Logs:A Friendly Fish-Fry

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A Friendly Fish-Fry


Characters: Axle, Fawn, Fen, Lance and Ramsey
Date: 2020-02-26
Summary: Fixers and friends(?) at a fish-fry. Who cares about Lent anyway?
Disclaimers: {{{disclaimers}}}

Out here by Lake Pontchartrain, the citizens of NOLA are lucky enough to be far enough away from the mayhem and madness of Mardi Gras; however, that does not mean that they don't have their own fun. At the moment, fun appears to be centered around a propane powered, outdoor fish fryer set up on a few nice, flat concrete blocks. Axle is seated on an overturned bucket beside it, in the process of batch frying various things; hunks of battered fish, hush puppies, some breaded fish, poking it with one of those metal spider strainer doodads. Even if she isn't Catholic, there's always room for a fish fry.

Her little mad scientist boom box (one of Way's signature creations) is on the ground beside her, currently tuned in to WKBU, Classic Rock.

--

Ramsey's farm truck is nearby, the tailgate down and his boots hanging off of it as he lays back in the bed of the truck, a beer and a joint in easy reach, occasionally getting up to reload his acquisition of whatever is fried up, most of it not exactly doing much for him nutritionally, but that's not the point now is it? Lent isn't for Ramsey. He has on a pair of sunglasses with white plastic frames that are decorated with the cut out pattern of the american flag.

--

Trudging through the grass with a swish added by each step she takes comes Fawn. She's wearing brown pants that have random buttons and straps around the knee before they disappear into her laced-up boots. A tan sweater keeps the evening chill from getting to her. She carries a warm-glow led lantern in her right hand and the left holds onto the case of a six pack of beer. Look at that. She's learning! As Fawn makes her way towards where she can smell food frying she gives a nod to Ramsey and then a greeting to Axle, "Smells great. I haven't had fried fish in forever."

--

When there's a propane powered, outdoor fish fryer on concrete blocks, is there really anywhere else fun could be centered? Not likely! The smell, in the least, is likely to draw a lot of attention, and yet, it doesn't seem to be the delicious eats nor the music worthy of an air-riff or two that has drawn the young man in the worn-out grey hoodie and patched jeans. Blonde hair is pulled back in the tiniest of adorable man-buns under the raised hood, leaving only some of his model-good looks there for the seeing, along with the smudge of ash on his forehead, but it's about what he looked like the last time Top Hat crossed paths with Wheelbarrow, if he'd drop that hood.

Lance's probably not trying to make himself seem suspicious, but it being about, oh, the third time he's been sighted on the edges of this particular gathering isn't probably helping that image. The college jock has, however, noticed one familiar thing here and he's circling slowly closer now to Ramsey's farm truck.

--

M'be she walked, m'be Fawn picked her up. All the same! Fen is here. She did not bring her appetite, for which she could hopefully be forgiven. Don't know who Fen is? Well, that's Fen showing up. Little thing, doesn't look at all old enough to (legally) drink. Pink hair. Eyepatch. Jean jacket over a tee, faded black jeans. Sneakers. Pink kitty collar around her neck for style's sake. No it's not symbolic. "Never been to a fish-fry," she'll note to Fawn. Because it seems topical.

--

Axle did not, in fact, change clothes after last night. The best part about greasy fish and pups, it's great after a bad hangover. And she has one of those, even after she swore off alcohol. But it is Ramsey's family's fault, probably. So she is still wearing her tank top that proclaims 'MARDI GRAS VIRGIN IN NEED OF BEADS' and seemingly the only pair of jeans she owns. And no shoes. Around popping grease, because she's hard core.

There's a brilliant purple and blue bruise on her shoulder where she tackled Mother Earth to catch a chicken. She also has a cigarette dangling from her mouth while she strains store bought breaded shrimp out of the oil, whiffs of smoke curling into her bedraggled face. As AC/DC's 'Hells Bells' starts up on the radio, the wolf-blood plucks the cigarette from her mouth and says, "We'll fry whatever you got. Throw your wallet in. Just got to let the oil heat back up."

