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Old 08-21-2011 at 01:27 AM
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 Post [21] »


Ooc; on my phone once again. Bear with me!bic;

Myron Bolitar


This could turn faulty yay quick. Remember those school dances when the nerd herd member asks the pretty blonde cheerleader to dance and gets rejected? Yeah, well that never happened to Myron Bolitar. Who would turn him down? That... and the fact everyone thought he was a flaming homosexual back in those days, and everyone wanted to get jiggy with their 'gay best friend Myron Bolitar'. Whatever. Look at him now. Most were unemployed with pimple orchards on their faces, and were knocked up by the man they don't quite know from that one night they don't quite remember. The reason this rejection feeling was all being rehashed, was because Chianna could totally drop the ball on this moment. It would be a bummer and just really awkward. See, Myron had this tendancy to say before he thunk... thought. See what he meant? So asking her to dance, could have meant ten million things in that pretty blonde head of hers. Hopefully she was not one of those cliche' bible thumers who thought every question was a come on. After hours, employee, boss... get it? That wouldn't have been as bad as one of those 'Im too good for you, let me stick my chin in the air'. Whatever. Myron wanted to have fun and not feel so lonely.

The moment Chianna took his hand with a smile, Myron Bolitar realized it wasn't going to be like any of those things at all.

Myron grinned in amusement, watching as she brushed off herself. He could feel the energy now, as her hips began twisting with the music. Myron slid a step back, glinting as he watched her make her way toward the bar, that tonight was more of a jungle gym and stage. When she began lifting herself up onto it, he couldn't help but clasp his hands and bark a laugh. Chianna, his now favorite employee ever, threw her arms up in the air twistin' it up. In her barefeet, he may add. Quite the champ. Now finally, some freaking fun! He watched with a smirk, always having this soft sppot for when people could just let go and enjoy themselves. Myron Bolitar, fun samaritan all the way.

He was being called over.

In mock shock, Myron put a hand to his chest, and looked all around as to say she must have been asking someone else. Pointing at himself, he smirked, taking a couple strides toward the bar, and beginning to undo the buttons of his suit jacket, that felt more like a heated man version of a corset. Which was so not fun. Couldn't work clothes be like a onesie?

"Is this good enough, Monsieur?"

Tossing his jacket to the side, Myron puckered his lips, bobbing his head from side to side. Ah, so she was French. No shock. But, he felt like he was now culturing the world with some good American classics. Boom! Represent. Adjusting the cuffs and rolling them up, he grinned, undoing a couple of his dress shirt buttons. Just, you know, the same thing she was doing. With just a tad difference lying underneath.

"Good form, fantastic hip action, but you are missing something."

Wanting to join in, Myron Bolitar held a hand agaisnt the bar and began taking off his dress shoes. Slippping them off, he took off his socks. Freedom never felt so sweet.

Jumping up onto the bar, he slid his way next to her, beginning to twist like hell.

"A dance partner."


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Old 07-14-2014 at 07:38 PM
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 Post [22] »


Max Slate

If asked Max would probably describe living with his condition as strikingly similar to being on the world’s longest and most intimate first date… with himself. In his mind the bigger questions of the existence of family, upbringing, where they were from, hopes, dreams; those were all material of a second date that he wasn’t certain he would get to. So for the time being (or at least the last five years) he had concerned himself with the little things of getting to that mysterious man in the mirror that he had essentially never met. And how do you get to know someone? You ask them questions, you try things and find what they like and don’t like. For example: what kind of movies did he like? He watched A LOT of them and figured out that he didn’t really mind chick flicks though he wouldn’t reach for them first. Horror movies were rarely scary and more annoying than anything. Action and drama were entertaining and if there happened to be a few (or even better a lot) of explosions, he was one very happy camper. Max had also discovered that he loved vegetables, all kinds of them, even on his pizza. In general he tended to lean more towards healthy eating than he ever found himself drawn to food that was greasy or fried. Though that having been said the first time he had a steak, a real steak had been a nearly religious experience for him. It was also in this same vein of self-discovery that Max had stumbled onto some of his other skills.

