Encounterlogs
Laurens Odd Encounter Sr Luc 240413
In the grimy interiors of a dilapidated tattoo parlor thick with the smell of incense and cigarette smoke, Lauren stumbles upon a curious discovery. Amongst the chaotic decor of neon signs, posters, and an assortment of piercings and ink designs, she finds patterns that hint at something deeper—a cryptic map hidden within the seemingly random placement of the artworks. This revelation, however, seems destined to be overshadowed by her unfortunate interaction with a particularly unsanitary and aggressive individual, known henceforth as Beer Belly, whose presence reeks of rotten eggs and hostility. Lauren's attempt to discreetly acquire a piece of this intriguing map is abruptly interrupted by Beer Belly's revolting flatulence and ensuing threats, setting the stage for a tension-filled confrontation in the heart of the squalid shop.
As Lauren tries to navigate her escape from Beer Belly's grasp, the altercation escalates. Despite her attempts at diplomacy and derision directed towards her captor's lack of hygiene and decency, Beer Belly's grip only tightens. Lauren's initial plan to simply photograph the map and leave quickly devolves into a frantic struggle to maintain possession of her newfound treasure while avoiding the physical dominance of her assailant. Her attempts at persuasion and distraction fail against the backdrop of the shop's disinterested patrons and Beer Belly's inexplicable resistance to psychic influence. The encounter concludes with Lauren begrudgingly agreeing to return the poster to its original place on the wall, all the while enduring the man's demeaning comments and unwelcome physical contact, leaving her to reconsider the worth of her discovery against the backdrop of the parlor's oppressive ambiance.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRLuc):SRLuc)
[Fri Apr 12 2024]
In Sideshow Sabbatical Skin Styling
There's enough seedy shit in-range of eyesight to make an oil with. Past a skinny white door between two columns of red brick is the dingiest little tattoo parlor on the East Coast, if you can even make out details past the burning smog of haze-thick incense. It's cramped enough to make a claustrophobic's nightmare, sensory overload comes guaranteed. The flooring is a waxy black and white checkerboard, dotted by scuffs and drags alike shining through the blinding fluorescent lamp-light. Considering that the place is just four walls, a press-board drop ceiling, and a door on the right, this is an utter clusterfuck. There's way too much going on in maybe a hundred and twenty feet of space, from the various and often random neon signs, to the posters, weapons hung up on the wall like trophies, an assortment of framed pieces, and of course, a copious selection of pre-fabbed ink designs ranging from cool to vile. Countless mirrors are fitted onto random surfaces and corners.
Any accusation of 'sanitary' or 'polite' would be deeply remiss here. There're some wipes laid out on a shampooing sink and a bottle of unlabelled liquid assumed to be alcohol next to 'em, but that's about it. Stale ink bottles row the far shelf surrounded by stains and spills. There're two options of bench to choose from and two matched chairs. Other than that, there's a a wooden stool with only three remaining legs and a suspiciously shiny black leather couch. Nothing screams 'comfort'. All those slim, shady-looking freaks, aged from teenage to timeless? They're standing, moving, or they're leaving. In, out, money moved, something gained. Where workers would be, 'urban representation' presides. There's class distinction here, even in a space only large enough for ten.
It is night, about 49F(9C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. Waist high mist flows through the area. There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target stumbles upon a cryptic map that leads to a long-forgotten artifact of incredible power. Unbeknownst to them, this map has also caught the attention of The Destined Host. The group will stop at nothing to retrieve this relic, believing it to be key in bringing a powerful demon into this world. The target and their allies must either safeguard or destroy the artifact before The Destined Host can get to it.)
In the dimly lit interior of the greasy, rundown tattoo parlor, the air hangs heavy with the pungent scent of ink, antiseptic, and cigarette smoke. That blinding white fluorescent light flickers intermittently overhead, casting harsh shadows against the peeling walls adorned with faded flash art and old band posters long since stained illegible by the choking cloud of incense.
The sound of buzzing tattoo machines fills the cramped space, accompanied by the occasional clatter of metal tools against the worn linoleum floor. The whirring and buzzing create a constant din that reverberates through the room, competing against the hum of the lights and punctuated by the occasional muttered curse or gruff laughter from the tattoo artists as they work.
