1963-05-30 - Long Live Jimbos
Summary: A wayward few gather at Jimbo's Diner.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
jean namor peter logan 

WITCHING HOUR: (Probably 2am)

Jimbo's Diner was a bustling business for after hours. Many walks of life enjoy the late night coffees and newspapers that are officially a day old and just a random meeting after stage plays or picture shows that ended a little too late. The ugly side of this as well, is that many with nothing to do often frequent the diner, some come in with their mistresses and others come just to get away from the Wife/Kids/Husbands that are nagging just a little too much about what Sally-Down-The-Street bought or done with her garden, or how Joe-Blow didn't return the tools that he had borrowed the week before.

Some people can't sleep. So they come to drown their insomnia with coffee and a slice of homemade apple pie that Jimbo brought in because his wife made too many.

He always says that his wife tries to kill him because the good ol' Doc said that he needed to watch his cholesterol.

This night is like any other night. Wife and husband sat in the back booth, musing over their trip over cups of coffee and small chatter. They only had a few miles to go before they hit home but someone had a sweet tooth and the Husband needed coffee to continue the drive. A grifter sat at the counter, fumbling over eggs and hash browns that he smears with a healthy amount of ketchup and salt. Feeding the beast he would call it. But fifty cents was all he could afford and couldn't top off his meal with a nice healthy rib eye steak.

The waitress takes orders and chat with a few college kids in the back, speaking about their numbers and the latest games just to earn a tip.. and there was Jean. Possibly the most out of place looking one of all. Tucked neatly into a back booth, stack of pancakes that'd make a wrestler jealous with a side of bacon and sausage and a pitcher of the sweetest lemonade that money could buy.

Small cards and papers were strewn about the table top, Jean going through each and every one of them in between bites, her straight jacket tugged back and sliced open so that her hands could protrude forth and do what she will. The hospital gown left nothing to be desired, and her feet were obviously dirty, which trailed up her legs as she swings them from the booth. And the red hair? Total mess. She looks like a goddamned hobo.

"I don't know if I grabbed the righ.." She pauses, squeezing her eyes and opening them yet again to focus. "..right stuff. I can't see his name anywhere. How do you spell it? How would you spell it?" She slices into her pancake, immediately shoving the layers into her mouth.

"Fiss wuf harfer fdan I fot."

The waiter and the late night cook had given the pair a couple of leery looks, but Logan put them aright with a good, hard stare while slapping some money down on the counter. The mean old nurse whose car they'd stolen had left her purse in it, so they had at least enough cash. He'd grabbing a shirt off a clothesline and he had some stuff for Jean to change into, but they hadn't had much privacy and the girl was too impatient to eat. He couldn't blame her.

"Be a doll and get me a pack o' Luckies wit' my bacon an' eggs," he says to the waitress, earning a hesitant smile as the compact man watches the redhead wolf down her food. He's hungry, too, but he's used to being hungry. He suspects the kid probably had three squares and dessert most of her life.

"Lemme see that. I know how to spell Xavier, at least," he says.

Diner's after midnight are the perfectly place for a senior to catch up on homework he's been neglecting all weekend. Peter steps in, still tucking in his shirt where he's changed out of his costume, which he has stowed away on the pack on his back. At this hour it's relatively easy to find an empty booth to occupy, spreading the books he's carrying out across the table, and smiling shyly up at the waitress that stops by to get his order. After fishing around his pocket, Pete comes out with about seventeen cents.. all the money he'd managed to save up doing yard work for Aunt May..

"Uhh…" Moving a quarter around with his index finger to see exactly what he had on him, "Coffee and piece of pie?" The cofee was all he relaly wanted, but it's good to have something on the stomach too. It was going to be a long night.

The books on the table ran them gammet, but it was largely science in nature, along with a notepad and a pencil with various chemical forumala already scratched through several times… As he prepared himself to get to work he cast a cautious eye around the diner and would dare say the trio of jocks near the back gave him a bit of pause, if only because he recognizes them from school, but it's the pair of Jean and Logan that really dominate his attention. Rather, Jean, in her hospital gown.. It's rude to stare, though.. so he tries not to. Really hard. He's not doing very good.

