A S K A R E E

loco, maniac, sick bitch, psychopath

It was difficult to say exactly what had beckoned her back to this place, the only axiomatic truth being that something had indeed tugged at the threadbare ties that bound her to this city (even as diminished as they were now)... otherwise why would she have exposed herself up to the absolute logistical nightmare that was traveling back from Egypt with documentation that was the very antonym of legitimate. The consideration to simply stay in the motherland had festered within her mind for some weeks now, the notion of remaining with individuals more akin to her particular brand of aberrant presenting a far more attractive idea than immersing herself once more into the cesspool of soft and squishies that awaited her in this 'land of the free'. When you peeled it down to its bare bones perhaps it was the unrelenting feeling of unfinished business that compelled her so. Or, more like, she wished merely to burn the place down to its fucking cinderblocks. Raise a little Cain and all that bullshit.

And what better place to begin than the repugnant shithole that was Dav's dust-choked slice of mediocre hell. Her shadow coils upon the doorstep as some insidious viper poised for the strike that was surely to come. But the doorknob, dulled and stripped of the sheen of cheap copper veneer by thousands of separate caresses, does not give to the flick of her wrist. Hardly surprising that the dump would have been shuddered given that its owner had long ago taken his leave of the place and its only two consistent employees were a green-thumbed curmudgeon and a wayward Were that could not have possibly given less of a shit about the business or the continuance of its barely middling success. It takes naught more than the barest flex of telekinetic energy to send the various crusted bolts sliding from their respective housings and allowing the caramel-skinned vagrant to gain entrance to the property.

Askaree is greeted by a veritable wall of stale stank, the fine layer of dust that had always cloaked the assorted offerings of the shop had fermented into a blanket of gray fluff that would have coaxed far more disgust from her had not been for the voices drifting in from the office at the back of the building. Someone (or, quite obviously, multiple someones) was in the midst of a decidedly heated discussion in what had once served as Spencer's "office"... or, at least, that's what he had called it. High and mighty twat.

The distance to the office is miniscule, her footsteps unheard as she prowls like the goddamn ace predator that she undoubtedly is until she reaches the open doorway. Carefully does she peek around the corner, quickly coming to the realization that her stealth is unnecessary given that the attention of the half dozen or so men jammed into the room- a mix of Sopranos extras and one or two of the douche canoes from Jersey Shore- was focused solely away from the doorway. Pressed suits and neck tattoos as far as the eye could see... save for the only individual whose face was visible. The individual that all of the others were focused on, their shared rage a thing that could almost be tasted. There he was- Father Nature himself. A grin, cruel in its gaiety given the precariousness of the situation, tugs unabashedly at the edges of her lips as Askaree moves to place herself within Spencer's line of sight. She allows her lean figure to sag against the doorframe, one leg crossing over the other in a languid display of nonchalance. It is a few moments before those familiar eyes find hers between the towering pillars of flesh separating them from one another. And yet in this moment of assumed need all that she offers him is the pursing of her lips into a falsely sweet kiss that billows into the air between them.