Log Title: At the Jiggle Hut


Characters: Interrogator, Method

Location: Jiggle Hut - Cobra Island

Date: May 23, 2018

TP: America Burning TP

Summary: Interrogator and Method share a drink.

As logged by Sabels

After the discussion on the docks, Method shuffles his heavy British commando boots into the Jiggle Hut, looking to enjoy a fine drink from Cobra Island's hospitality staff. They aren't slaves, but they aren't working a cabana contract on Carnival cruises, either. He moves to the bar, sliding onto a stool and perching with the heels of his boots on the rack.

"Jack and Coke," he says to the bartender, before he withdraws a Crimson Guard membership ID and flashes it, authorizing Jack Daniels.

Interrogator enters the Jiggle Hut in his civilian clothes with his gunners in theirs. He sees Method and approaches him noisily. He doesn't want to take any chances with startling him.

[From the Catwalk] A tall brunette, with ivory skin, steps out on stage from the back room, wearing a schoolteacher's clothes on her tall and leggy body.

[From the Catwalk] The tall brunette reaches up and loosens her hair, to let it fall free around her shoulders. A few men in the audience start to whoop. She breaks into a sunny smile.

[From the Catwalk] She stretches, walking out further on stage to run her hands slowly over her schoolteacher's clothes. She gives a submissive look out over the audience.

Method turns about to look over his shoulder at Interrogator, hands on the bar and leather gloved palms down. "Hey there, Interrogator," he says with a quiet roll of his tongue, before he turns his attention forward, receiving his drink. He merely offers the bartender a nod, perhaps awkward anywhere but here, the appropriate crow's nest for such antisocial behavior.

"Let's have a drink. I've been working on this gameplan for the contingency for our occupation of the United States, and finally, the details are in place. I need to uncoil."

[From the Catwalk] Her tall and leggy body writhes to the beat of the music. She begins removing her clothes, starting at the bodice. As she bares her torso, you see her breasts held behind a girlish red and white lace bra. Her ivory skin gleams under the bright lights.

[From the Catwalk] Her deep-set green eyes look out over the room as she shakes out her hair, and drops her first piece of clothing off to the side. You see a thin sheen of sweat start to gleam on her chest. The music throbs, and her body moves as if caught in it.

[From the Catwalk] The tall brunette takes the pole in one hand and moves in a circle, her hair arcing away from her body. Moving to the edge of the stage, she smiles down at a grinning college boy, and slips off her girlish red and white lace bra, dropping it right on him.

[From the Catwalk] Her submissive look turns into a very innocent one as she shivers, and her arms rise above her head as she grinds her hips during a heavy beat part of the music. Her soft lips are slightly parted as her outthrust chest heaves with the force of her breathing.. She begins to remove the lower part of her costume.

[From the Catwalk] She completely removes the rest of the schoolteacher's clothes, and stands in nothing but a pair of silky, snug lavender and white satin panties. She walks down the catwalk, swaying her hips. A man in a baseball cap slowly slips a large bill down the front of her panties, clearly relishing her tall and leggy body.

[From the Catwalk] She steps near the edge of the stage, and a hooting man slides another bill down under her waistband. She slides her hands beneath the waistband of the panties and starts to slide them down, revealing a girlish red and white lace G-string, bit by bit. She tosses the silky panties out over the crowd, where an older man in a suit is able to grab them. The men near the catwalk grin up at her as she moves closer, letting them slide the money slowly beneath the skimpy undergarment.

[From the Catwalk] She seems to take a submissive pleasure in the feel of the men's fingers sliding the money under the strings of the G-string. Her ivory skin gleams with a slick shine now from the heat of the lights, and she pants from the dancing. She looks as if she is wearing a hip ruffle made of green money as she sways down the catwalk.

[From the Catwalk] The tall brunette moves to the edge of the stage and lets a man tug on her G-string with his teeth. She lets a startled man begin to tug down her G-string. To the shouts of the audience, she slips it off totally. She makes her way to the brass pole and begins to rub herself against it slowly, while the audience whoops and growls at her. She selects a man near the stage and drops the skimpy garment to him, before heading back to the pole. She swings around the pole and back up again, and arches her back as the music ends and the lights go off on stage.

[From the Catwalk] The lights come on again, but the tall brunette has left the stage. So has her collection of money. The house lights come back up, dimly, and conversations become louder in the club. The man holding her damp G-string gives a surprised smile to his jealous tablemates.

Interrogator sighs in relief, "Thank you. I thought I was the only one who didn't think the occupation of America would last."

The bartender reaches into a special cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Vodka with the label written in Cyrillic. He shows it to Interrogator, who nods and holds up four fingers. The bartender pours four shots.

"As long as we don't question the judgment of corporate leadership to other members of our echelon - and we enforce adherence to doctrine among subordinates - there is no problem with doubts. I merely alerted Tomax and Xamot about my concerns, with a plan of action ready, and was sure to phrase my plans as 'contingencies.'" Method takes a long sip of his drink through a black cocktail straw, preferring to imbibe rapidly.

