2019-09-22 - Psychoanalysis and Free Toast

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Psychoanalysis and Free Toast

Summary: Harley returns to the UR to find herself in the company of John Constantine. What they don't know is the horrible beast lurking behind the bar has once again awakened. Would you like any toast?



Who: Constantine, Harley Quinn, Talkie Toaster
When: September 21st, 2019
Where: The Usual Restaurant


Constantine-icon.gifHarley Quinn-icon.gifTalkie Toaster-icon.gif

The information contained within this log is to be considered information gained Out of Character (OOC).
This information may not be used as In Character (IC) knowledge or in roleplay unless it has been learned in-game or permission has been granted by the parties involved.

Questions should be directed to staff.


The Usual Restaurant(#1836RV)

You walk into a very large restaurant with high ceilings that leave the rafters exposed. Fluorescent lamps hang from the ceiling, adding light to the floor and tables. Windows adorn the sides of the place, looking out onto the chaos that is Twisted. On some of the walls are paintings, photographs, and holograms of different movies, and a number of people who tend to visit the UR - caught as they're singing karaoke. The hardwood bar rests at the back of the restaurant, surface polished and shiny and all-together spotless (most of the time). Behind the bar are the various beverages that are serveed, and a giant mirror. There seem to be an inordinate amount of different drinks. A large stage rests in one of the corners of the restaurant, with an amazing sound system and a few microphones strung around it. Multiple round wooden tables are in the room, and a swing door leads into the kitchen. Another door leads to the dance club, and another to the gym. And of course, there's an exit. A large fireplace nestles in one of the walls, with a beautiful stone chimney that flows up and out. A long spiral staircase rests near the entrance to the kitchen, leading to a second-floor balcony that overlooks the UR itself. The lights up there are a bit dimmer than those down below.


John Constantine has taken a position at the bar. In front of him, a glass of something amber and vaguely whiskey-like, and a box of smokes and a lighter. He's not actually smoking in the Usual, though.


Pushing open the door comes Harleen Quinzel. She's still dressing more moderately normal, at least for her. No red and black tights, just a baggy t-shirt with a logo on it and some cutoff jeans. The stockings she's wearing under them, well.... they're the only clue to her other persona. One stripped red, the other stripped blue. Not that the dyed tips of her pigtails doesn't imply them already. She's back to wearing a pair of frames instead of real glasses as well, something that's more noticeable when she smiles at the room glad to see there's still no bats in this belfry.

Making sure to check someone is actually working tonight, she drops her purse on the bar with a heavy thump and jumps onto a barstool next to John. She holds up a finger to get the bartender's attention, "Excuse me? I need a drink." She leans over patting him on the back like they were old friends. "What've you got, blondie?" The girl shrugs and taps the bar. "Don't care! Gimmie whatever he's havin'!"


"I hope you like whiskey, love," the man says, turning to study the pigtailed woman with a wry expression. He either doesn't recognize her, or he doesn't care. He's wearing his normal trenchcoat, shirt, loose tie. Hair, as always, looks like it hasn't ever heard the word "comb."

"Ooooooh, whiskey." A glass gets set before her. "Ain't had that in awhile." Soon as it's full she takes it and holds it up as if expecting him to toast, "If it don't kill ya..." She chugs it down, wincing dramatically. "Nope. That'll probably do it."

John Constantine grins a bit, downing the rest of his own glass. "Name's John Constantine," he introduces. She seems like a fun type, and he's frankly a little bored.

Nice to meet'cha!" She waves at the barkeep once again, "Gimmie another one, will ya? Maybe a strawberry daiquiri to chase it down?" She leans over conspiratorially. "Y'know, I get the whole not charging thing, but not carding either is just a crime." She leans back and deliberately shouts towards the rafters, "GOOD THING THERE'S NOT A CAPED CRUSADER AROUND!" Pause. Nope. She smiles a huge pinball smile and folds her hands behind her head, "I love this place."

John Constantine laughs a bit. "I suppose somebody has to." Most people John has met in Twisted seemed to hate the place. It's refreshing to see somebody who loves it. "And I suppose...you know, I don't even know what the drinking age *is* around here."

