Sabretooth's Hotel Room

[exodus]

...

[haverberg]

He grabbed the bottle and stared, its amber essence held to the light for long moments before the squared container was lowered to the table and a shot's worth of yellow liquid splashed into a shot glass.

Linie brand Aquavit: 80 proof Norwegian potato whisky, its claim to notariety was its being taken twice across the equator in oaken casks on ships before it was sold, supposedly to imbue a mellow flavor to it.

Not his typical drink, but this was an aniversary. The change of spirits would force his body to take just that much longer to get used to the alcoholic toxins before killing the buzz, killing the fun. Once, the buzz lasted days, and then hours, and now mere minutes, not even the fullness of an hour. Oblivion and forgetfulness no longer held sway over Victor Creed. That thought almost made him drive the shot glass against the wall before words long past came flowing back.

"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like 'I feel lightheaded; maybe you should drive. . . .' And suddenly there was a terible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: 'Holy Jesus! What are these g--d--- animals?'"

Those words of Hunter S. Thompson, made famous in his legendary "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" - it was he, Sabretooth, sitting in the car next to "The Good Doctor", not the Samoan attorney he fictionalized nor his real life attorney as he had later claimed. G-- that man could take punishment, the mans liver needed to be bronzed an displayed proudly in a hall somewhere. No, not a hall. A bar. One with pool tables and rows of motorcycles parked out front, the kind that respectable people drove by with their doors locked and windows rolled up. Those bleating sheep.

That summer of freedom he'd driven all over the west, and then later rode his hog all across the high plains down through Texas and into backwoods Georgia and Mississippi, leaving a trail of dead deputy sheriffs and "upstanding citizens" - the kind that took to ambushing and beating to death all them fine upstanding hippies and troublemakers that dared to not cross the county line by midnight.

[Black Tom]

Tom roamed the hallways for a few minutes, wondering what he could do besides hustle people in the billiards room. He’d done that already. He needed a new group of suckers. Walking past the one certain door, he smelled a familiar unpleasant scent. Creed! he thought. He wondered how much money the creature carried. Hopefully very little. Tom had all the money he would probably ever need. The fun part was taking from those who thought they could make a quick buck off him, and taking everything they have.

Like any good grifter, Tom carried a deck of cards in his coat. He pulled the deck out and knocked on the door with his cane. Once the door opened, he held up the cards and said “Care for a game?”

[haverberg]

There was a knock at the door while he sat there, his thoughts scattered in mid-reverie.

Scowling, Victor Creed fastened his denim bath robe, his hair still slicked back and damp from the shower. On the chair to one side his clothes were layed out for the following day: a formal suit-coat with suspenders and polished black shoes. White shirt. Red tie with pin. Small but tasteful lapel pins supporting the current administration. Hated necessities.

Pulling the door open, its frame revealed a fool: a pompous and sober fool in the form of Black Tom, looking for an idiot, hopefully drunk, which he could take advantage of.

Not his game.

The man was no sheep, however. He was a fellow predator and worthy of respect. Guarded, watchful respect.

Without a word, he turned away, leaving the door open in silent invitation. He found another shot glass and placed it on the table; it announced its presence with a loud, ringing thud as its base impacted the surface. Still silent, he spilled the bottles contents into each glass one at a time before placing the bottle carefully away.

"Drink," he announced.

"Drink, if you want to stay."

[Black Tom]

Victor was obviously a man of few words. Tom stared back at the man before he walked away from the door. Taking his lack of rejection as an acceptance, Tom followed the animal into his room.

Sabretooth pulled out a second shot glass to match the one already on the table and crudely dumped a yellowish liquid onto the table. The glasses filled only by coincidence. Drink! Drink, if you want to stay. Tom watched in fascination at Creed’s apparent gesture of politeness. This was definitely an odd creature.

Tom picked up the Shot glass nearest to himself and raised it toward Creed. “Ta my health,” he toasted before pouring the liquid into his mouth. To his surprise, the beast had good taste. The drink was flavorful with a sweetness to it.

Since he played Creed’s game, now it was time for his. Tom pulled the cards out of his box and began to shuffle. “What’s yuir game?” he said with a smile. He fumbled the shuffle twice while setting up the cards. This is where the hustle begins. Tom was giving off the look and feel of being a novice.

