The Inkwell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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hellaverse2023-07-25 09:55 am
inkwell_books) wrote in hellaverse2023-07-25 09:55 am
Fresh Ink
There really wasn't anything special about the bookstore called "Inkwell". The sign sported a feathered quill in an inkwell with the name of the shop in an art deco font. It was possible that it was supposed to be black text and image on a white background, but this being Hell and the Pride Ring, various pollutants had turned the white a bit more gray. It was like many quaint little shops that had squeezed between more sinful delights in Hell post-1933.
Yet there was something going on at the shop. At around 11 AM, the manager of the shop -- an imp/succubus mix -- would head to the back and her office while a spotted hellhound took over the floor and register. At around that time, people dressed like they'd come from Cannibal Colony would typically arrive, browse the shelves for a book, and go to the register to pay. Sometimes, they would be invited to peruse the Private Collection. On rare occasions, they'd be told that no further patrons were being invited to the Private Collection for the moment. Anyone who kicked up a fuss, well, the hellhound took after his Earth counterparts in being rather fiercely protective of his boss.
It helped that for such a thin slip of a hellhound, he carried and was very good at using a the high-caliber revolver he kept hidden somewhere in his clothes. He'd only had to fire one shot to get the word around that anyone attempting to rob the place or otherwise attempt to disrupt the shop's normal operations got one warning before getting a rather impressive-sized hole blown into them...along with that same person having to pay for damaged merchandise and shelves due to blood splatter or the bullet passing through their body.
However, The Private Collection was a mystery. Those in the know were sworn to secrecy lest they not be allowed back for a considerable amount of time. It didn't open until the manager had gone to the back, and the latest anyone had been seen leaving was around midnight, six full hours after the hellhound had closed up shop. There didn't seem to be a rhyme or reason for who got in and who didn't save that all wore the same period clothing: the 1920s and 1930s. However, showing up in such clothing didn't guarantee an invitation. Most assumed after a few tries that it was some sort of private reading room with drinks considering how some lucky invitees would be seen stumbling out of the shop later.
But to those in the know, the Private Collection was well-worth the visit: a private Prohibition Era speakeasy soundproofed from what was going on upstairs so no one would be the wiser. There was no cover charge, just a dress code and knowing the Book of the Day to get in, so all level of demon had the potential to get invited so long as they obeyed the rules. The cocktail bar was neutral territory. Anyone violating the rules with a ban-worthy offense got a hit with a special charm the owner and bartender had paid good money for to obscure the details of the Private Collection from the perpetrator's memory. As if that wasn't enough, the ban would last ten years and could only be lifted early by three patrons in good standing vouching for them, those three patrons risking their own ten-year bans if the perpetrator committed another ban-worthy offense.
At 11 o'clock, Ruth headed to her office in the back, swiftly changing out of her casual clothes for bookstore work to the white dress shirt, black vest, and black skirt that made up her Private Collection uniform. She unlocked the hatch for the stairwell leading down to the newly-added soundproof door of the renovated basement housing the Private Collection, shutting the hatch behind her. After a quick check to make sure everything was ready, she went behind the bar and tapped the indicator on the custom Point of Sale system Ethan had put together to indicate that the Private Collection was open for business.
Yet there was something going on at the shop. At around 11 AM, the manager of the shop -- an imp/succubus mix -- would head to the back and her office while a spotted hellhound took over the floor and register. At around that time, people dressed like they'd come from Cannibal Colony would typically arrive, browse the shelves for a book, and go to the register to pay. Sometimes, they would be invited to peruse the Private Collection. On rare occasions, they'd be told that no further patrons were being invited to the Private Collection for the moment. Anyone who kicked up a fuss, well, the hellhound took after his Earth counterparts in being rather fiercely protective of his boss.
It helped that for such a thin slip of a hellhound, he carried and was very good at using a the high-caliber revolver he kept hidden somewhere in his clothes. He'd only had to fire one shot to get the word around that anyone attempting to rob the place or otherwise attempt to disrupt the shop's normal operations got one warning before getting a rather impressive-sized hole blown into them...along with that same person having to pay for damaged merchandise and shelves due to blood splatter or the bullet passing through their body.