--

Ramsey's hand lifts up from the truck bed like a waving periscope, then he uses that good old fashioned core strength to sit up without moving his legs and yawns before downing his beer. "Starting to be a party. Take that, Lent," he says resentfully. Hard to be catholic when you worship the moon anyway. "Now all we need is some good music and we'll be in business," he teaches, then notices that some of the arrivals are not who he expected and says "What up, Top Hat," in greeting. Fen knows. Fen's cool and was there.

--

"Really? -Ugh-!" Fawn exaggerates to Fen with a toss back of her head as she groans to the heavens. "And now it's too late.. Fuuucccckk. I'm sorry. Hushpuppies are amazing. Only with tartar sauce or that sweet honey butter, though.." she mentions with a soft groan. She looks over towards Axle then and says, "Please tell me we have tartar sauce and honey butter.. Or at least the ingredients so I can whip some up. I ain't dippin' fish in ketchup." She lowers her lantern down to the ground near Axle and then finds herself a place to sit. Not too close to the cooking, though, 'cause she's apparently not as hard core as Axle. As she plops herself down she glances about, and one of the first things she notices is the blonde man wandering around. She lifts her chin a little and watches. "Ya don't think this is good music?" she calls back to Ramsey while keeping her eyes on Lance.

--

Hard to be a Catholic, period, if anyone were to ask the one obviously marked as such. That ash-marked brow is folding into furrows as blue eyes take in a number of other playing pieces. "Sup," comes with an up-nod for Ramsey, a glance toward the tiny teen with one eye, "Wolverine." Is that humor? Maybe a little, but then Lance was busy when the Fastball Special was launched from a certain wolf's arm-canons. He hazards closer, hands still tucked into his hoodie pocket, although one comes out to push back his hood before returning to the safety of that place. The hoodie's a little big on him, but that's fine, because it helps shroud the pistol tucked at his back.

The scholarship kid's attention sweeps over the ladies near and near-ish the fish fryer before glancing back to one of the two with whom he's familiar. "Yo, Road House, you manage to get that float uncursed in time to show it off?" The blonde asks of the boss for that particular escapade. This probably doesn't explain what he's doing here, but at least it's a nice non-threatening way to start more of a conversation.

--

At first glance, a Fish Fry looks like an informal fish & chips party without the chips. But it's Lent, so. She's from Boston. She's familar with loosely Catholic-themed secular activities. Hard to be Catholic anyway when, uh, you have Fen's lifestyle. She'll will also stay away from the cooking. Because it's unnerving. First, fire, but also containers of boiling hot flammable liquids. Not her thing. She's alergic. What being a vampire. Upnod for Ramsey, perhaps a grin, but she's not going to mention that tomfoolery here. Because people may get ideas. Oh Lance did anyway. Well whatever.

--

"There's a tuner dial right *there*, dude. But if you put it on one of those twangy tear in my beer stations, I'll fuck you up," Axle harshes as Ramsey complains about her choice of music. But she grins afterward, showing him the love she has in her black heart. Eyes fall on Fawn, next, and she gestures toward a cooler in the midst of other stuff. "Cole slaw and condiments is in there. There *is* tartar sauce. But I didn't know about honey butter. Next time," she promises. At the least, the fryer lacks fire. Just the bubbling hot cauldron of oil. "How you doing?" Ax asks of Fen. Fen. Fawn. Ax. Ask. It's a tongue twister.

Eyes flick in Lance's direction and she studies him, eyes all squinty. "Are you one of Ramsey's cousins? Cause I have a bone to pick with the one who kep' feeding me shots." Not that the blonde with the adorable man-bun looks at all like a Leger.

