bar eastern


Busy week!

36 new raptors admitted (many from other rehabilitators).  2 turtles today (not raptors).  Lots of calls about other wildlife.  Multiple successful re-nestings. We are doing everything possible to return every healthy juvenile and that keeps us even busier.  And this is only the beginning.  Whew. 

Notes from the Route: Dance Teams

New Orleans

The historiography of dance is an impossible one to trace. With conjecture, we can assume we first danced about the time we crawled out of the ocean, grew legs, felt the spirit and let it move us. We’ve since danced to summon weather, to heal the sick, to celebrate births and weddings, for salvation, redemption and to mark full moons and bat mitzvahs. We’ve danced in ballrooms, in forest clearings, in empty dive bars in eastern Oregon and in the wallpapered kitchens of our first loves. In whatever way we move our bodies, it is always to release the hounds of our selves in some way — and to conjure the spirit of the moment. Where language fails us, dance is the thing still true.

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anonymous asked:

In slightly different universe they ended up in different alphabet agencies/policeforce. They meet and fall for each other while both are undercover. Who figures out first that the other is a cop/agent too and how?

Club Miami, one of the most exclusive bars on the eastern seaboard, was a multi-story mansion raised on stilts driven deep into the shallow sand flats on the edge of Biscayne Bay. It sat out in the Atlantic like a glittering jewel, exactly one mile off the coast of Miami, Florida, and was only accessible by private boat.

Philip Coleman, arms dealer, player, purveyor of “rare” (read, stolen) merchandise and total bastard, inhabited notorious drug-smuggler Augustus daSilva’s private booth at the club like he owned the damn place.

Untouched by the sweaty clamour around him, one strong, long-fingered hand idly caressing his drink (the thick-cut crystal glass holding a $200 pour of single malt from daSilva’s private reserve), Coleman radiated a cool, cultivated arrogance that was laced with just a hint of thrilling cruelty. It was acting like catnip on the other guests at daSilva’s table.

Clint Barton, Miami-Dade detective (Vice), and deep undercover for the past eight months as a member of daSilva’s crew, fucking hated this guy.

Around Clint the deafening throb of the million-dollar sound system pounded on with an auto-tuned remix of What’s Love Got to Do With It on maybe its fiftieth loop. It was 80s night and the place was wall-to-wall party animals in their shabby-chic best—amped on artisan cocktails, a dizzying array of illegal pharmaceuticals, and the greedy, delicious knowledge that they’d gotten into one of the most select clubs in Miami.

Servers squeezed through the crush of bodies in a flash of sequins and feathers, edging through the crowd with trays filled with thousand-dollar bottles of champagne and martinis that glinted with flecks of gold leaf in vodka specially flown in from Lviv.

The club played host to the glitterati of south Florida; sports stars, actors, politicians and artists rubbed elbows with younger scions of some of the oldest families in the southeast, sowing their wild oats before they settled into their trust funds and got too respectable to blow entire weekends out on the water indulging in one sin after another. Transplants from all over South America and the Caribbean—tycoons, business people, celebrities—mingled with warlords who’d gotten fat off the drug trade, former generals in exile, smugglers, rogues, and renegades.

If just getting in to Club Miami was a near impossibility, taking a seat at Augustus daSilva’s private booth was even more of a get. The booth was raised above the level of the floor in a sweeping curve like an open, bleeding heart, deep red leather seats set against half-walls of faceted mirror edged with neon. To the public daSilva was an extraordinarily successful businessman in import/export. It was an effective cover for the vast smuggling operation he ran, with hooks into major ports all over eastern US. He’d made his fortune in the drug trade, but now he trafficked in whatever the vice du jour was, recently having all but cornered the supply lines for stolen tech—specifically weapons.

And not just the garden-variety cheap pistols that flowed back and forth across the borders into the hands of skinny teenagers and two-bit gang-bangers, but the elite high-tech stuff that would cost well above the annual salary of a Dade County cop like Clint.

daSilva sat in the middle of his booth like a king on his throne. With him were two of his top lieutenants, an array of stunningly beautiful prostitutes, several local movers and shakers, and, of course, that asshole Coleman.

Coleman had a few bodyguards with him, the usual variety of discreet muscle, thick necks and broad cut suits, weapons well-concealed, standing watchfully behind the booth. daSilva’s own bodyguards and backup—including Clint—were arrayed throughout the club.