The mental hospital where he had been a “guest” had been equipped with a kind of rec room that didn’t just involve card games or puzzles that retained at best half of their pieces. There had also been a room where patients who were deemed to have more of their facilities than most (read: weren’t completely around the bend and could be reasonably trusted not to hurt themselves or others) could partake of more physical pastimes. Keep your mind out of the gutter! It was a gym. Well that term might have been a bit too generous. It was more like a room packed with “calisthenics” equipment from the era of the Kennedy administration and few newer treadmills and such that were held together with more duck tape than screws. But it worked as often as it didn’t and the first time Max had wandered in here (more out of boredom than anything else) he had ended up running on the treadmill until he had lost all track of time and even inch of my body had been covered in sweat. But as much as his taste buds had found a fondness for health food and the pleasure centers of his brain knew they liked to watch thing blow up, ever muscle in his body had “remember” joyously this feeling of physical exertion. Like a drug addict stumbling blindly into a rave Max was soon insatiable quickly discovering that he also lifting weights and sports, and though he had to be told the rules he was not as surprised as those around him to find he not only had a fondness but a pretty high level of skill for these recreations.

As interesting as all of this had been to find out, it wasn’t exactly Earth-shattering and more importantly it didn’t tell him anything about who he might have been. But it did shed a little light onto an incident that took place not too long after he shipped out of New York harbor. Apparently there was a type of hazing ritual that some of the other seamen thought he would “enjoy”, though he was fairly certain all of the entertainment was to be had on their parts not his as he was to be on the receiving end of the beating. Fortunately for him the “joke” never got that far. Like a scene from a Robert Ludlum novel Max was quickly and happily surprised to find he wasn’t exactly defenseless. Okay so didn't have like crazy Kung fu skills but he had less bruises than he gave and the rest of his voyage had been a peaceful (if tense) one. Max thought about that first fight more often than he liked to admit. It wasn't as though he felt like he was harboring any kind of bloodlust; it was more of a curiosity. It was one more too small piece of the bigger picture to be useful in getting any sort of clear picture. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be useful. Though he enjoyed his job at the Opera House and there was definite sense of pride in his work fixing things this second job brought a completely different sense of satisfaction.

Max wandered quietly through the shadows at the outskirts of the room holding the Moulin Rouge’s massive stage. He tugged gently at the end of his sleeves of his dress shirt and adjusted his tie lightly as he settle unobtrusively into a corner where he smile genuinely at the clientele that passed and keep a watchful eye on a table of young men who seemed to dangerously close to crossing that line between good time buzzed and trouble-making drunks. He couldn't ever remember (obviously) owning a suit before he had gotten this job. And though it was a bit of an odd feeling it was not at all unpleasant. He definitely hadn't been expecting the upgrade in his attire when he had applied for this job as a bouncer at the famous Parisian landmark. But as the management had made clear discretion was almost as important a part of his job description as actually keeping the peace. That was part of what made Max perfect for this position. He could handle himself and was not easily pushed around with having to be some sort of behemoth lurking in the shadows. Not to mention that if he did say so himself he filled out the casual suit well enough to be mistaken for just another part of the clientele until that moment when he would actually have to be intimidating. And when that moment came he felt confident he could handle that too. As yet another bottle champagne showed up at the table and the volume of the laughter from the raucous young men cranked itself yet another notch Max’s nerves began to vibrate like a current of electricity had been sent through them. Was this going to be his moment to finally step up? He honestly couldn't tell if he wanted it to be or not… but that didn't mean he was entertaining the thought of backing down from it.




Max | Pieter | Polaris | Phoenix | Protagonist | I love Sam <3
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Old 07-14-2014 at 09:32 PM
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 Post [23] »


ooc: Oh lordy, it's Myron… *wipes dust and cobwebs off muse* BIC:

Myron Bolitar

There truly wasn't a song that could capture this moment. What was a man without a theme song? Walking almost seemed pointless at this point, if Myron Bolitar didn't have a groove, tune, or 'siggity-song' blaring. Siggity-song was a word he assumed the young hep cats were saying. He would not say it out loud just in case… neither would he ever utter hep cats. Neither would he ever reveal where he was getting his music from. A CD player snugged in the waistline of his dress pants. The stone age seemed to be where he was from. Myron strutted through his Rouge with his too big for his head headphones on, winking, pointing the finger funs, and looking like an egotistical owner… with headphones. See? He balanced it out. Myron Bolitar, ladies and gentlemen. Paris' professional balancing act.