--

Ramsey slips to the ground and cracks his neck, taking a stolen and somewhat battered iPod out of his pocket and the aux cable, going over to the stereo and plugging it in. "Listen, I'm not the one who insists on listening to music that was considered old before I was born, sister." He grins though and turns the little wheel until some relatively recent local band type stuff comes on. Then he goes and picks up a hunk of fish, taking a punctuating bite, then glances at lance, "Naw, he ain't one of ours. I don't think, anyway? Speaking of," he glances toward Fawn, "You look different. New scarf?"

--

"Sweet.." Fawn says when condiments are marked present. "I'll make some next time. It's the best." She grins to herself and waits then, looking now to watch Lance and his interaction with Ramsey.. He must be alright, which makes Fawn relax more. Her eyes shift to Ramsey and narrow slightly in thought. A hand lifts to check.. no scarf. "Maybe you're not used to my hair like this," she says. It must have been the loss of the few dreads. RIP dreads.

--

"I thought about dreds once," observes pink-haired girl. "But then I'd look like a Troll doll." A skinny one. She leaves the eating of fish to the, uh, nondead people. Sitting next to Fawn and leaning back, absently brushing her hair back with a hand since she's talking about it. The eyepatch makes her occasional use of mirror shades perhaps a bit more obvious. And her hair is a scraggly sort of pink, like did it herself in a public washroom somewhere. An absent flick of one of Fawn's bangs. "I like it, though. It is all fresh and stuff."

--

The way Lance receives Axle's squinty-look with aplomb probably indicates that he's used to getting looks not entirely unlike that. He does have something of the look of a person who would end up feeding a person one too many shots given the opportunity. The question has him pausing and putting things together. First, a name for wheelbarrow, then the question and the implication. He looks to Ramsey, considering and gives a shrug and headshake. "I mean, anything's possible I guess, but probably not that. Definitely not the shots. I was one of those lucky assholes who had to work last night." Lucky.

Blue eyes skip over to Fawn, to Fen, "You got a name or should I just keep calling you 'Wolverine'?" He interjects, but there's a wry smile that he casts to both women before looking back to Ramsey and Axle, offering, "Lance." Like that's a normal name or something. It's fine. He looks like the kind of dude to have a pretentious name like Lance. Maybe he looked like that when he was born, too? But, like, a baby version?

--

"I should never have let Way put an aux hole in that thing," Axle remarks about her mad scientist boom box, which appears to have been cobbled together with all kinds of funky wires and mismatched speakers. But it gets AM/FM and that's all she wanted at the time. "She looks like she always has to me," the curly-haired 'blood points out in the wake of Ramsey's words about Fawn, squinting at her next. She sets the strainer down and puts the cigarette back in her mouth. Like someone's trashy grandmother, frying up dinner with a coffin nail in her mouth. Since Ramsey keeps eating the food, she keeps frying it up, adding more stuff to the oil, carefully laying it in with her fingertips, so it doesn't splash. "I thought you would still be driving a parade float up and down St. Charles, Fen. Maybe they'll let you put a float on the streetcar line."

"So who *are* you. Lance?" she clarifies, cigarette bobbing up and down at her mouth, a haze of smoke making her squint. At least they can all see one another, since she set up the fish fryer in an area where one of the street lights shines on them like a spotlight on a really fucked up nativity. Maybe that shrimp floating in the fryer is supposed to personify the baby Jesus. "I'm Sofia. People call me Axle, though."

--

The traditional scenes as decorated in many homes, wherein the fried shrimp pile watches, and the werewolf action figure seems an odd choice. "Yeah, turns out I don't actually know how to decurse stuff? But I mean, as long as it didn't get into the parade, we're good. And having it around is fine, right? I mean they're probably pissed and want it back, so we might have to destroy or ditch it, but we're not there yet." Ramsey goes to pick up his joint and says "Lance. Lance helped out me and Fen on that job, along with Race Car from yesterday. We're kind of a crack team of urban mercenaries. We'll need a name, so I can get some cheap business cards made."

