1964-06-21 - The Worth of a Soul
Summary: Two lost souls meet in a bar. Discussion ensues.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
gary lois 

Dealing drugs will always be a profitable enterprise in the slummy streets of the big cities. The irony of it is that as more and more drug dealers get put out of business, prices go /up/ as demand goes down— which means that more dealers are attracted by the idea of a quick buck, catering to the wealthy and well connected.

"Look, lady, you want something or not?" the dealer asks Lois, muttering quickly and shifting his weight impatiently from foot to foot. "I've got Vitamin K, smack, crank, maryjane… hurry the fuck up and pick something, willya?" he asks the erstwhile reporter, giving nervous glances over his shoulder. It's dark, well past the time when the streetlights are on, and he is clearly apprehensive about dealing in the city with the number of vigilantes around.

At his prices, though, he might be more worried that Lois doesn't have the cash to purchase his inventory. He certainly doesn't look like a standard dealer, and his panel van clearly had recently been stripped of markings that indicate it was property of the local University.

Since the night Keith and his dive were blown up and Lois' reliable, clean, uncut drug hook up completely went out the door. She's had bad choices and bad luck, one that ended her up in hospital, so she keeps trying. This guy really isn't inspiring confidence in her, especially as her eyes narrow on him a bit deeper. The woman looks too high class for this deal anyway. Clean jeans, a suede leather jacket that goes down to her knees and is trimmed with fur. The tied off Hawaiian shirt is hilarious, a bit weird, but clean of any stains. She's a higher class than most dealers here take.

She looks over the rims of her plastic sunglasses, bloodshot eyes studying the selection. "No heroin? Disappointing… how clean is the smack? You the person who cut it? If not… just some weed and I swear if it's oregano I will come back and kick your ass five ways to Sunday." The reporter then digs into her pocket, trying to pull out money without actually flashing how much she has.

The dealer grunts weirdly, and when Lois looks up, he just…. falls backwards. Like a felled tree. Something clatters against the rough asphalt nearby— a blunted arrowtip, which looks to have caused the round dent now in the middle of the man's forehead.

"You're going to have to come back next week," someone remarks. A lean man with broad shoulders and bare arms drops off the fire escape, wearing black and red leather. A bow is in his hand— but it's a bizarre contraption with pulleys on the ends of the bow, instead of a traditional longbow.

"You're a bit overdressed for the slums, lady. You wander off from Midtown or something?" he says, barely sparing Lois a glance as he moves quickly on the downed man and kicks him onto his belly. Slinging his bow, he quickly and efficiently searches the fellow, then binds his hands.

Lois is a bit over dressed, a bit overly aware, and just a bit everything too much for this place. She doesn't have the spaced out, sick look of a serious junkie, though she's thin and lanky enough to be one. She doesn't shake like one, not noticably at least. Either it's well under control, she's high right now, or she's not near so bad as most of the people on these streets. She also doesn't look scared at the contraption — she looks completely intrigued.

Her eyes narrow on that set of pulleys then look up to the rough voiced man above her. "Downtown, actually, but someone's been mopping up a lot of the dealers in the city so… it's making getting what I need a bit… Challenging." Lois' husky voice is confident and clear, no shame in her tone about the fact she was here for drugs. "Don't suppose you care to toss me whatever weed he's got while you're busy mopping the poor guy up?"

The archer gives Lois a level look. "Toss you weed. You— you want me to give you his drugs. Jesus, lady, how stoned are you?"

He handcuffs the dealer and drags him a few feet towards the mouth of the alley, away from the van. He's strong and moves with certitude— this is a familiar dance for the lean archer.

"Smart society types usually send someone else to get their drugs for them. What's the matter, couldn't talk the busboy into scoring you dope?"

He opens the back of the panel van and starts digging through the boxes, flipping pill bottles, vials of liquid, and bundles of hash around with a disregard for their neat storage.

The tall reporter follows him casually, pushing her glasses up her nose, even if she shouldn't need them in this dim light. They completed her look. Lois' husky voice allows a little laugh to escape her full, unpainted mouth. "I am not a society type. I'm a reporter. And am I not currently stoned. Hell, even the 'ludes I had around lunch have warn off by now. So… frankly, I'm a little on edge, have a bit of a headache, and am entirely too aware of everything that is going on right now, Mr. Midwest goodie two shoes."

