bourbon buzz ✬ novak&enzo

a d r i a n    n o v a k

You dress like an old-fashioned cowboy when it's time to perform the traditional duties of mayor. On very few occasions, usually at the request of the Capitol or your liaison, you dress formally in a suit and without a cowboy hat or leather boots. Dress for the people you're trying to impress, and don't care about anyone else, right? District Ten wants you to be calm and relaxed with flashes of country and denim. The Capitol wants you to be uniform, with a tie like an illusion of the leash they think they have you on. But there's a third part of you that only your most powerful allies, or your greatest enemies, are allowed to see. That, of course, is your mean streak. Long black coat, slim and dark grey pants, and black boots with built-in platforms to boost your height by a couple of inches. Being tall is statistically proven by your aids to have a positive effect on if people believe what you say. And that's the intention: to make people believe you when you tell them that you won't be nice the next time they push your temper. Most people will take your word for it. If they don't, you can roll up your sleeves to show off brass knuckles that'll make them listen.

Tonight, you're prepared for a punch of promise at the saloon for Merritt, one of the gentlemen who has given some of your boots on the ground reason to believe he'll expose you for the stock of guns down in the basement of one of Elio's homes. He's more than welcome to wipe his hands clean of the gang if he really wants to. You're not going to stop him if he wants to miss out on your protecting hand in an increasingly unruly district and country. What he won't do, however, is play the spoiler in your plans. That makes Merritt a threat that needs to be handled. Hopefully, he'll listen and back down. Your single protection detail opens the bar door for you and lets you walk in first, hands behind your back to examine the room. "Go get a drink, Antoine. You can put it on my tab. I'll be in the back speaking to our friend." Antoine takes a seat at the bar, and you move toward the back room.

"AYE, NOVAK!"

Damn it. You stop, just a few steps away from the back when the voice calls out to you. It's frustrating beyond belief when someone disrupts your plans. You're smiling as you turn to greet them, though it's clear to anyone who can see that you're biting your tongue as if frustrated by the disturbance.

"Care for an ass kickin?"

Emberstatt. Great. You've done your best to steer clear of them save for official business like big mayoral events or the Reapings. Lorenzo, though, is among those that you fear the least. You turn halfway towards the back room again, where a frail and frightened face pokes out to see if the shouts were true. Merritt, of course, spots you. You give him a look and flash the brass around your hands, don't go anywhere. He pulls himself back in and you let out a chuckle. If he's scared shitless, he'll stay put.

You move toward the pool table where Enzo is leaning, undoing the latches on your knuckles and shuffling the brass into your coat's pockets. "Sure, why not." I grab a stick from the boards on the wall. "It would be rude of me to turn down an invitation from an Emberstatt such as yourself."

You shoot him a lie of a smile. It's just a courtesy match. "I beat one before, I'll do it again."

a d r i a n    n o v a k

You wait for Lorenzo to make the first move. The moment you stepped away from the back room, the expectations of what's presentable and acceptable as your role shifts. You're compliant now, courteous. You push up against the pool table as an older woman tries to squeeze by you to get to the bar. The transition from the man to gentleman requires a whole set of party tricks in different shades. Why, exactly, a mayor needs to be an executive and entertainer at the same time perplexes you. The power is just too enabling to pass up.

Enzo refuses to let you start the game without a drink first. He's already halfway to the tender before you can start to politely refuse. You love Ten's homebrewed drinks, but once you got a bottle of wine from the Capitol as a mayoral welcoming gift, it's been hard to transition back to the twang of Ten. You notice how Lorenzo's comfortable and familiar with this environment, well-connected with the bartender and some of the local patrons of the saloon. Lovely how someone can find a home drowning themselves with a beer. He asks– well, commands– you to drink. Bottoms up, you take the whiskey, tapping on the edge of the barstool to signal to Antoine that you want some water in a short while.

You place the empty shot down on the table and start to tap on the glass as Lorenzo begins to make his first shot of the game. It's not hard to see that he's a little out of it as he aims for the cue ball, but nevertheless, his confidence doesn't seem to falter. Straight away, he sinks the red ball into the corner where you rest. "Lucky shot," he says as you both begin to swap places around the table.

"No such thing as luck in a game like this, Lorenzo. Just skill," you rest your chin on the top of your stick as you size up the map. "Success is all by design."

When everything turns into a double life, it can feel more like faking it until you make it. You ready your shot, balancing your stick barely above the green fabric of the table. One… two… Shoot.

6NQQBROtTQ1-20
[+3 balls]

"Yellow and blue." You call out as soon as the point of your stick taps the cue ball. You know what you want and know what it takes to get it. The white ball bounces from wall to wall before splitting the yellow and blue stripes apart. Blue lands in the corner opposite of you while yellow slots into the middle hole across from Enzo. "And green, too, what the hell." Your next shot is easy and clean to slot the green-striped ball down the table and into a corner slot. Without a clear next target in your sights, you play the cue ball into a more difficult spot for Enzo to get anything off of.