He was back. It felt good. So was the song going to be 'The Boys Are Back in Town'? Well he was a singular person. So no, that wouldn't do. 'My Boyfriends Back?'… And just like that, Myron's groove was thrown off. How can someone throw off his own groove? Myron Bolitar reached in and took the CD player out of his pants, throwing the machine down on a nearby table. He wasn't a boyfriend. Yes, he got it. Grab a violin, or compare him to the "You're a bird, I'm a bird" movie. Coming down from a relation-sh*t, and losing his two best friends had still pulled on his feel goods a little bit. He knew it would take a bit, but Myron was over it and ready to come back to life now. Which was why he was working full-time now. Well, the fullest time. In fact, Myron hadn't left in two days. And he was smoking. He was really taking this well.

"Slate." Myron murmured, walking over to where his new security guard was standing, looking something like a statue with too nice of a face. Myron Bolitar imagined he could be one of those baby boy strippers. Why he was thinking of that? No idea. Again, things he would never say out loud. It was his first day though and Myron wanted to make sure every employee felt welcomed and loved and all the stuff that made people want to stay so he never had to give an interview again. "Lookin' good."

Huffing a sigh, he looked over at a table where the usual douche bags sat. There were always a table of douche bags. They were boisterous. Drinking. But, they were money. Still, it could be a problem. Myron had grown this radar in his head for people in the crowds. It was like battle ship brain.

"I'll give you fifty bucks to roundhouse kick one of them once they start a fight." Myron looked over at Max Slate, his new security guard with the baby boy face, and smirked. "And they will be a problem, I promise."
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Old 07-15-2014 at 01:27 AM
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OOC: Again sorry for the rambling. Max is beating on my brain to take shape so all of these little tidbits of his formation are demanding to get out. So this post is half post, half bio/unhindered character development. Also to anyone who reads this and thinks that this “ode to bourbon” is the raving of an alcoholic let me be clear that it’s more a tribute of Kentucky pride of which I am overflowing (pun intended). BIC:

Max Slate

Max tilted his head to one side as he watch the quartet of young men at the table whooping and hollering in the direction for the stage and the scantily-clad women. This in and of itself was not enough to merit Max’s additional attention. Let’s face it, there was alcohol and well-formed female forms gyrating in various stages of nudity. Men giving into their id and losing at least part of their sense of decorum wasn’t just a given, it was the Moulin Rouge’s bread and butter. But there was an intangible line that those partaking in the drink are rarely ever privy to that’s often too obvious to the sober and enlightened observer. Max couldn’t describe what it was really, once again he just trusted his instinct in these matters. Perhaps it was the manner in which they got to loud in the unmerited moments, perhaps it was the increasing amount of bravado in their conversation, or the increasing freedom with which the drink flowed as time went on. Whatever it was, and no matter how many or how varied the “opportunities” the alcohol industry liked to make people believe a moment like this could lead to, there really were a surprising few outcomes that could come from this situation, and they were for the most part all variation on the same theme. Someone was going to do something stupid. And then someone like him was going to have to step in to keep them doing something even stupider. Or at least doing that next dumber thing on company property. There was a reason bartenders were famously quoted for saying “don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here”. Watch this scene play out enough times and the apathy wasn’t just a catch phrase.

