Logs:Shootin the Shit
Shootin the Shit
|Characters:||Deacon, Gray and Roland|
|Summary:||Classy trio, bullets and beers.|
The Junkyard -- Outskirts of Town With the sun down, this place is conspicuously lacking in the traditional Rottweiler guard dogs. Instead, a tall concertina-wire fence makes do for security. It creates a difficult enough barrier to entry -- unless, of course, someone has a key. The scrapyard itself is a maze of metal - an entire section of rusted out washing machines piled together, ancient electronics in heaps that stretch dozens of meters, a whole ghosttown of abandoned cars stacked one atop the other, waiting to be crushed.
Certain things are a perishable skillset. And at the tip of the spear, practice becomes perfection. It's been said before that the best operators aren't inherently more talented than their counterparts -- they simply practice more often, and more effectively. Roland Durant, slipping down into the graceful sunset toward forty, is a big believer in keeping his skills sharp. There's always a faster gun out there, a better marksman, a more talented bartender. Fortunately, it's an open secret among the New Orleans set of hired guns -- and probably any new arrivals who bother to ask around in the right sections -- that there's a certain unofficial shooting range out on the edge of town. And for the right price, anyone can come play after hours.
Roland has a standing membership, paid in full. So, Bottoms Up being covered by a few newly-hired bartenders, he invites Gray out for an evening of popping cans and drinking brewskis. Loading up his cooler with a couple of bricks of ammunition, an ice -pack, and two six-packs of Yeungling, he slings it into the back of his pickup truck and, along with his companion, makes the drive out toward the junk yard. As they pull up to the gate, Roland hops out of the truck and waves a hand toward the security camera as he walks over to the padlock. A few moments fiddling with the combination later, and the gate swings open. He's dressed in a red leather jacket, a pair of Vietnam-era fatigue pants, and a black T-shirt that reads "I'm With Stupid" in bright neon, the arrow pointing down to his crotch.
He hops back in the truck and pulls it forward, parking outside the office before jumping out and closing the gate behind him.
Waiting until the truck pulls properly into the yard, taking the opportunity to drain what's left of the beer she'd been drinking during the drive out here, Gray shoves the vehicle door open with an audible creak, hopping down to the gravel. The can in her hand, suitably emptied, is absent-mindedly crushed a little before, with an arch back and a swift motion, she sends it soaring off into the night. It lands with a distant clatter somewhere out in the landscape of scrap. "I still say you're gonna arrive back to a smouldering crater where your club used to be." remarks the blonde, cheerfully, as she heads for the bed of the truck, leaning in to retrieve the cooler and hefting it up and over. It requires both hands, for her. What a damsel, right? "But I'm not complainin'. Been a hot minute since I got to unlod on anything. Don't wanna get rusty in our old age."
That's an idle low-blow. She's clearly only in her mid twenties at the most, unlike her rugged, eclectically attired comrade.
Gray herself, as usual, seems to embrace cyber-stripper-chic. Short-shorts of vivid lemon are paired with a faded Aerosmith t-shirt that's been carelessly knotted at her back to keep it a few inches above her waistline. A camo jacket, several sizes too big, is slung overtop the ensemble, and her long, ice-blonde hair is left casually loose about her shoulders. Does she dress herself from the dumpster behind Goodwill? At least her Converse look well cared-for. And, added bonus? That jacket conceals the firearm in the small of her back.
"You fed the Chairman before we left, right?" She cuts a glance aside toward Ro as she bends, setting the cooler down. One, she's not sure where to lug it and two.. she doesn't really want to lug it. It's heavy.
Deacon has never been the nosy type, at least not anymore ever since the ruckus that got him discharged from his unit and sent back to the states, having stayed in the background and not doing much else beside spending his time gambling in the backrooms of a dive bar, taking in the occasional contract kills, and then pouring all of the money he earned into yet another game of poker. Does he usually win? Yeah, sure, sometimes, but 'luck' always seem to bite him in the ass once or twice to rob all of his hard-earned money. And the unhealthy cycle continues. He's feeling unusually bright today anyway, and it just so happens that word of a new 'shooting range' somewhere on the outskirts of town has reached his ears. To be frank, the dude was thinking reaaaally hard on whether he should take a visit there or not, his socializing skills at an all-time low as his only circle of 'friends' for the past year or two has been the drunks and gamblers that he met during his unproductive time in the dive bars.
