A S K A R E E

BABY, DROP THEM BONES
SELL THAT SOUL

It was true, she held quite a cache of adoration for those shithole bars with their delectable crust of grime cast splendidly against their hazy halos of yellow lamplight. But what Mr. Male Privilege, with his crisp starched garments and polished loafers, did not know (and would likely fail to truly comprehend) was that those insidiously murky corners were the only places in Sacrosanct that tickled that gooey place within her that was nostalgic for the homeland. Askaree did, after all, hail from one of those "shithole countries"... or at least the shithole part of one of those countries... where the bars had dirt floors, tin roofs, and a liquid menagerie that could arguably be described as "lethal". Where the air, so hot it was stifling, was made thick with the salted aroma of beaded sweat and the lustful stench of basal yearning. Those were the places she preferred, places as lascivious and filthy on their face as she was. Places that wore perversion proudly instead of weaseling it away beneath a candied veneer of pressed suits and polished hardwood.

Where, she wonders with a licentious grin, did Spencer hide his perversion?

Probably wherever he had managed to scrape together enough of a sense of humor to thwart her with that precious excuse for a rejoinder. "I didn't," she retorts, the vibrant petals of her simper withering to reveal something almost venomously deadpan. A reminder, perhaps, that beneath the veil of tart indifference there remained the coiled viper of rage that lent its venom to her tongue. "Make a habit of drinking rat piss, do you? You're a goddamn animal." The smile, though it blooms readily, is merely a farce. A counterfeit of exuberance. He had flirted with the lines that they had drawn, made them blurry. He had muddied waters that had once been crystal clear. And for that she was going to have him pay.

Handsomely.


Askaree was warm in all of the best places. Johnnie Walker could do that to a girl, after all... and so could Jose, and Jack, and the gaggle of other fellows whose libations were hosting a tempestuous festival within her gut. Damn it was good to get completely and utterly sloshed on someone else's dime. Especially when that particular someone was a fucking haughty prat. The caramel-skinned woman's head inclines (somewhat unsteadily) in the direction of said prat, intent upon telling him as much, when a seemingly distant chime chirps amidst the nebulous smog of her inebriation. Why the hell did that sound so familiar? The sumptuous chocolate of her eyes narrow toward Spencer, the expression mimicking something almost incredulous, before the not-unpleasant humming against one of her ass cheeks taps at the momentarily dimmed lightbulb of realization. Oh... right.

The light cast from the glossy screen of the cellular that Askaree extracts from her pocket is nearly blinding in this advanced state of inebriation, a wince pinching momentarily at her features as her thumb slides against the glass surface. "Hello? Yes, wh-" She falls silent for a time, surely longer than her companion might have thought feasible given that she was... well, Askaree. It is a pregnant silence, heavy and sizzling with the biting electric current of the not-yet-known. And, just like that, it is shattered. "Are you FUCKING kidding me? I swear to god, he had better be alive when I get there..." Whatever threat she might have intended for the unfortunate individual who presumably still lingered at the other end of the line would forever coalesce into the ether of the unsaid, Askaree ending the call with unceremonious abruptness before waving a leather-clad arm in the direction of the bartender. "Oi, Hagrid!" Catching the man's eye, she throws down a somewhat crumpled wad of bills that may or may not have been quite enough to cover the wares of the evening. "We have to go back," she nearly hisses towards her companion, absent any explanation though surely the acidity to her tone would leave little room for his refusal.

Actually... no room.