Logs:Diamond Dog Day - Legends Never Die

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Diamond Dog Day - Legends Never Die


Characters: Maximo Hannibal
Date: 2020-06-22
Summary: Now go, let the legend come back to life!
Disclaimers: There may be a little too much awesome going on here.

The Box. That's what everybody calls it that drives down Paris Road enough to become familiar with the landmarks. A long, straight way shot of a bayou freeway. Four lanes total, guarded from the lake and swamp on either side by truly ancient trees. Roadhouses, strip clubs, junkyard and all manner of business and unruly local that just couldn't play by the rules in polite society. The Box, a square build of two stories painted slate grey with black silhouettes of the ladies adorning its sides. They call it 'Biggie's Bar and Show' but everybody else calls it 'The Box'. It's... colorful.

Inside, the stage has been devoid of scantily clad talent for a week. A mass walk out after one of the girls was bitten by a dog from a couple blocks down. The stage has been amateur hour for all manner of attractions. Stand up comedy was a bust. The mechanical bull broke when Biggie had to test it himself. Tonight? Music. Maximo found himself here after his meeting sith Buster went better than expected. Chatting up the bouncers before making his way in. He needs a drink and some distraction.

It's the side door that opens rather than the main one. Sometimes a fella just has to know where he's coming from. Looking up at the stage, sunglasses are lowered and a familiar, low voice says "Well that's not Charsisma," deliberately pronouncing the mispronounced stripper name. A sad state of affairs in here, but he got the message, and his case is in hand, though he didn't have time to put on his suit, instead in a red Jimmy Buffett shirt and a pair of board shorts. Walking toward the bar, he doesn't need to look around for Maximo. He can smell that hair product. And he's not even a werewolf. "How about one of those drinks they put the umbrella in for you? I'm feeling like pineapple."

This place is a hovel but it's the sort of place that people go when they aren't keen on being found. With so much on the offering table to the west, why would anyone come -here-? That's exactly the kind of place Max needs after the uncomfortable reality crashing in with ready made blackmail material and a threat from his own family. Get back here or we come find you. So Max sinks deeper into obscurity. Settling in at the bar, a familiar voice haunts his ear. "Nah. Nah. Couldn't be. Last time I heard that voice, Shreveport PD was looking for two men, a jet ski and the Chief's daughters." An upnod to the grizzled bartender, Maximo turns to Hannibal with an all too pleased smile on his scruffy, movie star perfect face. "What the high Hell are you doing down here, Hannibal? They run you out of the Quarter?"

"Max." It's said almost sternly, chewed over. "Bill Shoots said he saw you up here, gave me a call." Sidling up to the bar, the sax case is set down atop it, as his horrifying attempt at a mai tai is presented to him, and then he says "I could ask you the same thing. I happen to be the owner of the old Chalmette Municipal Airstrip that got decommissioned. Who wants to pay rent in the French Quarter, right?" Hannibal climbs onto the stool and just shakes his head with a distant gaze behind his sunglasses. "Last I heard the chief was not real happy about being made a granddaddy of twins with no-one in the state to blame. Miserly fuck."

"Bill Shoots talks too much." Maximo stated flatly in immediate response. The sliver of a smirk says his outrage was feigned at most. Taking his seat and saddling up to the bar like an old ranch hand, Maximo watches with far from hopeful eyes as the leathery old man makes what -could- be a mai tai. "Jesus wept. Look at those things." He hisses from a smile. The drinks presented, Maximo mutters a thanks before taking a sip. He blinks in surprise, nodding his approval. "Looks like my first girlfriend. Tastes like... well, it's not directly poisonous." Another sip, then another from his overly wide straw. "No shit. You took over that strip? I was out there last week, looking at the place." A laugh, abrupt and musical as it is jarring in this dark and musty box of a bar. "I'd put money on them having a mustache before they can walk." Chuckling with a shake of his head, Max looks this way and that before leaning in conspiratorially. "Starting a thing down here. Town is too loud. I'd be too easy to spot. Family is throwing the net again, seeing if I turn up. Not making it easy on them like up north. Adrienne is down here too. Little angry blonde thing used to run with me and the Echo Chasers."

After a long sip through the straw -this is not the kind of place you want to put your mouth on the glassware- Hannibal says "DNA evidence will exonerate me." That's not how that's going to work. That logic does not hold true for pretzels, pretzels are fine, and he puts one in his mouth, chewing. "Well hot damn. Well, you picked the right neighborhood. Nobody's gonna look for much out that way. We have a Stuckey's though. And a half-decent cajun meat market. Debone a whole chicken and roll it so that you can eat that bad boy like a burrito." At the news of the old pack, Hannibal's fingers drum a little and he asks "This the chick I once saw hit someone with the back end of a van when the front end of that van was somewhere at the bottom of a river?"