But hey, what's the worst that could happen, right? With a disgruntled sigh, he packs up on what items he has to bring since this is going to be a damned shooting range, not another one of his dive bar haunts, and drives off in his four-door pickup truck. The vehicle is parked outside one he actually reaches the place, and for any observers, it's a silver Ford F-150. With the desert camo gun bag slung over his shoulder, and a bottle of half-drunk Bud Light grasped in his hand, Deacon slowly makes his way into the actual shooting range now. He's dressed in an olive drab military jacket over a striped shirt of the similar shade of color, beige cargos, and a pair of combat boots. He seriously embodies the typical ex-military dude type of look, figured that he'd take on the look since he's visiting a shooting range anyway.
"If the bar burns down," Roland answers Gray with mock-ominous emphasis, "Chairman Miaow will feast on the bodies of the dead. As it should be, as it has been, as it always will be." Following Gray out of the truck with a lazy grace that belies his advancing age, he watches the beer soar off into the junkyard. His own, empty, sits in the cupholder inside. He pauses and adds, "I left him some wet food mixed in with the dry tonight. I worry he wasn't getting enough protein off that kitten stuff I bought last week. Could almost see his ribs." And that just wouldn't do, not for a kitty of Chairman Miaow's monumental importance. To himself and Roland, if no one else. Roland watches with blatant interest as Gray levers the cooler out of the truck, his gaze not really reaching above waist-height even when she leans down to set it on the ground. And then, "Is... that my coat?" A beat. "Nah, mine wasn't that tight on me. Can't be." He pinches thumb and forefinger together as he stresses tight.
Leaning down, Roland grabs the cooler in an easy grasp. "So, normally I go pretty deep in, set up some cans and maybe some tactical shooting shit. I didn't bring my pop-ups, but we can play with trick shots." There is the sound of a truck approaching. Quite casually, not bothering to set down the cooler, Roland reaches to the small of his back and draws out a coyote-tan Colt 1911A1. He doesn't level it, simply waits with a raised brow until Deacon comes into view. Never know who might be visiting the junk yard, right? I mean, there could be shady types here tonight. A brow raises slowly at the sight of the other man, some faint glimmer of something in his blue eyes, and he holsters the weapon again.
"Hey dude. Looking goooooood." Does he actually recognize the man from somewhere? Or is this the sort of snark a total stranger can expect from Roland? Honestly, it's a coin-toss.
Drinking? Gambling? Dive bars? Shooting stuff? Deacon has definitely stumbled upon the right crowd, whether he realises it or not. And while he might not be the nosy type, Gray is the tattooed blonde equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition. Fortunately for him, she hasn't noticed his arrival just yet.
Retrieving the pistol from the waistband of her shorts, she takes a moment to look it over fondly. It's a Glock 19; nothing fancy but what some might call a classic. Somebody has adorned it with an amateurish paint job, graffiti style letters proclaiming 'KILL THEM ALL X' in dripping white. Charming. "Aren't cats supposed to be kinda slender? Don't go turning them into one of those fat, useless furballs. You've already got yer own expanding waistline to worry about." There's a blatant smirk in response to the question of ownership of the coat, pale eyes flitting upward to regard Ro with poorly-feigned innocence. Well, it is pretty big on her. The lower hem skims her thighs and the enormous sleeves she's had to roll up to the elbow. So it could be his. But she doesn't actually say, either way.
Happy to relinquish responsibility of the cooler, taking a sedate half-step back to clear her companion's path, the blonde only belatedly turns her attention to the new arrival. Well hey, they can't have the place all to themselves. That'd just be greedy, right? Gun already in hand, though kept casually down by her side, she observes the militaristic figure who enters the yard after them, offering an upnod in greeting. Force of habit. Solidarity amongst those who frequent junk yards in the dark. But.. there's almost a double take, giving her pause even as Ro is voicing his 'greeting'. She ignores that. She ignores a lot of what he says, to be honest. But this time, at least, it's because she's considering. "..Deek?" Tilting her head, she peers through the dark toward the stranger, her own silhouette a little unclear.. but probably recognisable enough. Reginald Gray's daughter is.. pretty distinguishable.