[haverberg]

Creed watched dispassionately as Black Tom took the drink in a single shot, with an obvious appreciation for its qualities. "So the man is used to hard liquor" he thought to himself with neither surprise nor any evidence of it. No doubt, eventually the man could be made to drink himself senseless, but one bottle could not do the job that would be demanded of it - and there were better places for such fine drink. His own throat came to mind.

“What’s yuir game?”

Again, the cards were offered, and again, with too much eagerness. It made Victor reassess the man's abilities - surely so much clumsiness - or was it arrogance? Whatever it was, it made him doubt the mountebanke ever made it to the high money tables with any regularity.

This game held no interest for Victor - Black Tom would not get drunk enough, nor could he himself ever get drunk enough for either of them to hold that advantage. That left skill and artiface, which Victor readily conceeded despite the too well timed fumbling of the cards.

He ignored the cards. Instead, he leaned forward to straighten out the tie he had layed out for the following day to keep it from falling off the chair onto the floor. Satisfied, he fell back into his own chair only to inspect the man before him.

"I didn't said yes."

[Black Tom]

Perhaps Tom was looking at this man the wrong way. He didn't seem to be the big, dumb animal Tom thought he was, despite the way he recklessly poured whiskey. Still if he wasn't there to hustle the man, why was he there at all? There had to be some kind of entertainment to be found in the brute. "Fine, but we're goin ta need a lot more whiskey and bigger glasses if the plan is ta sit here and stare ot each other."

Maybe he should go back to the billiard room. Maybe he could pick up that blonde again, feed her a sob story about how his daughter was off screwing around with some punk she just met, and he was sorry wanted to start over. Then he could kick her ass out again once he was done with her. The mere thought brought a grin to Tom's face. But insted he was stuck in a hotel room with a beast, who apparently didn't want to do anything fun.

[haverberg]

"Fine, but we're goin ta need a lot more whiskey and bigger glasses if the plan is ta sit here and stare ot each other."

Victor Creed bent his head back, roaring his approval at Black Tom's suggestion. "And now we have a game I like to play!" he cried, thumping Black Tom squarely on his shoulders with a ham-fisted open palm, an open smile on his face. Swiftly two large bottles of Canadian Rye Whiskey were produced along with a four ounce tumbler which he presented to Tom. He set down a larger, eight ounce glass for himself with a heavy motion.

"We play rounds. The winner," and with this he raised his glass to his eye, inspecting it, "can ask any question and an honest, full answer must be given. I am in a generous mood today," he went on by way of explanation, "for today I remember my friend Hunter S. Thompson with a new and different distilled spirit each year."

[Black Tom]

Apparently Tom said the magic word, which coaxed Creed into roaring for anyone nearby to hear. He then punched Tom on the shoulder and produced more whiskey. Tom liked to drink as much as the next man but this was overly dramatic.

Not wasting any time, Tom poured his first glass and quickly chugged it. He slammed the glass down on the table, and waited for Creed to take his turn. He was standing up, making a toast to Hunter S. Thompson. The name wasn’t completely unfamiliar, although he couldn‘t place where he‘d heard it before. As he waited for Creed to take his turn, Tom asked the question on his mind. “Where have I heard that name before? Hunter S. Thompson”

[haverberg]

(Sorry for the delay, I am on vacation)

"You drink it like water, then? You need a larger glass!" Sabretooth exclaimed, pulling out a tumbler to match his own as he quaifed his drink in an easy, effortless gulp.

"Who is Hunter S. Thompson? You don't know?" At this Victor began to laugh loudly. "I am too old then!"

"He was the free-est man in America, living by his own rules when men could still be men and not sheep! AND he is the only human who has beat me in a drinking contest!"

[Mystique]

Hearing the booming voices before she even reached the door, Mystique rolled her eyes. Creed had decided to show. What a treat. Piking the lock, she stepped into the room, not at all surprised to see him with the Irishman, both about to get srunk off their asses. "Hello, boys."

Making a face at Creed, she corrected herself. "Tom and Hairball." Deciding that her choices seemed to be either sitting around with those two or in her room, babysitting Ear, she decided to amuse herself and grabbed a chair, pulling it easily over to the table.

She hadn't bothered to change back into her natural shape, but still held her blonde, more human form. Creed, undoubtedly, would know it was her. But Tom? Well, it was time to see just how quickly he caught on. "For the record, I'm not going to waste any time dragging either of your hungover asses out of bed tomorrow."

