Post by WildKnight on Feb 5, 2021 18:25:49 GMT -5
New Orleans, Louisiana
The Blue Crawdaddy was the kind of place that made dive bars look positively welcoming by comparison. In spite of the ordinances against smoking, the room was full of smoke from tobacco, marijuana, and other more dubious substances. The wood composing the bar itself was crooked with age and had absorbed decades of spilled booze, giving it a permanent smell that only barely compared favorably to that of stale urine. The clientele consisted almost entirely of regulars, few people who set foot in this place would stay. As it happened, on this night, there was one such brave individual, a young man with a studded leather jacket and shaved head, bearing the "Magneto M" tattooed to the front of his neck. Kasey Mynor was fresh off the bus from New York, and believed himself a street toughened man who, after surviving New York, could handle anything New Orleans could throw at him. After all, no city in the world was tougher than his home. He'd already managed to successfully rid himself of a couple of patrons who thought he was easy prey, winning his place in the crowd without further incident.
As last call approached, the bartender, a clean cut, slender young woman who seemed completely out of place in this filthy joint, leaned over the bar and smiled to Kasey. "You been in here drinkin' all night bud. What are you really looking for?"
Kasey swiveled on his stool, practiced enough to know not to take the 'tender's easy smile as flirtation, and put a $100 bill down on the bar. "Up north I heard that a real legend hangs out here. Supposedly one of the last real tough guys. A lot of these guys look like they can handle themselves, but I don't see no legends. Wanna help me out?"
The bartender, Hannah, took the bill and slipped it into the pocket of her skin tight jeans before reaching into Kasey's jacket and pulling out his pack of hand-rolled cigarettes. She took one, tossed the pack on the bar, and lit it. Her hazel eyes twinkled in the dim light of the bar's interior, flashing with amusement and danger. "A legend? That's what you're here for? What're you going to do when you find a legend, boy?" The last word was pronounced with intent, a challenge. "You here to mess my bar up in a fight to make your bones, is that it?"
Kasey shook his head, looking around. "Lady I been fightin' since I slid out the womb. I just... I just want to know that the stories were true. That maybe there's a reason."
Hannah's face softened, and she nodded toward the pool table, a wreck that had probably once been a higher end model. A tall, quiet man had been standing by that table all night, drinking only when someone bought him a drink, playing "loser leaves the table" pool. He had never left the table.
"Him? He's..."
"He's the son of heroes and a hero hisself. He fought monsters and wizards and gods. He ended the Guild Wars forever... or at least forever so far. If you buy him a drink, he'll spin you a tale. No sayin' if it'll be true, he maybe exaggerates sometimes, but make no mistake... that man has done shit and seen shit that I wouldn't wish on nobody. He's the real deal."
"If he's so great why did all this happen to New Orleans? I'm from New York and even I think this place is a sewer."
Hannah simply smoked and wore her enigmatic smile.
"Is... is he okay? Is he... sick or something?"
"Or something."
"How often is he in here?"
"Every night. Here." Hannah slid Kasey a drink. "His name is Lebeau, though he isn't partial to people calling out his name in public without his permission. He says its rude, though I never heard of such a rule. Probably some old school Thieves Guild stuff."
Picking up the drink, Kasey crossed the smokey room, a journey that didn't take nearly as long as he might have liked since the interior of the bar was tiny. As if anticipating his quest, the crowd parted ways, or at least he didn't remember going around anyone or asking anyone to move for him. When he got to the picnic table he put the drink down and met the eyes of the man. He'd heard they glowed fiercely, but if that had once been the case, they were a dim pinkish glow at best now.
"That's for you. Hannah said..."
"You shootin' or gabbin? No time for gabbin' ami. If you ain't here to play, best to scoot."
Kasey looked at the rack of warped pool cues and sighed, picking one up. "Not really my game, but sure..."
"Hundred dollars."
"But I thought you were just playing loser leaves the table?"
"I was. For you, hundred dollars."
Kasey looked at the man, unsure. No way this guy was the man he'd heard about. Up close it was obvious that the man's shirt was unwashed, he probably hadn't cut his hair in months, his beard was unkempt, and he was clearly out of shape. The tattered fingerless gloves he wore looked to be decades old. Kasey wanted to give up and go home, but he'd come this far. "I can't. Gave my last hundred to the bartender."
A sad smile crossed the man's lips, and that was when Kasey realized that this man, this supposed legend, had never once looked him in the eyes. His head was constantly tilted down, allowing his shaggy bangs to act as a barrier against direct eye contact. "You rack," the man said in a voice long turned gravelly from a lifetime of smoke, thickly accented of old New Orleans, "I break."
Kasey racked the balls... only to watch the man run the table silently, then gesture for him to rack again and repeat the same process. Finally losing patience, Kasey tossed his cue down on the table. "Look man, are you him or not?"
The entire bar went silent, all eyes turning to see what the local legend would do. He slowly approached Kasey, pointing the tip of his cue at Casey's chest. "Nice jacket. I had a fancy jacket, once. Belonged to my Daddy. My Mom was kinda famous for her jacket too. Guess it runs in the family. You got a smoke, kid?"
Kasey produced a cigarette for the taller man, who took it and lit it with a pink spark from the tip of his finger. "You think you wanna know. You don't want to. I'd tell you to trust me, except you won't. Every year, one or two like you come on in here, and every time I send 'em packin. Some just leave, some pick a fight. Which are you, Kasey Mynor?" With that, the man produced Kasey's driver's license, clutched between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand, and flicked it at Kasey. Kasey caught it, and when he did, he felt a small ripple of energy discharging from the card.
"I don't want nothin' from you old man. I just wanted to know."
Kasey turned to head to the door, but felt a hand on his shoulder. "Alright kid. You got guts. I'll answer some questions, but don't be pissin' me off askin' about the how's and why's. And you either believe me or don't, call me a liar and I'll blast you back to Ohio or wherever you're from. You got a place to sleep?"