Deacon actually took his time to grease his thick blonde hair back, a touch to the good old times when he still cared about his own looks. It's fair to say that he's had a falling recently, and if someone asks, he can't even properly recall the last time he took up a job. Was it four months ago? Five? Maybe six? All he can tell is that he hasn't taken on any contracts for the past couple of months he's arrived in New Orleans. The dregs in the dive bar backrooms have been his only company, along with his prized guns and whatever booze he can purchase, of course. Old Deacon is getting old.
The olive garbed dude flicks his chin up at Roland, tipping his beer back as his lips part into a smile over the compliment. "Yo. Thanks, man," he replies, eyes slightly narrowed as he tries to make out Roland's figure in the dark. The man looks familiar, or is it just the army fatigue he's wearing that sent his mind back to old memories in the military? Maybe he's just mistaking him for someone he knew a while back. What's for sure, though, is the fact that the platinum haired girl beside him -definitely- looks like someone he knew, and her greeting towards him only verifies his suspicion. He tugs on his slung bag, eyebrows quirked and mouth flashing a grin. "Fallon Gray. How in the fucking hells did you end up in here?" He was never really close with Reginald's daughter, having worked with the merc boss for only a few times, never actually becoming a permanent part of the community that they had in LA. Deacon was just one of the folks who got in, and got out soon after. A lone wolf most of the time.
"Did you just call me AND Chairman Miaow fat? Girl, you done fucked up. Get the fuck outta here. You can fucking walk home, you striptease-psycho fuck." And there is absolutely, absolutely, no heat in the words. Roland is grinning broadly as he hurls the profane banter at Gray like a thermite grenade with its fuse counting down. It's a safe bet that beneath that striking-out baseball bat that passes for wit, he's noticed the Glock 19 and its spray paint. His own pistol had been remarkably unmodded apart from an underbarrel laser and the threading for a silencer, but he pulls it out and gazes down at it. "Hush, baby," he says to the pistol. "I'll get you some ink soon, 'kay?"
And then his attention is returning to the newcomer, and to Gray. He tips his head ridiculously far to the side, making an 'O' with his mouth. "Well, this is a small world." He seems amused rather than displeased. Looking at the other man, stepping further out of the shadows to allow Deacon a look at his features, he adds "It's a pleasure to meet you, Deek. I'm Wade Wilson." The utterly-predictable, utterly-laughable, deceit flashes out of his mouth along with a lopsided smile. "Nah. You won't remember me, but your A-Team provided QRF for me a few years back. I admit... I've changed." He sets down the cooler, holds out his arms, spreading his jacket, inviting an inspection. "For the better, right? You here to pop some shit?"
Really and truly, in the world of hired killers and elite operators, this isn't so much a coincidence as an inevitability. Eventually, eventually, you're going to run into someone you used to know at a place like this. The question, always, is whether they're happy to see you. Despite his ribbing, Roland seems happy enough. "Why not join me? Fallon was just leaving." Another joke. If he makes enough of them, one might even be funny.
"I took a bus." Gray's reply is deadpan. But honestly, whether she means the Greyhound or actually liberating a bus, perhaps from a School for the Blind or somesuch, would be a perfectly understandable debate. "I didn't know you were down here, man. How you been?" As for Ro, and his affectionate insults, the blonde doesn't even glance his way. She just raises her free hand to flip him off, arm outstretched so the raised digit is right in front of his nose. She won't be walking anywhere, thank you very much. "You seem to have gotten confused, along the way, between having a six pack and having a keg, sweetie."
Turning belatedly, she does deign to offer her 'boss' a look, moving past him and patting lightly at his midriff as she does so. "24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn?" Yeah, she gets the reference. And he wishes. Flashing a fleeting glimpse of white teeth in a grin, she slides past him, toying with her Glock absent-mindedly. "Let's go shoot some shit!" The cheerful suggestion seems aimed equally at both of them, the young woman apparently keen to get this show on the road. And another beer, immediately if not sooner.