The atmosphere is thick with tension and apprehension, as clients nervously await their turn in the tattoo chair, their anxiety palpable in the air. Some fidget nervously in their seats, while others stare intently at the designs plastered on the walls, searching for inspiration or distraction from the impending pain.
Lauren might not be waiting for her turn to get inked, but the designs are interesting nonetheless. This being the township of Haven, it's not so surprising to see motifs of the supernatural interwoven into the local aesthetic, grimy and dingy as it may be, but on closer inspection - and with the application of the faeborn's understanding of the occult and the arcane - a more interesting thread reveals itself: a number of designs appear to be very specifically placed along the wall. Through symbology and through their specific placements, a sort of map can be inferred. Nothing local, of course - without a thorough study done, a guesstimation could be made that it indicates somewhere in central Europe... but it's an interesting place for such a map to make an appearance, at the very least.
Lauren was definitely not waiting for her turn to get inked, no. Her interest is more on the piercing side of things, but even still, she's debating whether or not to risk the dodgy amounts of unhygienic-ness going on here and try her luck somewhere else, even if 'somewhere else' means she'd have to go out to Boston. It's a debate that's taking a long while, long enough for her attention to drift and wander. She's already circuited the place while in thought, grabbed some interesting-looking drugs out of the musty basement, stashed away carefully for a more challenging day, and she's leaning against the side of the couch now, not risking taking an actual seat upon the dubiously stained piece of furniture while she people-watches. There's a shady group of burnouts here, some aggressive-looking fellas there, and Lauren decides it may be better not to strike up too much conversation here, instead turning her attention to the posters upon the walls. She moves closer to the pattern that's spied, a hand lifting to trail along one of the pieces making up the arcanely-coded map. There's a glance over her shoulder, and then she sneaks a finger beneath the design in an attempt to loosen what's holding it to the wall, nail scratching at the adhesive - is anyone going to care if she just yoinks one out of these many wall hangings?
Who knows? It depends on whether any of the staff are actually present, or whether the tattoo artist is just some guy off the streets and started tatting people up. It is /really/ hard to tell by skill level alone or personal hygiene. That said - Lauren could probably take a photograph or video of things without being too disruptive. It wouldn't be as high-quality as having the original map - and all of its constituent posters - on hand, but it'd be a lot more convenient.
To Lauren's left, one of the men on the couch lets out a ripping, squealing fart. He ate eggs recently. Bad ones. This shop fucking sucks.
The tattoo artist may be some guy off the streets. He's shirtless and covered in prison-tattoos, so it's hard to say if he's actually staff or not. Lauren spends a couple seconds peering over at him to figure out if he cares - yes, she /could/ just take a photograph, but she could also just grab a key piece of the entire map so it's not so easily decipherable by anyone else who happens to come through. She tears through the adhesive - a corner of the map piece accidentally rips slightly, whoops - and then all of her senses are assaulted by the sound of dying pig and the rancid stench of shitty rotten eggs, quite literally. Lauren gags, lets out a disgusted, judgmental, "Dude," and steps away while attempting to hold her breath for as long as possible until the smell goes away. She may just pass out first. It truly is the worst shop.
Alas - sulphur farts man doesn't seem to take kindly to his air superiority being challenged. He lifts himself to his feet, equal parts brawny idiot and beer belly, clad in a stained white wifebeater, blue jeans and workboots. His tattoos, now that Lauren's getting a better look at them, are also unpleasant - is that the alchemical sign for hell on his bicep?
"Don't act like you're any fuckin' better than me, you nasty-ass ho," he sneers, the chips on his teeth making it seem almost that he has a mouth full of knives. "Tearin' down what you don't own. You think having a face full of gold makes you pretty, do you, bitch?" He advances with a heavy footstep, his gut jostling with the movement. He stinks` of rotten eggs. Sulphur. Brimstone. He shoves his hand out at her, cracked and yellowed nails kept glued together by the dirt that cakes the seams. "Give it here, huh? We don't need you fuckin' with the /ambience/ we got goin' on here."
Alas - sulphur farts man doesn't seem to take kindly to his air superiority being challenged. He lifts himself to his feet, equal parts brawny idiot and beer belly, clad in a stained white wifebeater, blue jeans and workboots. His tattoos, now that Lauren's getting a better look at them, are also unpleasant - is that the alchemical sign for hell on his bicep?
