Booker had an established reputation -- though depending on who you asked it was either favorable or revolting. Adam? Yeah, they were alright Adam and himself. Booker welcomed him with a small nod and watched the other get settled next to him. Booker was slumped forward on his elbows and arms, leaning up against the bar. He wore a cream turtleneck and a pair of light colored plaid pants. His jacket was hung up with the rest of the patrons' near the front. The bar wasn't with the full five stars but it was classy enough to have a closet for your coat and hat.
Tonight's menu consisted of a side of messy hot wings, fries, and potato skins covered in cheese, bacon, chives, and sour cream. It was the artillery for getting drunk and tonight he was sure the two of them were going to enjoy keeping warm together inside, away from that awful chill.
"That was a code name." Booker said casually. The bar wasn't full and with what few people lingered here were not the sort who were aware of their surroundings. This place was the kind of trove people went for privacy. More so, between the two of them they more than less owned this place. The years they had to establish themselves here was more than enough to at least be grandfathered into ownership.
Good ole' Titan's Trove. Best goddamn oysters around -- if you're into that sort of thing.
Booker looked back to his cup and then plucked up a wing before he quickly explained: "Atlas isn't his real name.. It's Frank Fountaine and he's a fleeting sort.. the kind that'll end up across country without so much as a paper trail. In fact, the last sighting of him was at Cape Elizabeth down in Maine. After that? Who knows.. we have to wait until he resurfaces or at least one of his boys gets into trouble." Now, about this wing.
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Tonight's menu consisted of a side of messy hot wings, fries, and potato skins covered in cheese, bacon, chives, and sour cream. It was the artillery for getting drunk and tonight he was sure the two of them were going to enjoy keeping warm together inside, away from that awful chill.
"That was a code name." Booker said casually. The bar wasn't full and with what few people lingered here were not the sort who were aware of their surroundings. This place was the kind of trove people went for privacy. More so, between the two of them they more than less owned this place. The years they had to establish themselves here was more than enough to at least be grandfathered into ownership.
Good ole' Titan's Trove. Best goddamn oysters around -- if you're into that sort of thing.
Booker looked back to his cup and then plucked up a wing before he quickly explained: "Atlas isn't his real name.. It's Frank Fountaine and he's a fleeting sort.. the kind that'll end up across country without so much as a paper trail. In fact, the last sighting of him was at Cape Elizabeth down in Maine. After that? Who knows.. we have to wait until he resurfaces or at least one of his boys gets into trouble." Now, about this wing.