--

Laughing about her hair, Fawn says, "Gee. I hate to think about what would have been everyone's opinion if I'd never taken them out. Tell me a bit more about the hairstyles you hate." She says this in a lighthearted way, laughing again. "They were mostly tied in anyway. Easy to remove." She winks at Fen. "And thank you, Axle. See? I look the same to her." She smirks towards Ramsey and then says to Fen, "I heard about that. You of all people, driving a float.. Did you get pulled over?" she teases, eyes widening like her grin. "I like the image of you I had in my head, riding off into the night, going two miles an hour with traffic honking behind you.." She snickers, and to distract herself from laughing too much she glances to Lance and offers, "Fawn," with a friendly wave.

--

"I'm Fen," sez Fen, raising her hand a little. In case it wasn't clear in context from Axle and Ramsey talking. "I just ditched it behind a warehouse somewhere. I dunno how to drive, man, I got out before I ran outta luck." It was, after all, not a subtle set of wheels. It was a freaking Marti Gras float. Good thing it wasn't manual shift. Do floats come in standard? "If I do learn to drive m'be I'll get a Jeep or somethin'. A bike. I dunno. I think I'm done with parade attractions."

--

One should really know better than to ask any college student who they are. It probably starts an internal cascade of unanswerable existential crises, but for all that complex inner world doubtless shrouded by the hot blonde exterior, the answer Lance hands back to Axle is a shrug and a, "I'm the one with the good drugs. Well, the other kind of good drugs." So he doesn't mean Ramsey's weed. "Want me to look at your shoulder?" He asks of Axle like that's normal before turning his eyes to the werewolf. "Speaking of, I know some people who'd probably like some of what you have." He doesn't actually say 'do you deal??' but the implication for the people who know what's what is probably plain enough.

The toe of one of Lance's athletic shoes digs into the dirt under foot as he casts a self-conscious glance around the circle before coming back to Ramsey and saying, "I don't know for sure but I might know some people who know about uncursing things." In theory, anyway. "I could ask around." Because in New Orleans it's not weird to ask around about that... right? Okay, maybe a little weird. That doesn't stop him from tossing an up-nod back toward the F-squad, with a friendly enough, "Sup." Then, a squint at Fawn, then Fen, and the necessary question, "You don't know how to drive?" What. The. Hell.

--

"You're looking at it right now," Axle points out, being a facetious little snot. But she's grinning as she does it, so it doesn't count. She plucks the cigarette free from her mouth, leaning to stub it out on one of the concrete blocks, setting it aside with a few other spent filters. "You some kind of new age healer? By the way: There's fried food. Eat some if you're hungry," she invites. "And there's beer in the cooler. And cole slaw. Oh! And tater tots. I forgot about those," she exclaims, pushing up off the bucket and going over to fetch a sack of thawing tots from inside one of their collection of iced beer coolers to take back to the fryer. Almost time for the shrimp bobbing in the oil to be taken up anyway.

"You're going to have to tell us the story about this crack team some time, Ram. I mean, those of us who apparently weren't crackly enough to be *invited*," she goads, grinning wolfishly.

--

"I mean, I am sure we could muddle through an uncursing, that's just basic science. Little lemon juice, some potato water, lower the pH down," he rambles, then takes a long puff on his joint, and squints a little. "That so? I mean, I don't really distribute. I'm in it for the art." Ramsey grows in industrial quantities for personal use. "The notion of tater tots does seem exciting though, if only for a contrast. He eyes them shramps. "I mean, it was short notice, we went with who showed up. You were busy, I think? There will be more missions, you can join." Falling to a crouch, he glances upward and thinks for a moment before saying "Shit.. Got an idea. But we're gonna need some DISGUISES."

--

Fen gives Lance her 'What?' expression. "I dunno how to drive," she'll repeat. Because it apparently bears repeating. Then he'll get a little shoulder bob of a shrug, because she doesn't know why it would be hard to believe. "I guess it ain't that hard." She'll glance at the beer cooler, but won't get up to fetch herself one. Her inner mortal teenager is swearing at the fates, but external vampire teenager has no practical use for it. Sigh. Oh fuck Ramsey is making stoned plots again.