His hand pushes the backpack a little tighter against his leg, deliberately looking down at his homework.

Sometimes ruling a vast undersea nation is a stressful job, and time to think on how best to administer the Princedom of Atlantis often led to Namor spending time away, far from the sea so he might collect his thoughts. Diners have become one of the few late-night retreats that the Prince of Atlantis enjoys on the surface. He lands in the parking-lot, descending from the sky before he walks into Jimbo's diner. Jean and Logan may seem out of place- but Namor is almost alien. His chest and stomach on display, barefooted with little wings on each ankle. Pointed, elfin ears. He moves with nothing less than supreme grace and confidence- regality through every inch. He sits in the booth just in front of Jean's and Logan's- his back to them as he awaits the waitress to approach.

When the waitress does approach, its with wide eyes- today, it seems, is a weird day in Jimbo's Diner. "For you, Sir?" she asks, "Coffee. Black." he says- not particularly quietly, his voice carrying across the diner.

"I don't like the smell of smoke." Jean points out, pointing her fork in the direction of Logan. Though, it was hard to tell where she had gotten that from, the hospital was filled with those who smoked time and time and again so she should be used to it. Someone else didn't like it, and that thought became hers.. it was almost like time travel. Hard to figure it all out once you get the hang of it. But the papers were immediately shoved towards Logan, Jean now focusing on the plate of sausages, jabbing two upon her fork to prepare for her munching. Almost everyone was ignored on purpose. It was just something that had to be done.

"He said he was a Professor.."

'Loook at that kid!' One of the jocks suddenly ring out, giggling and laughing after the waitress moves off with a bend to bring all of the guys into a whisper.
'Who does their homework in the middle of the night?'
'He's probably homeless.'
'He doesn't have a mommy..'

A collection of 'awwwww's' croon from the table, while one fashions a piece of his napkin into a little ball inside of his mouth, his straw taken up in between his lips to aim and hurl a well soaked spitball in Peter's direction.

The wife stops her little banter and stares at Namor, her hand reaching out to lightly smack against the arm of her husband and with a nod of her head, she gestures at the half.. well.. oddly dressed man. She had never seen anything before in her life, and the husband immediately curls his arm around his wife to snug her against him protectively.

'New Yorkers.' He mumbles to his woman.
'Uh.. huh..' She utters distractedly.

Jean's eyes squint as she looks up to stare at the back of Namor's head. "We're swimming.." She mutters quietly, then immediately ducks her head down to begin to shovel the food at a rapid pace.

Logan shrugs, "We all gotta deal with things we don't like, kid. My smoking is probably gonna be pretty low on that list in the long term," he says. He's still trying to get his own head together. Everything got scrambled in that lab and even thinking about it too much gets his blood up and m akes him wanna pop claws and do the twist around the place.

He just sips his coffee and swallows it.

He notes the jocks playing peek-a-boo over at Peter. Bad guys tended to run in packs, just did, but hopefully those mutts would keep their place.
As for Namor, Logan flares his nostrils as she starts talking about swimming, cocking his head. Well, that don't smell like a regular old human being. Great. Let's just hope everybody's too interested in the placemats before this place turns into a rumble.

Suddenly there's a ringing in Peter's ears like a stereo held next to a telephone when the jock prepares to hurl a spitball in his direction. There's maybe a small moment of meer seconds that he could respond and most people wouldn't even know to do so, even if they ''could'' hear the whispers… which Peter absolutely can.

His jaw sets when they start yammering about him, but he manages to control his initial spur of anger at being insulted. Not because it means anything to ''him'', but it indicates that Aunt May isn't taking care of him.. that bothers him. Mostly out of guilt.

When the spitball comes he's already too deep in thinking to reason that he should let it hit him, that it would be jarring for him to suddenly slide out of the way at the very last second and twist his pencil in such a way that he bats it right back at the offending jock like Hank Aaron.

Then he's sitting right back up, leaning over his homework like he'd done nothing… inwardly wishing to every higher power that he actually ''hadn't'' done anything. "please don't notice, please don't notice…" Good luck with that shrimp.

