The bartender nods and smiles at NinjaNinja.

"Yes, Sir. I memorized what we call the Bartender's Bible, but it's not like riding a bicycle. You've got to be making particular drinks over and over or you'll find yourself lost. Been pretty lucky here, though. Mostly whisky drinkers with fat wallets," he says, grinning.

"Been married two years this Christmas. The missus wants a baby but with the economy the way it is...I can't stomach the thought. One day, though!" He says with a cheery smile.

"These bad times can'tlast forever! "

He smiles at the bartender, seeing that the bartender is a very hopeful and positive person. He liked that about him, not enough positivity in the world. 

"I'm married too, my very beautiful wife CamillaBalistreri, she has a very kind heart." He looks down at his wedding ring and smiles. "I agree with you though, I find that the world will change to be a better place. You know Marcel Proust? He wrote a book that barely no one ever read, didn't have very good relationships, not to many things went well for him. Well near the end of his life, he looks back at all those years he suffered and realized those were the best years of his life because they made him who he was. All the years he was happy, was a total waste, he didn't learn a thing. So I guess what I'm saying is appreciate the tough times, because they will make you who you are. 

He gives a gentle smile at the bartender, and continues to drink his whiskey. 

"Proust? Oh, yes Sir. My mother read his works. I didn't understand it as a young boy but I do remember one quote that has stayed with me... 'If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time'.

"A smart man, indeed," the bartender says as he swaps out a clean ashtray for the soiled one. 

"May I refresh your drink? Or...well, we don't typically serve a full menu here in the bar but I can certainly get the kitchen staff to rustle up something more substantial that mixed nuts, if you're interested?"

"Yes, some may argue he is probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. I read a volume in his book once, In Search of Lost Time, it was an interesting read. Proust was indeed an interesting man, the quote is a nice one too." He smiles, and nods. "Please do, that would be very nice of you."

The bartender refills his drink

NinjaNinja asks, "What foods do you serve here?"

Augustus has been walking around town to suddenly find himself looking at this beautiful dive bar. They call it Dirty D . 

He continues to walk in and heads straight to bar where this sweet, fine lady was service drinks.

"Good evening ma'am. I all have bourbon on the rocks please." 

continues to look around to see his surroundings

The bartender on duty smiles as she brings a bourbon to the last customer. As she places the drink on the bar, she sets a flyer next to it. It appears to be for a new whisky distillery a mere block away. The owner's name is immediately recognizable.

"Drink's on the house, Honey. You're our last patron before we shut the doors. No rush with that, though, please take your time to enjoy it. The owner of the distillery sends her regards and hopes you'll pay her a visit in the near future," she says with a wink.

Kathryn walked into the bar, hands in her jacket pockets, feeling strangely comfortable. The bar seemed like a shell of what it had been in days past, perhaps, but there were still a couple dozen people spread out drinking in two or three rooms. 

The bar was forgettable- but the bartender? Not so much. He stood at least 6'4 and his physique reminded Kathryn of Gluttony and Sloth, two Herculean dancers named after the seven deadly sins in her club. He had blue eyes that matched Kathryn's- they followed the two women as they entered the bar and moved to a booth in the corner. Blonde, close cropped hair, and a blonde beard. He smiled at them as they sat down.

Merci holds up the bottle she's carrying. 

"Don't know your policy, but we brought our own. We'll pay accordingly, if you'd kindly bring us three glasses?" she asks sweetly, throwing a wad of cash on the counter.

The bartender's deep voice rumbles from over the bar as he cracks a grin and pockets the cash.

"Not usually our style, but the rules don't apply to the truly beautiful. Especially when they're throwing money at me."

He ambles over to the booth and places three glasses on the table, squinting at The_Courier to try to figure out if he was attached to one, both, or neither of the women.

"You need anything, just give me a yell."

Kathryn watches him go as he walks back to the bar, before she turns back to Merci with a bemused grin.

"Let's have a drink. And we can talk about some of the other targets for you in the city, Curry."

Before following Merci and Kathryn to the table, The Courier saunters over to the receptionist and places an arm on the counter. He jerks his trench-coat aside enough to show the M1911-Colt strapped to his waist. "I would love some o' yer finest service, or else there'll be consequences, if ya catch me drift." he tells the receptionist cheerily. 

MercI is about to pour three doubles when the bottle she's holding explodes. The speakeasy was suddenly inundated with dirty cops, as they decided they didn't like one of their own taking a bullet earlier.

The raid commenced, men and women being slammed to the ground indiscriminately as they sought the woman responsible. Merci stood, not frightened by these pigs. She starts walking towards them fearlessly, and suddenly Curry is beside her, itching to fight as well. Cracking her knuckles, she rears back and throws her body weight into a donut-fattened jaw that had never been punched before, much less by a woman. His head snapped back and he fell backwards into another cop, who looked up just in time to see a fancy stiletto boot as it smashed into his face, breaking his nose. She turns to check on her crewmates, delivering a solid elbow into a third cop's gut before bringing his face down hard, into her knee. 

"Clear a path and let's go!" she calls out, hesitating near the door.

"... well, shit."

Kathryn threw her drink at one of the cops, but he grabbed her and pinned her arms to her sides as Merci and The_Courier started throwing punches. Kathryn struggles as the cop lifts her off the ground. As he turns her, Kathryn locks eyes with the bartender.

"HEY! Thor! Want to make 50 grand? Get me the fuck out of here!"

Looking around at the cops raiding his place, the broad-shouldered bartender made a quick choice. A few seconds later, the cop was on the ground and he was making his way toward Merci and Curry, with Kathryn close behind. 

