Santangelo's

[N0X]

Spoiler

Santangelo's is the safest and most popular trading post and rest stop for passersby on the Lonely Road.

From the entrance, Santangelo's opens to the Lounge Room with tables and chairs. The business is clean, as it is kept and maintained by Sandander's wife and daughter, who also serve the patrons. Anyone could tell it was once a truly fine establishment. Entering the Lounge Room, to the right is a Small Stage where there are often performances given by Santangelo's Angels, patrons, and anyone who asks. The piano is horribly out of tune. To the left of the entrance opens to the Main Bar, behind which Santangelo himself can be found selling alcohol, among other items. Behind the bar, is a door through which there is a Small Kitchen & Storage section with a refrigerator, stove, sink, and counter. Through the small kitchen & storage, there's a door that leads to the outside patio area.

Next to the door outside, is a staircase leading down into the establishment's Basement, which not only acts as storage but also as a clubhouse for Sandanter's Loyalists. To the left of the Main Bar, you can find a Hallway where there are Bathrooms that are kept running by Sandangelo's handyman sons to the left, and to the right, the door to a locked Private Room. To the right of the Main Bar, there is an open Staircase next which leads to the Second Floor, with a dozen rooms full of bunk beds for travelers and loyal patrons, with one of the rooms saved for "Santangelo's Angels".

As it is a Neutral Zone, the building is occupied by those from all walks of life; survivors, vagabonds, even the odd metahuman, but largely militiamen from well-known organizations such as the Patriots, Bad Wolves, and M.A.R.S. (Mercenaries, Assassins, & Renegades Squad). There may sometimes be found the wayward caravaneer. Guards can be found by the entrance and exits, and Scouts can be seen in an overlook on the roof, some of which are Sandander's relatives. No one is unarmed, and there are rules established for combat. Anyone who breaks the rules is at the mercy of Santander himself; nobody wants to be in that position.

The bar is a hot spot for raiders, which are frowned upon by all manner of civil organization. It is possible to get caught in a crossfire between the raiders and Santander's Loyalists. Fortunately, not many actual zombies can be seen in or around the area, as it is purposely kept zombie-free by Santander's men. There may be a stray metazombies or two near the area, however, as they are the only ones powerful enough to bypass Sandanter's men.

 

[comic]

Santangelo's bar sat beside the Lonely Road, the morning sun beating down upon its walls and roof. As early as it was, the place was just as busy as ever, whether with newcomers, gangs riding through, or regular patrons in for a morning drink. It was lively and loud, guests seated at tables, mulling around, or leaned against walls as they drank, ate, and watched the entertainment. Currently, an older man with thin, wispy, white hair, wearing a bowler cap and adorned with an equally pale, thin horseshoe mustache drooping down below his jaw. His name was Albert Macintosh. He was seated at the piano, playing "I'm a Quiet Family Man" as best as he could, what with the piano's abysmal tuning. Santangelo had tried to find somebody to fix it, but Albert was the only one who knew pianos- and only the playing part.
An older, mature woman with her jet black hair pulled back into a tight bun and wearing an elegant royal blue dress stepped forward on the stage to a microphone. This was Vanessa Macintosh, Albert's oldest and only surviving daughter. She began to sing along with the horrible music, somehow improving its sound with her voice. When she started singing, multiple male patrons began to whistle at her, though this died out as she continued.

Santangelo himself stood behind the bar, back to his guests as he tore tiny bits off of a slab of raw meat, dropping the little pieces into a large glass container filled with rocks, dirt, and even a miniature watering hole, as well as a small log. Atop the log sat Sandander the Salamander, which Santangelo often referred to as 'Saladandy' as a nickname for it, combining its species name with 'dandy'. Santangelo was growing old, crows feet eyes smile wrinkles and all. His normally soft brown hair was graying with age, but even still the man was just as tough in a brawl as he ever was and everyone knew it. At least once a week he'd need to wrestle a drunk patron out of his bar. As Santangelo worked with Sandander, a woman sat down at the bar, wearing dirty and well-worn garments, covered in a beaten leather vest. She wasn't young, but not old enough to be considered mature, with thick blonde hair stretching down to her shoulders, and bright green eyes that flashed with brilliance. Not two seconds after she'd taken a seat to wait on the host had a man beside her turned his gnarly head to look her up and down. He had long, thin, blading hair and was missing a few teeth from his crooked, yellow smile. His eyes were mud brown, like his hair, which was turning silver, and he had a haphazardly shaved beard growing. "Well howdy, darlin'." He grinned. "I'm Patrick. You new 'round here? I could give ya a tour- for a price." He drawled, his dull eyes flashing. "Howsa bout it? Up to bump some uglies?"
"Get out of my face, grandpa." The woman hissed in reply as Patrick raised a hand to stroke her hair, at which she grabbed his thumb, quickly bending it backward. "OW OW OW!" Patrick cried, standing up and bending to the side as she continued to twist and pull his thumb in the wrong direction. "I said 'out. Of. My. Face." She said through clenched teeth before letting go. Patrick's eyes flashed with anger, and he brought his arm up to backhand her, before his wrist was suddenly grabbed by a hand much larger than the girl's.

