<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a4/Flatbush.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Charlie Flatbush<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Law Dogs (3)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 18th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Helga’s Wafflehaus<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Avery Burnam; CLOSED<br/><hr/><br/><em>Go to hell, sun.</em>Charlie winced up at the orb of fire rising in the east - he wasn’t listing anymore, but the night of carousing certainly hadn’t left him feeling… entirely sober.  Now the last of his blissful intoxication was passing, and with it was coming the enormous, head-pounding agony of cheap whiskey and not a drop of water.<br/><br/><em>Go to hell, sun.</em>He wrinkled his nose at it, leaning against the wall of the Wafflehaus.  He hadn’t rightly been to sleep - at best a catnap before that… vigorous girl from the Green Room had woken him.  How she’d managed to milk him back to life was question enough - but what he truly wondered at was how a ninety pound little slip of nothing made him feel he’d gone ten rounds with an Irish prizefighter.<br/><br/><em>Why am I paying her?  Seems like it out to be the other way around.</em><br/><br/>He shook it off, and then blinked when quite unexpectedly the British private eye was greeting him and asking him questions.<br/><br/>“Quietly,” whispered Charlie, pleading.  “Oh, please, quietly.”  It wasn’t that the private eye was loud, but… right now his teeth tasted like he’d been chewing sand and his eyes felt ready to pop and burst, and every syllable had been a gong banging a bell of agony in his brain.<br/><br/>“Unnh… if you solemnly swear not to say ‘breakfast’ again, you can buy me whatever you like,” said Charlie.  His brow furrowed a little.  “I wasn’t at the… initial investigation,” he apologized.  “Didn’t see the aftermath til later.  But I was with the fellows crossed the new bridge to go hunting down the murderer.”  His nose curled, and he held up a hand as the memory of it kicked the contents of his stomach from an unpleasant wave into a full on lurch.  It was a convenience that the Wafflehaus wasn’t far from the edge of the mesa, and he staggered over towards the edge of it.  There was a certain practiced expertise in the way he divested himself of the dinner and booze from the night before, and when he rose he felt a better man.  Not a new man, perhaps, but better than he’d been moments before.<br/><br/>“Coffee,” he said agreeably as he turned on his heel.  “Let’s go find ourselves a corner booth.”