Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[Remalle]

(Damn, two waitlist spots out.  Still, have to get in on this!)

Spoiler: Murray Brown (click to show/hide)

Name: Murray Mason
Appearance: Murray is tall, thick, and ugly - you'll never find a finer specimen of the "dumb muscle" type (though in this case the "dumb" means he doesn't speak much as opposed to any particular mental deficiency).  While he may have been good-looking once Murray's been on the wrong side of too many fights; a lazy eye, a bent nose, a lopsided grin, all attest to one too many bats to the face.  The six short scars on his left forearm, though, indicate he's given as good as he's got.
He's most often seen wearing a cheap pinstriped suit and a rather nice hat.  The incongruously nice hat is a souvenir of his first bank stick-up, but the suit was his brother's.  It's a little small, but said brother only needs one suit nowadays.
The cigar that he's always got in his breast pocket is mostly just for show.  Murray's publically hoping that one day it'll save his life and get lit, all in one bullet, and nobody's told him that a cigar makes for a horrible pocket protector.
Bio: Just your ordinary muscle looking for an extraordinary job.  Murray's been enforcing for various no-name crooks ever since he hit that growth spurt at fourteen, and while he might not be dumb, he's sure not got enough imagination to try and move up in the world.  Somehow, Murray's never been inside, though a few of his employers have gotten hefty sentences; there's a rumour he's a snitch, but he's really just not been important enough to arrest.
Murray's weapon of choice is the Tommy gun with the drum magazine, and everyone agrees that it fits him.  He likes to go slugging with an aluminum baseball bat sometimes, too.
When the rumours reached his ear that Pianola was back in town, Murray knew his temporary unemployment was about to end.  Everybody could use some muscle, and this muscle knew exactly what to do about it.
Lucky number: 11.

[Yoink]

Clayton furrows his eyebrows and glowers, grabs the man brusquely, pulls him within a few millimeters of his face and snarls, "I'm sorry about yer suit." He turns his head and continues, "and the missus."

You grab the smaller man by the shoulders, readying your best glare, but he seems to interpret it as an attack. He wiggles back out of your grip and throws a punch [4]vs[1] which connects directly with your nose. [3] Pain shoots through your face with a nasty crunch, and you feel warm blood begin to flow, but you remain standing and manage to [3] grab him again, more securely this time, and growl your (rather nasal) apology.

[4] He seems a little embarassed about just punching you in the face while you were trying to apologize. He's also rather shit-scared. "Um... Oh, uh. Apology accepted?" He mumbles, not looking so angry now as you just about lift him off the ground.
"Sorry... About your nose. _{Please don't hit me.}"
You could let him go and laugh off the broken nose, maybe let him buy you a drink... Or then again, throwing him across the room could be pretty damn good as stress relief, ya know? He did just break your nose.
That option probably wouldn't please his lady, though; she's whining at you to let him go as it is.
As the tense stand-off continues, you hear a female voice start up singing, and the band change tack to a more suitably lively tune. A bit folksy for your tastes, but at least they're putting some energy into it.
 
Suddenly, the music stops as a door slams open, and you spin around-still holding the kid suspended off the ground- and see, right there before your very eyes, "Pianola" Ambrose. He doesn't look happy. In fact, he's glaring like a bull about to charge- not at you, but over at the bar, the source of that singing voice.
Hoo-ee, he sure is an impressive old fellow, standing there, hands balled into fists, cutting a fine figure in that fancy suit.
[...]The young guy's girlfriend, until then tugging vainly at your arm trying to free her boyfriend from your grasp, faints away and collapses at the sight of him. Huh.

Elixas smiles that se grin again and says, "Alright, I'll shake it."
Head back to the car and move it somewhere else. Then take the stash back inside and sell it off to the bar patrons.

The guy seems almost surprised for a moment when you agree, as though he was expecting some kind of trouble. After a moment he nods and returns to his spot by the door as you turn to the car, [2] getting in and turning the key in the ignition.
The only response is a sad, weak coughing sound and a belch of smoke from the bonnet. Oh dear, not this again. Looks like it's time to get out and push.
[2] "Hnnngg!" You shove at the car with all your might, using your shoulders with your feet braced against the ground. "Fnnnghhhrr!"

