The night was just adorning its rhythm-



a p-p-pockmarked beat of bad dancing, bad breath and better times.



But the alcohol was sharp to the tongue, and the patrons were ever coming back for more.


Taking a hot rag to a dusty glass -and managing to actually clean the inside, even though he knew no one really cared so long as the glass was full when it was placed in front of them- Corduroy glanced around at the growing number of people in the House. His eyes fell on the dirty trio in the corner for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, but he couldn't help but be suspicious of their habits when they kept staring at the other customers like they were going to suddenly bust out in a chant. Sighing, he turned back to the counter.


It had only been a few months since he had won his fight against the former owner of the House and taken over. The bar still needed to be cleaned up a bit, and the floorboards' stability were highly questionable. The lighting had been prepped a bit, so the place wasn't so much like a bat cave anymore, but it went without saying that everything could use a bit of a touchup. While the days were never boring, Corduroy couldn't say that upholding the anything-but-classy establishment was a walk through the park.


Speaking of walk...
The cane caught his attention amidst the laughing roar of floating alcohol.


Craning his neck, Corduroy looked toward the man who had just walked in, a well dressed guy who looked like he would be better off drinking something expensive in a seat that cost more than the whole House. Smirking a little despite himself -at the thought rather than the man- he set the now clean glass down and came to stand before the new customer. Corduroy's expression was ever friendly as he asked, with a proper "sir" what the man would like.


"Haven't seen you around here before," he added. Most of the hooligans in here were tight regulars. "Just passing through, or are you new to the area?" And what an area it was to get adjusted to.

ooc.___
I know exactly what you mean, doll.

There was a noticeable grimace on Corduroy's face as he watched a family of dust motes cling to the customer's finger. Sighing, he immediately grabbed a new, clean rag, ran it under hot water, and wiped the counter down. One of the barmaids had been supposed to take care of the cleaning, but he had to assume she had never gotten around to it.

Once he had taken care of the dust problem, he turned back to Marcus with a nod of the head. "Darkest thing we got... sure thing," he said, and turned around to grab a few glasses. He rolled his shoulders as he worked, the cotton across his thick back feeling suddenly too tight after all the hours he had spent in the bar.

After a mixing several different liquors, each one a rich, acidic shade of bronze or brass, Corduroy spun on his heel, nodded to a patron that had just entered, and handed the final glass to Marcus.

"Ah, I understand," he muttered after handing the drink over. "This part of town can be rough, to say the very least." He leaned his bulky form against the bar's counter and turned an elbow on its side in a relaxed manner. "Good lookin' dogs like that, though, I bet you don't have much of a problem."

That, and the man probably belonged to one of the city's well known groups. It seemed like most people did these days, especially the upper class. When immortality got mixed with the gangs, people usually found life to be pretty easy.

Or full of gunshots, depending on the day.

"Yea, just took the place over," he said, looking around at the establishment. His eyes fell on a man singing loudly - and badly - in the corner of the room, and he chuckled under his breath. The slurred musician was an easily recognizable regular. Still laughing softly, he continued after a short pause: "I can't say I'm proud of its condition, but I'm definitely working hard to keep the bar running; I'm hoping to have the place really cleaned up before the end of the year."