A mock salute to Roland as he flicks two fingers from his temple, eyes widening in revelation when he mentions of their previous encounter. So his gut feelings were right, then! He wasn't just seeing things. This man -is- a familiar face, and that makes up two with Reginald's daughter over there. Deacon was never fond of her father, but he thought the daughter was pretty cool, for however while they chatted and/or made verbal contact with each other. Probably even worked on a job once? He can't be bothered to reminisce the 'good' old days right now. He does give Roland a once-over, however, whether out of reflex or deliberately. "I knew I remembered you from somewhere. Yeah, man, you look... uh, young as ever and shit. Good looks," he promptly says, wetting his mouth with a mouthful of his beer. He also can't be bothered to memorize the guy's name, but hey, guess he'll find out again soon if they get along with each other.
Gray's reply receives an upnod and a smirk. "Yeah, I had to escape the shithole that was Southern California and took a trip down here. The city here's waaay less overcrowded anyway, just gotta mind the swamps and all." Deacon was a Cali surfer boy through and through, born and raised in SoCal before time in the military took away his dreams of becoming the greatest surfer that ever rode the San Diego waves. He looks around the place and chuffs out a sigh. "I brought over my hunting rifle. Should've just came with a Colt or whatever, but sure, popping shots is why I came here in the first place." He tugs on his bag again and approaches closer towards the duo, trailing shortly behind if they're headed towards the shooting range proper.
That middle finger, and the pat to his belly -- let's be fair, it's not quite given up the cheese-grater mold to become jello -- strike Roland dumb, his mouth comically open. Almost certainly a pose, playing to the crowd. But Gray's next line leaves him grinning with a stupid, puppy-dog air. Don't tell Chairman Miaow that he's living with a floppy-eared Labradoodle in a human body, 'kay? "Deadpool jokes? It's like I made you in a lab." No question, then, of who this joker will be dressing up as for Halloween. All comments about Roland's weight seem to be forgiven as he picks the cooler back up, watching Gray sashay on by him.
If Roland is offended by the long once-over that Deacon offers him, it doesn't show in his smiling expression. The oldest of the trio seems to be perpetually good-natured, or at least a facsimile thereof, despite his profane outbursts and the firearm dangling loose-armed at his side. He leads the way deeper into the junkyard. After a few twists and turns, they come to a fifty-meter stretch of empty space. "Here we go." The hood of a car serves as a shooting table, and targets have been set out at five-meter intervals. Well, one could call them targets. Celebrity faces glued to various facsimiles of the classic military Ivan pop-up targets. Brass casings, of a variety of calibers, coat the ground. There is a big drum, off to one side, where -- if someone is particularly eco-friendly, they can dump their brass to be hauled off and melted down. But this is a junk yard, right? Who cares?
Roland sets down the cooler, pops the lid. He pulls out a brick each of forty-five and nine-millimeter, setting them atop the junked car, and then three Yeunglings. "We don't really have a long enough range for scoped work, Deacon, but feel free to pop off at whatever takes your fancy." Ah, so he does remember the other guy's full name. "I'm Roland, by the way. Ro Durant. We never, uh, met officially last time." And if they had, he'd probably have been called Steve Earle or some other rip-off name. "So you two wanna make this interesting?"
In fairness to Deacon, Reginald Gray isn't the easiest of men to get along with. He never really lost that Special Forces edge. Fallon, on the other hand, is the epitome of the military brat. Except that probably deserves capitalisation: Brat. All the knowledge and training, none of the decorum. Raising a tattooed hand to ruffle her long tresses at the nape, she glances back over her shoulder to the unexpectedly familiar face who's happened upon she and her 'friend'. Well, there's been no clarification, as yet, on the nature of her relationship with Durant. But, on the plus side, they don't seem to be intent on murdering one another. So that's a decent start. "Whatchu been doin' with yourself in Nawlins, Deek? Still in the same line of work..?" A seemingly innocuous query. If one doesn't know what that sort of employ actually entails, anyway.
Catching that dopey grin from Ro, Gray actually laughs, throaty and pleasant; shaking her head at his offered compliment. "Can't be true. If you'd made me in a lab, my tits would be way bigger. I'm talkin' Hentai scale." She demonstrates, with a cupping motion of her free hand, exactly how gargantuan she implies his taste to be, before relenting to a broad grin. "More'n a handful's a waste, yanno." Not that she's err.. lacking in that department in the first place. Metal Barbie, indeed.