She sighs, leaning back against the edge of the dealer's van. It almost pains her to see the hashish and vials thrown around like that, but she doesn't QUITE reach for one yet. "Look… I realize you are probably from… Kansas city.. or no. Accent like that. Lighter twang. Something more nothern. But this is the big city now and these things just HAPPEN here. It's a part of the city. And if you keep moving your arm like that, you're going to reopen the slash below your left wrist." Definitely not some druggie. She has an attention to detail most norms don't even carry.

"You don't know me, lady, so don't guess," Red Arrow says, snapping at Lois as she turns on the investigative super powers at him. "And I don't give a shit if you're a reporter or the deputy mayor. If you've got a headache, go pop two aspirin and push off. I'm not letting this smack out on the streets."

He digs in his belt and comes up with a small road flare. With the drugs, chemicals, and accelerants, it's a pwder keg ready to blow, so Roy takes a few second to make sure the bulk of the drugs are in a neat pile on the steel flooring.

But, of course, Lois is proud and the sort of careless that comes with a life of getting away with shit and taking chances that JUST happen to pay off. She reaches in, scooping out two bags of the hashish and sticking them in her pocket, unless he stops her. He'd definitely win against her in a fight. "I can tell you where the shitty smack is coming from, if you actually want to make a difference. THis guy is just some kid trying to survive in the market. He's not a poison cutter. Trust me. I know." She's seen a few to many of them over the last weeks.

Roy smacks one bag from Lois' fingers, and deftly steals the other and wiggles it out of reach. While she's distracted by his left hand, he flings the flare into the middle of the panel van— and the entire stash, at least ten grand worth of product, immediately goes up in smoke.

"This shit's bad enough," he tells Lois, wiggling the marijuana at her, "but the heroin— that's killing people," he warns her. "It's dangerous even when they aren't cutting it with fentanyl or detergent or some other shit. You tell me where the distributor is, and…" he wiggles the little three-ounce bag at Lois, meaningfully.

An annoyed breath escapes her lips as he smacks the baggie out of her hands and takes the other. She is not physically a fighter in any way, no, all the fight is in her heart. But she knows all too well what he's going to do before he does it and she neatly steps to the side, putting his body between her and the van, to at least slightly shield herself from any debris that might come off of it. SHe only slightly winces, her pretty features lit by the golden red glow of the fires. In this area of the city? Cops don't even start to run. No sirens. Just another night in New York…

His tempting her with that baggie, however, makes her sigh deeper. Lois pulls off her sunglasses and stares at him levelly. "Look, kid, I'm not some dog who is going to bark for a treat. I don't know where you got your super special, custom equipment…" Lois nods towards the arrow, "Or your vigilante streak, but you're a dime a dozen in this city. I get that it's killing people. Hell, I was almost one of those people. But you aren't going to make me do tricks for a bag of hash. I have *some* dignity."

Backlit by the fire, he makes an ominous and implacable figure, his eyes barely visible in the shadows of the domino mask that cover his face. He's a lean, sinewed figure, and the backlit fire makes him appear positively emaciated and lean.

"Better a crimefighter than another junkie. How many suppliers you got left?" he asks, pressing Lois mercilessly. "You know a lot of kids willing to deal weed? This might be the last hash you see for a few weeks," he taunts her, wiggling the baggie between his thumb and forefinger, the bag aloft between the two of them. "You give me a little information, you'll have something to help you get through the shakes until you can score your next order of smack."

Roy has partially disconnected.

But Lois *isn't* just another junkie. Her eyes are harder, more practical. She looks sharply intelligent, the sort of woman who has seen it all and, simply, does not care. He presses her, coming closer, so she can smell the leather on him and his breath. She does not back up, not an inch. She just watches his eyes through that domino mask, line to her full lips. "Look…I don't know who you are, kid, but I'm seriously not the sort to play these games. You want some fame in this city? You want some HELP with what you are doing? Then talk to me. I am a reporter. The best damn reporter IN New York. I could make or break you with a few stories alone. But I am not inclined to break young idiots from the middle of the country who are just trying to do good. And I suspect that's what you are. But I'm also not going to send you off after people who WILL kill you and won't even lose a minute sleep over it."

Red Arrow laughs in Lois' face, and flicks the marijuana into the van. "I'm not doing this for the fame, lady," he sneers at her. "I'm cleaning up the streets because -someone- in this damn, ugly town needs to do it. You New Yorkers, you think you've got a monopoly on danger? I was hunting cougars in the desert before I could legally drive," he tells her. "I've fought biker gangs, desperados, cattle rustlers— New York's the same scum as everywhere else, just more of them."