However, The Private Collection was a mystery. Those in the know were sworn to secrecy lest they not be allowed back for a considerable amount of time. It didn't open until the manager had gone to the back, and the latest anyone had been seen leaving was around midnight, six full hours after the hellhound had closed up shop. There didn't seem to be a rhyme or reason for who got in and who didn't save that all wore the same period clothing: the 1920s and 1930s. However, showing up in such clothing didn't guarantee an invitation. Most assumed after a few tries that it was some sort of private reading room with drinks considering how some lucky invitees would be seen stumbling out of the shop later.
But to those in the know, the Private Collection was well-worth the visit: a private Prohibition Era speakeasy soundproofed from what was going on upstairs so no one would be the wiser. There was no cover charge, just a dress code and knowing the Book of the Day to get in, so all level of demon had the potential to get invited so long as they obeyed the rules. The cocktail bar was neutral territory. Anyone violating the rules with a ban-worthy offense got a hit with a special charm the owner and bartender had paid good money for to obscure the details of the Private Collection from the perpetrator's memory. As if that wasn't enough, the ban would last ten years and could only be lifted early by three patrons in good standing vouching for them, those three patrons risking their own ten-year bans if the perpetrator committed another ban-worthy offense.
At 11 o'clock, Ruth headed to her office in the back, swiftly changing out of her casual clothes for bookstore work to the white dress shirt, black vest, and black skirt that made up her Private Collection uniform. She unlocked the hatch for the stairwell leading down to the newly-added soundproof door of the renovated basement housing the Private Collection, shutting the hatch behind her. After a quick check to make sure everything was ready, she went behind the bar and tapped the indicator on the custom Point of Sale system Ethan had put together to indicate that the Private Collection was open for business.
Open like a book!
...and bother people.
"How's it going?" This weird guy would choose a neighboring chair or gravitate toward some corner-sitting so-and-so, break the ice a little bit.
"What'd you pick? I'm not terribly adventurous in drinking, but it's a new night, she is young, and I can circle in on something that sounds interesting." That toothy grin.
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The modern conveniences -- such as the tablet with the Point of Sale system -- were designed to blend in with the background to keep up the illusion as much as possible. Unfortunately, noir-esque jazz music playing over the speakers couldn't hide the fact there was no band playing on the stage in the corner. (She'd had to ban the jazz quartet when it turned out they'd been hired to assassinate one of her regulars and had gotten the gig to perform a stakeout. A shame, really. They didn't get their mark and they lost out on a steady paycheck. Not that she expected them to come back. Their boss likely hadn't taken too kindly to the failure and had made sure they wouldn't be a future problem.)
Right now the cocktail bar was barely even a quarter full and nobody was flagging her down for a refill. She leaned on the bar, tail swishing lazily behind her, as she decided to watch the shark put on a show.
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He didn't need the help.
Instead he slid up to the bar and leaned on his elbows, chin propped in both gloved hands.
"Man, what's a guy to do on a night off...?"
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She gave him a sideways smirk. "Though with how you usually run deals down here, I'm sort of tempted to ask for a cut for providing a place to get it all done in. At least you know better than to bring anyone down here who'd break the rules."
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But his grin widened. "And ruin the ambiance?? I'd let your buddy kick me out and let you spit on me if I ever shattered the vibe. No, places like these are too important when the everything else exists out there."
A pause. "Hmm. ...I'm gonna go on an adventure. Do you remember those tiny pink martinis the really curvy succubus had a few nights ago? She was real giggly? Been thinking about that since. The drink, anyway. I'd like to try it, so long as it isn't 'Verosika Mayday' strong."
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One of the advantages to running a cocktail bar with an exclusive clientele was that Ruth could remember who'd been at her bar more clearly. If Mako had asked her back when she was working at the Ink and Paint Club, she would've had to make him specify which really curvy succubus.
"That'd be the Pink Martini: vodka, dry vermouth, orange bitters, and grenadine. Or I could toss you a few other pink drinks that you might like better."
Another advantage was that she learned her regulars' tastes. For starters, that meant that even if she gave away the basic recipe, she knew precisely what modifications needed to be made to make something more to a particular patron's liking. Not to mention if one of them wanted to get adventurous, she could whip up something new that aligned more with the sort of flavors they liked instead of making them pay for something they'd likely spit out.