Oh hey, beer.
Snatching up a Yeungling, the blonde pops it open and takes a hearty swig. Beer good. Turning, she leans her hips back against the junker, adopting a nonchalant pose as she looks between the two men, quirking a brow in idle curiosity at the implied idea of a wager.
Deacon doesn't seem to mind the duo's back-and-forth banter, and isn't particularly invested in it either. He's basically almost like a third wheeler at this point, but he didn't exactly ask to be put in this spot now, did he? So he tries his best to mind his own business when they throw light and playful jabs at each other. A brush of the blonde shag of his unshaven beard as 'Deek' follows behind them, keeping a good three or four meters of a distance. He can be seen sipping and knocking back his lager meanwhile as they travel further into the junkyard, before finally arriving at the range. There's a curious look thrown to Roland when he mentions his nickname. Yes, Deacon's not actually his real name or his real surname, it was a play-on words of his middle name and last name that was occasionally being thrown around his circle of friends. Nobody else back then knew him as Deacon, anyway, as all of his friends are dead at this point. Perhaps this Roland guy caught wind of his buddy addressing him by his nickname during whatever time their teams had working together?
The name stuck to him to this day anyway, and practically everybody but his family and his higher-ups in JSOC know him as 'Deacon'. Frank Deacon, if they insist on his full name. "Yeah, I actually brought my Colt with me, it's in the bag as well. I should've just left everything else in the car though, but eh," he smacks his lips at that, planting the bag down into the dirt and unzipping it, snatching the M1911 and the low-caliber magazine that slid all the way down to the bottom of the bag, forcing him to bend down and pop some joints along the way. He's getting old, kind of. The magazine is tucked away in his pocket, him turning to regard Gray with his own 'grey' eyes. "I mean, sure, I guess? Been a while since I took up a contract, but I still got it in me. What 'bout you?" And then Roland catches his attention upon the hint of a bet. "Yeah, hit me with 'em."
"If I made you in a lab, darlin', you'd like me." Another wrinkle -- what is their relationship? The banter seems amiable enough, and the pair did arrive together, but there are those occasional sharp-edged moments. Still, Roland seems to be, for once, genuinely pleased at the reaction he's elicited from the buxom killing machine who has crash-landed into his life. His voice lacks its typical sharp, snarking, edge as he continues, "Triple Ds and daddy issues are for the punters, Fallon. I like my women deadly and without low-back pain." As Gray questions Deacon, Roland busies himself flipping open the bricks of ammunition and beginning to load a few magazines with forty-five. His fingers move deftly, slipping each round into place with a soft click. One after another. And while his attention does seem wholly focused on that work, there is an up-tick of his gaze as he listens to Deacon's answer, and then back down to the magazines.
He leans down to the cooler after Gray, grabbing a beer and popping it open, taking a short swig. There is a considering silence from the man as he savors the beer, squeeeeezing every last bit of carbonation out of the swig, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. In moments like this, with his features in something like repose, the goofiness slips away. It could be easier to imagine that a man like this would listen to the nicknames his rescuers had for each other. Listen, and remember. File them away. But the moment passes as he swallows. As ever, when Roland opens his mouth, he seems to have a bad case of the stupids.
"Gee, I dunno, guys." A wide, open-palm shrug and an 'aw shucks' grin. He watches Deacon draw out the pistol and magazine, nodding approvingly at the quintessential Army pistol. Screw the Beretta, man -- forty-five for life. That seems to be his attitude, anyway, given the older man's own choice in armament. "How 'bout this? We each blow three mags. Whoever has the most bulls-eyes each round wins the round. Whoever has the most bulls-eyes at the end of three mags wins the bet for the night." A consideration, of course, is stakes. "Losers buy the drinks for a week." I mean, doesn't the guy own a bar? Losing wouldn't hurt him too badly. He raises his eyebrows questioningly as he looks between Gray and Deacon.