[haverberg]

"Bist du, Leni? Sie wissen, daß ich betrunken erhalten konne nicht. Ich halte nur das whelp vom Erhalten in unserer Weise, am morgen," Creed asked, sniffing obviously to take her scent in while addressing her with the name she had used back in Berlin so many years ago. "Er ist nicht subtil. Sicherheit ist auf ihm wie Krabben auf einem Seemann."

// Is that you, Leni? You know I can't get drunk. I am only keeping the whelp from getting in our way, tomorrow. //

// He is not subtle. Security will be on him like fleas on a dog. //

[Black Tom]

What a fascinating creature this was. When he was unhappy, he became quiet and ignored the world. When happy, he roared with no regard for the mission. He truly was an animal, apparently an impressed animal. He pulled out a bigger tumbler for Tom and bragged on his abilities. Tom poured himself another drink while Sabretooth described Hunter S. Thompson. It didn’t help Tom place the name, unless out-drinking Creed made you famous. Tom seriously doubted that was the case.

As he lifted his tumbler, the door opened and in walked a stunning blonde woman. She had an extremely confident air about her, much like someone he had met earlier. Even odder, she didn’t seem put off by Creed. Most women would turn and run at the sight of that beast. For the record, I'm not going to waste any time dragging either of your hungover asses out of bed tomorrow. Hmm, that would imply that she was in his room tomorrow morning. That thought pleased Tom very much. Tom eyed the blonde indiscreetly, he never hid from something he wanted.

Creed began speaking to the woman in German. Tom just smiled as he drank again from his larger tumbler. “Oh Ja, ist er furchtbar borish Mann. Und mit seinem Mangel an der Subtilität wird nur durch seine bemerkenswerte Schönheit konkurriert,*” Tom said as he put his glass down. Not even waiting for the stupified look he expected from Creed, Tom looked at him and explained “International criminal, Creed, and a highly educated one at that. I speak German, along with a few other languages.” Tom couldn’t help but smile as he finished another drink.


*”Oh yes, he's a horribly boorish man. And his lack of subtlety is only rivaled by his striking good looks.”

[Mystique]

Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at Victor's use of her name from Germany, she replied with a simple, "Ja, das stimmt." Before she could continue, Tom voiced his abilities. As she listened, she poured herself a glass, not bothering to stop until it was nearly full. Thanks to her own abilities, she was able to make herself immune to most poisons. Including alcohol.

She raised an eyebrow and cracked a slightly impressed smile. This Tom certainly had a few things going for him. The fact that he might actually be useful on a mission for a change was almost enough for her to warn him about the fact that he would almost definitely end up passed out on the floor while Creed continued to drink like it was water. Almost. And as close as she was to warning him, every pass that his eyes took over her body made her less and less likely to do it. "So you're a criminal, then? Probably an old pro, too. Forgive me for not introducing myself." Standing up, she leaned over the table and extended her hand, making sure that Tom was able to get an eyeful in the process. "My name is Leni Zauber. Victor and I go way back. Unfortunately. Nothing like the Cold War to bring about the utter desperation in a woman."

She shot Sabretooth a look, somewhat eager to inform him of Moss' death. But of course, saying something would probably jar Tom's memory of their earlier encounter. And now that she was playing the game, there was no way that she was going to slip up.

[haverberg]

Sabretooth shot an annoyed look at Tom's use of German, then continued on rapid fire to Mystique in the same language, but switching to the localized dialect he and Mystique had known nearly 40 years ago, full of dated idiomatic references which would not be in any language text. Berlin in the early 60's was a much less confident city than it was now, and language influences from occupation and new words reflecting the city's own unique status had given rise to a rapidly evolving street slang.

He acted as if Black Tom was not in the room, or more properly that he did not matter.

<"I do not trust him. Better for him to be drunk and discovered as such tomorrow by Erik; he will deal with it as he sees fit">

Just then the tie that had been perched with the rest of his wardrobe chose that moment to fall to the floor. With a barely supressed snarl Victor picked it up, carefully folding it and emplacing it in the pocket of the suit coat which was also drapped over the chair.

"So, besides misreading your mark what else can you do?" Victor wanted to ask him, but held his tongue. Iinstead he opted for a pleasant "So, what do you steal?" as he poured the man yet another glass of Whiskey.