Hold the straw as if it's a trigger and that glass is the grenade. The rim is lava. Or bacteria. He wasn't playing a guessing game here, not even with his sturdy immune system. Braver men have fallen harder for less. "Justice will prevail." Maximo concurs without a question in the matter. Though the little monsters could be long haired terrors by now. Best not to dwell. "Starting to think I did. Sure beats Arabi. Place looks like Wafflehouse parking lot at four pm. A little too quiet." Another sip, Maxi nods in growing acceptance as his taste buds are sacrificed to the altar of Mai Tai. "Hey, you had me at Stuckey's. You locked me with the chicken burrito." Maximo snaps his fingers and points to the legendarily mustachio'd musician. "That's the one. You don't forget righteous anger that compact or... yeah, she's a little terrifying. Goddamn, it is good to see a familiar face that doesn't come with a lawyer or pointed shotgun."

"What do you think's in the case?" Lawyer, probably. "It's good to see you. I'm glad you're getting a foothold. Real shame about what all went down. Once I was able to circle back everything was just crawling with.. I don't know if they were feds or mercs or what." Hannibal shakes his head and takes a longer drink. "You all need a place to lay low, you let me know. Or really anything. Got a spare hangar, even, if you steal a plane from some narcotraficantes. What kind of crew you putting together?"

"Lawyer, probably." Maximo says with a light chuckle before leaning in to slurp down more and more. Faster in, faster done, right? He holds up two fingers before he even finishes the first glass. "Yeah. It was... it..." Licking suddenly dry lips, Maximo crawls reluctantly down memory lane. When he lost his head. Killed their Irraka... and their Rahu, driven to bloody venegeance over his wife's death? Turned his rage to Maximo's mate. Adrienne's big sister. Shoulders tense. Teeth grind like popping glass. A new drink, he slurps down plenty. A nod of deep thanks to Leathery Larry. "It was a mess. Won't ever happen again." A vow he intends to keep. Dark brown eyes sliiiide to Hannibal. "Hard hitters. Big game in our sights." Biting his bottom lip, Maximo mulls this information over and it doesn't take long. "Want to bust up a dog fighting ring by dropping some pissed off rugs from a plane?"

"Sold." Hannibal finds that there's only so fast he -wants- to try to drink this thing, and leaves a little in the bottom. "For temperance. Bottle to throttle, ten minutes." He doesn't get another one. "That's bad business, brother. I know it can't be easy. I've got your back, and I'm not working for your uncle anymore either, so they aren't gonna be keeping tabs. Where's this target we're talking about?"

Bottomless thirst for vice that he is, Maximo drains that second glass with the gusto of a true masochist. He's reaching for the third when Hannibal throws his lot in. Large hand smacking down on the bar top, making the glasses and bartender alike jump. He offers a dismissive wave by way of apology. "It is. Very bad business. Especially when they start trying to 'increase performance'. It's not pretty and it needs to be flattened." A breath of absolute relief leaves him when Hannibal proclaims his freedom from the Masson family and their talons in all things music and potentially profitable. "Ohhhhhh, you have no idea how happy that makes me. You'll actually have a life. Which is nice, I hear." Standing up from the bar, Max's legs take a second longer to follow the game plan. "Maybe two was a bad idea." He says while reaching for that third. "Oh, just a few blocks north on the east side. Del Ray's Automotive and Body. Their side hustle is... ambitious. Enough that I could smell it from a block down."

Hannibal looks toward Maximo's state of coordination and asks "You up for this, Chief? We can take a minute for it to burn off if you need." He knows the answer, though. "Alternatively, there's mouthwash in the car." Pulling his sax case off the bar, Hannibal reaches into his pocket and finds a silver dollar to tip the bartender, flipping it backward over his shoulder and not even looking to see if it lands in the jar. It does. "Oh, yeah, I'm -retired-. Jazz is my full-time gig now, and flying's for passion, not pay." Checking his pocket for keys, the mustachioed mortal asks "We talking genetic enhancements or like, voodoo bullshit here?"

"Nah, I got this. Straight road, should burn it down by the time I hit the next bar." Maximo claims without much in the way of indignation. He's sturdy. He's got this. Bringing the glass up, he battles the straw for dominance. Victory obtained, he sluuuuurps more toxic booze down. "Mouthwash. Good idea." He says, starting for the door. Seeing that silver dollar tumble through the air and clink home, Maximo shakes his head with a laugh. Slugs back the rest of his drink, sans straw and chews the ice loudly. "Let's feed that passion and skirt the laws of warfare the only way we know how. Loudly." Oh, his poor, poor stealthy packmates to be. "Voodoo bullshit." He says while holding the door open for Hannibal. "Big voodoo. Only way to reverse it is even bigger mojo. Which we now have... After you, big guy."

Hannibal tromps on ahead in his dad sandals, toward a cherry, polished black and green Barracuda sitting out there, parked across two spots like it fucking DESERVES. Keys in the visor. Nobody's gonna steal this car. This is the car of a man who will kill you. He gets in, giving the engine a little gas. "My manifest only accepts up to medium voodoo, but I also am the one who checks them, so.. We're good."