"But I tell you what," he tells Lois, staring down at the small, intense woman. "You give me the name of a distributor, and I'll leave your other dealer alone when I bust their operation. You might have to make him a special offer for his stock… but you won't get left high and dry."

"Or I go solo and I'll burn the whole city out, if I have to."

The brunette's head tilts, just slightly, her expression softening just a bit after a heartbeat or two. "You…lost someone, didn't you? To drugs? Maybe it was just some street kid you got a soft spot for but… This is personal now, isn't it?" It seems to make her a touch more understand and a touch less tough New Yorker, to realize the strange man across from her is caught up with anger for a reason. She just sighs, a slight grimace across her lips as she considers his offer.

"…Look, I really don't care about my distributors. I can always manage. I've got resources." Sort of a lie these days, but she's Lois Lane. She always will consider herself untouchable. "But… the story, that's what's interesting. You tell me when the bust is going down so I can get the exclusive, and I'll let you know what I know. Deal?" She asks with an arch of both brows.

Red Arrow looks a bit flummoxed as Lois keeps her footing despite him attempting to intimidate her. Seems the dame doesn't roll over for just anyone, and grudgingly, he finally relents and backs off a pace. Seems he's not the sort to slap a woman, anyway, which is a step up from some of the vigilantes in the city.

"Shit, lady, you're some kinda nuts," he mutters at her. "Or you're really addicted. Either way— fine. I'll let you know when it's going down— but if you don't have good intel for me when it does, I'm gonna make sure that the cops find you chained to the biggest pile of smack in the tri-cities. Got it?"

The last commentary makes Lois actually straight out laugh. She shakes her head slowly, "F*ck, kid… half the cops in this city wouldn't give a damn, would take the smack and leave me behind. The other half are alive, have been promoted, or cracked their biggest cases because of me. I'm Lois-f*ckin'-Lane, kid… you really are going to have to try harder than that to get to me. That being said, I am really some kind of nuts and addicted, so…" She shrugs, not ashamed of it. Truth is truth to a reporter, and that's the truth of her life. "But the addiction helps keep me sane on the worst days, so… six of one, yanno?"

She then sighs, looking back to the burning van rather mournfully with a small shake of her head. "The Westie gang out of Hell's Kitchen has been pulling in the most shipments. They get them off of boats and they aren't the asians, for once. The asians have some weird shit coming in, but they're not putting it on the streets yet. If you want to do the biggest amount of good right now, look at the Westies. They mostly operate off of Pier 47… "

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Roy tells Lois, with a sly, smug half-smile tugging the side of his mouth. He reaches behind him and produces a little baggie of weed. It's not much… but it's something, and he tosses it underhand in the air, the bag lazily floating midair in front of her.

"Westies out of the Kitchen, Pier 47," he repeats, with dutiful deliberance. "I'll look into it. If your intel on them is good, I guarantee you'll get a front row seat when the show kicks off. Can't have the city's star smackhound reporter losing out on the story of the year, right?"

"Speaking as the city's star smackhound reporter," Lois deadpans entirely, really not bothered by the fact she's basically mocking herself. Why should she bother to hide the truth? "I'd really rather not lose the story of the year. That's up to you, kid, to *make* it the story of the year. You actually clean things up and get me a good story? Well, I'll drag you back home and shag you senseless. Show you how real city women do it."

And with that, he's getting an absolutely flirtatious, rather dangerous smile. Tempting. Intrigued by the fact that he too seems a little crazy, a lot strong, and even more dangerous. Just the mix that Lois Lane likes. Her hand reaches up, snatching that bit of weed and tucking it into her back pocket, "…no reason for it to go to waste." SHe adds after a too long moment.

Roy snorts at Lois, unmoved by her sudden sensual aggression as she vamps at him. "Sorry, lady. I prefer blondes," he tells her, with a vast insincerity. "You'll get your story, sure, but I ain't doing it to give your ratings a boost. Or because I want the attention," he warns her. "You'll leave me out of it, and I better not hear anything about me in the paper the next day. I go low key for a reason. You can tell the papers -you- did it, for all I care," he tells Lois.

A slight roll of her eyes comes, and Lois grabs her sunglasses from her back pocket again, placing them across her eyes. "I'm not lying. I might be an addict, a drinker and a slut, but I'm not a liar. I tell the story as it goes. Better think of a swank code name for yourself, if you're going to do this, or I'll make one up. But I'n not going to pretend it isn't some midwestern boy in a domino mask who takes out half the Westie gang, or gets himself killed trying. The people have a right to know the truth. It's my duty." Those last few words are about the only thing that Lois doesn't say with a careless irreverence. She actually seems to take her job, and the truth, seriously. At least she respects one thing in life.

