@forrestlysander asked for a starter.
The facts were these: Jules Holliday was running low on staff. Girls, bouncers, bartenders, servers, you name it. The problem was that he didn't like taking people in just to take them in. They had to be worth something – down on their luck, having been to harsher places than the now. They needed grit. They needed some sort of ugliness behind them to deal with the ugliness that was somewhat common place on these grounds. Drugs, attempted molestations – there was drama.
It wasn't the kind of place the weak would work, because it was the kind of place where underdogs needed to buckle down. Every single day there was a new sin to battle, and it seemed there wasn't anyone strong enough.
Not that it was a particularly bad place – but bad things do happen to good people. And Jules always had to be there to clean it up. That was his job, above all.
So – there he was, staring at an application for a Mr. Forrest Lysander. His background, written as boldly as it could be, was MMA. “Looks good,” Jules commented. The man sat before him in a flimsy metal, padded chair. The brown coverings matched the brown wood paneling in the backroom they were in. “I've got a few questions of course, some hypothetical, some that need to be answered and answered correctly.” Jules placed the application on his desk and leaned back in his plush blue velvet chair; it didn't go with the room at all, but hey, there usually wasn't anyone to complain.
“You're approached by a group of men. Say, two of them are a little bigger than you. They're blind drunk. They want to fight. How do you handle it? Keep in mind that we're trying to be respectable here. Take some time if you need it.”