Namor feels a tingle at the back of his skull- looking up quietly as his coffee is brought- coffee is an easy order to fill. He pulls a gold doubloon out and places it on the table. He has little use for American currency. His eyes begin to shift- blue-grey steel things that are far more practiced than a human's. There are oddities here this evening, that is to be certain. As he takes that first, long sip of his bitter brew he lets his mind expand. «You're rather different for a human.» Comes a thought- broadcasted and loud to only one mind in the diner. «I can feel your mind reaching out over this place.» He 'thinks' as he would to one of his fellow Atlanteans. His eyes catch Peter- not the action he's made, but the sudden shift in his body. The way he's moving. Trying to hide himself. Its with lazy lack of fear he returns to his coffee. Quiet as he sips the drink.


Plate of bacon and eggs were served up with a pack of Lucky Strikes on the side. Ashtrays were already littering the booths, but a book of matches that has the word 'JIMBO's' lettered across it was offered up as a form of continued patronage. Come back for the pie. The Missus makes way too many. The woman, she wasn't quite the looker and she was getting up there in age, figured she could make a decent mother to the young, dirtied redhead if she had a moment of the older man's time. So as she saunters by with the plate of food..

..the husband immediately tugs the wife out of the booth to usher her out after leaving a five dollar bill for payment and tip.

'Stop staring you harlot!' He hisses to his woman.
'Don't you dare call me that, Jackson!'

'Here's your order, Shug..' The waitress croons out towards Logan, providing a little extra lean that makes Jean cringe. 'I threw in a book of matches.. just.. for.. you..' And then she giggles, a giggle that was filled with phlegm from too many years of smoking and boozing it up when she was home alone.

Jean shoves another helping of sausage mixed with pancakes into her mouth to stifle her own laughter, yet positively -jerks- as she feels the voice penetrate her mind. Her eyes widen, and indeed Namor could feel every single defense she lacked come through. If they had the power? It was easy to get in. Easy to confuse, easy to manipulate, and easy to frighten. For this to happen two days in a row was suspect, but it also brings truth to the Professors words. They weren't the only ones out there.

Huh? Who are you. These pancakes are good. That woman is gross. Why is he angry. That's so funny. I should stop eating. I'm going to get fat. God it's cold in here. I want some water. The untrained mind? Highly annoying!

*TING* 'OW!'

The jock cried out as his spitball was smacked right into his eye. His hands immediately cup his face as he bolts upright, feet patting against the ground as he tries to dig pieces of tissue paper out. 'Which one of you did that?! You assholes!'
'I didn't do it man!'
'It wasn't me! Calm down!'
'It was that twerp!'

Jean grows still for a moment, her mind broadcasting at a rapid rate.

Who are you? I'm getting angry. No I'm not getting angry, it's them. We need to run. We need to flee…

Suddenly, a pancake lifts from her plate to smack the flirting waitress right upon her cheek.

Logan doesn't know anything about Namor's contact with Jean, although he can tell the girl's getting agitated. He presumes it has more to do with Biff and his buddies back there, starting to get riled up. He can smell the flare of adrenaline, the rush that comes as they think about doing something about it. It can be a high, that feeling of physical superiority, of tossing someone around like they were nothing. But that kid…he smells off, too. Different. More and more o' that going around these days. Logan wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing yet.

"Thanks, toots," he says, striking a match on the edge of the table and lighting a cigarette. He turns his head as he does, glancing over at the boys and then giving his gruffest tone, "Hey, keep it down their, ya punks! Shouldn't you kids be home lettin' yer mommies powder yer asses?" he snorts.

Okay, Logan doesn't have much future as a peacemaker.

Another tingling up the back of his spine, but it's nothing directed at Pete that causes the sudden surge of nerve firing in his spinal cord. No, it's the levitation of pancakes splashing into the waitresses face, but this time he's got his mind enough to not respond.. other than to hang his mouth open wide in shock.

Now, to be fair, he doesn't realize the pancakes levitated. As far as Pete knows, Jean just got angry that some waitress was getting fresh with her much older boyfriend, but it's still rather shocking. Shocking enough that he almost forgets that he may have just instigated an altercation with three jocks at the booth behind him.

