<:\\It's Always a Frying Pan [Fizzlebeef, Jesus, OPEN]

February 9th, 2012
5:22PM
Washington, D.C., Inside an Old Downtown "Watering Hole" named The Soaked Baguette

Fizzlebeef sighed airily as he flung a black apron over his neck and swung the strings around his back to tie them in the front. No matter how many times he cooked here it was always a drag; they forced him to cook crappy food at D.C. prices he STILL gawked at, even after living here for for over 10 years of his childhood. As if that wasn't enough, customers would routinely complain about the heavily processed food, fights broke out at the bar on a bi-hourly basis, and approximately 90% of the people who walked in, stumbled out drunk as hell on their way out.

Still, his pay rate was fantastic for putting up with this gig since his large body allowed him to double as a bouncer of sorts, plus the security of knowing he would ALWAYS be able to work here on his trips to D.C. One of the perks of knowing the manager very well, or so Fizzlebeef assumed.

He was scheduled to work til midnight tonight. As such, he expected to break up at least two fights and call the cops to alert them to at least 5 potential drink 'n drives. As dark as it sounds, Fizzlebeef could swear that when he's done so in the past, they actually sound happy. He can never decide whether it's because he's helping them fulfill their quota, or because they're just that excited to keep the streets free of drunkards behind the wheel. Either way it made little difference to Fizzlebeef.

As if on queue, when he threw his first batch of burgers onto the metal cooking plates he began to hear shouting. He debated with himself about leaving the kitchen to help the server and bartender break it up before it got violent. After about a minute or so and the shouting got more intense he decided it might be best. Shaking his head as he flipped the burgers real quick with a metal spatula, he trudged over to the kitchen door and held it open against the wall with his right forearm.

"Do I need to get my hands dirty?" Fizzlebeef asked with a facetious grin, leaning against his right arm with the door and waving his spatula in the other in a nonchalant manner.

Thirsty. He was always so thirsty after a good long days work. Not that it was hard mind you, far from it. Boosting and chopping cars was something he could do in his sleep, But traveling across the world in what amounted to a metaphorical blink of an eye well... That was another matter entirely.  No travailing through Inferis always took it out of the more then metro hispanic man, and as he walked into one of the little bars that littered downtown D.C. all Jesus wanted to do was eat a good greasy burger and was it down with some cheap ass beer.

When the door shut behind him he looked around, the kinda dim lighting putting an almost dingy cast to the bar and the people that inhabited it. In sharp contrast Jesus was wearing designer clothing and what looked like hand stitched cowboy boots. All in all the young man stood out like a sore thumb. With out another look at the patrons who were in various stages of intoxication already, and weaving his way around the pool tables his rather shapely ass swinging in the air his finally managed to find his way to a seat at the bar.

"Ey there! Care to toss me a burger and a beer? Don't care what is is Vato, so long as its wet and cold you know?" The bartender nodded, called back his order and handed hims a pitcher and a punder glass. With a look of relish, Jesus bored him self a glass before taking a long draft. With a sigh of contentment he set it down and glanced back around him, then he felt a tap on his shoulder. "Hey... Your the Heyzues fellow. I've got a bone to pick with you!" Jesus's eyes and head swept back around to look at his other side and saw a rather tall and drunk man(He was obviously some sort of alcoholic, who gets wasted at five?) that was covered head to toe in tatoos, one that he recognized.

"Ey Sam! hows that old car treating you?" The return glower was all the answer he needed. "Soon as we left your shop the ol thing blew sky high!" The Mexican could only shake his head, he had told the man that his old beater was on its last legs... But did he believe him? Nope never. "Well I told you Vato I told ya. What you want me to do about it?"

"Do about it? DO ABOUT IT!?! I want you to fucking fix it!"

"Do I need to get my hands dirty?"

Sam looked over and shook his head "Oh no me and my bud here are going for a lil walk. Dont worry about it." Jesus for his part was not keen on going anywhere with the drunk and overly aggressive Sam. The man was a strong arm for one of the local gangs... And they where not known for taking it easy on anyone, let alone someone they viewed as slighting them.

"Oh no me and my bud here are going for a lil walk. Dont worry about it." Fizzlebeef heard in response to his own question. He turned to face who spoke up and saw a walking tattoo catalog who looked so sleazy he'd just as soon shank you in the gut as shake your hand. The guy looked like stereotypical gang material. He had never been in here before, but Fizzlebeef wasn't about to take chances.

For whatever reason, he seemed very interested in the other latino sitting down in front of him, one that... well to be frank, Fizzlebeef couldn't help but smile at in amusement. The guy was dressed like a fashion designer taking into account the general trend around this neck of the woods. Still, his smile quickly faded upon looking back at the one with the tattoos; that drunk, hateful look in his eyes was NOT a good sign.

"Well this is a first! Fizzlebeef chimed lightheartedly, though there was a hint of severity behind his tone. He silently laid his spatula down on the counter next to him and grabbed a frying pan hanging nearby, staying in the doorway to hide it from view. He looked at the other one who was sitting down before continuing. "I don't normally see guys like yourself hanging around with with the maggots in this bar. I take it he's bothering you?" Fizzlebeef already knew the answer; the metrosexual looked anything but enthused to be talking to this hothead. He didn't wait for the confirmation. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm gonna have to ask you to leave him alone," He added in a much more serious tone, looking the drunkard in the eye. This was gonna get ugly unless Mr. February here had a silver tongue.

Fizzlebeef was hoping he did.