Mako was still relatively new, so she was still feeling out what flavors he liked. Grenadine was always a hit or miss in her opinion. (Her tastebuds despised the stuff, but she typically had a few drinks herself with it. It was good to get a taste of different drink recipes to get some idea of their flavors to be able to recommend them to patrons or warn them off of something that they were guaranteed to hate.)
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"I'll try it, sure. I had a big dinner, I can take a few hits of whatever concoction you think sails into my dock." Hooh, he had a big dinner indeed. He'd never gotten so much cash in his fucking life before now.
"I'm not too hard to please. Really, I wanna see the master of her craft." He propped his cheek in a hand and smiled.
"Color me the curious type."
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She grinned before reaching out with her tail to grab the ice scoop and flip a few cubes into the shaker she opened up just in time. She tucked her wings in tightly as she spun to retrieve the four bottles, holding them by the necks between her fingers. As she poured the vodka, she added the dry vermouth. She was still pouring the vodka when she added a bit of grenadine and four splashes of the bitters. She stopped pouring, closing up the shaker and giving it a hearty shake to mix it, continuing to shake it as her tail deposited the martini glass by the stem on the bar top. She removed the shaker top and put the strainer on to pour just the liquor into the glass. She set a cocktail napkin down in front of Mako before setting the chilled succubus-pink concoction down on top of it.
"One pink martini."
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He watched her go for it and was always intrigued by the show of preparation. There was performance art, and at the end was something yummy. How could he NOT like that?
By the end he was all but giddy. Look at this cute little pink thing! No wonder it was a hit! It was a sexy little shot, all told.
"Oh, this'll be great. You're a doll, Ruthie." Now, curiosity abounds! He took it up and got a closer look at it- get all four eyes on the prize, before he took a drink.
Ooh... juniper here, orange rind, and a dancy little pomegranate tang to mellow the bitters.
"Oh. ...Oh yeah, I can see the appeal. Cute addition of pomegranate, too, considering the old Greek myths. Poor, poor Persephone."
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She started cleaning the shaker and strainer in the bar's sink. "It took me forever to find pomegranate grenadine. None of that cheap fake cherry shit. It's supposed to be a drink to relax you, not remind you of your last one-on-one with the flu."
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Ahh, the dream, a little nip and off you go to eternity...
"So, what's your favorite? I'd like to try that next."
Gmail, what happened to this notif? Dick.
She hummed with thought.
"Though one drink I come back to is the Dark Chocolate martini. Bittersweet. Cliche, I know." She smirked and flexed her wings slightly to emphasize the succubus half of her heritage.
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Mako patted a hand to the counter with a mote of determination, his mind made up. "I'll take that classic, then, if you'd please. I've had a very good few days and I'm good to get a little hammered."
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She took pride in her work, thank you very much.
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With a carefree shrug: "...Thus my admittedly utterly fumbled green flag to allow my night to end a little inebriated for my efforts. To add another cliché, I can drink like a fish."
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Once again, she went through the process of assembling the martini. Fresh ice went into the cocktail shaker along with vodka, chocolate liqueur, creme de cacao, and heavy cream. She hummed along with the latest tune as she gave it a good shake to mix it up before straining the rather thick chocolatey liquid into the martini glass. She then shaved a bit of dark chocolate over the top to garnish it before setting it in front of him.
"One dark chocolate martini."
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He had to lean down, chin resting on the counter when the drink was set before him.
"...I take it you get a lot of phone numbers, purely unrelated to lineage? Because you mix drinks like an absolute muse..."
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She started cleaning Mako's empties in the sink behind the bar.
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"I ask because I'd love to steal you for my Auntie's venue. The drinks there are alright, but if I have to be offered one more Shark Bite cocktail, I'm going to stop laughing at the long-stale joke and actually start biting."
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"Aw... It was worth a shot!" He sat up and sought the glass, raised it to her before enjoying.
Ooh. So he could remember this recipe and make them at home, orrrr he could just keep coming here.
The latter was far more fun. And had cute bartenders.
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No, people went to a bar for the atmosphere. Though it having a damn good bartender helped significantly.
She glanced up at Mako's attempted drinking partner who absently raised his hand for a refill, nose buried in Tolstoy. "Be right back. Gotta give him a refill."