You only succeed in doing a fine impression of a constipated honey badger, and eventually leave off, breathing heavily. You see the doorman watched you in bemusement from where he slouches by the door. He looks like he's about to shout a witty comment, when the joint behind him suddenly explodes. Explodes in music, that is, as the barely-audible, incredibly off-key jazz is suddenly replaced by loud, boisterous, equally-off-key ragtime music. Wut.
Said doorman gives a start, almost reaching for a gun before checking himself, the peers through the door for a second before heading in.
The music escalates for a moment, and you can hear a dame's voice singing raucously away, and then it stops just as suddenly as it started.

Put some extra money on the bench, enough for the drink, and then some for the help, then start being unobtrusive again

You reach into your jacket pocket and pull forth... A single quarter, along with a handful of pocket-lint. You set this on the bartop by the bottle, then go back to watching the goings-on in the room. [5] You catch a glimpse of that big black feller picking a fight with someone over by the stage, and you see that Lou fellow making his way towards a door to the back of the room, but then all hell breaks (musically) loose around you as that lady with the scarf suddenly starts cauterwauling.
[2] Shocked as you are by her rough-yet-surprisingly-melodic voice bursting into song, you aren't quite ready to avoid the sudden flurry of movement. A big drunk sitting a couple of seats down leaps to his feet and smacks into you on his way past, knocking the wind out of you. "Whuff--" You are then inundated by a flood of people, mostly intoxicated, all of them dancing.

You see the house band rushing in, wildly pumping noise out of their instruments as they jig their way through the chaos, and you spot one unfortunate bearded fellow getting carried along in the flood. It's like some sort of stampede! After suffering an elbow to the side of the head, a stomp on the toes --was that a drumbeat or a gunshot?-- and making a narrow escape from a fat lady wanting to dance with you, you see your only means of survival in this situation. Dance.
[1] Unfortunately you aren't much of a dancer.
You are Unconscious.

Sing for the nice man, as my gesture of thanks! Probably include any other object of musicality in the deal.
If not, then sidle up to the next person and start inquiring about the state of affairs with the economy or general living.

The man raises an eyebrow, not quite understanding. "Er, wha--" [4] You cut him off with a spirited, if somewhat raw, rendition of "Keep On the Sunny Side" in your actually-rather-pleasant countrified singing voice. He stares at you, the cleaning rag finally still.

"There's a dark and a troubled side of life;
There's a bright and a sunny side, too;
Tho' we meet with the darkness and strife,
The sunny side we also may view."

[5] The barkeep has just opened his mouth to speak, either to praise your singing or politely shush you, when--just in time for the chorus-- a few nearby drunks get to their feet and join in, clapping hands and stamping feet to keep time whilst one wields a couple of spoons,

"Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side,
Keep on the sunny side of life;
It will help us ev'ry day, it will brighten all the way,
If we keep on the sunny side of life!"

The boy at the bar just stares at the strange scene before him. He's set down the glass, but is still clutching his cleaning rag like it's some sort of anchor to reality. He stays there, incredulous, as the rowdy group of drunks are joined by the house band, lugging their instruments(barring the piano, of course; that's replaced by something like this), switching from slow, moody jazz to upbeat rag music. They're still kinda off-key, but hey, so what? It's ragtime!

"Tho' the storm in its fury break today,
Crushing hopes that we cherished so dear,
Storm and cloud will in time pass away~,
The sun again will shine bright and clear."

Well, this sure is fun! You're a bit perplexed by the young bartender's reaction, though; he sorta returns your smile, but he seems a bit anxious about the whole thing, and he's fidgeting with that rag and casting the occasional glance towards the back of the room.
You're just starting in on a second chorus, "Keep on the sunn-" when there's a loud slam from the back of the room. The music, singing and laughter shuts off near-instantly, save for a few seriously drunk patrons who are quickly shushed. All eyes turn towards the now-open door at the back.

"What in the hell is going on here?!" A loud, gruff but clear voice booms from the door as a tall, broad-shouldered figure steps out.
The barkeep looks at you apologetically, murmuring under his breath, "I'm sorry Miss, I-I should've warned you..."
Your eyes are on the newcomer, however. He- for it is a he- strides fowards into the slightly-brighter room, furious eyes scanning back and forth across the crowd. He's a tall man, although his presence makes him seem rather larger than he truly is.

