proof per dollar

Bex throws back her Clawdka, and savors the way it burns down her throat. Awful. Too expensive. 

Just the way she likes it. 

Stirring the glass in one hand, she hears the tell-tale empty scratch of the ice against the glass. Empty. She sets it down on the coaster beside her, leaning back to look at the busy bar. 

The Rabbit Hole is packed tonight, patrons spread across every seat in the house. It’s loud, sweaty, claustrophobic.

Just the way she likes it.

No, she doesn’t like big sweaty groups of people, pushing and pulling and getting into her space. Bex actually quite enjoys having her own space. 

What she does enjoy, of course, is the thrill of the hunt. The knowledge that with so many people here, so many people making their poor, poor, decisions, she will be able to make her move. She’ll be able to make her money.

There’s a certain kind of bun that thrives on the edge of bankruptcy and gambling ecstasy. There’s a certain kind of look that Bex is trained to keep an eye out for. Someone who risked it all, lost, but still isn’t quite done risking it all. 

Those sort of people flock to the casino. Specifically, those sorts of people flock to the bar in between rounds of gambling at the casino. 

Bex turns around, craning her neck towards the bartender. Hops was off-shift today, which was  a shame. She was always fun to have around. Either way, the bartender is competent enough that when she nods down at the empty Clawdka, it’s quickly replaced by a full glass. 

Since this is her fourth one, she decides to nurse it instead of shooting it back. Her smooth talking isn’t wrecked by alcohol, but it’s definitely hampered. If she wants to keep the upper-hand in her own deals, it’s no good to go slurring her words. She talks a small, bitter sip. 

Bex always orders Clawdkas. Never for the taste, since they were bitter beyond all belief. It was almost like chewing on a permanent marker every time they passed her lips. Some people swore that you got used to the taste, and eventually it was good. Bex didn’t particularly believe them. 

But, she had done the math. Price wise, there was no better proof-per-dollar item on the menu. And if Bex is spending some of her hoard, it must have the best return possible. She doesn’t make risky investments, she doesn’t do losses. She gets what she wants. And if she’s buying booze, she wants to get drunk. 

Her phone alarm hums lightly, and she taps it off. Speaking of her investments, it was 2:23 AM. She rolls her shoulders back and stretches, sliding off her stool. Calculated, proven, tested, it was the best time for her to prowl. There is going to be a bun moments from ‘winning the big one’, who just needs another few hundred. Or another few thousand. And Bex is oh-so-generous. 

She scans the crowd one more time, takes a long sip of her Clawdka, and disappears into it to find her mark.