Logs:CBT at the SBC

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CBT at the SBC


Characters: Kenny, Pan
Date: 2019-10-06
Summary: Kenny and Pan don't make awesome first impressions on each other.
Disclaimers: {{{disclaimers}}}

The Southern Belle is a small casino that only gained the right to operate within the city limits via bribery and blackmail. Nobody knows what the owner of the Belle had that made city officials willing to rip exclusivity away from Harrah's, but it must have been good. The upside to the Belle is that they don't use electronic cards on the slot machines, which means gamblers often have literal buckets of money sitting beside them while they play. When you know Obfuscate, it's pretty simple to walk in, find someone wearing clothes too expensive to be poor, and relieve them of a bucket of coins that is annoying to convert into paper money...but might have a thousand dollars in it if it's quarters. That's what Conquista del Pan has done tonight - walked in under Obfuscate, picked up a gallon bucket of quarters from a woman with a designer handbag and thousand-dollar shoes...and wandered to the other side of the casino to set down the bucket and start feeding it lazily into the slot machine whenever there's an employee with drinks around. They've been tipping out of that bucket, too - eight quarters every time someone brings them a rum and coke. The waitress keeps having to hike her pants back up with the weight of the quarters, but it's good money and there's a coinstar right here in the casino.

The rest of the time, the Blushed Pan is just drinking and playing on their 3ds, leaning forward with elbows on the slot machine without playing, black-and-gold special edition Charizard machine playing Pokemon: Ultra Sun. When Sword & Shield come out Pan will have to steal a Switch from somewhere. They're wearing a backpack over their coat, a pink-and-purple Jansport that looks stuffed full. At this very moment, a customer approaches - there's a quiet transaction, and the hippy-looking white girl with dreadlocks gets a handshake that exchanges cash for a tiny plastic zipper-bag with a dozen brightly-colored pills that look like Flintstones vitamins but are not in it.

Whatever Kenny has been doing leading up to his approach of the Jansport-sporting Conquista del Pan is unimportant. What's important is that he sits down at the machine next to them and he's reaching for a handful of their quarters at the same time as he asks, "You don't mind, do you?" He's already reaching to put one of the quarters in his machine, so it'd obviously be super uncool if they did mind. At least one might get that impression from the tone of his initial question. Be cool. The tall, skinny man with the porn-esque goatee, heavy eyeliner, tight, laced leather pants, and black feather boa looks exactly like you'd expect a potential customer to look, though, so give him a break maybe.

Tight, laced leather pants are a great way to specifically highly Pan's target. Kenny bends to take some of their quarters, Pan communicates that they -do-, indeed, mind. By shifting to brace one foot against the floor opposite him, and delivering the other directly upward to the juncture of his thighs, putting the toe of a scuffed black boot into testicles at a frankly irresponsible speed. "I do," they say, peering sideways away from their game. "Nice boa."

The pilfered quarters are dropped on the ground, machine, stool, wherever they happen to fall. Kenny is only focused on his balls, doing his best to curl around them without actually falling to the floor. Instead he's shooting his assailant a HOW COULD YOU look, but whatever he tries to say to back it up only comes out as an unintelligible straining from his feather-adorned throat. Okay, fuck, give him a second. "If you wanted to touch my dick, you only had to ask," he manages after another moment, voice pitched a little higher than it was when he first spoke.

Pan folds the 3ds and tucks it into a pocket. They take the drink from the little shelf - for this very purpose, cupholder indent and everything - on the side of the machine and hold it, smelling -very very- faintly of rum, out to the be-boaed and raccoon-eyed fellow they've just nard-kicked. "Here. For the pain. Even though you -deserved- it. Seriously, taking someone else's casino quarters. Who would -do- that?"

"I heard that you were good for a fun time. They didn't tell me what kind of fun time." Because getting kicked in the testicles has the potential to be a fun time, apparently. "I assumed it was drugs, like a fucking normal person." Because that's what he is. Super normal. Kenny accepts the drink that he is obviously rightfully owed, and downs most of it as he settles gingerly on the stool of the machine he was going to play at.

"Neither of us are normal people," the vampire says, matter-of-factly. The Beast is grumpy at the proximity of another predator, and Pan may never have met another werewolf before, but they can certainly tell Kenny is -weird- and a monster. "You wanna buy some candy, little boy? Then you -give- me money, you don't steal. Four bucks a pop, and if you're a cop, I'll eat you." Probably an empty threat, given the Accords. But they -did- just kick Kenny in his poor, poor testicles. They lean down and gather the dropped quarters in one hand, and dump them back into the bucket. "And if you see the waitress, wave your boa at her."

"How dare you," hisses Kenny dramatically. "To even imply that I could pass as a cop. I'm offended. You should feel bad." It's probably something a cop would say, admittedly, but there are only truths here. Kenny finishes off the drink, glances back to see if there is a waitress around to wave his boa at, saying, "Forty is a little steep for such rudity, my dear sweet friend. May I suggest a counter offer?" He asks the apparently rhetorical question as he unsubtly pulls down his boa enough to bare his neck to make said offer.

"You look like you've been places I probably don't want to put my mouth. And I don't know what you are. Eating strange unidentified predators in casinos is something my sire told me to avoid. Besides, you'd get the better end of the deal. I give -great- fang." They reach out to nudge him, firmly, in the calf with one boot. "Seriously, you're trying to buy molly with no -cash-? Just go take it from a human. You don't strike me as the type for morals." <Pose Order> It is your turn to pose. Beep!