Thick brown hair swept neatly back and clad in a finely-tailored suit of dark, dark grey, thin red pinstripes hardly visible in the gloom, it is his face which holds your attention.  Not a young man, his eyes still hold a lively sparkle and the wrinkles across his skin serve only to make his face more expressive. With a strong-yet-smooth jaw, an aquiline nose and his sad, calm-looking blue eyes, he is every bit as striking as he was years ago in the newspapers, and despite the terrible, puckering scar across his right cheek you cannot help but recognize the man.

A shocked, reverential gasp escapes your lips. "P-p-Pianola Ambrose..."
[1] You also cannot help but swoon dead away. Seeing as everyone else is rather more occupied with staring at the fellow themselves, you are left to hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. How undignified.

You are Unconscious.

"JESUS!"
Dash to the left, avoid the bullet.  Kick out with feet as much as possible.

[3] You throw yourself leftwards as the big bastard pulls the gun free, training it on you. Sounds seem quite distant, almost detached, but you make out a voice shouting, "Goddamnit Fletcher, you ain't supposed to pull that shit in here!"
Just as you're bracing for death, the distant, barely-heard music kicks up a gear and there is a sudden rush of folks heading towards the bar, shedding overcoats and the like to make ready for dancing.
You think you hear the gun go off, but by then you're caught up in a human stampede, bouncing along like a piece of driftwood in a flood tide.
[2] It's every bit as painful as it sounds. You feel a sudden empathy for bits of driftwood. By the time you finally collapse, barely-conscious, against the bar, you are bruised all over, your clothes are in tatters, your coat is scuffed, you think you might have fractured something and you feel generally hard-done-by. But at least you're alive!
Just as you're catching your breath and gradually becoming able to hear over the pounding of your heart, you realise why the musc-and, by extension, dancing- came to a sudden halt.
A door over by the rear of the room is open, and standing a few steps from it, glaring about at the shocked crowds like some kind of incredibly angry but strangely handsome god of Wrath, is a man you recognize, after a moment's thought, as none other than "Pianola" Ambrose himself.
"What in the hell is going on here?!"
The man you'd came here to find! He is alive, after all. [...] You can certainly see why just about all the womenfolk in the room seem to swoon at the sight of him.

Spoiler: Notes (click to show/hide)

I hope this update isn't too silly... I had fun writing it, though!
I'll update statuses/waitlist/etc later. Remalle, you're on the waitlist.
Also, here is that song on Youtube.

[wolfchild]

Regain Consciousness

[Tiruin]

((:3 Yoink, that was beautiful.

*Cue collapse of mostly every female in room. XD))

Attempt to smile in my unconscious state and imprint the picture of that dashing lad in my mental eye.

Hopefully this won't carry on to my conscious self.

[NRDL]

Get up, be the first to greet him. 

[Tiruin]

((Re-reading this, after listening to that song, I realize I just angered the big boss.

O noes.))

[TCM]

"Hey, what's up Pianola!"
Casually stroll inside, bags in hand.

((First I imagine Pianola as an Al Capone character. Now the way you describe him, he sounds like one of those sexy latino men in cologne adverts if they tool up boxing.))

[Yoink]

((Well, personally I'd imagined him as a sorta Dillinger-style, gentleman bandit who doesn't shy away from violence when necessary. That was the basic idea I started off with, at least... I've fleshed him out a bit more than that now.
Who knows, though, villain chic could be the next trend in cologne advertising!
Just need AOS to post and I can update some more! No hurry, though, I just updated today. I'm not impatient. ))

[agentorangesoda]

Clayton sniffles, pulling some dripping blood back into his nostrils. He clenches his teeth and lifts the man almost entirely over his head, before laughing heartily and gently placing him back on the floor.

"You got a good punch, boy. Got a headache now. Gonna sit down."

Clayton takes the couple's table and begins to eat and drink whatever remains.

[Yoink]

Regain Consciousness

[4] You slowly come to, aching all over as you crack your eyelids. Floor. You can see floor.
Groaning, you eventually manage to get yourself to a standing position, gripping the bar to steady yourself. You head is killing you and your vision is swimming, but you still recognize the guy standing before you: "Pianola" Ambrose, the famed, recently un-retired bank robber you came here to meet.

