Owner	Pose
Constantine	Eight PM, Gotham. The light drizzle outside charmed the street into a magic hour under the only sodium lamp to survive, if you agree that magic hour may include a limping dog browsing through a heap of trash and a rat dashing for the opposite curb. The other isle of light in this stretch of dull black is a neon sign buzzing is song of agony each time half its glorious pink, yellow and red letters strobe, flirting with oblivion: ALOHA SNACKBAR TIKI BAR & GRILL. Also, a palm tree was bent around the bar's name, its only coconut no longer lighting up. In the distance, a siren howls to ward off death and danger, at the same time a reminder that life is fickle. Inside where it's warm and even more damp, a single gogo girl is ready to greet patrons by moving her hips slowly in a wooden cage to Elvis singing Hawaii, her only decency shared between a lei and some gaudy and tired imitation grass skirt. At the bar, Constantine is having a very large cocktail through a straw, the ridiculously large paper umbrella toping the blue-ish potion in the way of normal drinking.
Nick Drago	This is not necessarily what Nick would call a first choice for a place to go for a drink. But, considering which city he was in that day, and that this place, despite all outward appearances, had a decent late night menu and within walking distance- Well. Nick's been making a lot of exceptions lately. What's one more? Coming into the bar, Nick glances around to the empty tables, the woman in the grass skirt, and then to the bar. Forgoing the comfort of table seats, he opts for the speed of service and heads over to the bar. Pale eyes scan across the bartop before fixating upon the laminated card that serves as a menu. Well, at least he won't starve tonight.
Constantine	With a flash of Hellfire, John lights up a Silk Cut, inhales and exhales with a tiny groan at the end. The sweet smell of the first puff of tobacco joins the lingering aroma of grilled pork and pineapple in an unexpected agreeable marriage. "Nick," John says, his voice barely making it over the twangy music. "How in Hell did you land here tonight?" Something between worried and angry, the British sorcerer swivels a tad atop his stool to glance a dirty sideways glance at Nick, his lips parting over yellowed teeth. For that instant, he almost impersonates the grinning, squat demon faced totem sitting in the middle of the bar's shelf. "Come on, man, speak! Did someone lure you here? Were you followin' a balloon or spirit animal? Did something spook you off the street?"
Nick Drago	Nick was about to take a seat but upon hearing his name, he pauses. Looking over to the owner of the voice, he gives a half smile and a slight nod. He shifts over, taking the seat next to John, keeping the menu with him. The menu is held in display "Late dinner." Nick replies, ass setting down upon the claimed stool cushion before a press of a foot upon the foot rail helps slide him back. "Offices for the studio doing the project I'm in are not that far from here." There's a glance about before he looks back to John. "Although now that I know you're here I'm going to have to wonder about that sense of timing I sometimes have. How about you? Is this a sign I need to order the food to go?"
Constantine	John looms over the bar and takes a long sip from his basketball-size glass. The rim is lined with salt or sugar, a neat touch if that cocktail didn't require a straw. "Doesn't matter, your wave lead you to this confluence. No backing out now or you'll get even worse luck. Getting hit by a bus sort of luck, y'know. What do you know of werewolves?" John jives fingers at the chubby, bald, middle aged barman: one more for me and one for Nick. The barman blinks then despodently gathers his shakers and strainers for the elaborate mixing of two more tropical boats.
Nick Drago	"So Dine in it is then." The rocker assesses after the bus reference. The card flips over briefly to skim through the drinks before flipping back to the food. "Werewolves?" Nick repeats. He glances up in thought. "I'm assuming you mean the supernatural, bitten, once in a full moon type and not the mutant type." He sighs. "Silver, decapitations-" He skims through the menu as he tries to think of the ways to kill werewolves. "...Pulling necessary parts out of them..." "How's the Hawaiian Chicken h-?" Nick pauses as he catches glimpse of John ordering for the both of them. "...House drink?"
Constantine	John leaves Nick to wrestle with his confusion, giving his cigarette a long and very diligent pull. He blows out a ring of smoke, something he never indulges in. "Not quite, Nick. The novels made the lycans more... romantic than they are. It's a blood curse, steals all the colors but red and all flavors but raw blood, makes you insomniac and stops aging. Over the years, you end up with gangs of cannibals hunting at night, for sport. I got tipped of a sighting in this neighborhood and I don't think the Dark Knight can help."
