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So I go to my favorite haunt and bang out a few Black Mariah tunes. Figured it'd make an ok send off to Oz. (Bleeding idiot. Told him not to get killed.)
What kind of moron sees a guy walk through a building that he's known to HAUNT and assumes the guy is still among the living?
Like I'm going to acknowledge him. Fucking cop probably would use that as an excuse to harass Emily.
5/12/2008
Salem Center
Monday evenings are far from bustling in the area of Salem Center. The weekend is dead and high school students have the looming deadlines of class projects, exams, and homework to distract them for now. Hence relative quiet is what greets the visitor to this area in the evening. A perfect time for a quiet dinner out. A lousy time for anything else. For instance music shopping. The Notes 'n' Rhythm music store is dead now with it being closed for the day. Employees have long since gone home and the only ones that traverse in the darkly lit shop during these hours are the ghosts of musician's past. In tonight's case, long dead Mike Hannigan who still on occasion haunts the place. Even now, the sounds of drumming escape from the barred and locked glass door of the business. Perhaps news of the death of reincarnated band mate Oz Delaney has brought him out.
Johner was driving through Salem, windows rolled down. He'd had the day off and had gone hiking, and was now headed home. As he drove, though, he heard the racket from a *closed* store, and pulled to a stop. "The hell?" He growled, then parked and got out, patting the gun at his waist to make sure it was there, and eyed the radio he always had in the truck. No, better not call it in yet. Make sure it's an actual crime in progress, and not some overly devoted yuppie idiot or something in there.
A racket to some, rhythmical genius to others. The pulse of the drums quickening like Jamie Lee Curtis's heart when Myers popped out of the closet. Faster, frantic, louder, there is nothing indicating the wish to hide from those in or out of the shop. It seems to just belong to the shop as it reaches the peak and silences after the execution of two strong beats.
Grumbling under his breath, Johner tries to peer into the shop windows as the drums keep right on going. If there /is/ a burglar in there, he's going to rue the day. If it's some yuppie idiot? Well, pretty much it'll be more of the same.
From the vantage point of the window, there appears to be only one person inside. Judging from the long hair, dated black mesh and leather that seems to stand out a bit despite the lack of lighting, he is not an employee. Or is he? It is so hard to tell with music stores. But no matter, the figure's head turns, looking to the window and then the direction of the owner's office. Standing, he starts walking towards the door, sticks still in hand.
Johner eyeballs the guy, and when he heads for the door, Johner backs up, hand drifting towards his gun, just in case. He doesn't immediately recognize the face, but the place is pretty dark inside.
Approaching the door, Mike's face is shown by what outside light there is as he pauses reaching a hand towards the doorknob, pulling his hand back, making the motions of opening a door while leaving the actual door alone. His head turns as he glances back to the office, saying something in the direction of the closed door. As to what, it doesn't waft through the still closed door as easily as the sound of the drums did.
It takes Johner a few seconds to recognize that face, but recognize it he does. One does not tend to forget really high-profile murder cases, even when you weren't even involved at the time. Blue eyes go wide, then narrow into a glare of disbelieving anger. "Get out here. Now." He snarls.
It is now your pose.
And get out the figure does, smiling as he turns his head round to step through the closed door and bars and then through Johner.
[OOC] Johner says, "..."
[OOC] Johner says, "*watches Johner have THE FUCKING SPAZZ ATTACK OF THE FUCKING CENTURY."
Johner damn near has a heart attack, jerking violently to one side and drawing his gun in a reflex that's so automatic it's damn near instinct. His mouth is working, but no sound's coming out. Despite whatever emotions are running around in his head, his hands are remarkably steady as he levels the gun (for whatever good it'll do) at Mike. "Fuck. I should have fucking known." He says finally, voice a bit shaky but sounding more pissed than scared. "God /damn/ it."
Despite the cursing Mike walks to the edge of the sidewalk, next to Johner's car, glancing in the open window towards the driver's side. "Ya guys could o' come in, ya know." He moves towards the back car door, reaching for the handle.
"Step away from the truck." Johner snaps. "You've got rather a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Hannigan."
Still ignoring Johner his hand reaches to the side of the handle, hand moving into the metal as he grabs at nothing, making another pulling motion before snapping at the inside of the vehicle, turning and bending as if getting into a car slightly smaller than Johner's. "Move yer arse over Frank, I ain't gonna sit in it!"
Johner growls and lowers the gun. Because really, what good will it do? And he's not falling for the charade, either. The guy is quite obviously fucking psycho. But then, he's a mutie, so ... that's rather like saying ice cubes are cold. "Hannigan!" He tries one last time.
There is still no response as Hannigan starts fading from view as he steps into the car.