"Don't act like you're any fuckin' better than me, you nasty-ass ho," he sneers, the chips on his teeth making it seem almost that he has a mouth full of knives. "Tearin' down what you don't own. You think having a face full of gold makes you pretty, do you, bitch?" He advances with a heavy footstep, his gut jostling with the movement. He stinks of rotten eggs. Sulphur. Brimstone. He shoves his hand out at her, cracked and yellowed nails kept glued together by the dirt that cakes the seams. "Give it here, huh? We don't need you fuckin' with the /ambience/ we got goin' on here." (fix)
Lauren takes another step back entirely out of instinct when Mister Beer Belly and Stanky Farts lifts himself to his feet, her nose wrinkling up before she can control the movement. That's not likely to go well, whoops. "Sorry, dude," she says - no need to start a fistfight right in the middle of this shop full of hoodlums and gangsters after all, even if she has the possible advantage of mostly-sobriety over most of the people present here. "I'm sure you're a totally pleasant fella, great to hang out with and all that. Bet you cook a mean omelette too, total softie beneath the gruff exterior and all that. Um." A pause - what was she saying again? Oh, right. "Think you need to shower more than once every two weeks though." That was not the right thing to say. Lauren pauses again, then re-tries. "I mean. Uh. Yeah, sure, ambience. Ambience is real important, you're right. I'll just put it riiiight here..." It's not going in his hand, no. The now rolled-up poster slash map slash ambience decor of much import makes it almost to the surface of the closest table she can find just so she has an excuse to walk further away, as though she's about to place it down there, when there's a sudden distraction at the corner of the man's eyes, a bright flash of light over from the direction opposite her.
Depending on how closely he's watching her, that may or may not work, but it doesn't stop Lauren from trying. The plan is, obviously, to just speedwalk her way out of there as soon as he's distracted, and into her car parked right outside the tattoo parlor.
The distraction buys Lauren a little time, but not enough. For all that fat, Beer Belly has a good pair of legs beneath him, and he accelerates all that mass to intercept her before she can break past the door. All that farting's helped to clear the room, as well - not everyone has gone, but the crowd's opted to disperse rather than choke down fart gas. "I wasn't playing around, bitch," he snarls, and reaches out to make a grab for her shoulder. He's strong. Not the strongest man Lauren's ever met, but certainly not a human, and certainly stronger than her. One of the lingering patrons hops up on the spot and comes to Lauren's assistance, but as he draws near, Beer Belly grunts out an even, "Fuck off," that makes the newcomer pause in his tracks - then walk past the pair and out of the store. Those sausagelike, split-nailed fingers grip down a little tighter into her shoulder, and the man leans down to meet her at eye level. His breath stinks so bad it causes a light burning on the skin it wafts against. "Give me the fuckin' poster," he whispers - and it's a good thing he's so violently offputting, because it makes the chances of her subconscious resisting the psychic persuasion significantly more likely.
Lauren's fingers are clenched tight around the poster - at this point, it's really not about the poster itself as much as just a need to rebel against whatever sulfur-farts here wants. "Fucking ow," she grumbles as fingers dig into her shoulder - it's a good thing her turtleneck's thick enough to prevent any actual bruising or piercing of skin, but... Lauren isn't the most physically gifted, here. She can hardly fight her way out of a paper bag, much less against someone clearly not human. There's a tense pause while she considers her options here.
"... sure, I'll hand it over," comes the answer finally, though Lauren's hands refuse to relinquish their hold upon the poster, and the man knows his persuasion has failed to sink in to her subconsciousness. "Could you just let go of me first? Kinda hurtin' me here." There's a smile up at the guy as she attempts her own persuasion in return - what's Lauren gonna do, after all? Run away in her heels?
Beer belly's expression doesn't even flicker. Lauren's suggestion rolls off him like water from a duck's back. Such an unflinching resistance usually speaks to preparation - he must have been guarding his mind. Does he know what Lauren is, or is it he simply cautious? It's more witting than the fat, gross blob of a man would appear to be, either way.
"I don't care if a skank like you's hurtin'," sneers the clearly higher-class man. "Give me the fuckin' poster or I'll show you what we do to thievin' sluts like you." Those cracked, ugly teeth make an appearance again - but the threat is softened by the presence of Sanctuary. Someone still ought to address his problems with women, mind, but that doesn't have to be Lauren's problem to fix.
