No court. Those were the single two words Titus enjoyed hearing at the beginning of the week. With no courts in session, Titus wouldn't have to check back in until the start of next week. This meant he could get out a bit and stretch his legs, move around the city and generally "tourist" it up.
Sure Titus was a resident of New Orleans but he was still a tourist. He still enjoyed touring the St. Louis 7 and 9 cemeteries (though for much different reasons than the rest of the tour) and even enjoyed seeing the advertised excitement of One-eyed Jack's. Tonight though he was feeling a little bit less like going to those places and dipped into the heavier crowd.
The Dungeon. The Dungeon was a place in the French Quarter Titus wanted to haunt when he died. There was a bouncer there that Titus was convinced was an ogre that got morphed into a human. The same man was there when he visited in '98, when he taught the first squad in New Orleans a few years back and was now here when he walked up to the door a little after midnight. The man was a mammoth of strength. He wasn't the lean cut muscle that you saw on the covers of magazines, but this man was a true brute. The man was in a simple black tank top and a pair of BDU trousers that were no doubt filled with bouncing goodies. Titus stood in front of him holding his drivers license out, trying to fold the Marshal star out of sight, and was judged by this elder god of bar security. Slate eyes looked over the ID and peeked a bit seeing the silver glint of the badge and gave a smirk that no doubt cracked the granite of his face. The man gave him a nod and let Titus pass without a body check. Last time Titus lived here, he helped the owner with a small gremlin problem and since then was allowed to pass with the bit of gear on him. It wasn't much; an officer's model Colt on his right calf and a six inch stiletto made of the most concentrated silver you could put in a knife blade that Cold Steel sold.
He passed through the first set of doors and let out a sigh. The sweet sounds of crunch could be heard and he did so love a little crunch. The music had changed only slightly since he was last here. in the way new metal will eventually pass up old metal. Right now it was Mastodon. That was it, when he stepped up to the pearly gates, he'd ask St. Peter for a transfer to the Dungeon. Maybe that guy out there was an old viking and this was his Valhalla.
He stepped up to a stool and straddled it. He was in the typical metal uniform: plain black shirt, worn jeans and a pair of combat boots. Some folk liked to elaborate and put on something a bit more, but this was all Titus needed, enough to blend in and be accepted as part of the herd. He put up a hand and in moments had a refreshingly cold Yuengling in his hand with a wink from the bar maiden. This is Valhalla he thought as Mastodon stopped and Trent began to pound out Bite the hand that Feeds. This is Valhalla, and god bless every square inch of it.