"Don't sugarcoat it," Red Arrow tells Lois, snorting under his breath. In the distance, sirens sound— loud enough to be getting close. Cops won't respond to gunshots, but a fire in the New York slums could be devastating. Fire departments respond quickly to burning cars. He digs out an arrow from the quiver on his back and with barely a glance, flings it skywards. A thin rope attaches to the projectile, and when it *locks* into something, he ties it to a pulley system on his belt.

"You can make up anything you want, miss Lois," Roy advises the woman. "Like I said, I ain't here to make your life easier. I'm just here to deal with the street trash."

He clicks something on his belt and with a *whirrr*, flies up to the rooftops, before clambering over the edge and disappearing into the night.

A deep sigh escapes her lips as she watches him disappear up to the rooftops. Lois just shakes her head slowly, "…that kid is gonna get himself killed." Lois mutters to herself, more than a bit sad about it all. But, that's the city. She gives the burning van one last look and then shifts her bag off of her shoulder, pulling her heavy camera out and snapping a few good shots of the dramatic scene before she hears the cops coming around the corner. Then she books it down the street herself. No reason to get tied up answering questions tonight. And she has a nice bit of weed in her back pocket to relax to sleep with.

Its earlier in the afternoon, an hour or two after the bar's opened up. The sun's still bright enough outside, and although its legal to sell booze, most of society probably frowns on getting sauced this early in the day. The bar itself is sparsely populated. Two tin-plated retirees sit one side, doing their daily ritual of complaining about social advancement, women, kids today and otherwise generally assurdedly musing of the authoritarian solutions they might use, had then not been receiving a city pension. In a booth, a secretary has lunch with her boss, and two two seem to defy the odds by having a mutually understanding discussion of efficinecy in the workplace.

At the other end of the bar from the two retirees, a man with broad shoulders, black hair, and a shortsleeve, button down shirt with the first name 'Gary' sewn into a patch on his right, and the name of a bowling alley somewhere on the northern outskirts of Brooklyn. No jacket- its too hot. The drink in front of him looks like Bourbon, diluted with water as the ice cubes melt.

Lois isn't most of society. And, frankly, she works better about two sheets in. So, after having put in her token appearance at the Bulletin, the dark haired woman lazily saunters her way into the bar looking for some sort of treat to make the work day tolerable. She's not in her normal leather jacket, it's too damn hot for that fur trimmed nonsense, so her long, bell bottomed pants are obvious and hang dangerously low on her hips. They are complimented by a Hawaiian shirt tied off under her breasts, so her stomach is utterly bared. Her eyes are hidden by sunglasses which she doesn't bother to remove as she comes in.

She languishes her way over towards the bar, hip lazily resting against it as she call sodwn to the bartender without really bother to look where he is…"Martini, straight up, dry, but lots of olives. Now. And gin. The good shit."

Its not an outfit that lends to inconspiciousness, and most of the male eyes in the room do a double take at the modern lady. One of the retirees gives a motion, then makes a snickering comment. The boss, still defying odds, continues his productive conversation with his assistant. The bartender, a fella with gray at the temples, with a shirt that might as well be missing its top two buttons for how often they might be used, ambles over to Lois, giving the girl a once over, a skeptical look, and a shrug, before getting to work making her drink.

The guy in the work shirt takes a double take like anyone else (why wouldn't he?) and turns his head back to his drink, but lets it keep traveling in the other direction as Lois takes her position at the bar, "A little early, for the top shelf, wouldn't you think?" He says, holding his drink somehow unironicly.

"I'd say it's five o'clock somewhere… but that phrase is horribly cliched and I'm a better writer than that. So we'll just say it's never too early to relax and why are you going to relax with the bad shit? So. Proper gin it is." Lois drawls out, her voice low and a bit husky, a voice marked by years of smoking and other things but still somehow feminine. A voice made for jazz or late night radio. She then pulls herself up onto a barstool nearer to Gary than anyone else, because he has intrigued her enough to stick around, even as she passes two dollars over to pay for her ridiculous drink. She also pulls a pack of hand rolled cigarettes out of her back pocket, tapping one free to stick between full lips.