At this point, it may well be something like sulfuric earwax blocking off the persuasion in her words for all Lauren knows. Whatever the case, she's running out of options quickly, as long as he's got her in his grip - there's not a lot she can do to fool his senses when he can feel her /right there/. There's a sigh as her attempts at diplomacy are rebuffed yet again. "Fine... fine," she agrees, finally. "I'll just go put it back where I got it. For the record though, a 'please' goes a long way. Also no name-calling goes a long way too. It's twenty-twenty-four, we don't slut-shame. Do you even work here?" There's an attempt at a dazzling smile as though Lauren's done nothing to earn a beating, and she tries to duck beneath the man's hand to make her way back to the corner near the couch where she'd found the thing.
Eh... The pot-bellied man slants his beady, mistrustful eyes at Lauren. She's made that claim before and instantly made a run for it. His fingers remain clamped tight around Lauren's shoulder as he walks alongside her, up to the spot on the wall where the poster belonged. He does let go of her there, even if he hovers closefully - oh, and then there's a smack against her ass, though not so hard as to leave a mark. They're still in a room with other people in it, after all, and outright violence might be enough to get the grungier of Haven's residents to lend her a hand again. "Good girl," jeers the man with the breath like noxious acid. "Stick it right back up there. Get on your tip-toes." Gross - deliberately gross, too. His words are chosen to embarrass and provoke, rather than have any true intentions of somehow eliciting arousal in Lauren. He must be at least partially aware of his own nastiness. "I'll use my manners when you /earn/ it." No comments as to whether he works there - but really, he doesn't look like he does. He was just staring at the posters, same as her.
"I'm not even /that/ short," Lauren claims, and really, she isn't. She didn't have to climb up on her tiptoes to pull down the poster on anything. She doesn't - at least outwardly - look that offended at the smack to her ass; considering the place, it's probably not the first, even if there's a subtle tightening at the corners of her eyes, and her nose remains wrinkled up like she's just constantly smelling something bad. Which, she is, no doubt about that one. She's doing a good job of pretending it's not getting to her at all, though.
"That's not how society works, you know." she starts on a good old fashioned rant, just something to be mildly distracting and definitely more than mildly annoying while she attempts to line the poster up perfectly, then looks around for tape - she'll need some tape. "You gotta give and take, can't just expect to do all the taking and none of the giving. Didn't your mama ever tell you to be nice to other people? Respectful to women? All of that? I think life goes a lot better when you're just being pleasant and minding your own business -" Lauren has clearly never taken her own advice on that one, at least, "- and showering every day. Can you get me some tape?"
As Lauren tries to navigate her escape from Beer Belly's grasp, the altercation escalates. Despite her attempts at diplomacy and derision directed towards her captor's lack of hygiene and decency, Beer Belly's grip only tightens. Lauren's initial plan to simply photograph the map and leave quickly devolves into a frantic struggle to maintain possession of her newfound treasure while avoiding the physical dominance of her assailant. Her attempts at persuasion and distraction fail against the backdrop of the shop's disinterested patrons and Beer Belly's inexplicable resistance to psychic influence. The encounter concludes with Lauren begrudgingly agreeing to return the poster to its original place on the wall, all the while enduring the man's demeaning comments and unwelcome physical contact, leaving her to reconsider the worth of her discovery against the backdrop of the parlor's oppressive ambiance.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRLuc):SRLuc)
[Fri Apr 12 2024]
In Sideshow Sabbatical Skin Styling
There's enough seedy shit in-range of eyesight to make an oil with. Past a skinny white door between two columns of red brick is the dingiest little tattoo parlor on the East Coast, if you can even make out details past the burning smog of haze-thick incense. It's cramped enough to make a claustrophobic's nightmare, sensory overload comes guaranteed. The flooring is a waxy black and white checkerboard, dotted by scuffs and drags alike shining through the blinding fluorescent lamp-light. Considering that the place is just four walls, a press-board drop ceiling, and a door on the right, this is an utter clusterfuck. There's way too much going on in maybe a hundred and twenty feet of space, from the various and often random neon signs, to the posters, weapons hung up on the wall like trophies, an assortment of framed pieces, and of course, a copious selection of pre-fabbed ink designs ranging from cool to vile. Countless mirrors are fitted onto random surfaces and corners.