The key word here, however, is ''almost''.

He still hopes that they'll forget about him and let him finish his chemistry homework. Maybe they'll see the waitress get pancaked and laugh themselves out of caring about little Peter Parker. Heck, even the gruff looking fella over there with the hospital gowned lady is getting rilled…

Peter holds onto his pencil, wiggling it back and forth trying to pretend like every single nerve isn't on edge. Like he didn't see pancakes or pencil bat a spitball at some jocks.. just a normal night. "Gee wiz, this is going to get out of hand…"

«Calm yourself. Namor has no desire to harm you little pearl. It is simply unusual for me to be able to sense a human mind… and for a human mind to be in such a psychic state.» Comes Namor's voice- as soothing as he can manage, broadcast out. He does not have the raw talent or power that Jean possesses when it comes to telepathic contact. He does, however, have a great deal of practice in communicating to open minds. «Take a breath. Slow down. Your friend will not let any harm come to you, and neither shall I.» Still, a wry smile is on his lips as he hears pancake flop into someone's cheek, shaking his head.

Still, his eyes fall to the 'jocks' who are standing aggressively. He looks over his shoulder towards Logan, laughing again quietly. "Everyone needs to calm themselves." he states simply, with the commanding tone of a Prince, or General. "And enjoy their respective meals, drinks and the rest. I *insist.*." The tone his voice takes is lower now, hinting of what might come should his calm be further disturbed. The pointed ear man with wings on his ankles cuts a somewhat imposing figure. His gaze falls to the jocks. "Sit. Down." he enunciates firmly.

Did Logan not see what happened!? Did he not see the pancake hit her face?! Someone did, for there was a roar of laughter from behind the counter top, along with a few claps to boot. The cook was highly amused where the waitress was not, and she casts an ugly look towards Jean in reply.

'How -dare- you!'

She didn't even stick around, her eyes were filling with tears as she rushes away from the table, bumping into a newcomer of the restaurant who.. seeing the scene? Quickly turns upon his heels, slams his hat upon his head, tucks his paper beneath his arm and leaves promptly out.

'Climb it, Tarzan!' One of the jocks call out towards Logan, ready to get out of his seat, both middle fingers splayed in his direction as another arm of his friend reaches to hold him back. The assaulted one, finally picks the last of his napkin from his eye, his red-faced glare right against the side of Peter's face as he marches forward, fingers curling into a fist. 'HEY DWEEB!' He calls out, strong arm rolling back to launch a punch right towards the young student's jaw..

Jean slowly begins to rock within her seat, her hands reaching to clasp against the sides of her face, her eyes nearly gone vacant as she tries to call out to the woman. "I'm sorry!" She chokes out, trying her best to blot out the noises. The random emotions, trying to focus on that singular voice that tells her to calm herself down.

It was soothing.. so much that raised shoulders seemingly slump. She takes a breath.

She exhales. She slows down.. and lets go.

"He said." Jean finally murmurs.

Logan isn't exactly sensitive and attentive by nature, but he does note that Jean's starting to get distressed. He'd missed the pancake slap but, well, on a Richter scale of violence, crepe-slapping was fairly low on his list. He's about to rise from his seat and start whipping some teenage ass when two things happen.

First and foremost, of course, is Jean losing her temper. Her raised voice startles him a moment and he realizes he maybe still wasn't thinking clearly, to be ready to just throw down with a bunch of strangers in the middle of a diner for no reason but that they're jerks. He sinks back down into his seat, not quite chastised, but at least reminded not to snap.

And the other is that he sees the wings on Namor's ankles. That sucker. Has wings. On his ankles. "Well, I ain't…I don't…that's…lady, does this place serve liquor?"

Peter is trying not to pay attention, but honestly it's more that he's pretending that he's trying because he most certainly is paying all the attention. His pencil wiggles in his hand nervously, he can hear the footsteps approaching him from behind and all chaos seems to be about to break loose… he can literally feel it in the air like raising electrical currents across the surface of a still pond.

