For the vast majority out tonight enjoying the evening’s events and reminiscing upon a man known well by few and far between, Pat O’Brien’s existed as the pinnacle of a good time. The word hurricane had been shouted at least four times in the twenty minutes since Arielle took up residence upon a bar stool, signaling that a plethora of tonight’s patrons were attending with one goal in mind. For the young journalist, however, she had arrived with a mission and intended to see it through regardless of how messy those around her intended to become. Bars were useful for loose lips and unintentional divulgence of information, hence the only reason for her presence tonight. “Gotta love how New Orleans never does anything small, huh?” She questioned aloud, both to herself and the person who now occupied the seat beside her.