It wasn’t as though Max was a prude or a teetotaler. He just wasn’t overly fond of getting drunk off his face (like these guys were quickly headed towards doing), a fact he easily filed away under his apparent love of all things health-conscious. Still he didn’t find wine awful. He would readily admit that few things were as refreshing as a supremely cold beer when he was sweaty and tried from a hard day’s work (though it was repugnant when he was equally hot and tired from a hard workout—a contradiction he didn’t try hard to understand). But when it came right down to it Max was a bourbon man. Considering the drinking habits of most of the people he knew while working as a longshoreman, this was something of a curious distinction at the time. He had tried, in moderation of course, many different varieties of intoxicating beverages. When ‘the boys’ would go out to bar after work and consume copious amount of the cheapest beer on tap Max would carefully scan the wall behind the bar and order one and only one drink each night. Vodka had made him feel awful. Gin was only slightly better. Rum was too bitter, and the flavored versions too sweet for his taste. Whiskey had tickled something at the back of his grey matter but as it went directly to his head it was hard to tell what. Then he had discovered bourbon. He knew it made him sound like an alcoholic to say but he had fallen in love (the experience only third on his list to his favorite discoveries of his preferences to running and a medium rare steak). There was something about the way the charcoal and white oak scents tickled in his nose that never failed to make his sigh like a contented lover as goosebumps raced along his arm. Whenever he took a sip (because sipping was the only way he felt it right to imbibe it) the vanilla and caramel flavors danced across his tongue in ways that if he closes his eyes he would ‘taste’ the colors of their delightful and distinctive hues. He knew there was a memory there in its rich amber depths and for months the palpability of how close it brought him to this elusive thread had nearly drove him mad. That was also how he had truly discovered what getting drunk like for the first time chasing that particular white rabbit down that particular hole. Anymore he was simply content to know that there was a memory there, a comforting presence in the darkness of his past, that gave him hope that somewhere there could be more. When and if it chose to bring itself to the light was not something he chose to ponder anymore. Right now his love of a chosen drink wasn’t his concern, it was the fondness of these guys and apparently anything they could get their hands on.

“Slate,” a voice named him in a quiet tone of acknowledgement near his shoulder. Max glanced up to find his new boss wandering towards where he was trying to remain unobtrusive in the shadows. Max returned the acknowledgement with the age old male greeting of the lifted chin and felt himself stand a bit straighter. It wasn’t just because this was his boss that corrected his posture. It was also because the man was responsible for his sharp new attire. What Max could claim to know about fashion, especially formal wear and the proper fit for a suit, would struggle to cover the back of one of the suvenior matchbooks. “Lookin’ good,” the owner comment as he settled in next to him. Max gave the man a lopsided grin and sincerely hoped he was talking about the new threads, otherwise he wasn’t quite certain how to field a compliment like that from another man. “Erm… thanks,” he returned with a slight chuckle. For a moment the pair settled into joint silent observation of the table that was quickly edging towards enjoying themselves too much. If asked Max would have quickly said that he thought he was going to like Mr. Bolitar, or should he just call him Myron—he seemed like that laided back kind who would ask his employees to call him by his first name. The man had a great sense of humor and so far as Max had seen so far didn’t seem to get too wound up about anything. But more than that he seemed like a genuinely good person, a sense that Max had developed working for more than a few shaddy folks who wanted people to think they were trustworthy. One of the young men had stood up to issue some sort of challenge to one of his companions and Max felt his spine go rigid. This could be the moment. But it wasn’t as the other revelers quickly laughed off their friend’s offense and urged him back into his seat by pouring him another drink (yeah… that was gonna help). “I’ll give you fifty bucks to roundhouse kick one of them once they start a fight,” Myron’s voice cut suddenly through the shadow of what they were obviously both thinking. Gaping slightly and blinking Max turned to the older man who was slightly taller if less thickly built than himself. The smile that twisted his darker features couldn’t help but dark a smirk from him as well. “And they will be a problem, I promise.”

Max glanced between the table and his employer quickly before struggling to fight back a chuckle and keep a straight face as he feigned mortified disbelief, “I couldn’t possibly do that boss,” he said in as horrified a voice as he could muster. But within seconds the façade feel away and he couldn’t hold back a hearty chuckle any longer, “At least not in this suit…” he clarified with a wink and wide grin holding out his hands to indicate the new work clothes of which he was actually quite proud. Max rolled his broad shoulders easily as he eased his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the wall casually. “Besides…” he pondered conspiratorially, “I figure it’s the big one who’s gonna start it.” He tilted his head to the side to catch Myron’s eye, “You promise me they’ll be trouble, and I’ll promise you it’ll be him.” He had seen plenty of guys like this over the last few years (one of the unintentional consequences of the lines of work he’d been able to find was the mulitiude of big men with little brains they tended to attract), the wanna be tough guys with chips on their shoulders and something to prove who thought that sheer bulk or size naturally translated to toughness. But the death nail for this one was that he appeared to have come from money, again don’t ask Max what made him think this is was just one of those things he instinctively knew, which meant that his definition of “tough” probably wouldn’t hold anywhere outside his income bracket. Max sighed in an unconcern if slightly perturbed fashion at the knowledge that for better or worse his first night was not going to be uneventful. Unconciously he flexed his fists in his pockets as though warming up his biceps and testing to determine which one held just the right amount of force for the upcoming situation. “I figure a quick right hook to the jaw to get his attention then a left to the kidneys and he’ll fold like a paper plane. But I’ll see that fifty bucks and bet you double or nothing that his buddies don’t have the stones to back his play and they’ll leave pretty easily after that.” Max stated his plan as calmly as one would recite a grocery list. Pouncy little brats like the rest of the table's occupants didn't usually make friends with the bulky and paritally brain dead unless they felt safer (or cockier) knowing he was "with them" but once he was effectively out of the picture... To be clear Max wasn’t savoring this moment, or looking forward to violence really; it was simply what he saw as needed to be done to control the direction the situation was headed.