The bartender places one shot each in front of Method, Interrogator, and his gunners. Interrogator says, "I am older than I look. I was born in the aftermath of World War II when the memory of what happened to the Nazis were fresh. I had to flee Borovia when that Communist government was overthrown in favor of - he spits - Socialism. I left everyone in my family behind who didn't stick to the plan, except my Grandmother - she was smart. My Grandfather was a KGB General and I have always considered myself a Russian. Because of all this, I am cautiously optimistic about completely conquering America but I know the importance of good exit plans. As Cobra Commander's personal pilot, I have to make sure he gets out safely, even at the cost of my life and those I care about."

"I'm just a good journalist, and a lousy judge of character," Method replies quietly, sipping his drink. "A good journalist knows how to enrapture the mind in a labyrinth, a mind in prison, and someone that can't judge character is a murderer." He looks sidelong at Interrogator.

"Do you know why Nazi Germany lost the war, Interrogator, and Stalin beat him?" He smiles. "German command was an atheist, and Stalin, although he never would've admitted it, would've matriculated on that seminary school exam he refused to take. With flying colors." He motions for the popcorn machine, the bartender then delivering a bowl between them.

"You need to believe in some sort of higher power to have a legacy. Or at least, you have to be a city boy, who knows how to fall into the sewage worker's arms, instead of the sewer."

He eats a handful of popcorn.


Interrogator nods and takes his shot of Vodka. His gunners do the same.

He shouts, "TO STALIN, DO DNA*"

His gunners do the same.

  • "DO DNA is Russian for 'Until the end the heroic'.

Webster Smart sips his Jack and Coke. "And to Breckinridge. Convincing white people that they matter for something beyond luxury addiction and self-delusion, with both fundaments."

Interrogator drinks his shot of Vodka and smiles, saying, "We both make our living off of people's delusions. I'm so glad to find someone who's so honest. I'm only recently freed from some of my own delusions. We all have them, it's just a matter of how many and how bad the affect us."

"It's not the truth that people want to hear, sir," Method says, looking sidelong at Interrogator from behind his sunglasses, with a sad, haggard look. "It's the truth, said how they want to hear it." He pulls the straw out of his drink, now that he's adjusted to the liquor, and takes a long pull with his mouth on the rim of the glass.

Interrogator returns Method's look and says, "The worst part of being Cobra Commander's pilot is that it's almost impossible to know where he is unless he wants it to be known. There are times that not even I know where he is, only that I have to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. I feel better when I know he is here on Cobra Island."

"You're Atlas's go-to guy, sir," Method says, setting down his drink and hunching over the bar. "He carries the weight of a world that's against him, on his shoulders."

Chuckling, Interrogator says, "I've the largest majority of my life under pressure. I've only begun to loosen up in the past few years."

He continues darkly, "But the state of things now stirs up too many ghosts."

"If there's a rumor, and there have been bad omens, I'd prefer not to hear them." Method sips his soda. "I don't want to turn into the base snitch, here."

Interrogator looks warily at Method and looks like he's going to ask something. He quickly frowns and motions to the bartender, who pours another round.

Method eats his popcorn slowly, chewing in the silence.

After he swallows, he says, "I'm Crimson Guard by division, sir, and I'm in the intelligence arm. However, you outrank me, so I cannot refuse any sort of information you may offer." He stays quiet, knowing it may be a loyalty test.

Interrogator’s voice dropping, he says darkly, "Watch Dr. Mindbender."

He sips at the vodka, savoring it. In a normal voice he says, "I am more interested in what you can tell me. I realize as a Crimson Guard you need to keep some secrets, but I need to stay abreast of the troops."

"As a Crimson Guard, I need to report secrets to Extensive Enterprises command," comes a slight reply from Method.

"However, Dr. Mindbender is our tactical leadership at this moment."

Method places his gloved forefinger on the bar. "I will need to know, from you, very carefully, what you suspect is my personal issue with Dr. Mindbender, to report to Tomax and Xamot."

Method is deadly still, his finger in place.

Interrogator says quietly, "I do not think you have a personal issue with Dr. Mindbender. I'm the one with the issue and it is a delicate situation that could result in trouble for Cobra. Cobra Commander knows everything I know about it."

Louder he says, "Just let it go."

Method withdraws his finger from the table, and reaches into his trenchcoat for a slim black leather wallet. He pulls out a card from it, labeled Extensive Enterprises, and he slides it to Interrogator.

"This isn't my card, it's the Extensive Enterprises main branch card. Identify your Cobra IFF number on the dialing member for private offices contact, and I guarantee you you will find my supervisors with an open ear."

Interrogator nods and takes the card, slipping it into his rfid protected wallet. He says, "Be careful who you trust and avoid the Brainwave Scanner at all costs."

At the mention of the Brainwave Scanner, both Big Shot and Gargoyle look around nervously.

"Thank you, sir," he says, the 'sir' not military as before, rather English genteel. He stands up from the bar, placing his crisp American bills on the bar, plus an exactly 20 percent tip for the bartender, after he dispenses with a coins dispenser with several rolls.

"I enjoyed our drink." He turns about and slides his hands into his coat as he walks out of the bar, stooping his head forward.

Interrogator watches Method go and says under his breath, "That was stupid of me." His gunners exchange worried looks but keep silent. He motions to the bartender for water and stares into the glass.

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