Three in one round. You chuckle to yourself, enjoying the lead while it lasts. "All skill, remember?"

a d r i a n    n o v a k

It's gotta be the buzz that's making Enzo so cheery despite getting his ass beat after the first round. You lean over the table as he takes a sip of his whiskey, declaring that he's not out of it yet. Funny how he talks to you about secrets. You have enough of those to give any citizen in Ten an ulcer. The kid you made, the people you've hurt, the plans you have to do nothing but smile and cut ribbons as if you did.

As Emberstatt gets ready to line up his shot, you take a step back and give him space. The whiskey'll help him, he says, and it sure does as he sticks the tip of his tongue out for precision and takes the shot. It fires off, bouncing from side to side, the perfect storm as ball after ball of his makes its way into the pockets. "I don't think I could do that again if I tried," he says as you're both staring at the balls left on the field. A couple of the other patrons have started to watch your contest with the quell phenom. You clap slowly after his turn concludes, half because it's a spectacle and half because you're actually impressed.

You toss the cue stick lightly in the air and catch it higher up. "Slow your roll there, buddy. The quicker we finish, the sooner I'll have to get a move on," you say, playfully of course. It's your hope that you win because the loser has to buy the winner's drinks for the night. Judging by Enzo's attitude on whiskey, he'll probably be here drinking for a lot longer than you have time for. Your eyes click to the back room just before you line your shot toward the corner pocket. Mr. Merritt better not have taken the back exit. More importantly, this better not be some sort of stalling scheme. Retaining focus, you ready your strike, flicking the wrist and sending the cue ball forward.

EFzOf9Vepa1-20
[ 1-5 is 0 balls, 6-11 is 1 ball, 12-18 is 2 balls, 19-20 is 3 balls]

Fuck. Just as you're shooting, the backroom door swings open and grabs your focus. The cue ball bounces just shy of the target. You let out an embarrassed chuckle and scratch the back of your head. You've never been happy losing, even in a meaningless game such as this. It's a sign of failure, something you're not supposed to get a sniff of. "See? I'm all in on savorin' this moment." A nice gesture, a lie, and an excuse all tied into one sentence.

a d r i a n    n o v a k

Tricky fucker. Enzo nods along as you sweat off your struggles, elbows leaning back against the bar's brick accent wall. "Sure thing, boss!" You smile cheekily. That's what Elio taught you to do when you lose, smile n' lie. Success is in your blood. Failure, on the other hand, is like a parasite desperate to latch onto you. You're a good host prospect as mayor. Oh, what will failure do to you if it overstays its welcome? Not over a game of pool per se, but an election, or perhaps when the Capitol tries to interrupt your ventures elsewhere?

It's getting too warm. You undo the buckle on your coat and fold it neatly over your chair. An excited Enzo stands over the shot, knocking a pair of balls in with his turn. He's only got one ball left to sink before the eight ball. You have five to go if you include the eight. "Where do you have to go off to, anyways?" He proposes another round of drinks to keep you around the table. You hold off on responding for a moment. You were taught as a little boy: politicians will never tell a lie, but they also never tell the truth.

You twirl the cue stick, trying to piece together enough of an answer that it won't leave people prying. So, a nonanswer. You shrug. "Not anywhere important, bud. I was thinking of visiting a friend, but I don't see them around tonight." There's something scandalous about the way you speak to Enzo. Elio might scold you for fraternizing with the enemy. But he's not your master, he's not even your real uncle. You hold the dollar bills above his head now, not the other way around. Who needs to be the head of a faction when you're head of the district? Whether it's an Emberstatt or the newly strengthened Searley line, you feel emboldened. Novak is a scrappy legacy, new money in the field. It's the old guns that make your spirit fire up and your heart beat faster.

You send the white ball flying, and the color in your eyes flickers past your opponent all the while. Maybe it's in healthy faith to take a loss.

lYXFHcmtt01-20
[ 1-5 is 0 balls, 6-11 is 1 ball, 12-18 is 2 balls, 19-20 is 3 balls]
[ +2 ]

"Well, well, well!" You say, cutting your deficit in half. Despite the distraction across the table, you slot a pair of balls in two turns, both on either side of where Enzo's standing. "Back in it."

You drag the stick around the table, your other hand glossing over the green fabric of the game. You stop beside Enzo. "And yes, to another round of drinks. It would be rude to say no to such an offer."

a d r i a n    n o v a k

"Oh? Who are you waiting for? Maybe I know 'em." You shrug his off as if you never even heard it. It's hard to gather whether Enzo is tipsy or if he's trying to line you up hook line and sinker for some information. What a toxic trait you have, to assume that everyone who breathes in your vicinity is out to get you. That's paranoia. It leaves your eyes darting to windows and the cracks beneath your door at night, wondering when someone's going to decide your power trip should come to an end. He's not sinister enough for that, surely. You keep a smile as he agrees to get the drinks after his shot. Lo and behold, he downs the final two balls he needs, with just the 8 left for him on the board. You're so far behind, you debate not even trying with your next shot.

