It is currently 20:19 Pacific Time on Tue Oct 9 2001. Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (50% full). Pool Hall Pool tables, with one foosball table and an air hockey table hiding among them, dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eying the brandy bottle at the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging from the ceiling. A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embdeed bullet holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks down on the proceedings. Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and noises. The sooty smell of smoke lingers after the recent city riots. The power is back on. A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar undoubtedly lead to storerooms. The place is dead tonight, even for a weekday. A small group of fratboys are gathered around one of the foosball tables, and another pair play pool under the vacant, giggly eyes of a blonde in an oversized SCCU sweatshirt. Apart from the college kids and a few older customers nursing beers, the pool hall's practically empty. Salem's got a pool table by himself, his coast slung over a nearby chair, a glass of something clear (with ice and a wedge of lemon) half-empty nearby. John steps into the empty hall, through the wooden doors, closing it behind him. He looks about the room impassively, and starts towards the wall with the bar. He gives Salem a nod in greeting as he heads to get the most important item on tonight's agenda. A drink. Whiskey. Lots of ice. Salem glances up from his current shot to return the nod, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. Then he sends a hapless billiard ball to the underworld via the corner pocket. Straightening, the Philodox pauses to take a drink, his attention again straying toward the Ahroun. John lifts the drink to his lips and savours the taste of the amber fluid as it slides down his throat. He nods a few times and raises the glass to take it towards his Tribesmate. His left hand slips back into a trenchcoat pocket as he approaches, eyeing the table more than the Philodox. The table's almost clear -- only the cue ball, the eight-ball, and a mere handful of striped plebes remain; Salem's apparantly been here a while. "Evening," he says, in an amiable (if rather reserved) kind of way. He applies chalk to the cue, eyeing the arrangement of balls critically. The Elder nods again, in acknowledgement, and circles around the table, to stand on the opposite side, with his drink. He eyes the next shot with interest. "Hey." he greets. If Salem feels any pressure at John's presence, he shows no sign. But the next spherical victim he chooses is positioned in a difficult spot, the kind that requires a tricky banking maneuver. "I met Jonathan the other day," Salem remarks, setting up the shot. John's eyes lift from the table as he leans on it, up to Salem. He sips at his drink, watching the returned Walker, instead of the shot. His face is that standard grim, impassive mask he seems to favour. "An odd boy," Salem adds, his tone casual. He seems to simply making conversation. "I imagine that he likes to test his betters." The chalked end of the cue strikes the white ball. The shot's made solidly enough, but the angles go slightly awry, and the cueball gets sunk instead of the striped six. Salem grimaces. John hitches a shoulder in a dismissive shrug, looking at his drink for a moment, before he takes another sip. "Jonathan suffers from arrogance, overconfidence in his own intelligence and decisions, and the all-too-human assumption that everyone is /really/ equal. And that he'll be forgiven if he asks for it." Salem retrieves the cueball and replaces it on the billiard green. "Apart from the delusions of equality, that's hardly a rare affliction in this family. In our branch or any other." He studies the table for a moment, taking a drink from his glass. John's mouth twists wryly. "Yes. Jon's problem is that he's often /wrong/. And often very unlucky. You wouldn't believe how much trouble he's caused in the last two weeks." The smile drops from his face again. "Like setting fires?" Salem glances at the Walker Elder, his eyes hidden. His return smile is just as wry, but not quite as brief. It lingers a few seconds longer as he studies the table again. "Has he been punished?" John shakes his head a little. "The Furies asked for the privilege. I granted it. With some stipulations. The crescents'll decide what to do about the damage he caused, when they meet, tomorrow night." His expression sours, needing erase with the taste of his drink. "Kid needs to realize that when he fucks up, /we/ look bad, too." Salem picks a somewhat less challenging shot than the one previous and lets his focus narrow on cue and ball. "Perhaps he does. It's a possibility that he doesn't care." John shakes his head a little, with something approaching disgust. "I'll have Frankie grill him sometime soon, so I know /exactly/ what he's doing and thinking." He straightens up away from the table. "Met the others, yet?" Clack. This time, the striped ball goes straight into the side pocket. "Dizzy and Corey," Salem lists, straightening. "And Jeremy." He takes another sip from his glass. The Ahroun nods a few times and starts stalking around the table a little. "I've got a contact list of all the family we have in the city, that I know of. Including other people's lots. Kin. Remind me to toss that list at you some time." [Scene cut short, fade to black.]