2007-03-01: Terrorist Germs


Namir_icon.gif Samantha_icon.gif Bunny_icon.gif Richard_icon.gif

Summary: A peaceable (aside from a tumbling frat boy) chat at the tavern, involving Rugby, Soccer, and Body Art.

Date It Happened: March 1st, 2007

Terrorist Germs

Oldcastle Pub

So a Muslim policeman and a Jewish doctor walk into an Irish pub …

It sounds like the opening to a joke, but it's actually happened tonight. Namir said he'd take Samantha out for drinks, and he's always been a man of his word. "Drinks", of course, implies something very non-alcoholic for the Muslim, who has settled for his old standby IBC cream soda. This pub just happens to have some on-hand. As he's got the next week or so off, he's dressed in civilian clothes: a dark blue button-down shirt and neatly pressed black slacks beneath a heavy black overcoat. He's seated next to the good doctor at the bar, which is crowded thanks to the late hour and the fact that it is a weekend. Some sort of soccer — or football, if you prefer — game plays on a small television suspended from the ceiling behind the bar.

Samantha does not wear lab coats 24-7. Though a nice cashmere sweater seems to be in order, and a pair of pinstripe slacks and heeled boots. Her hair's been pulled back to bring her cheekbones into sharp relief, and her makeup is pretty simple.

Perhaps in solidarity, Sam also ordered an IBC cream soda, but cheerfully expressed delight and advised Namir upon recieving it that she's grown up on Doctor Brown's. As she gazes up thoughtfully at the tv she remarks,

"You know, I rather like rugby. The All Blacks are my favorite team. They do this thing called a haka before every game."
"There some room at the bar? Thanks, beautiful…" A slightly-roguish smile curves Richard's lips as he briefly flirts with the young woman near the door waiting to escort people to their tables; slipping past, a brief glance down to the gleaming face of his watch taking in the time as he steps along over the hard-wood floors - polished to near-mirror gleam, reflecting the soles of his shoes in distorted images - and slides himself up onto one of the stools, not too far from the others already there as it happens. A drink menu's plucked up from its neatly standing position, turning it over in his hand to glance it over, although the mention of rugby draws his head and gaze over to the others with a briefly bemused expression, as if startled anyone is actually talking about rugby. As for clothes? Nondescript. A long-sleeved gray polo, jeans, reeboks. Could be anybody.

Meanwhile, over at a table in a nearby corner, Randall (wearing a similarly cheap but serviceable outfit) is settled in with a bottle of Killian's, watching the game with the intent gaze of a long-time fan. Or that's what it looks like at first, anyway; closer study would reveal that his gaze is just off to the left a bit, and not focused properly either. The imported brew must be affecting him a little strangely. At various other tables on the same side, genuine fans watch and talk and pump their fists in excitement, oblivious to the quiet and harmless-looking fellow in their midst.

"Rugby, hmm?" Namir tilts his head slightly to one side, squinting up at the ceiling a moment with a smile as he considers. "I haven't watched much rugby. Football is the sport I grew up with." He gives a nod to the television as he picks up his soda for a sip. It's around then that Richard takes a seat nearby, and the Muslim subconsciously shifts over a bit in his stool to make elbow room for the newcomer at the bar. He glances at the other man before returning his attention to Samantha. "What is this haka you talk about?"

"It's a ritual dance in Maori culture. Actually there are similar dances in many Polynesian cultures." Samantha explains. "There are haka for every type of rite, but the ones the All Blacks perform are warrior haka. Which makes sense, considering. Soccer can be exciting too, though. Though I'm also fond of hockey. I'm definitely a Rangers girl."

"Thanks," Richard allows as the other man nudges away to make room. After the bartender gets to him, and he orders a guinness, the man looks back down the bar to Samantha with a bemused expression for some reason— shaking his head, then, he curls his fingers about the tall, condensation-stained glass set before him and lifts it up to the 'tender in casual toast, bringing it up to his lips to take a hearty swallow.