Max | Pieter | Polaris | Phoenix | Protagonist | I love Sam <3
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Old 07-15-2014 at 06:18 AM
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 Post [25] »


Myron Bolitar


"I couldn't possibly do that boss."

Myron rolled his eyes. The last person he needed at the Rouge working for him was a goody-good. They weren't fun. Great, another straight laced son-of-a-

"At least not in this suit."

The new security guard winked. Oh he liked him. He liked him very much. The sly response made him chuckle, leaning against the wall. So, should Myron purchase their 'BFF' charm bracelets now or later?

“Besides…” The statue of baby face McGee continued, cocking his head over to the table of the men that were really just 'winning' at sucking at life. “I figure it’s the big one who’s gonna start it.” He looked over at Myron who was grinning like a little boy who found a porno magainze in amusement. “You promise me they’ll be trouble, and I’ll promise you it’ll be him.” The 'him' looked just about right. He looked like something out of the 'Goonies', and not the cute little chubby kid, but the monster that was tied up and reminded him of his Aunt Bertha. But, this kid had a good eye.

“I figure a quick right hook to the jaw to get his attention then a left to the kidneys and he’ll fold like a paper plane. But I’ll see that fifty bucks and bet you double or nothing that his buddies don’t have the stones to back his play and they’ll leave pretty easily after that.”

So he was getting those friendship bracelets tonight.

Myron barked out a laugh, punching Max in the shoulder playfully. "I'm not taking this bet." He stated, pushing himself off the wall, sliding his hands into his dress pants, and standing in front of him. "Because I don't feel like losing money. You're totally right." He laughed longer, not really feeling like he wanted to leave yet. It had been awhile since he had a male companion. Santiago moved, and well, things weren't the same. This guy seemed pretty legit. Not that, he was desperate for a bromance or anything but… Well, okay. A bromance would be nice. At least someone to be chummy with at the Rouge during long hours.

"You know," Myron said, switching topics as a woman in a scandalous red dress walked past them, obviously staring at them both and wanting to be stared at. "The security position is a great way to get some dates."
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Old 07-15-2014 at 06:43 PM
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 Post [26] »


Max Slate

Myron barked out a laugh in the darkness and punched Max playfully on the shoulder and he let his body sway lightly with the contact smiling, contentedly with himself. Making the boss laugh was always better than most alternatives. "I'm not taking this bet." Bolitar stated as he pushed off the wall as though preparing to continues is rounds, or meandering, or whatever it was owners did. "Because I don't feel like losing money. You're totally right." Okay there was no point in denying Max was feeling particular self satisfied now. He hadn’t even ‘bounced’ anyone yet and his boss was telling him he was right. Not bad for a first night. As Myron continued to laugh Max felt himself catching the infection and chuckling despite himself. This wasn’t exactly helpful for keeping up the macho image of security. But images like that weren’t really Max’s concern, he couldn’t really understand those guys who seemed to want to go through life being feared. The only time he saw the merit in that tough guy façade was…

Unwittingly Max felt himself stand a little straighter and his shoulders slide back a fraction of an inch, chest rising slightly. Don’t judge, it was most likely an evolutionary response to the sight that caught the corner of his eye over Myron’s shoulder. Long legs, short skirt, and high heels in a color that demand (and received) the attention of everything with a Y chromosome within eyeshot. Sometimes Max had to truly wonder how the female race had not yet conquered the world wielding power like the magnet pull that snared his attention. "You know," Myron said as the woman passed the pair throwing them a smile that made something twitch in his stomach, "The security position is a great way to get some dates." Max chuckled lightly at the suggestion even as he let his gaze follow the woman’s path on through the tables. “I wish,” he muttered more to himself than his companion. Once she had disappeared from view Max sighed bemusedly and shook his head, smiling mischievously at his bosses joke. Oh, he thought as he caught sight of Myron’s face, he was serious, he thought somewhat surprised.