Right now, though, he doesn't look too pleased; he takes in your battered, filthy appearance before heading past you to confront the barkeep.
Glancing groggily around, you see some guy with a big beard who looks just about as beat-up as you do standing near Ambrose with a silly grin on his face, that chick whose singing started all this slumped in a chair, and Lou, holding what looks like a sawn-off in one hand as he waves a vial of smelling salts under her nose.
The place looks like a warzone.
You're still feeling pretty dazed. You aren't really sure what's going on; Ambrose seems to be wanting to know just what you and your "companions" are doing here. You're abruptly jolted back to reality when he growls, loud enough for everyone to hear,
"Alright, people, someone had better get to explaining, here!"
What were you here for, again? You shake your aching head. Oh yeah, you wanted to join up with this guy, that's right.

Attempt to smile in my unconscious state and imprint the picture of that dashing lad in my mental eye.
Hopefully this won't carry on to my conscious self.

[5]

Spoiler: Aerie's dream (click to show/hide)

 You're sitting in the cool shade of a tree reading, somewhere in the grounds. You can here the soft murmuring of a creek nearby, and a soft piano melody tinkles somewhere at the edge of your consciousness, mingling with the sweet birdsong in the air.
You're just turning a page when a tall, strapping figure moves into view, and the book drops from your hands, forgotten as you leap gracefully to your feet. It's him! He came for you! You rush to his side, and he drops a bulging back of money to embrace you as you throw your arms around his neck.
All at once you feel at peace in the arms of this fearsome bank robber, even if he does smell faintly of gunpowder and cheap alchohol.
"Oh, Ambrose," You sigh.
"Oh, Aerie," He murmurs back, his manly voice slightly muffled by your scarf.
"Oh, Ambrose," You say again, "It matters not to me how many banks you've robbed, how much money you've stolen... You already stolen my heart."
"Good," he says, abruptly pulling back and grinning.
"Now, I've got a stick of dynamite in my pants, I reckon it's time to crack your safe! C'mere!" --Wait, what?! *Record scrapes off abruptly* That's not romantic! Damnit, so much for your sappy, lovey-dovey dream. Sheesh. You must be waking up...

It takes a moment for things to come into focus as you open your eyes, and when they do you can't help but give a small cry of horror at the sight you're confronted with. Staring at you with sunken, unhinged-looking eyes is one of the ugliest faces you've seen in some time; greyish skin, thin lips twisted in an unhappy scowl, and gaunt cheeks.
"Looks like she's awake," The fiend says, standing up. It takes you a moment to recover from that, but when you do you notice a far more pleasant sight: "Pianola" Ambrose, looking down at you with a mixture of concern and distaste. You feel a bit foolish as you remember that dream. There are a few others standing around, too, but you aren't really paying them any heed. Someone hands you a glass of something alchoholic.
"You're the one who was singing in here, yeah?" He asks you, frowning. "I'm going to assume you didn't know that was against the rules, huh."
He cocks his head. "...What's a dame like you doin' here, anyway?" He turns to some beardy fellow nearby, then gestures to that long-haired guy you were sitting near before the whole thing started. "All of you people, for that matter, what are you all doing here today? And who's he?!"
As he says the last, all heads turn towards a table on the other side of the room, where some big black guy with a guitar strapped to his back sits at a rather too-small table, the floor around him carpeted with smashed plates, spilt food and a young couple lying unconscious in a pile of spilt food.
Ambrose is getting a bit frustrated here. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, then says, loud enough for all the room to hear,
"Alright, people, someone had better get to explaining, here!"
He glances from you, to the various other strangers in the room, and back, waiting for someone to speak up.

Get up, be the first to greet him. 