The trance - brain freeze - whatever finally subsides; Randall takes out a small notepad and scrawls something down in it, then puts it away again and reaches over to finish off his bottle. Leaving his jacket on the back of the chair in hopes of holding the table, he heads over to the bar to order a refill, nodding to Namir and Samantha as he catches a bit of what they're talking about. "It is a great game today, isn't it? Ever since that scare about ten minutes in, you can see they've all been on edge…"

The explanation of haka gets a nod from Namir, but it's the mention of hockey that causes him to grin broadly. "Go Rangers," he chuckles, lifting his soda in a toast, but he doesn't drink immediately. Randall makes his appearance and is met with a friendly smile that soon breaks into a grin once again. "It is," the Muslim agrees with another nod. "I thought it was over before it had even begun there for a minute."
Samantha perks. "Oh, you like hockey?" she asks in surprise, though noticing Richard's glance, she chuckles lowly. "Must be an Islanders fan." she murmurs. Turning her full attention back to Namir, she inquires, "So are you crawling the walls yet wanting to get back on duty? How are you occupying your time?"

"I'll never grasp soccer, myself," Richard's voice slips into the conversation as he regards the television with a somewhat dubious eye, lips pursing a half-inch above the edge of his glass, "I watched a game once. After like two hours the score was still zero-zero, at which point I turned it off. Didn't seem terribly exciting." At the mention of 'duty' his gaze flickers over to Namir, pausing in a brief once-over of the man as he takes a sip from his drink.

Randall turns to regard Richard as he waits for the reorder to be filled, offering a shrug as he leans back against the edge of the bar. "Yeah, it's hard to say. Maybe the fans get so tied up watching the trees that they don't worry about the forest till after. Or maybe they just have a hero-worship thing going on with whoever their favorite players are? That would explain it, too."

Once again, Namir takes a drink from his soda, lowering it to the bar before making a chuckling response to Samantha's question: "I do enjoy hockey. And I think being told to take time off has been the worst thing to happen to me yet." But one can't really do much with blistered, bandaged hands (which are covered by gloves tonight). The gauze that was on his face has been removed, revealing the healing blister mark on his cheek. "I've been reading and walking around the city, mostly. I can't really play much XBox with these— " he lifts his hands a moment before lowering them again. The talk about soccer pulls his attention to Richard and Randall again, but his smile doesn't fade. He shrugs. "To each his own. Some people find baseball or basketball exciting, but I don't. It's just a matter of tastes."

"You should tell your physical therapist about the X-Box games. He or she might reccomend them for home therapy." Samantha and Namir are sitting at a table with a pair of dark, carbonated drinks in front of them. Richard's at the bar, Randall's at a table, and all of them seem to be engaged in conversation. "Your blister's coming along nicely. I doubt there'll even be a scar." She grins. "No making your ugly mug worse, lucky you."

"There must be something to it," admits Richard to Randall as he speaks up, "I mean, people get murdered over it, and there's riots all over the freakin' planet every time that there's some sort of major game upset, but I just can't get excited myself. Now, baseball- there's a sport." The glass lifts a bit in Namir's direction at his comments, and then he takes a generous swallow of the foam-topped Guinness.

Bunny pauses on the threshold of the Pub, after pulling open the door to step inside. She has a pink and orange scarf wound several times around her neck, as well as a bright red coat zipped closed. Her hands go immediately to her pockets as soon as she's inside, and she glances around briefly before moving toward the bar, eyes open for a vacant seat. "Holy mother…" she murmurs to herself, snuggling a little further down into her coat. Not a native New Yorker. Can you tell? Brrr.

Samantha is apparently the only native New Yorker amongst this band of savvy heroes. And boy, does she look like she's from Queens. "The riot thing has never struck me as particularly amusing." Sam confesses. "As generally I'd be one of the folks stuck having to see to the injured in such a situation."

The accent demonstrated by Richard isn't too distant from New York; it's definately northeastern, although not quite as thick as Boston. A faint smirk curls his lips at Randall's words, allowing dryly as he pauses in mid-sip of beer, "Yeah, that sounds about like the mass of humanity to me… at heart, just sheep trying desperately to supress the hindbrain." The woman that approaches the bar is glanced at, then, and then glanced at again, because needless to say she's rather eye-catching. Due to all the colours. "Bit chilly out there, eh?"

A grin again graces Namir's face at the teasing, one eyebrow raising slightly. "Well, that's good news. I won't have to wear a paper bag over my head the next time I take you out for drinks, then, will I?" What? A second date already? Maybe. Easily enough, he adds again to the second half of the conversation currently on-going between the small group: "And I'd be the one jumping into the middle of it to beat people into submission, I suppose. I don't particularly like riots." For a man in such a violent line of work, he quite despises such things. Namir also speaks with an accent: Israeli mixed oddly with native New Yorker. He glances over at Bunny when she enters, offering her a faint smile.