The girl chuckles at that, "I don't know, but I ain't tellin'." Assuming the whiskey has been brought to her by now she grabs it and chugs it down in a single gulp again, wincing and smacking the bar. "I mean what's not to like? Places to live, places to shop, all kinds of cultures." She gestures towards pictures hanging on the walls, "Ya get to meet fictional characters they'd throw ya in the loony bin back home over." Then she grabs her daiquiri, "And most of it's free! There's hardly any crime because there's no point in robbin' a place!" She takes a slower drink this time to enjoy the taste, "And no capes threatenin' ta clonk ya over the head for not bein' perfect. This is paradise!"

John Constantine laughs a bit. "You know, put that way, it does seem vaguely utopian, although I doubt there's no crime. There's enough to keep a few cops in business anyway. Less theft is good, though." Although he's not entirely sure how the economy around here actually stays stable.

Harleen is already most of the way through her daiquiri, so much for taking it slow, "Bub, the only problem I have with 'Twisted' is that it's always different every time I come back and it's dang impossible to find work in my specific field. If I could settle in somewhere, find some people needin' a good quack, and get some steady income I'd never go back home." She pauses long enough to finish off her drink and drop her head onto the bar, "Well, save for funerals and getting my babies back from the Zoo."

John Constantine ahs. "What kind of quack are you?" He doesn't question babies from the zoo...it's honestly quite obvious she had exotic pets and got them confiscated.

Someone who doesn't need an explanation! That perks her up a little more! She lifts her head up and leans on her arm to face him. Her accent is notably missing a moment. "I went to Gotham State for PhDs in psychology and neurological disorders. I've helped out at the Arkham Asylum for the Criminal Insane for a few years and worked for the Akira Institute that used to be up the road taking care of underprivileged catgirls in hopes of rehabilitating them into functional society." She lets out a sigh, "Then the woman running the place packed up and took off before I could get enough of a nest egg to clear out my to-do list." It's more than he asked, but she feels like talking. Could be the alcohol. Who knows how it affects her.

John Constantine ahs, "A headshrinker. I doubt you could help me much, it's been tried." He seems fine right now, but no doubt he has his issues. Everyone else does, after all. "Got my own ways of coping." Which probably means whisky and cigarettes. "Barkeep, another...and a plate of nachos for ballast."

Harleen pushes herself back away from the bar, "Y'know, literally everyone says that to me." She taps her upturned palm, "No one hears me say CRIMINALY INSANE." She lets out a sigh and waves her hands in frustration, "Look, you don't seem like the criminally insane type. If I can help THEM, you're not a lost cause." She pauses to pull her bangs back out of her eyes, "You're clearly the type with some deep rooted issues, you've got an air about you of someone who's seen things that would, to coin a phrase, turn a man white." She eyes him a bit closer, "You're drowning your problems away, but not rushing yourself into oblivion, meaning no matter how bad it might feel you're not ready to meet the reaper just yet." The girl shrugs again, "That tells me ya just need someone who doesn't think you're crazy." She lets out a laugh, "An' believe me. I've seen my share of crazy."

A pause. "I'm not crazy. People sometimes think I am, but I'm not crazy. Perhaps a little...haunted." She's right that he's seen some unpleasant things. "I'm a paranormal investigator. I've seen people get killed." So, of course, he's haunted. Not going to the truth yet, of course.

From behind the counter of the bar, a voice calls out, "Well, you know what isn't crazy? Toast. Could I perhaps offer you fine folks some toast?"

Harleen leans on the bar again just because it's comfortable. "Blondie, I've seen coworkers get killed standing just as close to me as you are now. I even made the mistake of getting involved with a guy who-" She leans forwards to peer over the bar, "I didn't know the bartender could throw his voice."

Without skipping a beat, Constantine responds with, "Toast is for breakfast. I asked for nachos." He didn't know that either.


The voice calls out once more, "Oh no, I am no bartender! Stab'em, Bob? Would one of you fine gents possibly assist me back to my rightful place upon the countertop?"

Two of the Skutters wheel out from the back of the Usual Resturant, each gripping the end of a tray which has a very crappy looking toaster upon it. The tray is placed upon the counter-top, and the Skutters roll off, with Bob giving Constantine a rather rude gesture before rolling away.

"HOWDY DOODLY DOO, I'm Talkie Toaster! Your breakfast time companion! And no, toast isn't just for breakfast! It's for any time! You could make a toasted sandwich for lunch. How about some chipped beef for supper? You /have/ to have toast with that! But none of you answered the question. Would anyone like some toast?"