Any accusation of 'sanitary' or 'polite' would be deeply remiss here. There're some wipes laid out on a shampooing sink and a bottle of unlabelled liquid assumed to be alcohol next to 'em, but that's about it. Stale ink bottles row the far shelf surrounded by stains and spills. There're two options of bench to choose from and two matched chairs. Other than that, there's a a wooden stool with only three remaining legs and a suspiciously shiny black leather couch. Nothing screams 'comfort'. All those slim, shady-looking freaks, aged from teenage to timeless? They're standing, moving, or they're leaving. In, out, money moved, something gained. Where workers would be, 'urban representation' presides. There's class distinction here, even in a space only large enough for ten.
It is night, about 49F(9C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. Waist high mist flows through the area. There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target stumbles upon a cryptic map that leads to a long-forgotten artifact of incredible power. Unbeknownst to them, this map has also caught the attention of The Destined Host. The group will stop at nothing to retrieve this relic, believing it to be key in bringing a powerful demon into this world. The target and their allies must either safeguard or destroy the artifact before The Destined Host can get to it.)
In the dimly lit interior of the greasy, rundown tattoo parlor, the air hangs heavy with the pungent scent of ink, antiseptic, and cigarette smoke. That blinding white fluorescent light flickers intermittently overhead, casting harsh shadows against the peeling walls adorned with faded flash art and old band posters long since stained illegible by the choking cloud of incense.
The sound of buzzing tattoo machines fills the cramped space, accompanied by the occasional clatter of metal tools against the worn linoleum floor. The whirring and buzzing create a constant din that reverberates through the room, competing against the hum of the lights and punctuated by the occasional muttered curse or gruff laughter from the tattoo artists as they work.
The atmosphere is thick with tension and apprehension, as clients nervously await their turn in the tattoo chair, their anxiety palpable in the air. Some fidget nervously in their seats, while others stare intently at the designs plastered on the walls, searching for inspiration or distraction from the impending pain.
Lauren might not be waiting for her turn to get inked, but the designs are interesting nonetheless. This being the township of Haven, it's not so surprising to see motifs of the supernatural interwoven into the local aesthetic, grimy and dingy as it may be, but on closer inspection - and with the application of the faeborn's understanding of the occult and the arcane - a more interesting thread reveals itself: a number of designs appear to be very specifically placed along the wall. Through symbology and through their specific placements, a sort of map can be inferred. Nothing local, of course - without a thorough study done, a guesstimation could be made that it indicates somewhere in central Europe... but it's an interesting place for such a map to make an appearance, at the very least.
Lauren was definitely not waiting for her turn to get inked, no. Her interest is more on the piercing side of things, but even still, she's debating whether or not to risk the dodgy amounts of unhygienic-ness going on here and try her luck somewhere else, even if 'somewhere else' means she'd have to go out to Boston. It's a debate that's taking a long while, long enough for her attention to drift and wander. She's already circuited the place while in thought, grabbed some interesting-looking drugs out of the musty basement, stashed away carefully for a more challenging day, and she's leaning against the side of the couch now, not risking taking an actual seat upon the dubiously stained piece of furniture while she people-watches. There's a shady group of burnouts here, some aggressive-looking fellas there, and Lauren decides it may be better not to strike up too much conversation here, instead turning her attention to the posters upon the walls. She moves closer to the pattern that's spied, a hand lifting to trail along one of the pieces making up the arcanely-coded map. There's a glance over her shoulder, and then she sneaks a finger beneath the design in an attempt to loosen what's holding it to the wall, nail scratching at the adhesive - is anyone going to care if she just yoinks one out of these many wall hangings?
Who knows? It depends on whether any of the staff are actually present, or whether the tattoo artist is just some guy off the streets and started tatting people up. It is /really/ hard to tell by skill level alone or personal hygiene. That said - Lauren could probably take a photograph or video of things without being too disruptive. It wouldn't be as high-quality as having the original map - and all of its constituent posters - on hand, but it'd be a lot more convenient.
To Lauren's left, one of the men on the couch lets out a ripping, squealing fart. He ate eggs recently. Bad ones. This shop fucking sucks.