[6] "Oh boy, oh gosh! Oh boy! It's Pianola Ambrose!" You cannot contain your excitement as you hurry over to the man, still feeling a bit dazed and practically tripping over your feet in your haste. You shove your hand out towards him, grinning broadly like a street urchin given unlimited credit in the candy store.
Ya know, except you're a big guy with a beard, bruised and bleeding from your recent injuries. You grab his hand and start pumping it vigorously at he stares at you, his angry expression momentarily replaced by abject confusion.
"Oh, it's great to meet you, Mister Ambrose! I'm a huge fan, I got all your newspaper clippings, I keep a scrapbook of 'em, oh I really want to join your gang, I uh, I'm a big fan, I think the Credit Union robbery back in '34 was a classic, you know, and--"
He shoves you off of him with a grimace. "What the hell, boy, you concussed or somethin'?" He turns towards that creepy guy in the blue suit as the latter approaches, looking a bit disheveled himself and clutching a sawn-off shotgun in one hand.
"Lou, watch this guy. Something tells me he's taken a nasty hit over the head."
With that, the great "Pianola" Ambrose shoves past you, not having time for your hero worship right now. He's heading over for the bar, determined to find out just what the hell's been going on in here.   
A short while later, Ambrose has just about had it with this foolishness. He looks at you and the various other newcomers in the room, and says, (quite loudly) "Alright, people, someone had better get to explaining, here!"
Hmmm... You think you could have made a better first impression.

"Hey, what's up Pianola!"
Casually stroll inside, bags in hand.

Leaving the near-wreck of your car where it is for now, seeing as the doorman's distracted, you unload a good few of those opium parcels, making your way up the steps and back inside. You see none other than "Pianola" Ambrose himself, looking none-too-happy as he storms out of a back room and makes his way over to the bar, shoving aside petitioners as he goes like some kind of medieval lord.
You're guessing he- and by extension his obviously foul mood- have something to do with the music stopping so suddenly.
"Hey, what's up Pianola!" [5] You call out to him, grinning as you swagger in, lugging your product.
He looks at you briefly, narrowing his eyes a bit as he sees what you're carrying. "Uh, yeah, hi." He looks like he's about to comment on the drugs when, from somewhere beneath the bar, that long-haired guy you came in with groans loudly and staggers to his feet, clutching at his head.

He looks like he's had a run-in with a steamroller, and he's had at least a couple of drinks spilled on him, but before Ambrose can comment your business associate from earlier, the big man in the coat, ushers you back outside.
He looks at you like you're nuts. "Pal, you got lucky there. "Pianola" ain't too fond of hard drugs. He keeps it strictly booze-only in the O'Dolan, if he'd seen this stuff," He counts some notes off a bankroll and shoves them into your hands before taking the drugs, "He'd a' had you roughed up and chucked out. There, that should cover it. The name's Seymour Green. If this stuff sells well, I'll be in touch, Roxine."
He puts some emphasis on your name, letting in sink in that he (somehow) knows who you are, and then he's gone, headed off down the stairs with a couple of bodyguards. Eep.
You step back inside in time to see Ambrose confronting the young bartender. Looking at the room more closely, it's pretty much a scene of destruction; furniture has seemingly been shoved aside at random to form a space for dancing around the bar, the house musicians are standing there looking sheepish, still holding their instruments, and that dame with the scarf is propped up in an armchair, someone waving smelling salts in her face.

"Mike, what happened here?" Ambrose is saying, his voice a little softer than before, although he's still pretty mad.
'Mike', the barkeep, is standing behind the bar in silence, looking nervous.
"Who started it all off?" The lad looks up, gesturing uncertainly towards the unconscious lady in the chair.
"We-ell, her, Mister Ambrose, but it was... My fault, really." Mike takes a moment to compose himself as Ambrose stares at him.
"I uh, should've told her not to sing, y'know. Since it's a house rule an' that. Sorry, sir." He looks truly pathetic, standing there with his head bowed and his trusty cleaning rag clutched in one hand. There are a few snickers in the crowd as most people start heading back to whatever they were doing before that whole song-induced riot.

At this point the amateur songstress herself starts to come around, giving a small yelp of fright. You can't really blame her, getting a better look at the guy with the smelling salts as he turns to Ambrose- he is one ugly sonofabitch, and not just compared to yourself.

Ambrose starts in questioning her. He really doesn't like people singing in this joint, it seems. You do seem to remember reading something about him being quite the singer himself, back in the days before he got run out of town and nearly killed... Now that you think of it, that was where got the "Pianola" part from, in the first place. Hmm.
After a moment, Ambrose looks about himself, seeming to notice the number of strangers in the room; yourself, the guy with the beard, the bedraggled longhaired fellow who was lying under the bar, and some big guy over the other side of the room.
He starts to lose patience, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation before raising his voice.
"Alright, people, someone had better get to explaining, here!"