Rich isn't the only headmate that can act.
Mike is an ass. But then again, so is Johner.
What kind of moron sees a guy walk through a building that he's known to HAUNT and assumes the guy is still among the living?
Like I'm going to acknowledge him. Fucking cop probably would use that as an excuse to harass Emily.
5/12/2008
Monday evenings are far from bustling in the area of Salem Center. The weekend is dead and high school students have the looming deadlines of class projects, exams, and homework to distract them for now. Hence relative quiet is what greets the visitor to this area in the evening. A perfect time for a quiet dinner out. A lousy time for anything else. For instance music shopping. The Notes 'n' Rhythm music store is dead now with it being closed for the day. Employees have long since gone home and the only ones that traverse in the darkly lit shop during these hours are the ghosts of musician's past. In tonight's case, long dead Mike Hannigan who still on occasion haunts the place. Even now, the sounds of drumming escape from the barred and locked glass door of the business. Perhaps news of the death of reincarnated band mate Oz Delaney has brought him out.
Johner was driving through Salem, windows rolled down. He'd had the day off and had gone hiking, and was now headed home. As he drove, though, he heard the racket from a *closed* store, and pulled to a stop. "The hell?" He growled, then parked and got out, patting the gun at his waist to make sure it was there, and eyed the radio he always had in the truck. No, better not call it in yet. Make sure it's an actual crime in progress, and not some overly devoted yuppie idiot or something in there.
A racket to some, rhythmical genius to others. The pulse of the drums quickening like Jamie Lee Curtis's heart when Myers popped out of the closet. Faster, frantic, louder, there is nothing indicating the wish to hide from those in or out of the shop. It seems to just belong to the shop as it reaches the peak and silences after the execution of two strong beats.
Grumbling under his breath, Johner tries to peer into the shop windows as the drums keep right on going. If there /is/ a burglar in there, he's going to rue the day. If it's some yuppie idiot? Well, pretty much it'll be more of the same.
From the vantage point of the window, there appears to be only one person inside. Judging from the long hair, dated black mesh and leather that seems to stand out a bit despite the lack of lighting, he is not an employee. Or is he? It is so hard to tell with music stores. But no matter, the figure's head turns, looking to the window and then the direction of the owner's office. Standing, he starts walking towards the door, sticks still in hand.
Johner eyeballs the guy, and when he heads for the door, Johner backs up, hand drifting towards his gun, just in case. He doesn't immediately recognize the face, but the place is pretty dark inside.
Approaching the door, Mike's face is shown by what outside light there is as he pauses reaching a hand towards the doorknob, pulling his hand back, making the motions of opening a door while leaving the actual door alone. His head turns as he glances back to the office, saying something in the direction of the closed door. As to what, it doesn't waft through the still closed door as easily as the sound of the drums did.
It takes Johner a few seconds to recognize that face, but recognize it he does. One does not tend to forget really high-profile murder cases, even when you weren't even involved at the time. Blue eyes go wide, then narrow into a glare of disbelieving anger. "Get out here. Now." He snarls.
It is now your pose.
And get out the figure does, smiling as he turns his head round to step through the closed door and bars and then through Johner.
[OOC] Johner says, "..."
[OOC] Johner says, "*watches Johner have THE FUCKING SPAZZ ATTACK OF THE FUCKING CENTURY."
Johner damn near has a heart attack, jerking violently to one side and drawing his gun in a reflex that's so automatic it's damn near instinct. His mouth is working, but no sound's coming out. Despite whatever emotions are running around in his head, his hands are remarkably steady as he levels the gun (for whatever good it'll do) at Mike. "Fuck. I should have fucking known." He says finally, voice a bit shaky but sounding more pissed than scared. "God /damn/ it."
Despite the cursing Mike walks to the edge of the sidewalk, next to Johner's car, glancing in the open window towards the driver's side. "Ya guys could o' come in, ya know." He moves towards the back car door, reaching for the handle.
"Step away from the truck." Johner snaps. "You've got rather a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Hannigan."
Still ignoring Johner his hand reaches to the side of the handle, hand moving into the metal as he grabs at nothing, making another pulling motion before snapping at the inside of the vehicle, turning and bending as if getting into a car slightly smaller than Johner's. "Move yer arse over Frank, I ain't gonna sit in it!"
Johner growls and lowers the gun. Because really, what good will it do? And he's not falling for the charade, either. The guy is quite obviously fucking psycho. But then, he's a mutie, so ... that's rather like saying ice cubes are cold. "Hannigan!" He tries one last time.
There is still no response as Hannigan starts fading from view as he steps into the car.
Rich isn't the only headmate that can act.
Mike is an ass. But then again, so is Johner.
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