The man named The Courier was never a fan of dirty cops. He worked with them when he needed to, but he recognized them for the slimy bits of filth that they were. At least he never pretended he was working for the benefit of society. He slips his fists into his pockets, and when he draws them back out, they are clutching a pair of brass knuckles. Stepping in front of the cops, he shields Merci from view, as the big guy who was offered 50 grand does the same to Kathryn. He didn't know about the big guy, but he sure as hell didn't feel that Merci and Kathryn couldn't take care of themselves. He just figured that their lives were worth more than his.

"I'm gonna ask ya'll nicely just this once." he tells the cops in a low growl. "Piss off, and none of ya'll get hurt." The cops respond with training their guns on him, and pulling back the hammers. The Courier chuckles darkly. "Fine, have it yer way." Before the cops can react, he smashes into them with uncharacteristic speed, his brass knuckles crashing into every inch of uniform-clad, donut-munching flesh, breaking bones and knocking out teeth. Fighting together, the four of them carve a way through the police and manage to reach their vehicle outside.

Once they are inside, and the vehicle speeds off, The Courier leans back in his seat, his heart thumping wildly. Turning, he sees Merci beside him in a similar state, and on an impulse, leans over and kisses her passionately. 

"Hey back the fuck of me eh?" i yelled at a homeless man, the fucker came up to me mumbling some shit that made no sense i couldn't have that I've had to lay a few of them out, yea they are gone in the head but that doesn't mean a god damn thing if they're in my face. I took the few more steps left before opening the door and walking into the joint.

Today was a successful one and i was going to bed happy, big money profits made my dick hard, honestly and who didn't get one when just thinking about the green?

I eyed a broad smoking a cigarette across the room, damn she looked good. I kept her in mind if that was where i wanted to take this at the end of the night. I pulled a flask out of my pocket and knocked back a huge swig ending with me pulling out a cigarette and sparking it up. The smoke hit the air and i took a seat on a couch.

Why i was here? i mean i could have many other places to relax but i wanted to be in a random spot, random people but all good vibes around. Today treated me to well to just pass out drunk at home with nothing done in between.

Another drag and i rested my head back, i wonder what the night has in store. 

TLG walks into the bar and pauses, two phantasmic feminine shades seemingly flirting at the bar before dissolving in a wisp of smoke to reveal a dusty, empty business. The old man cracks a grin, his hand still on the door- before turning and making his way to the street.

It really was a lot of fun. All of it. And all of you.

Nikki stood in front of the decrepit old bar, drawn somehow to it and unable to walk away. Finding the door unlocked, she stepped inside. The place was a shambles; barstools knocked over, a foot of dust on everything, the occasional rat scurrying out of the stuffing of one of the booths. A moment passed. Two. Then she walked to the bar and stepped behind it. It took fifteen minutes, but she finally found a bottle of old Irish whisky that the derelicts hadn't pilfered. There were no glasses to be found, none that weren't broken, anyway, so she simply broke the seal and took a deep swallow directly from the bottle. Setting it aside, she used a fingertip to write in the dust upon the bar's surface.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.

She stared at the words in silence, then carefully recapped the whisky and returned it to where she'd found it. 

She would be back.

Back again, this time with a blue-eyed Dalmatian puppy she'd smuggled in her handbag onto the plane. Setting the dog on the bar, she reached for her secret stash and rested her elbows on the bar.

Time to talk to the ghosts.

"They're coming back. And they're looking for you," she said quietly, her eyes watering. She took a long pull off the bottle.

'I know you can't. And I can't ask you to. We just...KEATS!" She yelled, snatching the puppy up before he spilled off the bar. She gripped him tightly and kissed his nose, as he was all she had of a Detroit she never personally knew. Billie, Thomas. Christian, the man she'd feared.

No, not her. Someone else.

KateLogan, the woman she'd loved.

No, not her. Someone else!

The names were nothing but words on pages, but those pages were inexplicably stamped into her psyche. She held the puppy close and replaced the bottle once more before leaving the bar, tiny dog prints left behind across the dusty surface she'd written on before.

"It's not just Detroit. Our Los Angeles is coming back, too," she murmured, indecipherable words spouting from an entirely confused woman. How do you miss people you've never known?

As he passed the now derelict bar, Cesare seemed inexplicably drawn to it. There were probably a thousand bars in Detroit, all of them more lively, but this one called to him. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The feeling was instant. The overwhelming residual essence of histories long lost swirled in the drafty air. He kicked a discarded table leg and distinctly heard laughter as it skipped across the floor.

He could not shake the feeling that he'd missed something. Something unique and altogether unrecoverable, and there was deep sorrow embedded in it. Here, surely, there were stories worth telling, minds with a drive to create, as if they were their own gods shaping reality to fit their hearts' desires. Kin whose names he would never hear. Ancient forebearers who spoke now only in a memory he could not share. He felt like a soldier arriving after the battle is won and all glory divided.

The voices floated with the dust falling from the rafters, 'We were here, we were young, we were happy...'

There was a...'holiness'... he curiously had picked the word off of writing spread into the bar top. As he turned his head awkwardly to inspect it, it became clear whose hand had stricken the months of disuse from the surface. The letters were of his Nikki. He felt a wave of reconnection wash over him. A hand darted into his jacket pocket and retrieved his notebook.

Struck with the drive to capture the tumult of his heart, he wrote to her. Leaving the completed letter folded on the bar top for her to find, should she ever return again.

There were spirits in the air. They were careful watchmen.

They were...

Cesare scribbled a note in his book and tore out the page. Opening the door he wedged the page into the window facing the street.

"...DEAD POETS"