards and started to deal out the next hand. 

The door opened and in walked the city's east side pimp, all decked out, with a whore on each arm.  Sammy held his hand out to stop the dealer and raised an eyebrow at the pimp before he looked at his watch.  "Your late," he said.

"Well, you know how it is when you've got to collect.  Sometimes it takes longer than expected," the pimp replied.

Sammy's eyes narrowed.  "Then you need to collar your bitches better than you are.   I'm giving your seat to fresh blood.  Get out." 

The pimp started to sputter in anger as the bouncer that had accompanied the pimp and his women inside grabbed his arms and started to drag him outside.  "You'll regret this!" Was the accompanying yell as the doors closed tightly behind the pimp's purple leopard printed rear.  Sammy whispered into the ear of one of the girls and she left the room on an errand.  A few more hands went buy, the pot falling significantly in the favor of the weasely minion. 

The woman Sammy has sent out returned with a leatherbound ledger and handed it to Sammy.  "What took you so long?" He asked her.

"Ran into a little trouble with Rufus.  He seems to think getting promoted up the chain means he has rights to me.," she replied.

"I'll see to him later," Sammy replied.

Sammy signaled the dealer, who got up and left the room along with half the girls.  "Let's take care of business, gentlemen."  He sat silently for a long moment before all those seated around the table as well as the remaining girls began hearing Sammy's voice in their head.

Recent shipments have been disrupted thanks to a pain in my ass called Darkforce.  That fucking superhero has been preventing my international associates from reaching the drop point.  This means we're sitting on a lot more goods than I am comfortable with.  This next shipment must go smoothly.

Sammy pulls out a map of the Commerce City Docks from his ledger and unfolds it upon the table.  He points to several places on the map. 

These have been the locations of the last three attempted shipments.  Darkforce seems to come from over the water.  Heroes are usually stuck on routine, so the odds are he'll come in from that direction again.  The next shipment is Sunday night.  I want you to make sure Darkforce and his annoying partner Sparkle Girl don't get their noses in my business.



Anyone that was not specified in the post cannot hear the conversation.  Those of you that are, are linked in a psychic web so you can communicate with the others without speaking outloud.  You cannot send a "private message" to anyone within the web.  Also, any character (PC or NPC) that has been involved in some of Sammy's past dealings (Grave N. Image being part of this group) is not surprised by the telepathy.  If you haven't, it'll be a bit of a shock.  Any character with an Intuition of 30 or higher will notice the woman that brought in the ledger's eyes widen slightly when Sammy first starts to speak telepathically.  Everyone notices the weaselly man (Gavellus' partner) visibly start.  Remember, if you aren't in the web, but can see the room, you don't know what's being said or what's really going on.

Last edited by angelicreation (01-12-2007 12:03:03 AM)

Something was wrong.

The poker game had gone on hold.  At first Gavellus had thought the men were taking a break to empty their bladders, but a little psychic prying suggested otherwise.  They were still in the room, and the emotional intensity of the participants had risen significantly -- no small thing, in a room that until a moment ago had been host to a high-stakes poker game.  Either an orgy had broken out, or Something Was Afoot.

Gavellus hated it when Something Was Afoot and he wasn't in on it.

Insinuating himself back into the bar, Gavellus resumed his seat and scanned the room.  Behind Pole Dancing Girl #5 he spotted the dealer, his face obscured by the thickening smoke.  He wasn't the least bit uncomfortable, Gavellus realized; whatever was happening in the back room was happening right on schedule.  And there was a new super tonight.  Gavellus ruled out the orgy.

Perhaps he could extract the truth from his client after the game -- provided, of course, that his client was still alive; the heat was intensifying.  Failing that, he would find another way to get to the truth.  He usually did.

Grave N. Image shifted forward, placing both elbows on the sturdy table as an eager gleam shone from his eyes and lit up his stony face. One thick, granite thumb absently rolled a glittering ruby around in his palm, before he 'spoke.'

Who needs a toy like that to take care of one man? Let him come, I say. All I need do is lay a hand on him...

At this, Grave made fist and a loud crack permeated the room.

One hand. One second. Then he will be no trouble for anyone.

Grave turned his fist over, flexing his fingers out as a trickle of red dust fell onto the table.

Zavulon was watching the scene with growing interest.  He didn't know what on earth could cause the atmosphere to change so much when there were no significantly different facial expressions, & hardly anything important had been said.  He paused & wondered if this was what his client was talking about when he said that there was evidence that they had 'hidden communications.' 

The heat was choking Zavulon.  The tense atmosphere only contributed to the stifling temperatures.  Zavulon languidly wiped his brow & took deep breaths silently.  He didn't know how much longer he could last in that cramped space.  'Perhaps', he thought, 'it wouldn't be too wise to find out.'

Grave N. Image rose to his feet, knocking both chairs to the floor behind him. He opened his mouth and only through great self-restraint; stopped himself from bellowing aloud. Clenching both fists, he glowered at Sammy.

A spy got this close to your operations and only now do you deal with him? We should be out from here before the heroes are knocking at this very door!

Wrapping his burlap cloak tightly to his thick body, and pulling the hood down low, Grave turned to leave.

Perhaps the rest of you are happy to stay in this compromised hovel, but I will not make my stand here. Darkforce will be taken care of tomorrow, as agreed. I pray our next meeting is more secure. If someone of my stature were to be connected to your dealings... it could undermine too much that I have worked for.