Enzo's got a mischievous grin on his face like he just won the whole potluck to himself. You want to teach him a lesson, warn him not to cross you even if your relationship seems amicable at the moment. He wanders off to Albert behind the bar to grab a few more whiskeys to share. You drag your stick around the table, trying to decide upon the best angle. You have three balls left, plus the eight. That's a much taller mountain to climb.

You hover over the eight ball. Let's just get this over with, shall we? You watch Enzo mouth off something with Albert as he waits at the stool for the bottles. Temptations of knocking in the remaining balls with your fingers crosses your mind. Heh. You're not a cheater, Novak. Never in a million years would you do such a thing to win a silly game. Albert's staring at you, close to Enzo's ear. They're whispering about you, obviously. Either Enzo's talking about how sexy you are or he's plotting your assassination. Not sure which is more likely, though.

Hey– play nice. Embers and the Lowes may not hold the mayorship, but they're powerful as hell in District Ten still. You're the first to remind people of that. It's why you gave one of 'em a spot in your cabinet. Make them feel good.

You do just that again, marking your shot a little to the left. Miss on purpose and let Enzo win the game. You shoot the cue ball at an angle that blasts the walls and eventually pokes the eight ball at just the right angle that it slides down the wall and into the corner pocket. "Well, shit." You facepalm, perhaps a bit too dramatically, at your purposeful loss. Adrian Novak does not lose on accident. Only on purpose. To reel people like Enzo Emberstatt in. "Guess you won there, Enzo."

You join him and Albert at the front of the bar, flicking an extra one of your balls into the slot on your way. "I got a little too aggressive there and sunk the eight. Congrats on your win," you pat him on the back and take the stool beside Enzo. You pull a twenty out of your back pocket and hand it over to the bartender. "I enjoyed that, bud. I'm a big fan of games like pool." You're a fan of mind games. You play them on everyone, including yourself, every second of every day.

You give Antoine a thumbs up, his cue that he can leave if he wants. Safe and comfortable, dealing with a fucker like Merritt can wait a few more days. The whiskey won't make you any more rational tonight. "Are you big on games, Enzo?"

a d r i a n    n o v a k

One of your favorite tricks is making people feel like they were the ones who caused something good to happen. It was because of their hard work and determination that the operation was a success. Their letter convinced the cabinet to agree to do public maintenance somewhere in the district. And Enzo, he feels that his skill was what brought him to victory. Some of the patrons clap and cheer each time he mentions his victory. That must make Enzo feel good. For you, that's mostly the post. Having people feel like they're effective, skillful, and most importantly, in control, is the best way you've learned to keep them at bay. You'd be lying if part of you didn't find some joy in Enzo's positive demeanor, though.

Enzo leans down behind his whiskey glass as if the volume of his voice can be hidden by the discreteness of a shot glass. "Well, I'm great at strip poker." A few of the people in the bar turn their heads at the comment. "Don't suppose you play, huh?" You lean back against the bar and turn your head outward to the people doing their best to pretend that they're not eavesdropping. They want to know the answer just as much as Enzo. For the first time, being put on the spot like this leaves you somewhat embarrassed.

Quick on your feet, you turn yourself back towards Enzo. Never lie, but never tell the truth. You speak with a light-hearted tone. "Strip poker? What an inappropriate question to ask a politician who's surrounded by so many lovely citizens of his district!" You're sure most of them are too drunk to care if you did or not, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Spies of political enemies and of your allies could be here, waiting for just the right time to strike and expose you as some sort of sexual machine.

As soon as the other patrons begin to turn away, you shoot a smirk at Enzo. You prop your elbow up against the counter and rest the side of your head in your palm. You twirl your glass, whispering in Enzo's direction. "Just thought I'd save you from the jealous looks. I'm sure there are a lot of people here who'd kill to play strip poker with the likes of Adrian Novak." You've been absorbed in your own arrogance for longer than a decade. After finishing up the whiskey, you move back to your original seat and grab your long coat. You make your rounds, telling everyone who's conscious to have a good rest of their evening. Antoine handles the backroom at your signal.

The last person to say goodbye to is Enzo. You pat him on the back, perhaps one too many times, and then leave the hand there, sinking. "I'm on my way out, Enzo. This was fun, but I've gotta head back home." You get within earshot of only your new buddy. "Got a strip poker game to play up there."

Will he join you? You're not sure, but is it bad that you sort of hope he does?