Peter stands up when the jock is about three steps away and turns to face him, watching as if the whole thing is playing out in slow motion because, for him, it is… In those steps he could have already taken this guy out with minimal amounts of applied effort, punches so fast that most people wouldn't have even seen them, but he doesn't do that. Maybe he's still hoping that they'll just brush past him and head for the exit, but Parker isn't that lucky.

There's a fist coming at his face, creeping across the space between them like a snail crossing a porch. Slow enough that Peter is expecting the hair follicles shifting through the air, slow enough that he could be over at Jean and Logan's table before he's even extended his elbow beyond a ninety degree angle…

He doesn't.

Instead, he braces, turns his head a little, and closes his eyes.

Time speeds up suddenly right around him and Peter is hit.. right across the cheek. Hard enough that a kid his size should go down like a sack of potatoes on the pier. With an exagerate huff! Peter drops down on the edge of the table and brings his hand up to the side of his face. Quick hands twist his nose just enough to ooze blood out.. and he even manages to well up some tears!

Nothing to see here!

"Sorry!" Hands up defensively, finger tips crimson! "It was an accident!"

Namor's eyes narrow as the jock goes to throw a punch after being told to sit down. He calmly places his coffee on the table and walks over towards the young man who's decided to turn to violence. There is zero effort in how he grabs the young man by his jacket, and lifts him straight into the air. Not even a touch of hesitation in the man's form- strength obvious. "I am Prince Namor, the Avenging Son of Atlantis. I have fought wars on every continent and under every ocean of this world and more than seventy five percent of this Earth is my dominion and mine alone. Long have I fought against those who would pick on the weak and defenseless, and never have a wavered in my duty to my people." he states, staring into the jock's eyes- should the boy hit Namor, it be like hitting a block of steel. "When I tell you to *sit down.*" he growls, "It is *not* a suggestion." he then floats into the air, and carries the violent young man to his booth- tossing him onto the floor before. "Now- Sit. Down. Do not bother that boy again, or it will be Namor who answers the call to his defense. I will not ask so *nicely* a second time."

With that bit of 'business' done, Namor floats back to his booth, and sits. Some hide their abilities- NAmor, it seems, revels in his.

"I just want a beer.." Jean blurts out, tapping into all aspects of the diner. "Beer is not a vegetable!" She nearly shrieks this out, her fingers curling into a fist, nearly throwing a tantrum right then and there, the arms of the straight-jacket flailing.

Despite her obvious outburst of emotions, small, thin lines begin to draw upon the surface of the windows of the diner. Splintering off into spider like trails, the very lights of the building flickering.

The Jock who man-slapped Peter was ready to go another round until he was met with the Submariner, one eye open, lips curling to speak his mind towards the half naked man but as he was gripped by the collar..

"I just want to drink my coffee in peace.." Jean whines..

..the crackling sound of glass was getting louder.

The cook peers out through his opening, his jaws slacking as his eyes go up. The roof was shifting, he could hear the machinery take a tumble and he wisely lowers his hand to quickly turn the stove off. The waittress, sticky with syrup-face in the bathroom, her eyes reddened holds onto the sink as it begins to rattle, swears quietly underneath her breath.

The grifter, long forgotten, smoking in peace slowly grabs his back, as Jean reaches out towards him with a point. "I don't have time for this shit! I gotta go!" Was it what the man was thinking? Or was it how Jean was feeling?

As the jock is deposited in his seat, he stares at Namor slacked jawed as the others slowly drag their chairs to press against the wall to stay away from the half naked man…

"Copper iodide is often used in the synthesis of fine chemicals, and as a heat and light stabilizer for nylon fabrics. Iodide compounds are water soluble; however, iodide-rich solutions…" Jean reaches up to grip her head again, lowering it to keep her features hidden. "I.. I don't feel so good.."

And perhaps in that moment of.. well.. something not pretty, she immediately turns to the corner to hurl up everything she just ate in a series of violent wretches that has her back curling dangerously to the point of cracking.

And that's when the windows shatter, like a bomb gone off just outside, flinging glass and debris -inward- instead of out.

Logan lets Jean get it out of her system. Him grabbing her or trying to comfort her wouldn't do much. They hadn't known each other that long. And if she turned it on him, if she pushed at his mind or threw his body, he might lose the thin chain of control he had and go berzerker. That wouldn't be good for anybody's health, not even ol' Wyatt Wingfoot over there.