Having just taken a mouthful of beer, Gray rolls it around in her mouth for a moment before swallowing, considering Deacon's response with apparent grave solemnity. Or not. "Mm. Still gettin' situated but yeah.. that's the plan. Same old same old. Things need killin'." Things. Not people. Those ice-blue eyes drift between he and Roland, as if she were on the verge of suggesting something, in this regard. But it's not her place, exactly. And besides.. what if he's not as good as she remembers? There'll be time enough. Probably over drinks in the idly mentioned bar she and Ro apparently frequent.
As for the latter's attempt at flattery, the blonde snorts another laugh. "Ohhhhh kay, easy pal. I can handle the flirtin' but my knees start knockin' when you really lay on the charm like that." Still, snark aside - and the perhaps grain of truth in the man's words - she does seem to take the compliment well enough. Well he said deadly, right? Boom. "For future reference though.. they're just D's. And I don't have daddy issues. Fuckin' stereotypin' me, man." She's every bit as unperturbed when it comes to the back and forth of banter. But then, tending bar in the seedier places of the world, a girl has to hold her own.. and often refuse anyone else the chance. Punters and their wandering hands, jeez.
"Mm. Sounds fair." A minimum of two beers in and Gray sounds confident enough. Either she has great faith in her shot.. or enough cash that she really couldn't give a rat's ass. These guns for hire type do tend to keep a lil squirreled away, right? Unless they're buying stakes in feline real estate.
That joke only makes sense if you've seen the palace in which Ro's cat resides, though.
His sidearm is simple enough, not unlike your typical Army-registered Colt M1911, but a closer inspection will suggest that there's a tiny bit of a carving on the pistol's wooden grip; a stylishly carved 'D', undoubtedly to denote that the gun is, in fact, his. Unlesss there's a Daniel or a David who took up the gun and proclaimed it as their own. "Might not be as artsy and modified as y'all's guns are, but this thing will do its job just fine. I stored all of my modified shit back in my place." A lover of guns and anything that shoots and blows and kills people with a cool kick behind it, it's only fair for him to have his own armory of weapons. He did save up a considerable amount of money before cozying himself up in New Orleans, and with his impeccable luck have also managed to 'finesse' some bills and bucks from his daily rounds of backroom gamblings. Maybe that's why he's gone lazy and lethargic lately. He just needs to lose a fair amount of money before he goes back to properly chewing gum and kicking ass for profit. Deacon nods his head in affirmation to the wager. "Deal," he says, pulling the hammer of his gun back with a click.
At Gray's answer -- an answer that implies trust between she and Deacon, something that Roland hadn't entirely been certain of before -- the bartender/supernatural assassin glances between the pair. He catches that look from Gray, vibrant blue eyes meeting her glacial ones for a few moments. But when she doesn't voice the suggestion on her mind, Roland doesn't press her. Nor does he make any offers of his own, not yet. Plenty of time once the shooting dies down and the shots begin, right? At least now Roland is certain of what Deacon means by 'contract': the other man, it seems, has fallen into a similar private-sector setting, adjacent to Roland himself. Not altogether surprising. When you spend a lifetime developing certain skills, there are few job opportunities that pay quite as well.
Her knee-knocking banter is met with a crooked smile. "Honestly, I was comparing you to the rest of the girls at Bottoms Up. You come out way, way, ahead." Especially with a gun in her hand. Roland looks over at Deacon and explains, "I own a strip club called Bottoms Up, off Leonidas. Come check us out sometime. Something for everyone." And then, now that everyone has agreed to the terms, Roland steps up to the mark and raises his pistol. He begins to fire with lethal accuracy. In the first fusillade, emptying his magazine, he scores six bulleyes. Triggering his mag-release, he reloads without taking his eyes off the targets. His body is in the tactical isosceles stance, knees slightly bent, body forward to absorb the recoil. His second magazine is even better. Nine bullseyes. And finally, his third rips out. Mid-pack, with eight.
Gray steps up to the mark as well. She ties Roland in the first round, scores a respectable five with her second magazine, and ends with four more. Solid shooting as well -- no surprise from the daughter of Reginald Gray. And then, immediately, her phone rings. She steps out of the way to take a listen, wandering back toward the trucks with her beer in her other hand.
Result: Exceptional Success!
Result: Exceptional Success!
Result: Exceptional Success!