“Erm,” Max said with a now awakward chuckle rubbing the back of his head, “as much as I would like to believe that… I seriously doubt it.” Max gave a resigned shrug and shook his head with sheepish resignation. “To be honest with you, boss, I kinda suck at dating.” That was not understatement. It wasn’t as though Max couldn’t get dates, it was more that he couldn’t keep getting dates. Turned out that his complete lack of ability to fill out the usual questionnaire of a first date (Who are you? Where are you from? Where did you go to school? Family?) prevented most women from seeking a second. And on the rare occasion he came clean about why he couldn’t answer the questions he discovered that women only tended to run faster from brain damage… go figure, huh. But he hadn’t exactly been alone for the last five years. It turned out that the ‘getting to know you’ standards, or lack thereof, of one-night stands was much easier to meet. And while that was obviously ‘fulfilling’ in one sense in so many others it came up short. “Women like that,” he said with a tilt of his head in the direction Aphrodite had wafted, “aren’t looking for guys like me. But I bet owning this place hasn’t been too tough on your dating life,huh?” he asked teasingly hoping to divert attention from himself.




Max | Pieter | Polaris | Phoenix | Protagonist | I love Sam <3
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Old 07-15-2014 at 07:11 PM
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 Post [27] »


Myron Bolitar

"I wish." The baby faced security guard mumbled, as both men continued to look over at the lady in red making her way out of the club. If this was a cartoon, and granted, Myron felt as though his life were more likely to make more sense if it were, this would be the part where both their jaws dropped, their eyes bulged out of their sockets, and somewhere along the lines of an 'AWOOGA' sound would come out of their drooling mouths. So, this would be the proof that men were in fact, everything women claim them to be. No matter how much the male race denied it.

Max chuckled a little too awkwardly, and Myron looked over at him with a crooked brow. “Erm, as much as I would like to believe that… I seriously doubt it.” He wouldn't be doubting this job got him dates in just a week. Hell, he could probably get some- “To be honest with you, boss, I kinda suck at dating.” Ah, okay. Scratch that. Scratch all that. Not to sound like Brokeback Rouge over here, but how the hell was this guy bad at dating? He had the pecks, the looks, and the whole charming thing going for him. Myron supposed that it didn't matter what a person carried, if they didn't know how to work it then it didn't matter. This was awful though. It was like a waste of a good thing. It was like never using that awesome blender your Aunt Freda got you for Christmas, and it was just sitting there, unused and shiny. Max Slate was the poor Christmas blender. Poor guy. Women should be begging him to put their fruits in his blender- Alright. This metaphor has gotta' go.

“Women like that,” Myron followed his gaze back to where the dame had strut her stuff, and looked back at him. “aren’t looking for guys like me." Myron frowned looking down at his shoes. First, he noted how great they looked, secondly, he took the time to feel sorry for the guy. Then, this all turned into a light bulb. He would help him. Dammit.

"But I bet owning this place hasn’t been too tough on your dating life,huh?”

That one hurt. Myron didn't want it to hurt, and hell, he should probably build a bridge and get over it. Still, this is where he met Madeleine. The woman he loved, cherished, thought about, all that stupid lovey dovey trash that really just was bound to sucker down in flames. Myron could have gone the route of trying to recover with getting any tail he wanted and making his bed shake every night until he felt better. Sex had always been something special. No one would believe it from the way he talked, but it actually was something he didn't take lightly. Yeah, he was made fun of for years.

"Eh, it has its moments..." Myron murmured, his eyes glazed over as he looked onto the stage with all the women dancing. No one could really shake it like Madeleine could. Well, mostly because no one was a triple D like she was but that's sorta' besides the point... but not really. Now look, he was all quiet and sulking. Myron Bolitar usually didn't let this side show. Time to shake it off.

