It is currently 21:03 Pacific Time on Thu Jan 27 2005.

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (82% full).

Garcia's Pizza Parlor(#2882RJM$)

The first thing some people notice when they step into this room is the noise:
      almost always there is some sort of noise, of music or conversation or 
      the employees in the back, cooking. Others see the lights, harsh 
      yellow-white over the counter and on into the kitchen in the back, a 
      dimmer, indeed faint glow above each of the tables scattered around. No 
      matter which sense is first engaged by the room, almost all soon are 
      captured by the smell of pizza; the smell pervades the place, an aroma of 
      melted cheese, cooked tomato sauces, various meats, vegetables, all 
      subtle, yet all blended together into the overwhelming smell. The smell 
      tells the customer that, despite the less-than-classy look of the 
      restaurant, the product is, undeniably, almost guaranteed to be good.

(Type +view for details.)

  In the corner near the door is a trio of video games and a soda machine.
      Scattered around the room are several tables; lining the back, the 
      counter on which the pizzas are put before they are picked up.

Though it's still, technically, a weeknight, the pizza parlor is doing good
      business as dozens of SCCU students start their weekend early. Most of 
      the tables are full of young men and women in various states of casual 
      attire and inebriety partaking in the best pizza in St. Claire. 
      Gertrude's the only one sitting by herself, in a little table near the 
      front, and she looks annoyed, as though every single one of these people 
      were intruders in HER domain. She's only eaten a couple of pieces of the 
      large pepperoni and is halfway through her cola. A little sketchbook at 
      her elbow is open to a blank page; a pen lies across it.

          Gertrude Vogel is a bit under five and a half feet tall, boyishly
      slim, and quite pretty apart from the rather large nose. She also appears 
      to be Chinese. Her thick black hair is cut short in an easy-to-maintain 
      sort of way, and she doesn't wear make-up or jewelry. Her skin is 
      unblemished, and her dark, almond-shaped eyes are guarded. She appears to 
      be somewhere around twenty years old.

          She's dressed in an extra-large black t-shirt and baggy black jeans,
      along with a black zippered hoodie and a dark green-gray East German Army 
      coat for the outdoor chill. Her sneakers are black Ked knockoffs. Around 
      her left wrist is a digital watch.

Nicodemus wafts into the familiar pizza parlor as if her were a regular at the
      establishment. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, 
      but then he's right at ho.... Crap. All the seats are taken up. Just his 
      luck. His eyes alight on Gert, not too far away in the crowded 
      restaurant, and sitting alone at a booth. Resigned, he heads over the 
      dozen or so feet to where the 'misfit' type girl--judging by her 
      clothes--is seated. "Ahem." He clears his throat just loud enough to be 
      heard of the din. "No booths left. Mind if I join you?"

You see a thin and wiry young man in his early twenties--and a bit on the short
      side at about 5'4" to 5'6" in height. His black hair is cropped short in 
      a 1950-esque crewcut.

He's currently wearing a casual pair of worn jeans--the kind that gets
      purchased worn-looking and not the kind that've been worn forever--and a 
      woodland camouflage t-shirt that has "Ha! Now you can't see me!" in bold 
      white letters across the front. In a half-hearted nod towards the 
      gothic-punk scene, he's wearing black steel-toed boots and has a length 
      of chrome chain wrapped about his waist like a belt.

Around his neck are two thin silver necklace chains, each with a different
      pendant. The first is a sterling silver skull with a transparent red 
      crystal inside. The second is a simple silver crucifix. A faint hint of 
      fine incence lingers quietly about his immediate vicinity, almost like a 
      unique, well-selected cologne.

Gert stops fiddling with her soda straw to study Nicodemus unsmilingly. After a
      second or two, she shrugs and moves the pizza box (which looks to contain 
      far more than she can eat alone) to clear up some table space for him. 
      "Be my guest," she says, with minimum courtesy.