The attendant gives the woman a closer gander, now that she's more firmly stationed herself nearby, taking a ear to the tone. His own voice "Spoken like an uptown professional. Or their spouse." Gary responds, his voice having a bit of a higher tilt, a canter that's made for dry humor. He takes a gentle sip of his much cheaper drink, wrapping his arm across his own torso, propped up by an elbow as he gives Lois an inquisitive side glance, "Writing, there's a curveball, though…" He turns his eyes up towards the ceiling in thought, mulling that over.

That gets another, deeper, husky laugh from the woman and she shakes her head, "Unless you consider the Bulletin uptown, I sure as hell am not one." She then sticks her hand out in the man's direction, her motions almost masculine in their confidence and strength. "Lois Lane. You've probably heard of me, especially if you've ever picked up a paper. I'm the best damn reporter in this whole city." And so humble too. She flashes him a smile and a look of heavy eye lashes and slightly bloodshot blues over the rims of her sungasses.

"No. The Bullitan's owner, on the other hand…" Gary gives a tilt of his head to one side, his eyes dropping from the ceiling as mysteries are revealed, continueing to travel downward to regard the outstretched hand. It takes a moment before he reaches out to shake it, "Gary. And I only read the headlines, honey. Who's can afford a dime in this economy?" He says, innocently, "You write any of the headlines? Or maybe the captions? I like the pictures."

That comment draws a slight smirk from her, "More than a few headlines, though did a lot of front page stuff for the Bugle too. The Intoxicated Interviews series was probably my best. Get villains all over the city to get shit faced and tell their story. Was some really compelling stuff!" Lois admits with a wider, prouder smile even if the statement sounds just a little insane. "And what do you do, Gary?" SHe finishes shaking his hand and lets her fingertips drop back to her chilly martini glass.

The man gives a little light nod at the mention of the series, tilting his head. "Everyone's got a story, right? No one's ever the villian. You should sauce up the town's heros, next, though." He says, "If you really want the compelling story. Everyone knows the shady real estate developer's gonna have some smart things to say about keeping certain types out. No expects Tony Stark or that radioactive fireball of a racecar driver to have a nasty story to tell…" He gulps down the rest of his drink and places it on the bar, tapping the wood with two fingers wordlessly for another one, "Oh, well, its actually quite fascinating." Gary says, turning towards Lois, as if to delve into a passionate vocation, "There's these shoes see? They've got numbers stiched on the back of them, ranging from your low 6s to your high 12s and 13s. And I take this aerosol can, and I spray it inside these particular types of shoes. Sometimes I hand people the freshly disinfected shoes for about a buck or two."

If his word's are confusing, the bowling alley embroidered on his shirt probably isn't.

As the man goes on about his rather fascinating career, Lois' brows arch. One climbs up her forehead slowly then the other inches a step at a time to join it. Finally, her pale gaze drops back to his shirt and she laughs, it all clicking right into place. "Oh. Bowling. Yes. Well… I am glad that the variety of shoes keeps you quite so… fascinated. ANd yes, I've been considering doing heroes. Not near so many of them are as willing to get sauced or high to sell newspapers though." She wrinkles her nose, as if to say that is their loss.

Gary faces forward again, watching the bartender pick out the bourbon bottle; Its so far from the top shelf you'd swear he got it under the sink. Drink poured, ice cubes refreshed, the working man snatches the drink up, raising to his lips, but heistating a moment as he considers what you've said, "Oh, so fscinated. All the working knowledge of a shoe salesman with none of the commision." He raises the drink to his lips again, and stops again. "A gal like you has to know a loose pharmacist or a loose pad. What's the hero wanting it or not got to do with getting your scoop?"

That last question makes her blink and, it seems, that is the moral line that Lois will not cross. SHe doesn't seem offended, exactly, but a little shocked that it would even be suggested. "…Shit, I'm not druggin' someone who doesn't want it. There's better ways to get stories. I'm a reporter, not a pusher, yanno? Come on now…" Lois honestly seems boggled at even the suggestion. She's now looking at him a bit longer, taking a deeper consideration of this strange bowling alley worker. "…I know lots of loose pharmacists and pads… only way to get through the day, but no one does that shit without giving permission."

"You aren't? Some columnist…" Gary replies, the hesitation about having a drink leaving him as he tilts the glass back, letting the abrasive liquid down his throat in a gulp or two, finishing off half the glass in one swill. He lets the glass dangle in his fingers, just above the bar, "Are there? Never lied for a lead? Published something dubiously sourced rather then let a juicy fact sit in some dead letter bin? Or is the fifth estate so unassailable?" He releases the glass letting it clomp that last centimeter towards the bar, liqued sloshing about. His gaze goes from it to Lois, "What if the only difference between a hero and a villian is who keeps his liqour?"