Coleman wore black—he always wore black—his bespoke Brioni suit flowed slick over his broad shoulders, the fabric reflecting the gaudy neon of the club like oil on water. The silk of the tie at his throat was a crimson so deep it was almost black, a narrow strip of hellfire against the silver-grey of his shirt. Every time Clint’d seen him—and Coleman had been daSilva’s best customer for almost two months now—it the same dark suit, smoke-grey shirt, crimson tie; like a uniform.

There was the brilliant flash of a diamond in his ear; it sparked and fretted as he turned his head to smile at something daSilva was saying, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Strong jaw, a hard profile, mouth set in a cruel, unyielding line, the bridge of his nose misaligned—broken and badly reset—the remnant of a hard-scrabble past that no one would ever know anything about.

Coleman’s eyes were shadowed in the moving dark of the club, but Clint thought they might be blue in sunlight. He wondered if—

There was a hard tap on his shoulder. “I can hear your teeth grinding, compadre,” Costas leaned in to shout over the music. He gave Clint a wry look.

Clint mentally shook himself. Stop staring, Barton, you’ve got a job to do.

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For the first time in weeks, she savored her cup of coffee. To be able to sit and not do anything at all was such an unexpected but welcome pleasure, compounded by the fact that no other Riskbreakers were awake to disturb the peace. Argath was even content share her presence, lying sprawled on the cool wooden floor as his paws twitched sleepily. Once it was clear that her momentary leisure would not be thwarted, she returned her papers to her office and forsook her customary table for a seat by the bar’s eastern window, that she might watch the sun rise over the Goblet.

A heavy sense of unease weighed on her the longer she remained there, try though she did to combat it. At first she might have mistaken the feeling for restlessness, for the need to be at work after weeks of coordinating the Ishgardian campaign. Yet when she blinked against the glare of the morning sun on the stem of her teaspoon, she saw in her mind’s eye the manse in its entirety as viewed from the Goblet’s northernmost entrance and understood that the feeling was not her own.

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themusicalbookworm  asked:

GOSH. THEY ARE ALL GREAT PROMPTS. Royai please. And, uh, don't make me choose. Any odd number. YOUR FAVORITE ODD NUMBER. GO!

there’s something about bars and being undercover that I love, so…..

Royai – 13 // “Kiss me…”

             Over the years Roy thought he had heard a lot of crazy things.  Hearing Edward Elric claim that he had grown taller than Roy was crazy, Havoc finding a steady relationship with Rebecca Catalina was crazy, hell even being promoted to General shortly after gaining his vision back was crazy; but nothing even came close to how crazy the sentence that his Captain had just uttered was.  Even though they were undercover at a seedy bar in Eastern, Roy would’ve never expected to hear Riza Hawkeye tell him to kiss her.

             “Excuse me?” Roy choked.

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anonymous asked:

i greet you at the counter of a seedy bar in eastern vermont. you think you might've met me at a party sometime, but you can't quite place my name. the conversation drags on for at least twenty minutes with no mention of names. you start to sweat.

“can I get some more seeds over here” I ask of the bartender, who quickly tosses me some watermelon’s.  “thank you” I tell him as I use them to soak up my sweat.

turning to you I ask if you come here often and you say “no, no one ever comes to eastern vermont often.”

we stare into each other’s eyes for what seems like years, but is really only four seconds.  “I have to go,” i tell you, “i left the microwave on”


And now for something completely different. Touhou cocktails!

There’s this really neato thing called Bar Eastern that has character drinks for all of the 2hus from EoSD up to PoFV (not including Aya for some reason). A while ago, I decided that I was gonna make a few, and then I decided I was gonna make all of them. So here’s (in order) Sakuya, Mokou, Reimu, Chen, Ran, and Yukari, Reisen, Eirin, Cirno, and Letty

Links are to more full build descriptions and such. Aww yeah

Mission Accomplished (with codeword479)
Mission Accomplished? (with metamk2)

A night alone after a rough job completed. Free time, a luxury as far as Samus was concerned. Rarely was she graced with the blessing of down time. A new mission, with new and greater dangers always lurked around the corner. But not tonight. Tonight was a nigh to reclaim for herself, for her sanity. Tonight, the weary Hunter receive her rest. 

A bar in the eastern region of Tigris ticked her fancy. She had heard many sign it’s praises back when she wasn’t solo. The place was large, an establishment with flickering holo-banners that changed nearly every second. It’s innards were loud and boisterous. The music was untamed, and the patrons, even more so. Three drinks fell to her shirt as Samus made her way through the crowd. The menu, like the place itself was wild and exotic. After a while, Samus settled with ordering what was recommended.