"Leave the lady alone and sober up, Pat. It's too early for this shit." The owner of the hand spoke, his voice deep and smooth, his grip tightening on Patrick's wrist, who began to bend to its will before he was let go once again. "Why ya lil'-" He snarled, twisting about to face the newcomer, before stopping short, eyes widening in fear. "O-oh." He took a step back, jaw slacking as he stared. "I-I'm sorry Klay! Was just messin'! Didn' mean nothin' by it!"
"Just go home." Dallas Klay Fisher replied, grabbing Patrick by the shoulder and shoving him toward the door. "Can do! Will do! No problem!" Patrick called as he stumbled his way quickly out the door, and Dallas took his seat with a sigh.
"Thank you for that, Dally." Santangelo closed the lid to Sandander's cage and turned to face the bounty hunter. "Woulda done something myself, but I was a little busy. Not to mention this young lady handled herself pretty well."
"I don't doubt it." Dallas replied, turning his head to look at the woman, who gave him one look and her cheeks flushed crimson. With a smirk, Dallas turned back to Santangelo. "Wish I could stay long, Santa, but I'm here on business."
"Do stop by after," Santangelo suggested. "It's been a while. We should catch up. Havin' the usual?"
At that moment, however, Dallas had noticed someone in the crowd watching the entertainment, and shook his head. "Maybe later. Just found my man." With that, he stood up and began to make his way through the crowd, cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes.
"Who was that?" The woman asked Santangelo, staring after Dallas. He gave a chuckle. "Dallas Fisher. Killer Klay. The Boston Butcher. Whatever people call him these days."
"That was the Boston Butcher??" She asked, sounding awed. "Damn right. What'll you be having?" Santangelo asked, to which the woman shrugged. "Whatever you were gonna give him." She offered. "Hope you're not a lightweight." Was the bartender's reply as he got to work.

At the center table of the lounge room sat a scrawny younger man, with neatly brushed hair and defined features, sitting with a leg over his knee, watching the somewhat decent performance. On either side of him stood burly men wearing heavy-set jackets and clothing, no doubt hiding an assortment of weaponry within. The moment Dallas took a seat nearest the young man, the guards stuck their hands in their jackets, catching his attention. He turned to see Dallas, and grinned. "I was wonderin' when you'd be back. Job done?"
"Body's outside the front door." Dallas replied, his face and body language serious, a contrast to his earlier, more loose appearance. "Good. Good. Well, go get it." The man ordered one of his guards, who hastened away. "I'm impressed. The Boston Butcher lives up to his reputation. Anybody else I hired couldn't kill him. How'd you do it?" He leaned forward, staring eagerly at Dallas.
"Simple." The bounty hunter replied. "Put a bullet between his eyes."
The man scoffed, staring for a few more moments at Dallas, before leaning back. "Guess I'll have to use my imagination. Your money's out back. Leon, my guard here, will take you to it."