"Thanks," Nicodemus says, sliding into the booth opposite you. "Usually not
      quite so crowded," he says after an awkward ten or so seconds of sitting 
      and doing nothing.

Gert's mouth thins out into a grimace. "Yeah, I know." She cuts a sour look
      sideways toward a nearby table of hip-ly unshaven young men with Greek 
      letters on their backwards baseball caps. One of them's made a 
      spectacularly lewd joke, and the others are laughing like it's the most 
      goddamn funny thing ever. The Chinese girl rolls her eyes and turns back 
      to Nicodemus. "Like your shirt." She delivers the compliment completely 
      deadpan.

Nicodemus follows your gaze to the frat boys, then accepts the compliment for
      his shirt. "Thanks. I like your army jacket. Very late-80's punk. It'll 
      be back in fashion in about 5 years, I bet. So burn it then." He glances 
      back at the frat boys, then you, then quirks a faint little smile. "The 
      boys of Sigma Tau Delta. Spreading fellowship and... other stuff."

Gert snorts. "STD's, probably." She receives the advice about her coat with
      little more than an eyeroll and, after speaking, takes up the piece of 
      pizza in front of her and bites into it. She stares at Nick all the while 
      -- expectantly, maybe.

"Yeah," Nicodemus agrees, then looks around for a waitress that isn't
      preoccupied. Ha. He waves at one, but she overlooks him. "Damn busy, 
      tonight." The look prompts additional talk. "Oh. I'm Nicodemus. Resident 
      non-frat boy. You ought to try their lasagna sometime. It's really good."

Gert chews and swallows, nodding slightly. "I have," she says, in that same
      tone of minimal courtesy. "And it is." Putting down the pizza slice, she 
      wipes her hands off on a napkin. "Gertrude."

Nicodemus looks from the not-too-cordial smile, around the table, up to check
      on a waitress and... got one! "Order of lasagna. To go. Thanks. Separate 
      check, right." He looks back to you. "So are you waiting for someone or 
      just thinking? You don't get many people out by themselves at a 
      restaurant without a book or something preoccupying their thoughts."

Gert frowns, her already cool demeanor dropping a few degrees Fahrenheit. "I
      guess I'm not most people, then," she replies.

"There's the zombie-mode thing, too. Everyone does that," Nicodemus says,
      exploring a new option that might be less offensive and while away some 
      time before the waitress gets back with his order. "But most people in 
      zombie mode tend to do take-out or to-go, not sit in a restaurant with a 
      bunch on annoying distractions--like myself. Which.... You just want me 
      to go wait somewhere else? I'm clearly just fucking up being casually 
      polite."

Gert shakes her head a little. "I'm just being premenstrual. S'okay." Her eye
      wanders, disaffectedly, distainfully, over the crowd. "Just needed to get 
      out and was in the mood for pizza." She turns back to Nick. "--And why 
      should I let a bunch of _kids_ chase me out of my favorite pizza place?" 
      Not that she looks much older than the 'kids' themselves.

Nicodemus seems to buy that explanation for your moodiness. "Yeah, I can see
      that. I'm just planning to go home and veg out in front of some bad 
      sci-fi. Omega Code II. Nothing like a good christian sci-fi/conspiracy 
      made for TV movie for mindless fun."

Gert looks dubious. "Sounds painful, actually." She takes another bite out of
      her current slice.

"It will be," Nicodemus admits as the waitress comes by with a to-go box. He
      fishes out some money from his wallet. "But it'll make me feel better 
      knowing that despite the fact that I paid eight bucks to see Elektra," he 
      hands the money over to the waitress, "it could have been oh-so-much 
      worse than it was." He stands up. "Sorry for butting in on your quiet 
      time. Thanks for putting up with me, Gertrude. See you around."

Gert lifts and drops a shoulder. "No problem." Very faint smile that is, again,
      the bare minimum of politeness. "Have a good one."