So he just finishes his bacon and eggs, eating calmly as Jean starts to rant and forcing the last bit into his mouth swiftly as the glass shatters, spattering his hair with glittering shards. There are a few cuts on his cheeks and neck, little speckles of blood. He doesn't seem to notice.

"'fraid that means it's time fer us to go," he says, standing up and pulling out some of the cash they'd swiped, laying a few extra bills on the table. "Sorry about the winder there, sweet cheeks. Maybe I'll come back and lay some pipe for ya sometimes, make it up to ya," he says, winking at the waitress as he reaches out for Jean's hand.

"C'mon, Hurricane Jeanie, time t'go 'fore somebody invites our friends with the shiny lights and the white vans."

The whole diner is moving in slow motion now. Not really, everything is happening in exactly the same speed that it should be, but Peter sees it as if someone was slowly rotating a record beneath the reading needle… He looks first up to the half naked Namor carting off the jock who so recently 'blooded' him, then to Jean.. he can feel the odd sensation of pressure building up behind his ears and while he can't be absolutely certain she's the catalyst for what's going on with the windows…

It wouldn't take a scientist to realize she's got ''something'' to do with it.

The fact that she just randomly spit out exactly what he was theorizing and had not, yet, written on the pad laying scattered across the table… now drenched with coffe from his tumble against the corner of the booth.. cements the point home. Knocks it right out of the park, honestly.

Then the windows shatter in and a half second before, Parker is curling up beneath the table to protect his head and face from the inwardly flying glass. He misses Jean hurling up the pancakes, thankfully, but he's not missed Logan saying it might be time to go… before the police arrive… Now that he's ''involved'', Peter can't help noting that Jean is in a straight jacket.. "uggggh…"

So much for homework.

Namor stands unflinching as glass shards scatter across him- not cutting his skin, despite the great pressure. He looks towards Jean- knowing her to be the point of origin. He shakes his head quietly, looking towards Logan. "She needs to work on that." Namor says simply. "I shall pay for the damages." he assures Logan and Jean. "And take care of the Authorities." he offers simply, as he returns to his seat. "I would like another coffee, please." he states calmly- the eye in the hurricane as he takes another two solid-gold coins out from a pocket in his suit and sets it on the table. More than enough to pay for damages, and Namor- with his diplomatic immunity- waits for what is coming next.

The cook was already on the phone with the authorities. They would arrive in approximately five minutes.

The jock and his crew give Peter and Namor the stink eye. And they would promptly leave the diner with cuts and scrapes, the Jock himself with a swollen hand and a red eye due to being pelted with his own spit-ball. The waitress would keep a spot open upon her bedside, waiting for Logan. Hopeful that she could gain a husband that night.

But the purpose for all of this was not just a simple meeting, but to show how evil, no matter the circumstances, could be created.

As soon as the head Jock goes home, he would be taunted by his drunken father and ignored by his mother. His anger would soon be taken out on the punching bag that was ruined from many nights of when he couldn't take his anger out on the appropriate people. But yet, that anger would soon be redirected to a life of petty crime to gain the attention of the Submariner.

And if he happened to see Peter around campus? It would be a plus.

Naturally there would be a follow the leader effect, just to gain the approval of the Jock gone mad his crew would follow, and they would soon unleash a reign of terror upon the campus. Prince of Atlantis would be searched in local libraries and news records, a string of robberies would soon to be had, and an accident involving a man and his dog would make the front news within a year.

Senseless death. Preventable..

The Grifter had his own designs that night. He knew about the world and what was in it, it just fueled his hate all the more. And with the charisma he would build up a following, and turn his attentions to those who were.. outwardly different..

The husband and wife would argue this night. She would confess that she wasn't happy with the marriage. They would spend months upon months working it out until there was no sign of her ever having lived in their shared flat.

Armed with just the image of Namor in mind, he would go hunting. He would hurt anyone who shared an uncanny resemblance. He would frequent the diner until that fateful day of when he'd see the face of the man who sparked the end of the line for him.. and take him out of the equation.

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