Bunny continues on her way down the bar, lementably missing an opportunity for a prime perch as some burly type shoulders in first. She hmphs softly, and continues on her way. Good thing it's a long bar. The further she moves into the warmth of the place, the more her shoulders relax, until finally she's standing without doing the chilled hunch in her jacket. "I can't feel my ass," is the oh-so cultured response. "HEY!" She shoots a glance back at a fast handed college age looking guy. "That weren't an invitation." Still, she doesn't seem all that upset about it, and turns from the grinning guy to glance at Richard. "This weather should be illegal. I'm tropical." She cranes her neck to see if there's any seats nearby.

Randall inclines his head to Namir. "With backup, I hope— one thing about mobs is they don't always notice who they're trampling underfoot." And back to Bunny, lifting a hand to his face to conceal a grin as the frat boy gets grabby. "There's probably some tropical diseases going around town somewhere," he offers afterward, "does that count?"

Samantha snorts. "It's a bit too cold for tropical diseases to be spreading about. Pneumonia on the other hand, that's the hot ticket right now." She looks to Bunny. "Haven't been here long?" she asks with some sympathy. "Takes a few years for your blood to thicken." She then looks back to Namir, a brow arching. "You're pretty cocky." she says. "The allure you carry of being a man my ma would have a complete heart attack at the prospect of my going on any dates with notwithstanding."

The tip of a running shoe happens to put itself at about ankle-level of a certain fast-handed college guy as he moves past, which is surely and certainly by accident. Richard clearly isn't the sort to purposefully trip fraternity douchebags in the middle of a bar, surely! As if to prove his innocence, he takes another sip of his beer, gesturing towards her with the glass afterwards and asking curiously, "…California?" The clothes give it away, at least for his guess. The others get a glance, one brow lifting at Namir, "National Guard, or SWAT— or just violent by nature?"

"Always with backup," Namir chuckles, raising his drink again, this time toward Randall. Except, of course, where mustard gas is involved. His eyes shift to Richard at the question, and his grin widens slightly. "One would classify me as SWAT. I go in and get the big bad guys when the regular cops can't handle the heat." Samantha's remark about his cockiness is met with the same grin. "My mother wouldn't be too pleased with you either, I'm sure, but I'm willing to take that chance if you are."

Bunny huffs a but at Randall as he chimes in. She shakes her head in the negative. "Not unless they send ya down ta a hospital in the Bahamas or somethin', no." She tugs a little at her scarf, and looks to Samantha. "Near about a year, I guess. I don' see it ever workin' up ta this arctic freeze." Dramatically spoken like a Southerner, except her accent is a little muddled with some SouthWest, too. "Nuh-uh. Raised in Nevada." By someone with a thick Southern accent by the sound of it. "Never thought I'd miss the desert." She glances back over her shoulder as somebody falls on their face. "They don't make them frat boys like they used to…" Her attention flicks to the bartender who happens within yelling radius. "Hey, sugar! Beer me, k?" Don't mind the volume, nearby, Richard. Sometimes these things must be done. "Did you say SWAT? Like with the guns an' the outfits?"

"I'll think about it while I powder my nose. Order us another pair of IBC's, yeah?" Rising, Sam heads for the ladies, easily ducking some overenthused fans pumping fists in the air and howling victory over a goal.

As the impromptu joke falls flat, Randall shrugs and reaches for his bottle. "Nevada. Las Vegas? We drove out that way a couple times— gets pretty empty once you get a few miles outside any of the hubs, doesn't it? Nothing like around here."

As the frat boy trips over his foot - accidentally, of course, ahem - and hits the floor with a solid grunt of pain, Richard twists just enough on his bar stool to be facing Bunny more directly. Hey, it's a good alibi to explain where his foot was that whole time. "Nevada, eh? I've always wanted to visit Vegas, I'm an East Coast boy myself, though." The pad of his thumb skins the beer's edge, considering Namir for a moment, "Hm. Fun job, I imagine." Possibly sarcastic. It's difficult to tell.

Obligingly, Namir flags down the bartender and points to the two sodas near him. The bartender nods and moves off to grab a couple more bottles, leaving the Israeli to glance over at Bunny, still smiling readily. "That's right." Richard is the next person of focus, to whom the Muslim smirks and snorts softly. "It is." He doesn't sound at all sarcastic. He does enjoy his job.
Samantha has disconnected.