--

Good drugs? This gets Fawn's attention. Too bad she's just picked up some fish and is in the process of putting it on a plate, so now with the distraction she's burning her fingers. She snaps her attention back to the plate and hisses as she drops the fish onto it. She mutters some choice words, pops her thumb into her mouth, and then watches Axle. "Yeah," she agrees with the other woman, thumb pulled out to show her grin. "Disguises? I'm in."

--

Lance's hands come up in a gesture of surrender to Axle's first, entirely fair point. He's not going to come checking out her bruise without invitation, by he will edge closer to the food with it. "Yeah, some real new age shit. A little crystal here, a lot of Vicodin or morphine there. More of the latter, less of the former." By which Lance means exactly none of the former. The way he says it is a little out of hand, the food drawing more of his attention in the moment. He will even take Ramsey at his word, with a dismissive shrug for the pot-artist's preferences. "Well, if you ever wanna expand for cash," and sell out, though he doesn't say that exactly, "I know a lot of people who'd pay." Just throwing it out there.

His eyes dance back over to Fen, "Hope you wore your seatbelt," is all the clueless, human EMT tells the vampire who probably could just walk away from a wreck if there was no fire. His eyes drift to Fawn again, perhaps briefly meeting her gaze when her attention is caught, but dropping it to the burnt fingers and following. Because of course he does. He's that kind of college jock. Someone can slap him, it's fine.

--

Little Fen could've probably been hit BY the float and walked away from it, though that's not a theory she's up for scientific testing. And in fact, no, she wasn't wearing the seatbelt. She wouldn't have been able to reach the pedals. She couldn't move the seat forward enough. "Of course," she'll lie, because that's the easier path to take here. She's not going to listen to Ramsey. It's probably a stupid plan, whatever it is. Also she has doubts how effectively she could be disguised.

--

"Nice. Those are very astrological," Axle jokes, when Lance mentions Vicodin and Co. Flicking a glance at Ramsey, she mutters, "Suuure. I was busy. It's okay, I'm just fucking with you. You're allowed to have friends other than me. Just so long as they register on the website I made for that." Grinning, she goes about taking up the shrimp from the oil. She's about to put the tots in when her cell phone rings in her back pocket, and she fishes it out, looking at the screen. "'scuse me," she mutters, heading a short distance away as she answers it. "Uncle Daryl? Holy crap, how'd you get this number?" she can be heard saying, until she moves out of earshot.

--

Ramsey rubs his hands together and rises, saying "Awright. We're gonna need to look like authority figures. Here." He goes to his truck, opening the big tool chest affixed in the back and rummages around, finding a couple of dark windbreakers that say DEA on them. They are.. Only slightly damaged. In like... Really kind of troubling ways? Like, there's maybe some slightly bloody rips if you look closely? Tossing one to Fawn, he holds the other out toward Lance.

--

Fawn catches the look from Lance, but doesn't mention anything about it as she moves on to take a bite of the food. While she's chewing at it she manages to catch the disguise, and reading 'DEA' on it makes her drop it to her lap and give Ramsey a -look-. DEA. Really? Fuck. She's gotta learn to ask for more info before agreeing to stuff. She takes another quick bite and chews it while looking over the jacket, and once her mouth is empty she asks, "Should I worry about where you got these from?" She's not going to ask, but does she have to?

--

The safest course when it comes to college jocks with unhealthy attention priorities is to ignore them. Wise, Fawn, wise. Lance doesn't seem fazed by it, unfortunately, only turning his attention back to Axle when she jokes back, flashing a smile at her before she gets that phone call. He's been known to go for Ramsey's wild plans before, but his eyes fall to that concerningly torn windbreaker and he just tilts his head a little, and then more. "Wish I could, bro. But I gotta jet. Early class tomorrow." Apparently he cares about things like that? "Another time though." He assures before offering everyone an up-nod, grabbing a fried shrimp for the road and turning to go.