Tel and the Beanstalk [Leah]

One would think that Telemachus was the luckiest sonavabitch on the planet. Not just because of his physique and dark, handsome features, but mainly because of his job. Friends have told him, countless times, that he gets to be tough and impressive around half-naked women all night. They must be throwing themselves at him! They were impressed he could still stand at the end of the week from all the tail he must clearly be getting.

But it couldn’t be further from the truth (well, except for the handsome stuff).

You see the majority of Telemachus’ job isn’t impressing the dancers, it being shoved and yelled at by drunken, irate customers who don’t understand boundaries or rules. Those are the people that Telemachus spends the most time with while the dancers maintain their routine or regain their composure in the changing rooms. And those that do see his manly acts often wear unmistakable masks of indifference; it’s part of the job for them.

And then there are those other times. Between patrols through Hexes and Hos and the occasional reminder of the rules to rowdy patrons, Telemachus actually doesn’t have much to do. Like the dancers, the majority of the time he is paid to stand there and look pretty, or, in his case, menacing.

But after all is said and done, the reality is that it’s rather boring. Save for those times when Telemachus needs to knock around a few heads, there really isn’t much to do. Even most of the dancers don’t really speak to him. He’s just the muscle, and, most importantly, they were there to work and not socialize with a meathead. Still, there are those few who go out of their way to give him a kind word or two.

This particular night was rather dull. The customers were minimal but mostly behaved. The most he had to do was shoot them a stern look and cross his arms over his chest before one nudged the other to shut up. It was hard to deny his intimidating presence while wearing jeans, his black muscle tee, and favored leather jacket. Was it cliched, sure, but it was effective.

Now Telemachus found himself at the bar, occupying one of the stools since it was a slow night. But that didn’t mean he was partaking in the alcohol. No, he was on the clock so instead he nursed a glass of soda with a cherry floating inside. It was a good thing he wasn’t a heavy drinker anymore. After his accident, alcohol was close to becoming a new best friend; but not anymore.

That was besides the point, though. Telemachus didn’t let his mind wander into thinking about the Well-Drinkers and instead focused on his own sugary drink and surveyed the club. That was when he saw her. One of the dancer’s apparently appeared out of nowhere, offering him a greeting.

He nodded back, respectfully, before his eyes darted back out of the rest of the club. Normally he didn’t talk unless spoken to first but he was bored and figured why not? ”Slow night?” He asked, just trying to make conversation.