Ignoring the toaster a moment she goes back to her sales pitch, "Anyways, look. My point is you're not alone." She puts a hand to her chest, "I've seen my share of crazy. Haunted dolls, killer clowns, giant alligator people who eat guards, penguin men, plant women, guys dressed like bats who run around with children in tights. What you need is a kindred spirit to get that weight off your chest, and frankly I've got nothing else to do." Before the toaster can suggest it again, "Can you get me a waffle?" That'll keep him distracted. "So come on! Let's get shitfaced, swap some stories, and if you don't feel any better afterwards..." She tugs on the collar of her shirt. "...maybe I'll show you how I got to college at such an early age." She playfully punches him in the arm, "Not that I'll have to, of course!"

John Constantine shakes his head at the toaster. "No." He feels almost sorry for it, but no, he doesn't want toast right now. He leans against the bar. "Demons?" he asks, as if they fall into the same category as the other things he mentioned. Then she punches him and he makes a wry face. "Ow."

The toaster happily chirps, "One waffle or two? Belgian Style? American? Do you want an Eggo? Square? Circle? Trapezoidal?" Yet when Constantine gives his reply in the negative, the toaster can only happily reply, "Would you care for waffles as well? How about some crumpets? Maybe a toaster strudel?"

Harleen shrugs at John. "Probably! I did mention haunted dolls, y'know. That one guy who talks in rhymes and does all the fire stuff? I'm pretty sure he was a demon." She turns her head slowly to the toaster, "One. Belgian. Standard. If it's good, maybe I'll ask for another one. Find me some syrup and I might start with two even if the first one is bad." She sighs, crossing her legs and leaning back, "Mistah-" She stops herself mid-sentence. "My ex used to talk about a guy who called himself a demon but apparently was some sort of crazy ninja. I don't think he counts."

"Probably not. Probably just some guy using infernal imagery because it looks cool." Which, Constantine has to admit, it does.

Harleen crosses her arms too, "That Grundy guy, I think he was a zombie or something." She huffs a bit and tries to make her voice lower, "BORN ON A MONDAY blah blah blah...."

Two slightly burnt yet undercooked waffles suddenly pop up within the confines of the toaster's heating elements. Already one of the Skutters is rolling out with the plate of Nachos that Constantine had ordered earlier, as well as a plate, fork and some extremely high quality maple syrup for Harleen. "Your waffles! Could I interest you in some more?"

John Constantine hrms. "If he had a name, he wasn't a true zombie. Could be a wight, a draugar..." He glances at the waffles. Then at the more appetizing nachos.

The girl lets out an "Ooooooooooooh" at the show and starts pouring on the syrup to drown everything on her plate into oblivion. She holds up a finger at the toaster, "I ain't tried it yet, hang on." She ultimately takes a bite, but it's hard to say there's enough left to taste the waffle at all. "Not bad. Could be sweeter." That's not an answer, Talkie. "So come on, let's hear about this demon. Clearly physical and not a mental construct. The suave prime time drama type, the overly butch bodybuilder with horns type," And of course she gestures at her chest mockingly as if holding a great weight, "or the overly busty succubus type?" Another bite! Mmmm.

"All kinds, love. Bumped into all kinds. Succubi are really annoying," he adds, "Overly busty or otherwise."

Harleen shakes her head and swallows, "Nuh-uh. I asked about the one that spurned you, not a hit list." She pokes at her waffle, "You jumped on the demon bandwagon too quickly so clearly it's connected, not to mention you're tryin' really hard to avoid the issue."

John Constantine laughs a bit. "Ain't been spurned by a demon, you misunderstood." Then he frowns a bit and abruptly wolfs down his nachos. "I have to go, love, but you can psychoanalyze me another time." It's not personal.

The girl lets out a heavy sigh and pouts, "Oh come on! It was just getting' good!" She takes another bite, "I'll hold you to that y'know. I ain't got nothin' better to do around here."

"Oh, they're good?" Two more waffles pop out of the heating area, only to be launched upward as /two/ more waffles. Then two more, and it doesn't take long for there to be a rapidly growing pile of waffles. "OH HAPPY DAY, FINALLY! SOMEONE WHO APPRECIATES TOASTED GOODS!"

Which is probably the real reason Constantine is fleeing the scene. It's not you, Harleen...



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