(( I'd love to be apart of this. I enjoy roleplaying. It keeps me busy and allows me to explemify my imagination. If you don't mind, I would like to begin a scenario. Dark and gloomy, yes... *clears throat* ))
The night was cold. Raindrops fell like sorrowful tears of those who mourn their dead. Lights brought the city to life, allowing it to stand. The sound of cars honking their horns and police cars flashing their lights and their sirens blasted across downtown. New York City; it is truly the city that never sleeps. Many were still awake, going off to their fancy clubs in their expensive clothing, going to well decorated restaurants to celebrate so-and-so's birthday, or an engagement, here and there. Few walked outdoors that day, having their umbrellas shielding them from the heavy pouring of the depressed rain like a doctor wears his gloves to protect against infections.
A bar stood in the middle of it all. The street lights surrounding it flickered once or twice. The bar's purple neon sign stood above it all, "The Drunkan Lasse". The title was dashing, with the exceptional L which flickered on and off occassionally. It was famous to the lower class residents of Manhatten. Mainly because of how many riots broke out between the drunkards who stirred the hive awake. Others may know of it of its bathrooms, giving off the aroma of cigarettes, piss, and puke, with the occassional fecal matter on the floor, lying here and there.
Inside, the paints on the walls were torn up and covered in liquor stains and dried blood. The ceiling could be ready to collapse anytime soon. Several bar stools hung around, with legs broken. Only five were left standing, untouched, besides the occassional mans' ass planted from the regular visitors. The bar made Alcatraz look like a family picnic. An old jukebox hung around the back, playing a soft, blues tune. The Ink Spots were up on number fifty, playing "I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire". The soft melody helped chime with the dead silence, giving off somewhat of a nostalgic feeling to the air.
The bartender, a middle-aged looking fella, wore his fancy bowtie and black leather vest, waiting on his customers. In his case, customer. (Me :] )The man he had been serving sat forward, holding a glass in both hands, pondering in his drunken state. Both hands had wrapped around the glass, as he gently rubbed it with his thumbs. The glass was half-full with scotch; the other half was all ready down the man's esophagus. He was around his thirties, with the height of six feet, three inches. He wore an old brown and tan patterned driver's cap on his head, covering the majority of his head hair, the rest exposed on the sides. He wore a brown leather jacket, with a ridiculous purple scarf around his neck, which stood out like a sore thumb, and was cleaner than a whistle. He wore black leather loafers, and a pair of dark blue jeans. (And I'll end it here.)
[EDIT: If you aren't fancying the scenario I made, don't hesistate to tell me. I'll understand, since I started without asking.]
[EDIT Numero Dos: I am residing on US East Coast time.]