As the next security guard approached them, standing in the vision of the stage, mostly because he looked like he was about to bust out of his shirt. Myron blinked back the fog in his eyes, and propped up at a random idea. "Hey, I like you." He stated with a smirk, looking over at Max. "What do you say we let steroids over here keep the fort down while we have a drink? On the house, and on the clock."

Without hearing an answer, because who would turn down that offer, Myron started heading toward the bar, holding up to fingers to the bartender who knew exactly what drink he wanted and took a seat, patting the stool next to him.
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Old 07-15-2014 at 08:56 PM
Daroga
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 Post [28] »


Max Slate

Max couldn’t claim to know his new employer exceedingly well; he had only worked here for less than 24 hours. But from the vibe he had already gotten from the guy he was easily expect a joke in reply to his quip about the owner’s dating life. Honestly he was expecting a teasing jab about his prowess, which Max would happily laugh and allow the conversation drift away from his own lack of romantic entanglements. "Eh, it has its moments..." the boss muttered in a distractedly despondent tone. Uh-oh, Max had the distinct impression he had just inadvertently stepped into something unpleasant. Max bit lightly on his lower lip and tried to resist the urge to shuffle on his feet like a toddler waiting to be reprimanded as a cloud passed over the older man’s face. Look who had just earned their Captain Buzzkill merit badge. But nothing was jumping to mind to correct his faux-pas. Let’s face it anyone who could stare up at the gyrating stage of the Moulin Rouge and look unhappy was not going to be readily perked up by any stupid remark he could conjure up.

Max almost sighed with relief as one of his fellow security guards approached the pair, probably drawn as he had been to the flashing neon light screaming “troublemakers” that seemed to be hanging over the rowdy table. It was at the very least a distraction from whatever mess Max had created. But if he was looking for someone to take the proverbial ball of the conversation he knew quickly he was going to be disappointed. Max smiled lopsidedly at the massive block of a man and nodded in greeting. He was met in return with a grunt and an even smaller nod of his invisible neck. Oh yeah, he was going to be a master conversationalist. "Hey, I like you," Myron announced suddenly cutting through Max’s inadvertent pondering of whether he was going to spend his evening helping this guy break up a fight or keeping him from inadvertently breaking a neck with those frying pan sized hands. "What do you say we let steroids over here keep the fort down while we have a drink? On the house, and on the clock." Max glanced between his boss and his co-worker have expecting the big man to be insulted by the steroid comment only to discover a distinct lack of recognition, or any deep thought at all for the matter, registering in the big man’s eyes as he crossed his arms and rooted himself in place to take up his far less subtle post. “Uh… sure,” he said as he watched Bolitar walking off anyway in the direction of the bar at the far end of the room.

Trying not to feel like a puppy on leash Max followed and, as instructed, perched himself on the stool next to Myron. Once the bartender had placed the drink in front of the boss, as it should be, he turned an expectant eye in Max’s direction, who quickly scanned his choice on the illuminated wall. “Blanton’s, neat,” he requested and folded his hands in front of him on the wood bar. “So…” he started awkwardly racking his brain for a topic. But just like the pachyderm you weren’t supposed to think about and then could do nothing but all he actually come up with was Don’t ask about his love life… Don’t ask about his love life… Don’t ask— “are you sports fan?” he ended pathetically kicking himself for the lameness of his own question for the echo of the words were ever swallowed by the swell of high beat music.




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Old 07-16-2014 at 06:05 PM
WanderingChild<3

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 Post [29] »


Myron Bolitar


"Blanton’s, neat."

The bartender looked to Myron for a brief moment, as they both smirked. Oh, Max was totally in. There was a lot to tell from a person by what they order and how they order it. The bourbon named after Colonel Albert B. Blanton, who thought his Warehouse H produced the best bourbon, without a mixer, told the Rouge owner that this guy knew what the hell to drink. Also, maybe it would make him feel slightly more comfortable. Myron noticed his hands folding in front of him like a Catholic school boy before attendance in his morning class, seeming tense. The boss offers a drink, and getting paid to do so might he add. Doesn't that scream, 'chill the hell out, you are liked'? Myron could start the conversation. Actually, that was one of his favorite hobbies. But then he remembered the 'I'm not so good at date' speal they had just discussed, and suddenly, he saw this not as a plain ol' two guys hanging out at the bar, but a lesson. Just call him Doctor Love.

