Duck is not having a good day. He sits sullenly, hunched over in the corner table, blowing through AROs in front of him aggressively. He jabs his finger and swipes things back and forth like the little neon screens owe him money. He's sending and receiving a flurry of messages to varius bill collectors, bookies, and fixers around town, trying to keep the man in his various forms off his back. At the same time, he scours various runner boards, looking for a job that isn't a suicide mission or a joke. Every penny from this last job but a few are gone as soon as they hit his account, but at least no angry men with shotguns are coming to his house now. Frakkin breeder mosquitos, suck a trog dry, day by day. He'd really like to be at home, hanging out with the girls and making sure they're adjusting well to everything, but rent is right around the corner, and he's gotta hustle or those girls are gonna end up on the street right along side him. Rrrrrrrrrr. This is why I aint GOT no damn kids.
>> Send Message
>> Contact: T-Ball
>> Message: Ayo Cap-I-tan! You been chillin over there? Shit's been crazy in the hood, but that's some drek for next time we burn one. Got anything that needs doin? Holler at a trog, wiz?
After sending the one last message to his old friend, basically begging for work, he closes all the AROs and leans back in his chair, letting out an audible "GraaahwaaaraaaFuuuckitall!" as he stretches his long arms high above him. Despite how cold it was outside, Duck had checked his coat at the door, wanting to see how much his outfit would offend this hoity toity buncha' breeders he was surrounded by now. He thought it'd be fun to see their reactions to his ripped jeans, combat boots, and faded yellow T shirt with the old El Chupacabracadabra logo in an old school 1990's graffitti font on it, but the longer he spent looking around this place with it's high end lighting system, and it's ritzy patrons drinking their top shelf liquor in thousand dollar outfits, the more irritated he was getting. Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot that same elven bouncer with the tattoos checking him out again. He'd been watching Duck like a hawk since he almost caught him trying to smoke zen in the bathroom. That bald headed dandelion eater had BEST stop lookin at me like i'm bout to rob this joint before I make him EARN his frakkin paycheck tonight. And what in the ever fucking SHIT is this bubblegum pop elf jizz they play in this joint?!
Before the vibe in this horrible horrible place can start to get on his nerves, Duck decides he's getting outta here. The FUCK did they talk me into comin in here in the first place? He sends off a quick message on the group frequency to the rest of the team as he picks up his coat from the front, and heads outside to sit in the gopher. Might be cold out there, but at least the music is good.
>> Send Message
>> Contact: TeamGroupspeak
>> Message: This place is butt-pee, yall. I'll be in the truck when ya need me. Join me if ya wanna burn one, wiz?