Mirror Mirror on the wall..., Get another drink for us all.

[Fifth Hat]

No one was smoking, thanks to the ban, but the air in the bar was thick and hazed and definitely wafting. It seemed to emanate from the yellowed walls. The hanging fluorescents let off an old, worn light that flicker ever so often. The tables are old and scarred and some are resting on mismatched legs. No two chairs are the same and only one or two don't wobble. The bar itself is worn smooth by so many hands and glasses that even a carving of "johnny wuz here 2/19/04" is unreadably eroded. The stools have a leather seat, once nice and quite expensive looking, but now they're cracked and leaking stuffing and wobble more dangrously than the chairs. The mirror behind the bar is cracked and dirty and there are some rather vicious looking dust bunnies hiding and breeding among the booze bottles. The floor shall, for decency's sake, remain undescribed. In short, this is not a nice place to be. Ethan loved it.

He was sitting at the bar on an stool that would make Captain Ahab seasick, holding a small glass of something clear. With every drink, he made a face. Ethan didn't want to rush it, however. He wanted this to last. He was celebrating a job well done. He had, for the first time, successfully called and bound a demon in a crystal. One of those neverending power deals, like a battery for magic. The client was very specific about what he wanted (and what he wanted it for, unfortunately -- nasty business) and would not be swayed by alternatives. So Ethan did it. And for once he didn't have to pull something out of his ass (or one of his many pockets) in order to keep everything peachy. Or as peachy as peachy can be in this line of work.

Ethan glanced in the mirror. Who was that rather handsome man dressed in that witty green tshirt ("Hello," it simply said) and those awesome jeans? And what a rakish smile. Why, it was him! You devil you. Ethan toasted himself. His big black coat, full of pockets full of more things than should be possible, was draped on the stool next to him, close at hand just in case he would need a candle or a big of dragon scale or maybe a horn o'plenty. Did he still have that? Maybe he traded it for the dragon scale. He was certain he still had the dragon scale.

Ethan was in a good mood. He felt like talking. Maybe doing a job for free. he wasn't sure. He was high on himself.

[Roxana Shannon]

Roxy pushed open the rough old door to the Empty Glass. She looked around the hazy room, and no one had looked up to notice that she'd entered. All the more better because she looked way to sweet and innocent to be there. But gods know she wasn't. Her big brown eyes darted across the room to the bar, which is exactly where she headed.

Her dark jeans held her to that wobling stool, and she noticed no one around. Only because she wasn't looking. She figured, if she didn't look around, no one would talk to her. See, the reason she had come was to get away. Get away from her dingy little flat, from her typewriter, from the publisher calling and asking detailed questions that Roxy just didn't have the answer to (or didn't want to). She looked across the bar into the dirty, cracked mirror. She tilted her head back a bit. Her hair was falling to the side, a bit messy, and she reached up one hand to fix it, but thought better of it.

Fuck it... I just want a drink.

She searched the back wall's bottles for a hint of Irish whiskey. And the bartender headed over. He just looked at her. "Powers, Irish, Straight." She said. He raised his eyebrows. Honestly, do I look that young? she thought as she reached in her pocket and pulled out her I.D. The bartender said nothing and soon she had a glass in her hand. She stared down into the amber liquid, and took a sip. She felt it slide all the way down her throat and she turned her head to see who else was at the bar. The curlyheaded man nearest to her seemed pretty damn happy. Well yippee for him...