Bunny shrugs, and finally unzips her coat. Core temperature has reached acceptale levels. "Vegas is pretty, lots of lights, call girls, and beer. But most people jus' to there an' end up losin' stuff they couldn't afford ta part with. It ain't a nice town for folks as can't control themselves. But, if you're otherwise," she nods, "It's not bad. Warm, too. But, yep, there's a lot of lonely road ta get lost in." She glances at Richard's beer briefly, then eyes the bar to see where that bartender went off to.

"It's the same way in California," Randall muses, "only there are a whole lot of hubs knotted close together up north, and another set down south— the dead area's all in between." As he speaks, he gestures with his hands, the motions resembling those of molding clay. "Here it's almost completely packed in. Critical mass, in a sense."

"I haven't known all that many folks who could control themselves in the slightest when someone waved something particularly shiny in front of them," Richard observes cynically, setting down the tall glass on the bar beside him and sliding a hand to rub against the nape of his neck, "So that sounds about right. And warm's good. Too damn cold up here, even for those of us who're used to it."
GAME: Save complete.

Bunny nods to Randall, reaching up to ruffle her fingers briefly through her hair. "Yeah, people's just packed in. Good for business. The tourist trade's pretty dang awesome." She loosens the scarf and slides past Richard to press up against the bar to give the bartender the eye. "I spend a fortune just makin' my apartment livable."

For a moment, Namir returns his attention to the game on the television, just to ascertain the score. Then, he looks again to the small group nearby and smirks at Randall's assessment of the general population. "It doesn't get much more crowded than New York," he chuckles as the bartender saunters over with Bunny's beer. To Richard, he adds, "Then you have probably been hanging around the wrong sorts of people."
Randall takes another swig, visibly relaxing, though not in a bad way like the falling victim from earlier. "What line of business are you in?" he asks Bunny; he's spotted the tattoo just below her neck, but that alone doesn't really make for a hint.

The tattoo that shows as Bunny removes her jacket is more of a hint than it seems! She glances over and grins. "Body Art. Y'know, tatts, piercings…" She slides a hand down her back pocket, and fishes out a few business cards for Village Ink, a tatt shop over in the Village, and hands them around. She leaves a few on the bar, too. Finally, finally her bottle of beer arrives. She drops some cash, also from a back pocket, and chirps, "Thanks!"

Samantha returns from the john (though if it's a women's bathroom, shouldn't it be a jane?) and moves to retake her seat at the table she's taking with Nasir. "Miss me?" she chirps as she resumes her perch. "Are we still talking soccer violence?"

A tattoo artist, hmm? Namir's thoughts go to the punk he met earlier in the day as he watches Bunny and Randall interact. Scottie had a lot of tattoos and piercings. But his thoughts are interrupted when Samantha returns, and he smiles at her. "No, now we've moved on to people who lose money in Las Vegas and body art," he responds. Samantha has wonderful timing, as the bartender also returns with the fresh drinks that were ordered after she slipped out.
"Body art." Sam says wistfully. "I've always wanted some, but it's not allowed."

Not allowed! What! One can almost hear Bunny's shock. "What? Why? Who don't allow body art?" Horror.

That gets a nod from Namir. "Mm-hmm. It isn't allowed for me either." Bunny's interjection causes the Muslim to glance at her and smile faintly, but he'll leave it up to Samantha to field the question. He's not one to go spouting off someone else's religious beliefs and practices without their permission.

"It's against the tenets of my faith." Samantha explains without rancor. She gives Namir the eye, silently inferring that she'd not have cared. He's well educated and she knows it.

"He's a cop," notes Richard with a slight jerk of his thumb in the direction of the other man, finishing off his guinness as the glass is tipped back to his lips for a hearty swallow. The back of his hand is used to wipe his mouth, and he sets down the glass— considering Bunny with a more thoughtful expression, "Tattoos, huh? Hm."

Bunny squints. "I tattoo cops all the time…" She glances briefly at Samantha. "Oh, bummer." And then to Richard. "How about you?" Her capital in the room is dwindling. Probably she's about to go find the frat boy and talk him into a drunken tattoo so she can pay the heat bill this month.

"Cops can have tattoos as long as they don't show," chuckles Namir, smiling still, "but the tenets of my faith also do not allow tattoos." Besides that, he isn't terribly fond of needles and wouldn't ever subject himself to them unless necessary. He looks to Samantha again, the smile turning into a smirk. "It's always amused me how similar our faiths are, and yet there's so much enmity between them."