"So..." Myron smirked, running his finger around the rim of his drink, squinting his eyes forward, awaiting for the kicker. He wanted Max to bring his game. He was sitting, at a bar, with his boss, on his first day. This was his big shot to impress, to strike up an interesting conversation that could make them talk for hours until they were blackout drunk holding one another up. "are you a sports fan?" Or just ask the most cliche' of questions that will get them absolutely nowhere.

He couldn't help but laugh, slapping the bar, "Wrong!" Myron said, pointing at his glass, "Take a drink." His eyes widened with entertainment, taking a sip of his own drink. Licking his lips with satisfaction as it smoothly rolled down his throat, giving the bartender a thumbs up, he swiveled over to his new date. "Welcome to the dating game. I am your date now. You have taken me to one of the best places in all of Paris, with a smoking owner, might I add, and now you must keep an interesting conversation going so perhaps I will call you tomorrow."

Suddenly, Myron Bolitar turned into... "Just call me, Marina." He said with an all too high pitched voice, batting his eyelashes over at his new security guard who would possibly be scarred for life after tonight. He twiddled his fingers in a slight wave, ducking his head into his shoulder to play the shy girl. "You big hunk." And then he giggled.

So maybe he did this too well.


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Old 07-21-2014 at 01:09 AM
Daroga
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 Post [30] »


Max Slate

Do you like sports? Really? Max was mentally kicking himself squarely in jewels. He might as well have asked about the weather. He cringed violently as Myron, on the stool next him, burst into a loud laugh slapping the bar in his amusement—at Max’s expense. Max groaned loudly as he laid his head on the bar and attempted to resist the urge to thump it there in his own stupidity. Yep, he deserved this. "Wrong!" the boss called loudly and Max turned his head to the side looking up at the boss with one shameful eye and a lopsided, cringing grin. "Take a drink," he commanded still clearly enjoying Max’s embarrassment. Slowly Max drug himself back up to a sitting position with a sigh and lifted his glass obediently, giving a slight nod of acknowledgement to the bartender who, from his own amused smile and twinkling eyes, was likewise enjoying Max’s mortification. Just as he raised the glass to lips Myron turned back to him and announced buoyantly. "Welcome to the dating game. I am your date now.”

Here’s a fun fact. No matter how smooth, not matter how delicious one’s favorite drink might be it is NEVER going to be quite so sweet when being snorted up into your nose. Max covered his mouth as he coughed praying he had somehow heard that wrong. “ You have taken me to one of the best places in all of Paris, with a smoking owner, might I add, and now you must keep an interesting conversation going so perhaps I will call you tomorrow." Nope, he’d heard that right, unfortunately. Max looked at Myron in utter befuddlement. "Just call me, Marina,” he said in a faux-falsetto tone, batting his eyelashes, and waggling his fingers in Max’s direction. "You big hunk," he concluded before mocking an impish giggle.

In his defense at least this time Max didn’t retort with a mind-boggling lame line. For several long moments he didn’t reply at all, he simple stared at his boss in a mixture of confusion and disbelief. There were a few options here: any second Myron’s face would crack into a smile, he would know he was kidding and they would have a good laugh about this; or he might be serious about this and expect Max to actually flirt with him, sincerely and publicly, in some sort of share insanity; or this was some sort of twisted hazing and he would wait just long enough for Max to make a fool of himself yet again, and then call ‘gotcha’ and Max would wait patiently for the floor to open up and swallow him and the stool whole. He wasn’t lucky enough for the first option, and he really didn’t think his boss was cruel enough for the last (at least he hoped he wasn’t) which only left…

“Marina,” he said trying not to cringe too much as he smiled, “that’s a lovely name. Have you ever been a—erm—burlesque club before?” Oh, this was insane. “You know boss,” he added in a hushed undertone, hoping that pleading for pity would get him out of this ridiculous situation, “no offense but I wasn’t exactly trying to pick you up. And its not first dates I have trouble getting….”




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