------

Dallas followed the large man out into a back alleyway, blocked from the sun's rays, filled with trash, dumpsters, and even a few bodies piled together. The bounty hunter could recognize what was happening before the guard even opened his mouth. This was a set-up, and had been from the start. Not that he was any surprised by it, Wallace, the man who'd hired him and was now trying to kill him, was young, ambitious, and rising up in the world. Of course he'd want Dallas out of the way. He could easily be hired against him, and what with killing Baron Jacobs, had proven he could.
"Give Baron Jacobs regards from the boss." The guard said behind Dallas, who immediately stepped to the left just as a bullet was fired from a .32 caliber pistol from the sounds of it. Dallas whirled about, swinging his arm to knock the gun out of the guard's hand, sending it flying into a pile of garbage. The guard was faster than he'd anticipated, however, and shoved Dallas back off his feet with the thrust of an arm.
He landed on his back with a heavy thud, the wind knocked out of him, and quickly scrambled to his feet as the guard pulled another weapon from under his coat, aiming it at the bounty hunter, who dived to the side as it was fired, barely missing him. Dallas whipped out one of his colt pythons, taking cover behind a dumpster. "He can send them himself." Dallas called back as a few shots rang out, pinging off the dumpster. He counted them as they went. 2, 3, 4, 5...
Dallas stood up, barely even aiming his colt about, raising it with one arm, and firing. The shot was far louder than any previous one, as it fired a .357 magnum round, which slugged directly into the guard's forehead, and straight out of the back of his skull, painting the wall behind him in blood as he dropped, falling face first on the asphalt. Dallas lowered the weapon, smoke drifting up from its barrel, before holstering it as a figure he recognized charged into the alleyway, his own weapon raised. A glance told him that it was a Desert Eagle, classic he assumed. The man holding it was wearing a fedora over his slicked back, short, jet black hair, an equally black chevron mustache, wearing a suit and tie with chiseled yet softened features. This was Beau Goodnight, Santangelo's chief of security, and a personal friend of Dallas. Goodnight really wasn't his last name, but nobody knew what the real one was and he'd gained a reputation for saying 'goodnight' when he killed someone. So it stuck, and it became a part of his name.
Beau looked at the body, then at Dallas, and lowered his desert eagle. "Bad deal?" He asked, his voice husky and aged more than his appearance. "You could say that. Wallace still in there?"
"Nah. Just left in a hurry. You could still catch him." Beau offered, knowing exactly who the bounty hunter was talking about, at which Dallas thought about it, before shrugging. "Nah. I'll get him later." He stated. "I think I'll stick 'round here for a bit. Know the name of that woman sitting at-"
"Jessica Monroe." Beau replied simply as he tucked away his weapon, stepping aside to let Dallas back into the building, glancing down at the guard's body, before following him in.

 

[nico]

Jessica remained sat at the bar, glancing in the direction of the shots she had heard every-so-often. This sort of thing seemed normal to her, especially with the type of people that often gathered here which meant she was used to the sound of gunshots. Besides, if they weren't from people who had just left the building, they were from people figuring out which one of them got to go in. No one ever worried about Dallas, who she had seen walk out in the same direction as the gunshots, so she figured there was no reason to worry about him herself. However, it was a quite invigorating experience to not only have The Boston Butcher defend her from the creep at the bar earlier but to also hear him handle his own outside.

She took a sip of what Santangelo had given her, just to make sure the taste didn't seem like it would put her out for the next few days. "You weren't lyin' when you said it takes it strong," she drank some more, the burn of it going down warming her from the inside out as her cheeks flushed the same crimson they had earlier. "No need to knock one down if you can't take it Jess," Santangelo laughed and shook his head at the girl. Regardless of his warning, she didn't mind the taste or the feeling, so she continued to drink. "I knew he came in here a lot, but I never thought I would run into him. You hear people talked about so much, but no one ever really describes what he looks like ya' know? I am not disappointed by any means, but the way people talk about him, I guess I just pictured someone else," she shrugged. "Y'all seem close. He must do business here a lot then?"

"Business, relaxin' it's all the same to me doll," Santangelo busied himself with dirty glasses and wiping the back counter. "We only seem close because we all have each other's backs here, as I am sure you have seen first hand, so by nature I am friendly with him. Plus, like you, he is a regular and quite an enjoyable one at that." Jess put on a teasing frown, "I thought I was your favorite patron." She laughed a bit at the end of her statement, the jovial nature of it refreshing. She found solace in this place with the way the world was. Outside, life was unpredictable. You didn't only have to worry about zombies or METAs, but the gang's that maintained a cool air, even if it felt strained, were animals on the streets. Jess had found herself in situations where it was either her or them and of course, she chose herself. If she wasn't so bullheaded and capable, she knew she wouldn't be sat at the bar today, but she wasn't just some gang-bunny. She refused to be treated as such. "Dangerous to have a favorite hun," Santangelo broke her chain of thought, "You never know when it's someone's last time in here."
----
Beau followed Dallas inside, holstering his gun. "She is a fan, at least from her expression when she found out it was you." He filled the gap between the two of them with conversation. "She comes in a lot, always alone. I don't ask much more. Better to not get personal in case," the man noted.

(Sorry for the disappearance @comic )