Riots. Goddamn mutants were always rioting. This time, Rupert had the foresight to bring scotch and a twelve gauge. Not many people messed with a man carrying scotch and a twelve gauge. Idiot inquires like 'Mutant or human?' from the so-called protestors crawling the streets had been met with eye contact and a slow swig. All in all, he was feeling pretty damn good by the time he made it to the shop.

“Medium,” the ex-cop called, rat-a-tat-tatting a friendly pounding fist on the man's door. “I've got the hooch if you've got the hardware.”

Hardware, as in the boards they were going to use to block off the shop's windows before some idiot smashed them in. Not. A. Euphemism. Today was about booze, rioters that were just asking to have their heads knocks together, and commiserating over their mutant ex's. In whatever order the mutie felt like.

Really? Really? There were going to be riots. Sure things in New York had kind of fallen to hell in a hand basket, but hadn't that literally happened like a thousand times over the last ten years? Riots. Just when Tarin had managed to bring the shop into a functional bundle of somewhat organized chaos.

The chairs were safe to sit in again, most of the cobwebs had been cleared away excepting the ones that added to the ambiance. Plush carpets covered most of the worn wood floors and a new crystal ball graced the table in the entertainment area. The cot behind the curtains even had fresh sheets, the apartment felt too big these days and with all the work it was easier to sleep here at times. The. Front. Window. Sparkled. SPARKLED. And people were going to riot. Seriously?

The new appliances for the kitchenette had been delivered on a couple of wooden pallets and this fine evening found the Medium breaking them apart for the protection they would provide his windows. It was probably better than the alternative of having the spirits assault anyone who came to close. Probably.

A banging at the door drew Tarin's attention and a frown, until the voice wafting through the shop turned the frown into a sneer. Still, hammer-in-hand, he made his way to the front and unlocked the deadbolts.

"What do you want?" Tarin said, eyes searching for whatever weapon he would inevitably be assaulted with before the encounter ended and finding only a bottle of scotch. "Oh, this is a social visit. Come on in, there's plenty of hammers to go around." Apparently giving the man a weapon wasn't a problem.

Hammers and getting hammered. This was how real men spent riots.

“You know you're an idiot for unlocking that door, right?” Rupert made sure to point out. PSA-wise. “I've assaulted you more than the average rioter. Statistically speaking.”

He helped himself to a hammer, tucking it under an arm. Then he hobbled over, and amiably helped himself to the median's cabinets.

“Did you move the teacups?” The zealot inquired, as china tinked together in his wake.