C'mon bartender, hit me with another...

[safetypinalert5]

Sahara was a lovely little place. If you liked naked women, and drunk, creepy old men. Either way, it was a gig, and it kept Dor from whispering in her ear, his mousy desperation to find Alice, and to avoid anyone with too much red on. It was for that simple fact, that London didn't get to wear much red anymore. Dor didn't like it, and tended to squeak in terror any time he saw red lipstick, or mass amounts of red.

Instead of just rolling out of bed and leaving the house like she usually did, she actually had to put an effort in. No men wanted to go to a bar or a club, and see a sloppy bartender--especially a girl. So today, London took the care to curl her hair in careful waves and curls, flipping her hair over, remnicent of the flapper era. She took the time to paint the maroon lipstick on her lips, and frame her already frighteningly large blue eyes with a dark liner.

A black dress hugged tight to her frame. Dor never ceased to express his amazement. London always wore what as comfortable, and usually it wasn't flattering. but here she was, in a tight dress, hugging, and accetuating every curve. The neck of the dress cut low, leaving the top of her chest, and shoulders bare.

She had been grumpy at first, of course. She hated waking up. but now, she was at Sahara. Tonight they were low on girls, and bartenders, so she got to dress a little more provacatively, a little more flirty. And she was living it up, to the fullest. Her hands slammed shot glasses down on the slick bar on rapid fire. She was dancing behind the bar to the almost painfully loud music, pouring the drinks across the shots.

One man set his shot infront of her, which she knocked back easily. Being a bartender, she could drink. But she couldn't get drunk, much to the dismay of some of the guys trying to buy the blonde bombshell a drink.

Watching all of this go on, was Dor, on the top shelf, hidden in the shadows. It'd do no good to have a mouse in a clean establishment, but he refused to let London out of his sight, not in this world, where anyone could be dangerous. All it could take was a large hand around her thin little throat, and London could lose her head. And that would do no good, if they had to protect Alice.

Notes: Jon. Or J.B. or whoever pandy chooses. C:
Outfit:Ignore the brunette.

[JONATHON ROSSUM]

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J.B. had been in control of the body of Jon Rossum for the past two and a half days, a record for the beast, whose strength was growing. Whenever he felt his power slipping, his resolve deteriorating, his strength fading, J.B. 'chased the white rabbit' and felt a surge of power that pulsed in his ears beautifully. It made him feel powerful, stronger than even before. It was a beautiful thing.

He understood Jonathon's appeal to the drug of power and glamor.

But instead of wasting the power on women or stalking Amelia Winston, J.B. used his time to be constructive. Every thought that crossed the feral beast was scratched into a forgotten notebook. Much of it was about Amelia, others were about God, some were about consumerism, mortals, power, Ancient civilizations, various dictators through out history. What they did right, what did they get wrong, what was their ideology. It was complete with pictures, various cartoons of bloody scenes, violence, pestilence, war, post apocolyptica, and finally utopia. He wrote about the cockroach, which J.B. had taken a liking to, and about the simplicity of it's existence.

But with the next line, J.B. suddenly found himself claustrophobic. His yellowing walls felt like a prison, one that he needed to escape from. In fact, the mighty Jabberwock was filled with desperation, as if if he did not get out of that room at that very moment, he would surly die! And what of his roach friend? Would he not die as well?

J.B., in his first act of humanity, scooped up the pest and placed it in his robe pocket.

Fleeing, and not bothering to change out of his pajamas, J.B. ventured out into the cold streets of New York, notebook and pen in hand. First he ran, losing a slipper along the way, until he assumed himself to be lost in the maze like city. It was disgusting, this city. Putrid. Like the festering wound of a plague victim.

But there must be those who think like him. Or could be molded to think like him.

Once again, J.B. pondered power, realizing he had basically none. Over Jon Rossum, sure. But a fucking street magician could fool the idiot into thinking he was Christ. No, to gain power, which he so desperately wanted, he needed masses. But... who?

The scared. The needy. Those who needed to be needed. Those who wanted a sense of family. The foolish, the abused. This was his crowd.

As if clandestine, he found himself outside a strip club, and he smiled a little at his luck. Checking his pocket, he found the roach in shock from the jostling. Grinning at the creature, who was the closest thing to family J.B. could recall, he set it on the side walk. "Go home, Mr. Samsa. I'll be there soon." And watched the insect scurry off.

Walking into the club, he was in complete confidence, despite his appearance. He sat at the bar, opening his notebook, beginning instantly to scribble furiously on a fresh page.

"Do you know what punishments I've endured for my crimes, my sins? None. I am proof of the absurdity of men's most treasured abstractions. A just universe wouldn't tolerate my existence."

J.B. looked up, his black eyes flashing at the pretty blond tending the bar. "Forgive me?" He tried to smooth his ruffled hair, staring at her unblinkingly. "Could I get... a Jagerbomb perhaps." Yes, caffeine. It would fuel him, as he planned.

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[safetypinalert5]

London dropped a shotglass, sending it shattering to the ground, the second that J.B. stepped into the club. A few people asked if she was alright, and she only smiled sheepishly, and reached for the duspant. Delivering service while cleaning, she made a point to lean over as far as she could, sweeping up the glass. Pigs, all of them. She was a party girl, but having to display herself like a piece of meat was degreading. She'd much rather be sleeping.