Samantha waggles a finger at Namir. "If we talk about our religions comparitively, there's an 'I drink your soda' penalty." she chides him.

At the question, Richard lifts one shoulder slightly; fingertips absently tracing a swirling design in the lingering condensation of the glass, as foam lingers against the inside of it here and there and slowly slides down within. "I haven't gotten any so far," he admits, "Not out of religious obligation or distaste, just haven't ever found anything that'd fit."

Drunk frat boy's looking more and more like the meal ticket this week. But Bunny resists, for now. He's probably a bleeder. "You don' want flash. Ev'body gets the crap on the walls. Ya want a custom design by an artist worth their needles." On the topic of religion, Bunny pretty much stays silent. She tips back her beer, and takes a long pull.

Namir laughs softly, settling a hand around his bottle almost protectively. "Oh, you wouldn't want to do that. You'd get my germs!"
"I'm aware of where your germs have been, sir." Samantha says blithely. She is getting some amusement factor out of watching Bunny try to work Richard, as well. "In fact, I've seen your insides, so I'm fairly sure it's safe."

"You got a recommendation along those lines?" Richard tips his head to one side in a curious little gesture, a smile pulling on his lips, "And what's your name, anyway, short, pierced, and tattooed?" One brow quirks upwards, before he does a momentary double-take over at the other conversation. Pause. "Man. That's a weird statement anywhere."

She finishes draining half the bottle before she answers, "Bunny, but—" What? Bun glances over at Samantha, then Namir, then riiiight back to Richard. Uh. "…What was the question?" Distracted easily, what?

The stir that Samantha's last statement causes is not lost on Namir, who glances up at the pair who sits on the fringes of the conversation. He laughs merrily at their reactions. "It's all right," he assures them, "she's a doctor." She's qualified to go looking at insides. Attention back on Samantha, he adds, "You never know; I could have strange /Muslim/ germs that you haven't seen. And for all I know, you might have strange musical germs that cause people to burst into song and dance, and I've already told you what a disaster it would be if I were to do such things."

Samantha looks over at the other two. "X-rays, for crying out loud." she says in mock-expasperation, but turns back to Namir with a chuckle. "'Muslim germs'? I think your own faith should dock you points for that, that's terrible. And listen buddy, musicals come with the package, here. If you can't handle Broadway and don't know the difference between Stephen Sondheim and Stephen Schwartz, try wikipedia."

"Hey, hey" Richard holds up a hand as if to ward off a thrown bottle, a grin curving to his lips, "I didn't say a thing, honest." That hand falls back to rest on his thigh, head turning back to Bunny as he exhales a chuckle, "A good artist. Also, your name, and various other trivia facts about yourself."

Bunny blinks a little, but it only takes the reassurance of two people to make her chill about that situation. Oh, right, potential client. Her eyes return to Richard. "… Uh. Good artist, that's me. Bunny is my name." She shrugs. "I have trouble with temp'atures below 76 degrees, collect scarves, snuggle stray kitties, an' I got a dog named Buzz." She raises her beer. "How 'bout you?" She promptly tips the beer back to finish it, and waves down the bartender for another.

Namir raises his hands in casual surrender, bowing his head a moment before looking once again at Samantha. "With some people in this city, you'd think we Muslims /did/ have germs. Terrorist germs." There is no trace of bitterness in his tone, only goodnatured amusement. "I can handle Broadway musicals; I just can't participate in them. And— " he lifts his soda for a drink "— it looks like I've got homework tonight." Stephen Sondheim and Stephen Schwartz? Hmm.

At the revelations, minor as they are, Richard's smile tugs up a little further at one corner. "…name's Richard," he offers with a shrug, "I wear sunglasses all day due to a genetic defect that leaves me all sensitive to bright light, not because I've emerged from the eighties like a zombie, I was president of the Dungeons and Dragons club in junior high, and I've got a thing for Guiness."

"Terrorist germs." Samantha echoes. "That's a very um, seven year old playing with Crayolas way of putting it." She grins though, to take the sting out of her words, but she doesn't mince them.

Bunny laughs. "Nerd." She snickers and salutes Richard briefly with her bottle. "About the shades thing—it's cool. I wear 'em sometimes too, but that's cause when you're hung over everything hurts." Not that she gets hung over a lot. Nooo. She does a little askance look at the repetition of the phrase 'terrorist germs', but manages to restrain herself. Just. Barely.

