Hank Anderson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sociallychallenged) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dualislogs2019-07-17 09:47 am
sociallychallenged) wrote in dualislogs2019-07-17 09:47 am
(no subject)
WHO: Hank Anderson | NPCs | Open
WHAT: A hunt for information and a desire for good whiskey. People can also find him at the boardwalk or drinking at the bar.
WHERE: A speakeasy on the boardwalk
WHEN: Towards the end of July
WARNINGS: 🎜🎝 Hank's mouth needs washing out with soap. Suicidal tendencies.
Hank usually tries to tie up his hair while he's at work. He's still not cut it. It's a holdover from years of depression. He didn't fucking feel like cutting his hair so other than some beard maintenance he just let that mane happen, and mentally he's still not found the place to chop it all off. Now he just keeps it in a half-ass high ponytail with half of it hanging out while he's on the job, like a heavyset loose samurai. Now he's just got it down, looking like his usual casually sloppy shaggy dog self in a bold shirt and a well-worn jacket. At least he looks like he belongs in a bar drinking.
The boardwalk is only mildly busy. It's a weeknight, people are off work, the food is cheap but everything isn't lit up like a James Cameron daydream quite yet. Give it a half-hour. There are rows of little restaurants and game booths and a few hole-in-the-wall establishments down little turn off side-streets. The places for grown-ups to go while the kids play.
That's when Hank first finds a bar that he's heard a couple of claims about. Maybe bullshit; a couple of the other bars he's also checked out have been bullshit. But fuck it, another place to get whiskey, right?
Another holdover from three years of depression.
The old detective (former detective, maybe future one) settles himself at a distant side seat on the bar, somewhere where he can see whatever the live stage performance is when it starts while he tends to a neat whiskey.
He draws the attention of a scaled woman next to him as he downs his glass without so much as a flinch and pushes it forward for a refill. No sign of the notorious whiskey face. He's scalded that reaction right out of his throat. He might as well have a fuckin' booze callous the way this nigh on toxic shit doesn't phase him.
WHAT: A hunt for information and a desire for good whiskey. People can also find him at the boardwalk or drinking at the bar.
WHERE: A speakeasy on the boardwalk
WHEN: Towards the end of July
WARNINGS: 🎜🎝 Hank's mouth needs washing out with soap. Suicidal tendencies.
Hank usually tries to tie up his hair while he's at work. He's still not cut it. It's a holdover from years of depression. He didn't fucking feel like cutting his hair so other than some beard maintenance he just let that mane happen, and mentally he's still not found the place to chop it all off. Now he just keeps it in a half-ass high ponytail with half of it hanging out while he's on the job, like a heavyset loose samurai. Now he's just got it down, looking like his usual casually sloppy shaggy dog self in a bold shirt and a well-worn jacket. At least he looks like he belongs in a bar drinking.
The boardwalk is only mildly busy. It's a weeknight, people are off work, the food is cheap but everything isn't lit up like a James Cameron daydream quite yet. Give it a half-hour. There are rows of little restaurants and game booths and a few hole-in-the-wall establishments down little turn off side-streets. The places for grown-ups to go while the kids play.
That's when Hank first finds a bar that he's heard a couple of claims about. Maybe bullshit; a couple of the other bars he's also checked out have been bullshit. But fuck it, another place to get whiskey, right?
Another holdover from three years of depression.
The old detective (former detective, maybe future one) settles himself at a distant side seat on the bar, somewhere where he can see whatever the live stage performance is when it starts while he tends to a neat whiskey.
He draws the attention of a scaled woman next to him as he downs his glass without so much as a flinch and pushes it forward for a refill. No sign of the notorious whiskey face. He's scalded that reaction right out of his throat. He might as well have a fuckin' booze callous the way this nigh on toxic shit doesn't phase him.
no subject
"Not really. More like he suits the term headache. Migraine. But I love him anyway."
Their family is one they've chosen and it's the only sort Nida's had.
no subject
But he relents. "Only so much I can say, though. My name rhymes with too many words to let me off easy. Sounds like you found something good for yourself."
no subject
Or maybe he just hadn't gotten the joke.
"No, just the usual way. But Seifer used to be my bully when I was growing up, so we're past the names thing by now. In fact, it's just easier if we skip straight to fist fights. All three of us are good in a fight, so it's a useful way to handle things."
Yeah, he had found something good for himself. That reminder makes Nida smile and he finishes his drink. Finishes and pulls out some money.
"For your drink, Sir," he says. Because like hell he's outing an off-duty cop. That's just wrong.