Floodwaters
Inactive Member
Just a few minutes' walk along one of the main roads from the looming base of Prime City's starport, amid the animated ad-boards bombarding passerbys with their constant rapid-fire pitches on various snack foods, cigarettes, low-brow entertainment, and appliances whose purposes ranged from practical to absurdly exotic, a cantina was tucked away on the ground floor of an aging black and brown building crammed in a sea of dirty skyscrapers. Although it did little to stand out from the already overwhelming sensory overload of its neighboring businesses, it was difficult enough to miss, making it a popular watering hole for newly arrived visitors, travellers awaiting their next transport offworld, and locals on the way to the starport.
Stepping in off of the street, patrons passed through a pair of thick metal double doors that were typically propped open. A surly looking black-haired ID-SOL with a five o'clock shadow towering nearly nine feet tall stood outside with his massive arms crossed, taking note of everyone who entered, and demanding a cover charge for any males who entered after dark. Inside, the place was dimly lit by shaded wall lamps around the black and dark yellow walls. A long bar on the back wall lined with backless red-seated barstools sported small white LED lights along its outer vertex, and behind it a veritable wall of liquor bottles of all colors and shades was backlit by hidden red, blue, and green. A perpetual cloud of tobacco smoke hung suspended in the air, hovering over neatly arranged, square tables whose dark wooden surfaces were stained with beer spills and cigarette burns. Some of them were gouged in a few places with deep cuts.
There was always a crowd in this place, and finding a seat was difficult most times of the day. After dark, it was almost always standing room only, and one was never out from under the watchful eyes of the humorless ID-SOL bouncers that made sure the patrons behaved themselves, and anyone who became too boisterous or got too friendly with one of the several attractive young bartenders who shamelessly flirted with the customers usually found themselves literally thrown into the street with more than one physical souvenir of their misconduct. Because of this, the local police usually avoided this place, not having the manpower or desire to get involved.
The selection of drinks in this place was unmatched in the city, and provided one knew who and how to ask, other forms of entertainment could easily be found here as well. Four huge cigarette and cigar vending machines stood along the far wall to the left when standing at the front door, and a jukebox with obnoxiously flashing neon lights stood alone in the corner by the bar.
Welcome to Stamper's.
Stepping in off of the street, patrons passed through a pair of thick metal double doors that were typically propped open. A surly looking black-haired ID-SOL with a five o'clock shadow towering nearly nine feet tall stood outside with his massive arms crossed, taking note of everyone who entered, and demanding a cover charge for any males who entered after dark. Inside, the place was dimly lit by shaded wall lamps around the black and dark yellow walls. A long bar on the back wall lined with backless red-seated barstools sported small white LED lights along its outer vertex, and behind it a veritable wall of liquor bottles of all colors and shades was backlit by hidden red, blue, and green. A perpetual cloud of tobacco smoke hung suspended in the air, hovering over neatly arranged, square tables whose dark wooden surfaces were stained with beer spills and cigarette burns. Some of them were gouged in a few places with deep cuts.
There was always a crowd in this place, and finding a seat was difficult most times of the day. After dark, it was almost always standing room only, and one was never out from under the watchful eyes of the humorless ID-SOL bouncers that made sure the patrons behaved themselves, and anyone who became too boisterous or got too friendly with one of the several attractive young bartenders who shamelessly flirted with the customers usually found themselves literally thrown into the street with more than one physical souvenir of their misconduct. Because of this, the local police usually avoided this place, not having the manpower or desire to get involved.
The selection of drinks in this place was unmatched in the city, and provided one knew who and how to ask, other forms of entertainment could easily be found here as well. Four huge cigarette and cigar vending machines stood along the far wall to the left when standing at the front door, and a jukebox with obnoxiously flashing neon lights stood alone in the corner by the bar.
Welcome to Stamper's.
