It was a divey little bar in a divey little town that Crowley found himself strolling into that night. Always happened this was for a crossroads demon, didn’t it? Never a nice pub nearby, a pretty park, a truly scenic location–always a dumpy bar and a dumpy, desperate, pathetic little toad of a person looking to deal. He might have his pick of the litter as King of the bloody Crossroads, but that didn’t stop him from having to pick up the slack in the grunt work department when his own morons wouldn’t do.
It was a noisy, crowded, crooked place he stepped into, billiard balls knocking together at several tables, a jukebox fairly bellowing some country-yodeling hick hit about sad wives and empty whisky bottles, people shouting and talking and laughing–a rush of unwelcomed sound after the near-silence of the street outside–and rather than deal with it and his sharp disdain for it all that evening, Crowley snapped his fingers.
And in a blink, the bar was gone.
(Or, to be more accurate, the people in the bar were gone, save Crowley and the sad little man he’d be dealing with this evening.)
“Charming locale, really,” sauntering up to the jukebox and ripping the electrical cord from the socket, putting an end to the singer’s pitchy whinging, “but not terribly conducive for business, is it, luv?”
Crowley smiled at the man–past the man, really, already quite decided to not see him and just get this over with quickly–and moved around the back of the bar. He didn’t want a drink, certainly not of the questionable calibre that would be on-hand here, but a prop tonight wouldn’t go amiss.
“So then. You showed up, buried the box, said the magic words and blah, blah, blah….” Drink on the counter and hand still wrapped around the bottle he poured from, Crowley looked up in the other man’s direction. “What’s it to be?”
Chuck had been bored travelling around and even with the talk of demons running around and a new king of hell... well he didn’t bother to look much into it. Until he found out that the new king was once a cross roads demon and well... then he was intrigued.
He didn’t really know why he did it, he didn’t exactly have a deal with make with the other, but he thought it would be polite to meet him and let him know he was here, after all he would hate to have a run in with the guy and accidentally attack him, not with the rumours that he has hell hounds. He hated those dogs.
Once he’d buried the box and made himself comfortable in the bar he waited and waited, until the smell of the demon came and filled up the bar, along with the lack of noise, “Very impressive...” He muttered with a role of his eyes, “I don’t really want anything, expect to have a drink and talk.”
He indicated to bar, “Help yourself I guess.” He muttered before taking a sip of his own drink, “My name’s Chuck. Though I’m better know for being a Black Shuck. Or at least... I was.”
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