capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

WHO: Sterling Archer and Bullseye
WHERE: A bar.
WHEN: Night of June 7th.
WARNINGS: Violence, shenanigans.
SUMMARY: Bar fight.
FORMAT: Quick.

[Picture it:

An old-style bar with wooden floors and rough countertops. Hanging lamps with olive green light shades. Pretzels. Ash trays in the shape of bears. And the greatest secret agent in the whole world.

(Or one of the worlds, anyway.)

Archer knows how to mix the drinks. He knows how to wipe up the counters. He knows how to flirt with women and then take them to back room to oh ugh yeah oh oh and he knows how to annihilate cockroaches by convincing that idiot Danny that he's actually an undercover health inspector masquerading as an import. Jeez. Wow. Look at all the good he can do.

Sterling Archer is -- in his humble opinion -- an excellent bartender.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He's feeling the buzz of the vodka more strongly now than he has in his duration in the City, but he chalks it up to swigging it quickly and the smug thrill he's receiving from Archer's attention--the healing factor will surely prevent him getting much more than a buzz, at any rate, so he takes another throatful, his absurd arm muscles flexing as his tilts the bottle upward.]

You want an autograph, chief?

Thanks, buddy, but seeing as I'm the hero this city needs -- nay, deserves -- I should probably be, like, stopping you from committing some heinous crime. Or whatever.

[He glances over his shoulder, taking in the bar, the patrons.]

But seeing as, uh, there's a distinct lack of heinous crime going on at the moment, I could totally use an autograph.

[While Archer babbles on, Bullseye sniffs the bottle of vodka--he's definitely feeling it now. He's pretty sure he wasn't drugged, but there's no way he should be feeling tipsy like this.

Must be wishful thinking.

And why was this guy's voice so familiar?

He looks up from the bottle and eyes Archer, trying to place him.]

Ya got a pen?

[Archer puts a hand to his shirt, feeling his chest thoughtfully.]

Nope. Just-- [A SUSPENSEFUL BEAT.] --bottle caps.

[He pulls out a small handful of said bottle caps. They glisten in his hands, the remnants of about, oh, six or seven benders.]

Jeez. I mean, I don't even know why I bother considering I can make my own alcohol Jesus-style. Practically.

[He licks his wrist, then tosses the bottle caps over his head. They land in the pile of shattered glass.]

You make your own alcohol?

[He raises an incredulous eyebrow. But perhaps the Network was where he'd heard Archer's voice--that would fit.]

Yeah. Oh my God, it's amazing.

[Again, he licks his wrist, savoring that sweet taste of champagne. He closes his eyes. Exhales.]

Thaaat's something else. If I were making a pros and cons list of this place, that would be, like. The number one pro. Hands down. Number two is being nowhere near my mother. But I mean, you know what I mean.

[He doesn't specify what that 'what' is, exactly -- until he makes a gesture at the vodka.]

Pretty impressive, right?

[Oh yeah, mommy issues. This is familiar. What was that guy's name? "Secret agent" something or other. He can't remember.

He takes another sip of the vodka and when Archer gestures at the bottle, the after burn of the alcohol in his throat seems to become more acute as his words sink in.

He lowers the bottle from mouth, giving Archer a deadeye stare.]

You didn't.

I totally did.

[He says this with all the pride in the world, his chest puffed out, his eyes practically sparkling.]

I mean, not the whole thing, obviously. That would be, you know. Ick.

Right?

[Not even blinking.]

You sold me your sweat.

Correction: I sold you vodka that I created through hard work and several tireless hours on the treadmill while also wearing an incredibly fashionable turtleneck.

But like I said, only some of that vodka is mine because otherwise: ick.

[His lips press together in a thin line as Archer speaks. Barely has the word "ick" left his mouth than Bullseye's fist comes swinging at Archer.]

[And because "ick" has barely left his mouth, Archer barely has time to respond -- and so he doesn't. He takes the punch, his head kicking back, blood filling his sinuses.]

GAAAAH!

[Eloquent. He grips his face.]

What the shit?!

[His self pity lasts, oh, another millisecond before he aims an elbow at Bullseye's face.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only