The sound of glass shattering can be heard around the bar and every head swivels to him as Drago shoots to his feet with a icy stare at the bartender. The motherfucker had given him watered down beer when he had asked for a shot, probably thinking that Drago was too fucked up to notice by now but what he didn't realize is that as a Dark Hunter he didn't get quite as messed up as some mortals with as much as he consumed. It fed him a nice little buzz, enough to take the edge off the darkness that always seemed to be gliding in around him, but it was not enough to erase all sense of self. And if there was anything that Drago hated (well, what didn't he?) it was someone trying to impose themselves in his life with their rules, or as a matter-of-fact, doing so in such a manner as if he was some dumbshit who would let it go. "Feel like cleaning that shit up, cause I certainly don't feel like drinking it," he hisses in a cool tone and wide eyes flash between them and the glaring bartender but the room is drop dead silent.

The moment the bartender's eyes flick down from his, he knows he has won. It gave him a thrill of power and sometimes, not that he would ever admit it, he wondered if this wasn't how it felt to be some high and mighty alpha shifter commanding those around him. Knowing that he had the upper hand. In truth, didn't Drago? He killed Shifters and other such creatures for a living - he was an Alpha above alphas. He didn't bother to throw any tip on the counter and since he had paid for him drink prior to receiving it there was no hope of getting it back. He simply turns in a graceful manner, bows to the wary onlookers, then takes his leave.

The moment the fresh night air hits him he feels it burning again, that ever-present anger in him, that need to rise above it all. Nothing could keep it back for long and the fucking bartender had made sure to ruin whatever chance he was working on it. No doubt if he was a human his friends would be saying "Dude, you are an addict" or "Dude, drinking so much isn't healthy" and he would give them the one finger salute and tell them to piss off. But he didn't have any friends, not anyone that counted anyways, and he didn't care. One hand slides down his black t-shirt, fingers pausing to brush against his gun, fitted with silver bullets. In the back of his sleek new Camero (which he had paid a generous amount for) was some rope that he had been saving for a special occasion, and he feels his resolve tightening. Kill or capture, it didn't matter tonight, but the fire was in his veins and he had to do something.

Hopping in, he revs up the engine before speeding away, careless and reckless, his two favorite things, and in no time he has eaten up the pavement between the bar and the outskirts. Were's often came here to shift which was about the dumbest shit he had ever heard since it was almost like a freaking open gaming safari for a Hunter like himself, but he also knew that some dangerous prey haunted these woods, and that gave him a thrill. He parks his card haphazardly, grabbing the rope and slinging it across one shoulder and across his chest and stretching himself out. He was clad in the same black t-shirt, a generic walmart version, and some black jeans. The moonlight was bare across his black hair and his eyes, considered brown but often resembling black, gleam out as he steps into the woods and begins his search for his victim.