Result: Exceptional Success!
Result: Exceptional Success!
Result: Exceptional Success!
Result: Exceptional Success!
Result: Exceptional Success!
What's left of his beer -- which to say isn't a lot, only about half a mouthful in there -- Deacon washes down his throat, him stepping aside for a moment to place the empty bottle somewhere, not careless enough to discard it away on the empty stretch of land apparently. "Bottoms Up? Oh, the new club down in Leo-- yeah, yeah, heard of it. So you're the owner, then? That's sweet," he declares with a nod of his head. And before he knows it, Roland's already popping shots left and right, hitting a considerable amount of bullseyes that, even from this distance and clad in the darkness of the night, he's able to pinpoint just from the sheer precision of the man's shots. Remarkable, to say the least. Deacon folds his arms over his chest, letting his M1911 dangle to his side with his trigger-finger away for safety purposes of course, as he watches the man reload and go off on the second target in seamless transition. He sucks his teeth in upon realization that, Roland might've already beat the blondes by now.
"That was wicked, dude," Deacon remarks, shifting his attention over to Gray now when she steps up to let her own shots ring. She hit a respectable amount of hits, sure, but he can already tell that they were nowhere close to Roland's. His suspicion's slowly coming to realization. With a heavy sigh, Deacon clicks his tongue and steps up for his turn now. "A pair of trained killers, no doubt," he notes as he takes up aim. "All right, look, I'm no-good when it comes to pistols and shit. I was my squad's designated marksman, so scopes and rifles are my department, OK? But I'll try to compete anyway," he brings up the conversation, and in the middle of it, is actually aiming down the pistol's iron sight, taking his own time to set up the perfect aim before he shoots. Seven bullseyes, not too bad, and he managed to cover up the lengthy time he took aiming down by striking up that small-talk. They never said that there's a set time for the shots now, did they?
He loads up another magazine and aims down the second target. "If you guys ever go hunting in the swamps or something, needs something taken down from a distance? I'm usually your guy." His words are slow and deliberate, and once he's gotten the gist of his aim, he lets another set of rounds pop off into the night. Five shots hit their mark, which yields a disappointed smack of his lips. The third time is when he gets /serious/, he doesn't strike up a convo or whatever, instead pouring all of his focus down on aiming at the target; and it pays off! Ten bullseyes. He has no idea at this point if he managed to rack up the amount needed to beat Roland's total or not, he's just glad that he shown what he's capable of.
Another man might take Deacon's compliment with some sort of false modesty, but not Roland. At least, not the persona Roland projects into the night. The grayhound-lean bar owner begins to dance. It's a ridiculous, over-the-top, hip-swaying, pistol-waving, victory lap. He turns in a full circle, one knee coming up and kicking out like he's trying to do the Fire Hydrant. "Nannny nannny naaa naaa! I win!" Still beaming, he lowers his arms. It's hardly a dignified look for a man in his thirties, particularly one whose real job is to blast Supernatural creatures into the oblivion where they belong. For the right price, of course.
Roland does, after his pathetically self-pleasing performance, look over at Deacon and smile a bit more genuinely, a bit more modestly. "Listen, kid, don't take this shit personally." He nods downrange, then down at his still-hot 1911. "Me and Gun go back a long way. We work well together, don't we, Gun?" He's speaking to his weapon like it's a real thing. Idly grabbing a full mag, reloading and chambering a round, he holsters it at the small of his back and begins to pack up his things. "I better go check on Gray and get outta here. Listen.." And then, suddenly, there is a transition. Roland is quite serious, his gravitas emerging as though it had been concealed behind a cloud."Forget about buying me drinks. Just come by Bottoms Up. We should talk business." After a moment's hesitation, he reaches into his back pocket and produces a business card. It's simple cardstock, no name at all on it, just a phone number. "And this is my burner. Call me anytime, if you're in a jam. Rules are simple - you pay upfront for services, and I don't kill normies. Understand what I mean?" Maybe, after all, Deacon has no idea about the dark things that go bump in the night. In any case, Roland is grabbing his cooler and heading out. Over his shoulder, he calls "You know why I won, right? Semper fucking Fidelis. You Army cats can't shoot for shit. Good seeing you, Deacon."