president of the daredevil sucks fanclub (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bullseye) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2013-07-25 09:31 am
bullseye) wrote in capeandcowllogs2013-07-25 09:31 am
Entry tags:
Whoa, thought it was a nightmare, low, it's all so true
WHO: Bullseye and the Punisher
WHERE: a dive bar
WHEN: night of 25 July
WARNINGS: HAHA language, violence
SUMMARY: reunited and it feels so good
FORMAT: paragraph to start
Bullseye loves dive bars. The darker the lighting, the more worn the felt on the pool table, the stickier the bar--the better. He belongs in places like this; places where violent fights are only one sideways glance away, or one wrong song on the jukebox away.
It feels like home.
Tonight there are the regular assortment of patrons: leather-clad bikers in cut-off shirts; ex-con looking guys with dirty work boots and neck tattoos; a few busted women aged by life and cigarettes but more likely by meth; run down alcoholics slumped over cheap well shots and Pabst and High Life (drinking it because they can't live it); and Bullseye, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a pool stick in the other, a Yankees cap pulled down over his forehead. He takes a swig directly from the bottle, lazily scanning the bar as people drift in and out. The corner of his mouth curls up into a smirk as he watches the bartender wipe the bar with a dirty rag, then squeeze it out onto the floor behind the counter (a waste of a Jersey Turnpike if ever there was). He turns back to the solitary game before him, still smiling as he lines up his next shot.
Yep. This is home.
WHERE: a dive bar
WHEN: night of 25 July
WARNINGS: HAHA language, violence
SUMMARY: reunited and it feels so good
FORMAT: paragraph to start
Bullseye loves dive bars. The darker the lighting, the more worn the felt on the pool table, the stickier the bar--the better. He belongs in places like this; places where violent fights are only one sideways glance away, or one wrong song on the jukebox away.
It feels like home.
Tonight there are the regular assortment of patrons: leather-clad bikers in cut-off shirts; ex-con looking guys with dirty work boots and neck tattoos; a few busted women aged by life and cigarettes but more likely by meth; run down alcoholics slumped over cheap well shots and Pabst and High Life (drinking it because they can't live it); and Bullseye, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a pool stick in the other, a Yankees cap pulled down over his forehead. He takes a swig directly from the bottle, lazily scanning the bar as people drift in and out. The corner of his mouth curls up into a smirk as he watches the bartender wipe the bar with a dirty rag, then squeeze it out onto the floor behind the counter (a waste of a Jersey Turnpike if ever there was). He turns back to the solitary game before him, still smiling as he lines up his next shot.
Yep. This is home.