"Oh, honey. My sweet summer child." Kenny touches his chest with his fingertips, presumably where his heart is. "You really don't what you're missing, do you." Is that pity? Well, yes. Obviously. But he must also think this is just precious, judging by that indulgent grin that shows up out of nowhere. "Just because our morals are different doesn't mean I don't try my very best to stick to them." He's an upstanding guy, you see. "If you'd rather have money..." he begins, and then his hand is going down the front of his pants to pull out a wad of cash that he starts casually flipping through, lips counting silently. "How many pops do you have?"

"...if that money smells like sweaty monster dick, I'll wait for the next guy who uses a wallet. Seriously, I've worn leather pants. I know what goes on in there." The skeptical look and wrinkled nose combines with a sliiiiiight lean back that increases dramatically if the bills are presented. "You need -pockets-. Desperately. Immediately. Perhaps time travel back to before this conversation to acquire some." The question goes unanswered in the face of sweaty dickbills.

Kenny smells the money himself, a big old wiff of it, and he shrugs. "I think it smells fine." But if his new friend doesn't want it, he'll just put it back where he found it. "Pockets don't really go with this outfit," he explains, visibly annoyed now. As he stands up, he kicks a foot at the quarters to at least make a noise if not actually dump them on the floor. Stupid vampires. "While this has been such a delight, I've got places to be and people to fuck, my dead friend." So if Pan will excuse him-- or not because he's already heading back the way he'd appeared.

"Hey!" Taking the money -away- triggers an objection. "Seriously." Pan hops up, jogs a few steps to catch up to the werewolf, then gets in front, walking backward. "Just give me the money. I'll run it through the wash later. You can't take a joke, for a guy in a boa and leather pants."

"Molly is no joking matter," scolds Kenny, quite serious. "But if you want it now, you'll have to get it yourself." He'll helpfully stop walking and pull out the waist of his very tight pants as much as he can to make it an easier mission, though. So generous and completely oblivious to proper public behavior.

This gives Pan a moment of thought. Then, they lean forward and rest their chin on Kenny's shoulder as they use -both- hands to go down the front of his pants, rooting around for cash. The left hand collects, the right holds. And when all the bills are had, Pan reaches down, seizes Kenny's already-kicked testicles, and squeezes. -Hard-. They are much stronger than they look. That done, they pull both hands back and begin counting cash.

Maybe Pan wouldn't have tried to crush his balls if Kenny hadn't made that smug sound when the hands that aren't his own go into his pants. Or maybe they would have. The ball vice earns an involuntary yelp of pain, but maybe not just pain, and Kenny reflexively, frantically, squirms to make it stop. When he's released in favor of the cash, sinking to his knees to curl over his preciouses, he pushes out a, "Fuck. Me." Then, "Usually I charge extra for that."

After counting out the cash, Pan tucks it all away into a pocket. Kenny is -not- getting change. They turn around and slide off their backpack, and hover over it to sort of conceal what they're doing as they fish out innocent-looking brightly colored candies in superhero logos. They drop these into Kenny's hand - a Superman S (it's not an S, it's the symbol for HOPE), a Spider-man face, and a yellow-and-black Batman bat on an oval. Three pills. Not the five $200 would buy at forty a pop. An explanation: "Eighty bucks for making me reach down your pants. And -I- normally charge more than that. You want more CBT, you set up an appointment and pay my going rate."

He might put up more fuss than he does if he didn't just really want the goddamned drugs at this point. "If you're looking for new clients, your customer service could really use some fucking work, sunshine," says Kenny as he draws himself back up to standing like a civilized trashpanda, shifting his pants and everything in them back to their appropriate places. "Not even a baggie?"

"You struck me as the type to swallow them all dry as soon as I handed them to you." They reach into an inside coat pocket, but instead of handing Kenny a baggie, they hand them a card. It's black and gold, like their 3ds. It's cool what you can order online, business card wise. It says, in cursive script, 'Conquista del Pan' on the front. There's a phone number and an email (a protonmail account) on the back.

"Rude," mutters Kenny, just a hint of defensiveness for being called out because it's probably not far off. "I was gonna go home first." He takes the card, scowling at it as he flips it over, then back, then shoves that down the front of his pants, asking, "Like the goat?"

"Like the food," the vampire replies, cryptically. Then: "You need a fanny pack." They survey the outfit once more, top to bottom, and conclude: "It'd fit." Annoyed: "Also, you haven't told me -your- name. You're going to make me give you a nickname. Nobody ever likes that."

"Kenny. Like the Loggins." He doesn't trust Pan to give him a nickname, probably. That or he's not especially possessive of his name. Maybe a little from both columns. "Aaaanyway. Thank you so much for your kindness and hospitality, my dear little cinnamon roll. I'll remember you fondly when next I jerk it." He mimes a pump with an airy, graceful motion of his non-molly hand, then his fingers flutter away as though an interpretive dance as he starts walking again.

"Daaaaaaanger Zone!" Pan seems very pleased by this. "Okay, Danger Zone, see you when you want more candy." And with that, Pan retreats back to their previous spot-- "HEY WHERE'S MY GODDAMN BUCKET?!" The bucket is gone. Pan deserved this.