The tattoo artist may be some guy off the streets. He's shirtless and covered in prison-tattoos, so it's hard to say if he's actually staff or not. Lauren spends a couple seconds peering over at him to figure out if he cares - yes, she /could/ just take a photograph, but she could also just grab a key piece of the entire map so it's not so easily decipherable by anyone else who happens to come through. She tears through the adhesive - a corner of the map piece accidentally rips slightly, whoops - and then all of her senses are assaulted by the sound of dying pig and the rancid stench of shitty rotten eggs, quite literally. Lauren gags, lets out a disgusted, judgmental, "Dude," and steps away while attempting to hold her breath for as long as possible until the smell goes away. She may just pass out first. It truly is the worst shop.
Alas - sulphur farts man doesn't seem to take kindly to his air superiority being challenged. He lifts himself to his feet, equal parts brawny idiot and beer belly, clad in a stained white wifebeater, blue jeans and workboots. His tattoos, now that Lauren's getting a better look at them, are also unpleasant - is that the alchemical sign for hell on his bicep?
"Don't act like you're any fuckin' better than me, you nasty-ass ho," he sneers, the chips on his teeth making it seem almost that he has a mouth full of knives. "Tearin' down what you don't own. You think having a face full of gold makes you pretty, do you, bitch?" He advances with a heavy footstep, his gut jostling with the movement. He stinks` of rotten eggs. Sulphur. Brimstone. He shoves his hand out at her, cracked and yellowed nails kept glued together by the dirt that cakes the seams. "Give it here, huh? We don't need you fuckin' with the /ambience/ we got goin' on here."
Alas - sulphur farts man doesn't seem to take kindly to his air superiority being challenged. He lifts himself to his feet, equal parts brawny idiot and beer belly, clad in a stained white wifebeater, blue jeans and workboots. His tattoos, now that Lauren's getting a better look at them, are also unpleasant - is that the alchemical sign for hell on his bicep?
"Don't act like you're any fuckin' better than me, you nasty-ass ho," he sneers, the chips on his teeth making it seem almost that he has a mouth full of knives. "Tearin' down what you don't own. You think having a face full of gold makes you pretty, do you, bitch?" He advances with a heavy footstep, his gut jostling with the movement. He stinks of rotten eggs. Sulphur. Brimstone. He shoves his hand out at her, cracked and yellowed nails kept glued together by the dirt that cakes the seams. "Give it here, huh? We don't need you fuckin' with the /ambience/ we got goin' on here." (fix)
Lauren takes another step back entirely out of instinct when Mister Beer Belly and Stanky Farts lifts himself to his feet, her nose wrinkling up before she can control the movement. That's not likely to go well, whoops. "Sorry, dude," she says - no need to start a fistfight right in the middle of this shop full of hoodlums and gangsters after all, even if she has the possible advantage of mostly-sobriety over most of the people present here. "I'm sure you're a totally pleasant fella, great to hang out with and all that. Bet you cook a mean omelette too, total softie beneath the gruff exterior and all that. Um." A pause - what was she saying again? Oh, right. "Think you need to shower more than once every two weeks though." That was not the right thing to say. Lauren pauses again, then re-tries. "I mean. Uh. Yeah, sure, ambience. Ambience is real important, you're right. I'll just put it riiiight here..." It's not going in his hand, no. The now rolled-up poster slash map slash ambience decor of much import makes it almost to the surface of the closest table she can find just so she has an excuse to walk further away, as though she's about to place it down there, when there's a sudden distraction at the corner of the man's eyes, a bright flash of light over from the direction opposite her.
Depending on how closely he's watching her, that may or may not work, but it doesn't stop Lauren from trying. The plan is, obviously, to just speedwalk her way out of there as soon as he's distracted, and into her car parked right outside the tattoo parlor.
The distraction buys Lauren a little time, but not enough. For all that fat, Beer Belly has a good pair of legs beneath him, and he accelerates all that mass to intercept her before she can break past the door. All that farting's helped to clear the room, as well - not everyone has gone, but the crowd's opted to disperse rather than choke down fart gas. "I wasn't playing around, bitch," he snarls, and reaches out to make a grab for her shoulder. He's strong. Not the strongest man Lauren's ever met, but certainly not a human, and certainly stronger than her. One of the lingering patrons hops up on the spot and comes to Lauren's assistance, but as he draws near, Beer Belly grunts out an even, "Fuck off," that makes the newcomer pause in his tracks - then walk past the pair and out of the store. Those sausagelike, split-nailed fingers grip down a little tighter into her shoulder, and the man leans down to meet her at eye level. His breath stinks so bad it causes a light burning on the skin it wafts against. "Give me the fuckin' poster," he whispers - and it's a good thing he's so violently offputting, because it makes the chances of her subconscious resisting the psychic persuasion significantly more likely.