London dropped the glass into the wastebasket, and rubbed her arms, furrowing her brows and looking around. No one else seemed bothered, so why was it so cold? Blue eyes looked to where her mouse hid, and she pressed her lips in a thin line, hoping he was alright.

"Could I get... a Jagerbomb perhaps?"

London snapped back to reality, "Yep! Coming righ---" The request didn't come from who she expected. She stoped, with a bottle of Jager in her hand, staring at J.B. "Uh..." she placed the bottle down behind the counter, and stepped on a small box, gripping the edge of the bar, and peering over it. Slippers? Or rather, a slipper. She took a step back, and wracked her brain.

London smiled, flashing her pearly white teeth. Leaning on the bar, she put her chin in her hands, and tilted her head slightly, her neat, blonde curls shifting while she sways back and forth. "How much have you had to drink tonight? And have you got the money to pay?" She asked curiously--last she was gonna do was give drinks to a bum in off the street who was going to skip his tab.

There was that beastly chill again. It caused goosebumps on her skin, then then smoothed away. She lowered her hand, reaching for his. Maybe he she could stun him with her mirror, glassy eyes, into admitting. Sahara was a classy place, and didn't need drunks in to cause fights and ruccuss. "Why don't you tell me your name?" She chirped, lowering her eyes for a moment, before peeking up at him through her eyelashes.

Be careful, London. Something doesn't feel too right. Dor echoed in her mind, clear, as though he were whispering in her ear. Idly, her fingers reaced up to her slender neck, checking for the little mouse; not there.

I can feel it, but right now, I have to worry about my job. Otherwise we'll both be rats on the street.

Hmph.

[JONATHON ROSSUM]

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How much did he have to drink tonight? J.B. looked up at her, his expression unreadable as she inquired if he had the means to pay. True, he did not have his wallet on him. This presented a problem, though he very suddenly smiled. "Drink? I have had nuffin to drink." J.B. spoke, his thick accent mingled with amusement.

"Tell me, Dear Heart, would yeh be so curious as to my ability to pay had I been wearin a suit, a dashin tie-" He looked down at his feet, noting the missing slipper. "-Two Shoes, perhaps? True, I do not appear to be yer average, middle age, slightly baldin, over weight, married customer. But I find some offense in yer inquisition. I, perhaps, am more able to pay then many of the highschool boys with fake i.d.'s that mosey through these doors, I'm sure." Still he smiled, still unblinking, doodling a head very similar to the young lady's own likeness.

She asked his name, as he added sweeping hair to his doodle, and a pair of full lips. He ignored her, momentarily, before looking up, his expression innocent. "My name? Forgive me, I hadn't been thinking. Or listening. Whichever applies. My name is-" Which name? Which name was he to use? Jon's name, though not the Jabberwock's modernized given name, was the most useful at the moment. "-Jon Rossum. I am the new owner of that shindig, Whatsitwhosit. Down the Rabbit Hole-" He stopped mid-sentence, looking at the girl momentarily. Had he heard a squeak? It sounded... like a mouse. But... not. Was he simply hearing things?

The woman looked familiar, as he mentioned Down the Rabbit Hole. Was she a patron? No, no, no. More familiar than that. She worked there. Yes! Her name was a place... Paris? No. Eygpt? No, no, that wasn't it. LONDON! Yes. London McSomethingIrish. Funny, her name being the centre of England, and her surname being Irish. As if a homage to the oppression. Charming, really. "So, how about that drink, London. I am quite parched." He added a pair of eyes to his doodle, filling them in with the blue ink.

_________________________________________________________________

[safetypinalert5]

Drunk, homeless or not--that accent was fine as hell, and nearly. Nearly distracted her. Her face flushed, "No, probably not. But it's my job to just make sure, you know?" She pulled out a shot glass, and glanced around, leaning back in, "If you can't pay right now, then this one's on the house. Try not to go overboard, comes out of my paycheck." She flashed a close-lipped smile, winking a blue eye--before her expression changed completely. She gripped the bottle of Jager tightly in her hands.

"R-rossum? Oh shit." Her flirty tone quickly changed to her usual, peppy, chirpy tone. Then he used her name, and she stared up towards the ceiling. "Oh Lord, send a hole to eat me alive." She murmured. London had just offended her boss. Well. One of them. "S-sorry about that, sir." She ducked beneath the bar, and pulled out a glass, along with a redbull out of the mini fridge.

To make up for her offensive question from earlier, she looked up, flipping the can of redbull into the air onehanded, letting it spin, and gain a bit of fizz. She caught it in the same hand, cracking it up, and poured the energy drink into the glass, before pouring a full shot of Jagermeister. She carefully dropped the shot into the glass, letting the drinks mingle. She set the mixed drink infront of him, and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry about that, sir." She apologized again.

Now you've done it, London. We're gonna be rats on the street.

London gave a quick, agitated glance over her shoulder, towards where the dormouse was hiding, before turning her attention back to J.B. "So, why are you here instead of at Rabbit? Why run a tab, when you can get drinks for free at the other place?" Her sexy facade had dropped; most people knew she was at Rabbit Hole too, and last she needed were rumors to spread, if she was seen getting too friendly with the boss.

At Sahara, you could flirt a little, be overly sexy, and men ate it up. At a club you could be sexy, but it needed to be somewhat toned down. Friendlier atmosphere, instead of one of lust and desire. Plus. Getting the man who signs your paycheck to desire you, never led to good things.