Clayton sniffles, pulling some dripping blood back into his nostrils. He clenches his teeth and lifts the man almost entirely over his head, before laughing heartily and gently placing him back on the floor.
"You got a good punch, boy. Got a headache now. Gonna sit down."
Clayton takes the couple's table and begins to eat and drink whatever remains.

[5] The boy sure doesn't waste any time, as soon as you put him down he turns to scarper. [2] However, like his girl before him, he gets an eyeful of Mister Ambrose, gasping like a strangled hamster before joining her on the filthy, food-splattered floor with a crash of broken crockery.
Shaking your head, you right the table you so recently flipped over, pulling up a chair before taking a seat. Unsurprisingly, all the food is scattered across the floor, so you 'borrow' a plate of spaghetti from a neighbouring table.
Not that anyone notices, anyway, all being busy staring at that "Pianola" guy. Not you, however. You're hungry.
Mm. Good spaghetti.
You let out a burp, setting aside the empty plate and dapping at your mouth with a napkin. You hear someone saying, "...And who's he?!"
Suddenly you're aware most of the room, including Ambrose, is staring at you.
A moment later, Mister A shouts: "Alright, people, someone had better get to explaining, here!"
It's not just you he's upset about, though. The whole place is a bit of a mess. Still, he is not in a good mood.


Entering a 'Free RP' section!
Basically, it's time to wrap up the prologue. This bit will be mostly roleplay, not divided up into 'turns'.
It's time to explain your sorry selves to Ambrose before he loses patience. I'll roll for anything if necessary, but there shouldn't really be a need to.
Good luck!  ...You'll probably need it.

Spoiler: Notes (click to show/hide)

Urgh, I really don't like this update. Sorry for the crappiness of it all, I've had trouble finding time to sit down and get it done... And I'm pretty tired at the moment. I hope I didn't ramble TOO much. Still, I didn't want to keep you all waiting, and I wanted to finish the Prologue.
So just post as often as you like for this next bit, roleplay with the NPCs and each other.
After this is done we'll start chapter one.

Again, sorry for the lack of quality in this update; I hope I didn't make too many errors etc.

[Tiruin]

((Woohoo, I have a safe! | ))

Aerie could feel her jaw drop at the event, the man before her was angry. Dashingly handsome and angry at the same time! But it wasn't that which attracted her, but the surroundings.

Everything was a total mess!

"Erm, Pianola. That guy with the guitar is Clayton, a good friend of mine an- and I'd like to say thanks for waking me up."

She squinted at his pants, nope. No dynamite. Curses.

"Aaaaand we're...looking for you, actually..."


Regain focus.

[Yoink]

"Erm, Pianola. That guy with the guitar is Clayton, a good friend of mine an- and I'd like to say thanks for waking me up."
"Aaaaand we're...looking for you, actually..."

Ambrose gives Aerie an odd look as she speaks. "Right, right, you still haven't told me just who you are."
He glances between you with narrowed eyes, inspecting you each in turn.
"So you're all here lookin' for me, then? Well, you've found me. Now what? What's so important that you decided to waltz in here and trash the place?"

Regain focus.

[6] Finally, everything snaps back into focus. You can see more clearly, now... Unfortunately you're also pretty sure Ambrose noticed you staring at his crotch. You quickly avert your gaze to the drink someone handed you. It looks like it would taste awful, but get you pretty drunk.

In your immediate vicinity- you're seated in an armchair pulled up near the bar- is Ambrose, that guy you came in with with the big beard and bloodstained arm(Jeremiah Nix), the fellow you were sitting next to earlier with the long hair, currently looking pretty dazed(Jacob Greyson), that creepy guy in the suit, Lou his name was, who also appears to be holding a shotgun, and to your right, behind the bar looking repetnant, that nice young bartender.
Looks like you got him in trouble.
Other than that, you can see plenty of people milling about, righting furniture and cleaning up the mess as things return to normal, some rather shady-looking moustachioed person in a suit near the door, and of course Clayton, seated at a table across the room admist the wreckage.

[wolfchild]

Inform Pianola of my intent to join up

[TCM]

Tell Pianola we're all here to form his new gang.

[Tiruin]

Explain reason for coming here.

Introduce self and others which I may know.

Apologize sweetly to the bartender.