MY TELL-TALE HEART

IS A HAMMER IN MY CHEST, CUT ME A SILK TIE TOURNIQUET. I DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

Wren, far more than the average bartender, sees a lot of excitement in his bar- that is, to say, he’s the cause of much of that excitement thanks to his regrettable habit of snooping in business he’s not supposed to be snooping in. Of course, he’s supposed to snoop- it’s his job, actually, but the individuals who find his nose in their business don’t always enjoy his unwavering attention.

Either way, it’s not a choice for Wren- it’s an obligation. He’s the first line of defense against outside forces that would love nothing more than to tamper with the revolution- the eyes and ears, with fists and bloody knuckles to boot. His instructions from the big boss are simple- keep a lookout. Be a watchdog. Rough anyone up that you think might be a liability- and if they come back, let someone else know. We’ll take care of it.

A job is a job, and Wren has bills to pay. He doesn’t take particular pride in his skill-set, in his heavy hands and fast accuracy, but it’s a living in a city that isn’t exactly the cheapest city on the market. Plus, he’s quite good at spotting the bad eggs- people who certainly aren’t supposed to be finding out about a money-laundering front in a demure bar in the middle of town.

He’s serving drinks to a thin crowd tonight- it’s only six in the evening, and his shift has just started. Generally, customers don’t tend to arrive in full force until the middle of his shift, around ten o’ clock, so when a man enters the bar barking into his phone about teaching someone a lesson, every nerve in Wren’s body lights up with warning signs. He thanks a woman for coming with a smile and rings her up for a meager tab- a martini or two, an after-work treat. The new customer certainly doesn’t look like he belongs, a sore thumb in his own right. The man lowers his voice, much to Wren’s disdain, but the bartender gets the gist of it- something went wrong and the man’s trying to clean up.

But Wren isn’t one to jump to conclusions- for all he knows, the man could be talking about dog shit on a carpet. He’s almost grateful when the man seats himself at the counter and strikes up conversation- “My bad. Work, am I right? Nasty draft today, isn't it?" Wren offers a wry smile.

”Sure is. Gotta get that door fixed,” He says, gesturing towards the front of the bar. ”Lot of stuff can get in if we’re not careful.”

He’s gentle with his words, lifting a brow. ”What can I get you tonight?” He asks. ”You a beer kinda guy? Vodka? Whiskey?” Wren plants both hands against the counter, almost threatening- but not quite. He offers a charming smile.”Anything you like. Sounds like you had a rough day.”


Aidan Ren ;; >.> creep mode: activated?

MY TELL-TALE HEART

IS A HAMMER IN MY CHEST, CUT ME A SILK TIE TOURNIQUET. I DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

Wren’s hands begin to move on their own accord once the man orders his drink - cognac, crème de cacao, and cream- a simple enough concoction that he has it finished in moments. He relays the mushroom order to the second bartender, an older fellow named George who’s just finishing out the day shift. Once the man disappears behind a second wall to the kitchen, Wren slides the finished drink in its narrow cocktail glass across the counter. Using his fingertips to sprinkle nutmeg over the top of the drink, he nods. ”I hear you there,” Wren admits.

No reason he can’t strike up decent conversation with the man while he’s scoping him out.

”I swear I can’t remember the last time I got a decent night’s sleep.” He tells the man with an inviting smile. ”Or day’s sleep if you wanna be literal about it.” Wren shrugs and bends down to wet a rag in the sanitizer bucket hidden below the bar. He wrings it out and wipes down his workstation- he’s a bit too picky about cleanliness, and it’s become quite an issue on his busier shifts.

George returns with the plate of mushrooms, and Wren thanks him softly as he hands the new customer his food. ”Sounds rough, though,” he adds. The customer is certainly suspicious in his own right- sending texts at record speed, the stifling aroma of mary-jane oozing from every inch of his frame. The weed wouldn’t be much of a problem, not really- it’s not illegal in Washington, and it’s certainly not discouraged in Seattle.

As suspicious as the customer is, though, Wren is going to have to add a little more pressure. The customer isn’t worth ignoring- as innocent as he sounds, Wren can’t leave loose ends. He pours a pint of light beer for a customer down the counter, keeping his eyes on the new one. Wren intends to do his job and see it through- he isn’t gonna let a weasel through so easily. He isn’t about to make that mistake again.

”Just the one, or do you want to open a tab? Can I get a name?”

Aidan Ren ;; [BASS BOOSTED] CREEP MODE ACTIVATED