The sound of singing can be heard before the doors into the Cat-22 Collective have even been opened. Bad singing. At first this might not seem too disconcerning, but--after several off-pitch measures of muffled song are heard--it becomes apparent that the singing is not coming from outside. It is coming from the stage in the main room. "Let's make some music, make some money..." the strange, off-rhythm baritone can be heard. On the stage, sitting on a stool he stole from elsewhere in the room, is Cornelius. The strange Beast that bartered for wine with some of the most unusual objects seen in some time. "...I miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up words..." He jumps up from the stool, turns his back towards the lack of audience, and shakes his booty in time to the music; hands up in the air waving. How he got in is a mystery.
C.B. Alexander doesn't really sleep, or when he does, it's very little. He comes in from the back...slowly. Because he heard the singing from the back hall, and now he has a gun drawn -- to Lost eyes, it's a very strange flintlock pistol, so inky black that no light reflects off of it at all. He paces slowly through the curtain and around the counter to the stage, then quickly levels the pistol at whomever the culprit may be. "Freeze, asshole!"
Oh. Wait. Hold up. This asshole is one he recognizes. Squinting and scowling, C.B. slowly lowers the gun so the barrel isn't pointing directly at Cornelius' head. "How the fuck /you'd/ get in here?" It's the question on everyone's mind. Or at least on this Wizened's mind.
Cornelius places one boot over the other and spins in place with all the bonelessness (and dancing ability) of a cup of Jell-o. He comes to face the house seating once more as C.B. Alexander's dark pistol is leveled at him. Shrieking like a young girl in a horror film, he puts one hand out in front of his face with fingers (and claws) spread. The other shoots down between his legs. Important places covered. "That gypsy lady told me I'd be killed in Madagascar in a diamond deal gone sour, that lying cunt!" His eyes are squeezed shut for another moment before he opens one--peering between his outspread fingers--and then relaxes when he sees the weapon no longer trained on his head. "Oh. How'd I get in? I, uh, don't remember?" He tilts his head and squints, not seeming scared in the slightest now. "What's the answer that's least likely to get me shot? How about... let's have some coffee and talk about something I got for you. Some... less than usual business."
C.B. scowls, shoving the pistol into a holster in his back, under the red and black quilted jacket he's got on over a t-shirt that reads 'advocatus diaboli' in small, white letters. "Next time," he says, squinting up at Cornelius, "how about /not/ breaking in here first. Alright? I can't be held responsible if the goddamn pigs decide you're breaking and entering." Indeed, there is a squad car outside the joint now -- was it there before? Chances are it wasn't. C.B. remains there, arms folded, continuing to squint at the intruder. "Less than usual business?" Big, big sigh. "Upstairs, then. Come on, you knucklehead." He starts to tromp up the stairs without waiting for another word.
"Those capitalist bastards," Cornelius spits in response to the mention of pigs. He follows swiftly--even moving the stool back to almost the spot he found it while en route. One he gets upstairs, he settles down in an overstuffed chair, reaches a hand out, and puts his hands behind his back. "Totally didn't break in. Swear. Didn't break a thing. So! Anyways. Ahem." He sniffs then clears his throat. "How would you like to be involved in finding otu a little something something about a man that is the absolute antithi- antithe- opposite of what you stand for? I'm talking about a wealthy motherlover you ain't giving anything back to the people." The horned man glances left and right before he confides, "I'm pretty sure he even writes off all his taxes. All of them." There is a look of disgust on his face.
C.B. heads to the little bar up here first -- to the small fridge, actually. He squats down and pulls out two tall cans of Narragansett Lager. One is tossed over at Cornelius, though with his hands behind his back, he might not catch it in time. Then C.B. turns and leans against the bar, cracking open his own beer and taking a long swig. His eyes narrow as Cornelius doesn't explain himself, then makes a convoluted proposition. He makes a long gesture with his free hand. "Go on. I'm not /so/ reactionary that that alone is going to get me on board, considering I barely know you and you broke into the goddamn Collective." He's not the most trusting sort around.