Lauren's fingers are clenched tight around the poster - at this point, it's really not about the poster itself as much as just a need to rebel against whatever sulfur-farts here wants. "Fucking ow," she grumbles as fingers dig into her shoulder - it's a good thing her turtleneck's thick enough to prevent any actual bruising or piercing of skin, but... Lauren isn't the most physically gifted, here. She can hardly fight her way out of a paper bag, much less against someone clearly not human. There's a tense pause while she considers her options here.
"... sure, I'll hand it over," comes the answer finally, though Lauren's hands refuse to relinquish their hold upon the poster, and the man knows his persuasion has failed to sink in to her subconsciousness. "Could you just let go of me first? Kinda hurtin' me here." There's a smile up at the guy as she attempts her own persuasion in return - what's Lauren gonna do, after all? Run away in her heels?
Beer belly's expression doesn't even flicker. Lauren's suggestion rolls off him like water from a duck's back. Such an unflinching resistance usually speaks to preparation - he must have been guarding his mind. Does he know what Lauren is, or is it he simply cautious? It's more witting than the fat, gross blob of a man would appear to be, either way.
"I don't care if a skank like you's hurtin'," sneers the clearly higher-class man. "Give me the fuckin' poster or I'll show you what we do to thievin' sluts like you." Those cracked, ugly teeth make an appearance again - but the threat is softened by the presence of Sanctuary. Someone still ought to address his problems with women, mind, but that doesn't have to be Lauren's problem to fix.
At this point, it may well be something like sulfuric earwax blocking off the persuasion in her words for all Lauren knows. Whatever the case, she's running out of options quickly, as long as he's got her in his grip - there's not a lot she can do to fool his senses when he can feel her /right there/. There's a sigh as her attempts at diplomacy are rebuffed yet again. "Fine... fine," she agrees, finally. "I'll just go put it back where I got it. For the record though, a 'please' goes a long way. Also no name-calling goes a long way too. It's twenty-twenty-four, we don't slut-shame. Do you even work here?" There's an attempt at a dazzling smile as though Lauren's done nothing to earn a beating, and she tries to duck beneath the man's hand to make her way back to the corner near the couch where she'd found the thing.
Eh... The pot-bellied man slants his beady, mistrustful eyes at Lauren. She's made that claim before and instantly made a run for it. His fingers remain clamped tight around Lauren's shoulder as he walks alongside her, up to the spot on the wall where the poster belonged. He does let go of her there, even if he hovers closefully - oh, and then there's a smack against her ass, though not so hard as to leave a mark. They're still in a room with other people in it, after all, and outright violence might be enough to get the grungier of Haven's residents to lend her a hand again. "Good girl," jeers the man with the breath like noxious acid. "Stick it right back up there. Get on your tip-toes." Gross - deliberately gross, too. His words are chosen to embarrass and provoke, rather than have any true intentions of somehow eliciting arousal in Lauren. He must be at least partially aware of his own nastiness. "I'll use my manners when you /earn/ it." No comments as to whether he works there - but really, he doesn't look like he does. He was just staring at the posters, same as her.
"I'm not even /that/ short," Lauren claims, and really, she isn't. She didn't have to climb up on her tiptoes to pull down the poster on anything. She doesn't - at least outwardly - look that offended at the smack to her ass; considering the place, it's probably not the first, even if there's a subtle tightening at the corners of her eyes, and her nose remains wrinkled up like she's just constantly smelling something bad. Which, she is, no doubt about that one. She's doing a good job of pretending it's not getting to her at all, though.
"That's not how society works, you know." she starts on a good old fashioned rant, just something to be mildly distracting and definitely more than mildly annoying while she attempts to line the poster up perfectly, then looks around for tape - she'll need some tape. "You gotta give and take, can't just expect to do all the taking and none of the giving. Didn't your mama ever tell you to be nice to other people? Respectful to women? All of that? I think life goes a lot better when you're just being pleasant and minding your own business -" Lauren has clearly never taken her own advice on that one, at least, "- and showering every day. Can you get me some tape?"