Nick Drago	To the general summary of what Werewolves really are. Thoughts drift over to a certain werewolf amongst the Scoobies. Which, doesn't quite match up. "...I'm assuming there are different types. Like how there are different types of vampire." Another glance is given to the Hawaiian Chicken before he glances over to John's dish. Hmm. Wonder how long that took to prep. "Ok. So cliffs notes. Any non-fatal options for dealing with them?"
Constantine	"Yes, different types. You got some that are skinwalkers, others are medium, see ghosts and stuff... whatever's you've got it gets transmitted down with the curse. In Gotham, it's likely to spread lunacy. One a scale from 'fuck no' to 'end of times', how much do you fancy gangs of lunatic, eternal flesh eaters?" John crushes his cigarette butt thoroughly in the gutter lining the far end of the bar, a clever innovation for disposing of all that could litter a bar, liquid spills included. "It's an old Greek curse, Nick. Predates vampirism, even, at least the Christian version of vampirism. So hmm. You gotta have them drink a solution of silver powder then zap 'em with electricity 'til they pass the silver stone. Can take a few days of flickin' a switch, not as fun as an exorcism. Or... you kill 'em and burn the body away."
Nick Drago	Nick arches a brow, "...So it's a physical stone?" He wonders, "...Could getting someone who can phase things to just pull the stone out work? Supposing you could get them to see through things as well."
Constantine	A smile cracks John's mask of sourness. "The silver gathers into a stone, takes the curse away with it. Bowel movement, the Decay Express if you will. But don't you go drink silver oxyde if you ain't werewolf, else you end up like Papa Smurf." He suppresses a dry cough while shaking his crumpled cigarette pack for the last coffin nail. Once his air supply is laced with cancer again, he summons a pair of teinted spectacles that would belong in a Renaissance museum for the blind, slides them to Nick. "Put 'em on and scan for the eyes. Tell me how many red eyes you see. Don't point, if you point they run." John scratches the five o'clock shadow on his jawline. "I think I saw one. It's for confirmation, see? I don't want to chance it if I got it wrong."
Nick Drago	"Ok so stone's not physically there until after a bit." Nick acknowledges. And by the time there is a stone. Whelp. Who wants to reach in there then? As the glasses are produced, he glances to the old looking glasses before reaching a hand over to take them. Recalling some pairs he's seen Nathaniel wearing, he cracks a slight smile before putting them on. Sunglasses indoors tend not be a common thing to do. The lighting is usually not the best for it. But for those who are used to random flashes in the face, it's not too foreign a concept for the rockstar. There's a bit of a weave of the head, seemingly playing out some internalized skit in his mind. But regardless of the reason it does let him glance about while it looks like he's just goofing off. Alright, time to figure who has red eyes...
Constantine	John sips of his second cocktail. The patrons at this early hour are few and spread out. An old couple are in a booth, each playing with a smartphone, a young man is feeding a video poker machine by the restrooms' doors, two bikers are shooting pool, the street worker is laughing loudly with the waitress... A flick of the hand and the grill at the end of the bar, where the ham and chicken are being slowly roasted on spits? WOOOOOOSH! It bursts out suddenly into flames, surprising the waitress who yelps. Everyone looks, even the exotic go-go dancer. "Now, kid."
Nick Drago	A weave of the head, a glimpse of the couple. Another bob, and a glimpse of the bikers... Nick's not finding anything with the couples. But once the flames kick up causing for everyone to look the same direction, there's a pair of red dots that soon reveal themselves. WELL THEN. Nick turns his head back, catching glimpse of the cook. Nick sighs. "Count again." He murmurs. "Server...and cook."
Constantine	"Piss," John hisses between stiff lips. "How did grandpa score that beaut." He angrily pump on his cigarette while the barman rushes to inspect the methane network of the grill. "They've home advantage, Nick and they're a team. We're not a team, not yet. I'll do some more snoopin', get them named and numbered and situated. Let's go. I know a Jamaican place where they cook you spicy goat so hot you'll belch lava, my treat."
Nick Drago	Nick gives a slight chuckle to the curse. Judging from the reaction, he had a good guess to which one John had figured out already. The smile is short lived however as he glances to the one who prepared the drinks. A glance is given to the untouched drink John ordered for him with a momentary look of regret. That is until he hears the offer. "...You had me at 'my treat'."