Not only does Cornelius catch the can in time, he simultaneously cracks it up and enjoys a mouthful. His reflexes are an alien construct. An idea hard to imagine until it is seen. "I'm telling you, pops, nothing's broken. Not a break in if there's no 'break', right? Just 'in'. So I didn't break in. I just inned. Totally falls into the no harm no foul category, if you ask me." He takes another long drink and then sets the can down between his feet to keep it propped up with his ankles. "There's a man that lives in the area. He's corporate. Loaded. And he's potentially dangerous. I say this because he's me." Cornelius's gold and brown eyes are watching C.B. carefully as he says this. "My fetch, to be precise. I haven't made contact. Not even close. I was thinking that you might have a mutual, though very different, interest in looking into him. Or maybe you know people that might want to see what this imposter is up to?"
"It's a turn of phrase, moron. Don't argue pedantics with me!" Said like he considers himself the King of the Pedants. Which C.B. does, truth be told. But Cornelius' explanation of the issue /does/ seem to catch C.B.'s attention. A tiny bit of lightning crackles out of his fingers, white and blue and jittery. "Can't say I'm a huge fan of fetches to begin with," he admits, eyebrows raising. "You planning on doing him in?" He's one of those Lost, perhaps, who can't see many other options, at least when it comes to this particular topic.
"More off than on, but I digress." Cornelius lifts his lager with his feet, claims it with one hand, stretches his legs, crosses them at the ankles, and sets them back down. "To be candid, I'm not sure what I plan on doing with the space invader. I'm more than a little curious as to what kind of alien he is. Is he here to spy on us? Probe asses? Is he simply what I would have become if I never took a trip to Never, Never Land? I don't know. And I have a feeling that very bad things--I hope you can hear the capitalization of those words as I say them--are going to happen if I just walk in there and have a talk with him myself. I've heard of things sort of... awakening in some circumstances. But all that said? I'm totally not afraid of getting all Highlander on him if I must. There can be only one."
"All what on him?" Too new a pop culture reference for Pops here. Yes, thirty-five plus years is too new. "Alright. Fine. And what exactly would you like my assistance with? I'm sure you're not just asking me about this because you think it will be in my wheelhouse." C.B. takes another long drink of lager, staring at Cornelius through those narrowed, suspicious eyes. Does this one ever let his down long? The answer is probably...nope. At least, not for long.
"Highlander! You know." Cornelius puts both hands on the can like they are the handle of a sword. "Beheadings. Katana jousting. Lightning. Quickening. Aliens. Wait they're aliens? Good movie. Great series. Bad movie. Terrible movie. Side- oh nevermind. Just watch it sometime; for the eye candy if nothing else!" He takes another drink and then leans forward with elbows propped up on his knees. "I wanna see how this guy reacts when aggravated. You know how to stir up a corporate big-wig? I've heard you're pretty good at stirring the pot, hence..." His smile spreads quick and wide. "Here I am."
"Nope. No earthly idea what you're talking about. Sounds idiotic, though." C.B.'s brows raise again, and there's a slight tilt to his head. A considering look. "Okay. Well. Guilty as charged, I suppose." He takes a long swig and adds, "What's in it for me, apart from the noble self-satisfaction of a job well done?" Yes, there's a note or two of sarcasm there.
"I didn't think you'd jump all over this without a little something more to toss onto the offer." Cornelius's smile fades to a grin, but that grin is more full of mischief than his smile was full of teeth. "In exchange, next time you got something in your sights--as long as it doesn't make me violate my promises to anyone else--I'm your man. Need to get in somewhere? Need to find out about someone? Need something to disappear? There's not a soul alive that can do those things better than this guy, right here, with the thumbs." He indicates himself with both of those clawed digits. "A favor from the Ninja King of Ten Thousand Hells. Okay," he shrugs. "That sounded cooler in my head, but you get what I mean."
C.B. still looks dubious as all get out, and has the twisted lips to prove it, but he shrugs his skinny shoulders in the end. "Yeah, sure. Why the hell not," he deadpans, gulping down more lager. Six in the morning or whatever? Who cares! He sure as hell doesn't. "Not like I've got anything to lose. I guess I'm in." He sighs as he leans back against the bar with both hands. "When does this little adventure begin? You got a plan going on yet?"
"I'll swing by soon and drop you off all the information I have. It isn't much." Cornelius stands up, finishes his drink, and then carefully balances the empty can on the top of a cat's head. "After that, ball's in your court. You can decide when to make a move and what move to make. All I ask is that you don't do anything that's going to expose our world to the imposter, but I'm pretty sure that's a given." Tapping a finger to his eyebrow and swinging it forward in lazy salute, he starts towards the stairs. "Until next time, comrade. Thanks for the drink."
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