November 1973
Some Sunday, 10.00 AM
He'd walked right past security.
It appeared they were less vigilant on a Sunday morning, possibly because they were not the same ones that had kicked him out of here last night. Perhaps because he, like so many others, was carrying the embodied consequences of Saturday's endeavour and moving a tad slower than usual.
And Samael needed
food.
So he seated himself at the bar, locking eyes with the young bartender there. Normally, he would have been off to the cheap breakfast at the Snake Pit, but that place had just seemed too crowded this morning. In here it appeared to be just the two of them, and he appreciated the solidarity.
"Breakfast," he said, simply, searching in the pocket of his jacket - blue, visibly worn - for some pieces of gold and placing them on the surface in front of him. His hands had the appearance of someone that was used to physical labour, partly covered by a pair of fingerless gloves.
"And a shot. The stronger the better."