tampered | [OPEN LOG] A LITTLE PARTY NEVER KILLED NOBODY

When; July 4th after this
Rating; Links are NSFW due to language and sexy hooker flashmobs. Other than language, situations shouldn't get above PG-13.
Characters; It's a party-- come one, come all!
Summary; Surprise birthday party for Meyer Lansky. Everyone is welcome!
Log;

Lucky's casino is busy as usual on Thursday, but those inside will notice that the stage normally reserved for entertainment is shrouded in a large curtain. The owner is seated, prepared to listen to the audition of a buxom blond who seems shy and has no real command over the stage. After a deep breath, she begins to sing in a voice barely above a whisper:

"Happy birthday to you~"

Before she can really get into the meat of the song, the curtain rises to reveal an unusual spectacle. Women of all sizes and shapes dressed comfortably in next to nothing. Those inside the casino can see them make a musical entrance. They seem to dote especially on the owner, who appears to be hoisted in his seat by two beefy men in shiny speedos. They carry him closer to what appears to be a cake.

It's not.

The exterior slips away revealing a mounted pole and another woman who has no problem steadying her stilettos on the arms of the chair the owner is being held captive in from time to time.

Looks like it's SOMEONE'S BIRTHDAY

All varieties of business continue as usual after the reveal. The women and men will flirt with anyone who has the means to earn their attention. There's even a new racehorse to the circuit being promoted out back! Come evening, patriotic Americans launch fireworks into the night sky. So come! There's good company, gambling, drinks and dancing-- eat, drink and be merry in honor of the holiday and Meyer Lansky's birthday!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Well, it's about time."

He picks up another drink off the tray at random, and takes a much more cautious sip of it. This one doesn't seem noticeably glittery, at the very least, so that's a step up.

"What're you feeling?"

It's essentially his version of market research. He knows how it makes him feel, but he has to sell this stuff to other people, too, and you don't base your expertise in your products off your own experience. This is for the sake of science and business, clearly, not just for the sake of seeing Al get high, although that's an amusing perk.

Your marketing strategies leave something to be desired, Meyer, but at this point he's not going to question much. Al takes a break from his drink, steepling his hands and placing them against his lips thoughtfully. He inhales before speaking: slowly, calculating and thoughtful.

"Good," it's the first word that comes to mind and the easiest that conveys his feelings, but not enough.

"It's like I just accomplished something, you know, the kind of thing you're proud of but you don't gotta jaw about. Satisfied-- that's the word. Or-- or..."

"Like I been home for the first time in forever. I mean, it ain't the moon, but, it's something, you know?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

If only he could be taking notes right now. These all strike him as incredibly important, salient observations, although maybe that's the drugs speaking through him. Everything seems particularly relevant right now, every topic of conversation fascinating, everything Al's saying both amusing and inexplicably philosophical somehow. It's not a bad feeling -- it's something he could get used to.

"You feel tired at all? Sometimes, if you're not used to this stuff, it can really knock you out."

It'd happened to him the first time he'd tried it. He'd been feeling great for about five minutes, and then he'd practically passed out, facedown on the carpet. Nobody'd ever let him live that one down.

"No." It's a perplexing question. He feels many things, but emotion seems to stand out in particular. Good comes to mind again. Maybe he is a little tired...but it's nothing troublesome. If he feels the need to lie down, he knows the stockroom is now cleared and that all goods are properly identified and accounted for. It's a perfectly good place to rest one's head.

"I passed out on the ferry once when I was a kid," he cradles his head in his hand, half resting, half as an effort to job his memory to his perfectly relevant story. They're sharing after all-- it is the most he's spoken to Meyer without him being a smug little prick.

"Got a pretty good licking for being late for dinner or something."

"You grew up here, right?" he asks, and then immediately shakes his head, looking amused. He'd said here like they were back home, like they were in New York or Chicago, not like they were stuck in some city that seemed to exist nowhere in the world they were used to.

"I mean America," he amends. His reason for asking is simple curiosity -- he realizes that he doesn't know a whole lot about Al, doesn't even know whether he's an immigrant like the rest of the guys he works with, or whether he's really from the US. It doesn't matter, not really, but then, most of these conversations don't matter.

Regardless of the importance of whatever they happen to be discussing, though, he finds something pleasurable in the fact that they're able to discuss something without getting into an argument; he thinks it's probably the drugs, but he's not going to argue with the results.

There's a laugh, a giggle really, at the mistake that carries over into his answer.

"Yeah. I was born here--" he corrects the same mistake with a lazy waft of his hand, "In Brooklyn, I mean. My parents came over from Naples...you know it? It's in Italy."

Where Al's never been himself, but in a land of opportunity? Why bother. Nowadays he can't say that he isn't well-traveled anyway.

"Sure, I've heard of it. Never been there, though. Maybe someday."

He vaguely thinks he might like to travel, just as soon as he's seen all New York has to offer -- and after having lived there for the better part of twelve years, he still hasn't seen everything, he knows full well. And now they're stuck in the City, where there's a whole bunch of other, even stranger stuff to see. Yeah, maybe he'll make it to Italy someday, but probably not for a long time. Never, if they don't get out of here.

"Things are a lot slower there," he's worldly in the sense that, from time to time, he listens and picks up on little details. "People take their time to eat. Drink. Fuck. I don't know."

"What about you? I--" How to phrase it... "I know nothing about you. You're like a goddamn shadow or something."

It's not that he's particularly interested in specifics, more that he's astounded someone can be up and coming in the world without showing their cards.

"What about me?"

He shrugs, movements slightly more expansive than usual, slightly less guarded. "There's nothing to know. I'm not a very interesting guy."

Whether or not that's true isn't particularly the point. He prides himself in the ability to remain hidden in plain sight. Being short, slow to anger, and polite has done far more for him than anyone knowing his life story ever could.

[OPEN LOG] A LITTLE PARTY NEVER KILLED NOBODY

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