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Mᴏʀɢᴀɴ Bʟᴀᴋᴇ; ʀᴀᴠᴇɴ ᴛᴏᴛᴇᴍ (
2016-01-08 02:58 am (UTC)
So close. They are
close to sitting down somewhere quiet, secluded, out of the way of whatever it is that's trying to kill this guy. Moritz questions him further, still, and Morgan has to take a breath to steady his fraying patience. Okay. Apparently this discussion is going to happen right here on the street because getting him to hold off for a more secluded setting is taking longer than it would to just
him. Damn this. This is definitely the messiest interception Morgan's ever handled, and he spites the idea that it's probably because of his shitty tactics this time.
Until... What? Morgan frowns in confusion over at the other man, until what he's trying to convey has him looking down at his denim pocket. The lighter. Good fucking god.
"Yeah," Morgan says in a tone so close to saying 'so what?' without actually being rude. Not much else to say about it aside from the truth. "Well, I don't usually like to introduce myself with tippin' my hat and tellin' someone they're gonna die t'day. I-- Jesus." Morgan sighs and pulls through his hair with his fingers.
But Moritz finally relents, verbally agreeing to follow him to the bar. Good enough for Morgan, who wastes no time taking that as the green light he needs to spin around and walk these last few yards to this damned dive.
Which is, as Morgan expected, scarcely populated. This time of day? He was counting on it.
It's a dark, vaguely large L-shaped room, with billiard tables in the side section. It's the emptiest part of the establishment. Morgan motions for Moritz to head in there with a hand, and doesn't follow in until he's ordered them some beers. It's a blissful half-minute where Morgan stills his mind while he waits for his two bottles of Appalachian Pale Ale. Morgan thinks there could be a chance that Moritz might recognize it, if he lived so close to Tennessee.
"Okay." The bottle clanks on the wooden trim of the billiard table, the one he's offering Moritz. He takes a sip from his own bottle, not looking at the other in the eye just yet. A jukebox in the other room near the doorway to this 'game room' has begun to play Creedence Clearwater Revival, and it will continue to do so for ten dollars' worth of time this oracle has spent to give them a little more cover, while he talks. "Look...this usually goes a lot smoother when I gotta do this, but I didn't have much forewarning. Hell, I'm not even real sure how you were gonna die."
Morgan wants a cigarette. It seems like a little much now that's he's sipping a beer, in terms of idle things to keep his hands busy. Head hung from slouching shoulders, Morgan peeks at the taller man between black curtains of hair. "Usually I get t'...
a little more, but for you, I kinda got nothin'. I'm guessing accidental overdose, and that's a shot in the dark."
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