"The *fourth* estate, thank you very much. And yes, we are unassailable. Just because I print in the Bugle doesn't mean I'm some yellow journalist. I fact check and I keep my sources honest. And of story. I'm not the sort of person to fake a lead. I'm better than that. I respect my work. What, you think all reporters are lying hacks?" Lois asks him, genuinely looking more than a little offended. Or perhaps she's simply very good at pretending. Or, probably, too sober for this conversation. So,s he abruptly picks up her martini glass and downs half of it. THat will help. She doesn't even wince.

There was a particular joy in the game of manipulation, in any form, attempted or inadvertent. If Gary had been trying, he might have to surpress a smile. The fact that he hadn't kept a smile far away. His index finger works its way in a circle around the rim of his old-fashioned glass. "I didn't say anything about lieing to the ink, Miss Lane. Just challenging whatever chaulk line your drew down your soul." He draws his hands up on his thighs, leaning back from his drink on the stool for a second, "Just that the guys who don't want the right story, don't mind doing the wrong things. And if you just do the right things… you get the wrong story." Maybe he was too drunk for it. "Fourth? Sorry, I'm in the third, can't expect me to keep things straight."

"And what do you care what journalists do with their story? You said you only read the headlines. ANd no… the right story is the true story. Stretching facts, lying… grasping at straws just to sell papers? THat's shit. That's not journalism. That's not being a writer. That's being a two bit shyster who might as well go write fiction or join the circus." For as drunk and often high as Lois Lane is, she actually seems dead serious about this. The man has found the hill on which she will die, if she must.

"Those bullheaded editors insist the headlines relate to those little scribbles that continue on to page seven-bee." Gary replies, shaking his head again, still not touching that drink. He leans to his side, towards the woman, "My point, ace reporter Lois Lane, is what would you /do/ for the truth?" His voice slips an octive, and he lets the question hang in the air, before pulling back, eyes still on the journalist, before turning back towards his drink. He snatches it up and goes back and competes with her speed, taking a heavy gulp and finishing that off, his head starting to lighten.

The moment that point finally drives home, well, the pale eyed woman blinks. Lois slides her glasses down her nose, looking over them at him, considering just who she may or may not be talking with. Her head tilts quietly, "…Almost anything, frankly… Including risking my life. Which I've done plenty of times before. As long as I'm getting the truth, it's worth anything." She also seems dead serious about that, taking her job more seriously than death. Of course, she did write that story about the Joker. THe one that did almost kill her.

"Even your soul?" Gary doesn't turn back from his drink when he says that. So different from his other intense question that its a little difficult to believe he said it at all. Even if he certainly did. "Everyone talks like the body this big important thing to sell. I think its cheap compared to that little chaulkline that makes loose pads and loose pharmacists so damn necessary, isn't it?" His fingers drop the empty glass towards the bar as he considers it pensively, fingers raising to tap the bar again, but stopping in their cocked position. Indescision.

"My…soul?" Lois blinks, looking a touch more uncomfortable now. She carefully stands up from the bar, not having drank enough to be drunk yet. She does knock back the rest of her martini, but she doesn't look like she'll be ordering another one. THis conversation just took a very strange turn. "I am…way too sober for this conversation. I operate the way I operate. What I put in my body opens my mind… makes it work better. Keeps me sane…I ain't giving up my soul and I don't need to for any story. I can get it all on my own." Lois states firmly, though she's looking ready to go.

"Your soul." The bowling alley attendant confirms, before shaking his head, and checking his wristwtach. He stands up himself, and waving the too-sober reporter back, "Easy, I gotta catch a bus anyway." He says. Gary fishes around in a pocket, pulling out a leather wallet, bi-fold, and unfolding it, producing a few crumpled up bills to toss on the bar for his drinks, at least, looking more then ready to leave. He slips his hands into the pockets of his work pants, turning to leave, then stopping, turning his head back, "You're in the book, right? I've always wanted to know a journo with a vice."

Well, if the slightly crazy bowling alley guy was going, she could probably stay for another drink. Lois already gave him her name, though, so as he asks if she's in the book, she blinks. "Uh… Yeah. I'm not hard to find." She calls after him ,not really sure what trouble that's going to get her into. But trouble was a big part of her work. So, she offers that, a faint smile, and then waves down the bartender for another drink.

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