"That's about the maturity level at which I'd peg everyone who calls me 'towel-head', too," remarks Namir dryly, returning his bottle to the tabletop, "but ah well." No need to dwell on such subjects, really. It's not worth the effort. He steers the conversation back to something a little more pleasant: "How many Broadway shows have you seen?"

Richard makes a valiant effort not to look over either; he does glance, but that's all. "I am a recovering nerd," he notes with a brief flash of a smile, "I try not to do anything -too- nerdish these days… it's counterproductive. I mean, I'm already wearing shades, so obviously I need to act cool…"

"Very, very many. And some more than once." Samantha informs him. "It's going through a fabulous renaissance of excellent shows right now. Presently I've got Spring Awakening on endless repeat in my car. But I'm not entirely a slave to Broadway. I'm fond of museums. I practically grew up in the Museum of Natural History."

"Well, the shades thing is a hurdle. I mean, you better not do anythin' too pocket protector or you'll get harassed." Bunny turns back to look after the bartender, who seems to be busy at the other end with more beer-on-tap. Dang it. "At this rate, I'ma hafta go home'n drink. Depressing."

"Maybe I should get you to figure out a good tattoo for me, then," notes Richard in amused tones, a single brow raising upwards as he regards Bunny from behind those shades, lips twitching at her words, "I mean, I wouldn't want to seem not-cool, after all. And what, you just came here to get smashed?"
"The Museum of Natural History is a very impressive place. I'd like to visit more often." Namir frames his drink with both hands, palms laid flat on the table with index fingers and thumbs touching. "The Metropolitan Museum of Art is also nice. Have you ever been?"

"I was freezin' my ass off. Beer helps with that," Bunny replies, seemingly all logic for a moment. Except, not really. She just didn't wanna sound like a lush. "Yeah, you get a tattoo, your cool status goes up. But only if it's frickin' huge."

"MOMA?" Samantha queries, pronouncing it 'Moe-ma'. "Sure. I'm not partial to it though. The Brooklyn Museum isn't bad. It's got a nice Egyptology section."

"Mm, I haven't been to the Brooklyn Museum," Namir utters, mentally adding it to his tally of Places To Go and also Places Samantha Likes. He's got a List. But it's also getting late, and even though he doesn't have work in the morning, he does like to keep to his normal sleep schedule, and Samantha likely has work. After glancing at his watch, the Middle-Eastern man sighs and reaches for his wallet. "I should probably get you home. It's getting late."

"Well," Richard suggests casually, "Think you could come up with something suitable…?" A half-turn as the others rise, and he lifts a hand, calling easily, "Night, you two. Drive safe."

Bunny offers a wave to the departing couple. She steals the stool next to Richard, because standing in those heels gets old after a while. "Yeah, definitely." She gives him a once over. "How do you feel about… birds?"

The hand drops back down to his side, and Richard turns a curious - and thoughtful - look back to Bunny. "Birds?" He scratches under his chin, "What did you have in mind?"

Bunny grins. She leans an elbow on the bar and looks to Richard. "You're giving me black birds, like maybe ravens or something. Crows? But flying—like yanno those cutouts they put in windows cos they're s'posed ta keep other birds away?"

"Huh." A thoughtful sound in Richard's throat as he glances down at himself, "Could work, I suppose… I'd need to see some sketches and ideas and shit, 'course."

"Every'body wants sketches." Bunny shakes her head and slides off her stool, apparently deciding it's homeward for her. "I get too drunk, I might stumble inta an alley, pass out, and freeze ta death." She slides a card off the bar, and slaps it in front of Richard. "Come see me or call." Ziiiip. She closes her jacket and re-situates her scarf, finding it around her neck and ears.

As the card's slapped down before him, Richard reaches out to flip it over into his hand; looking over the logo, he slants a look over and observes with good humor woven through his tone, "Well, I'm not going to let you at my naked skin with a needle and no idea what you're doing— although that -does- sound like an interesting date, with different definitions slotted in." A grin, and he gestures to her with the card, "I'll be in touch, then."

Bunny gives Richard a little sideways glance. "Yuh-huh. Don't go gettin' any weird ideas, mister." She wags a finger at him. Yes, she really does it. "I'll see you soon, sugar. Bring cash." She grins, and finger-waves, then trounces off for the door.

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