CB's Grim Frequencies IC -- COMPLETE

T-dawg passes on the offer of the gun (and Deana's offer of extra ammunition) and jumps in the sheriff's department van, internally steeling himself to endure the BBQ restaurant. For some reason, he does accept the permit. Maybe he just likes to collect official looking paperwork.

J.R accepts all the documents and tucks the Glock 21 into an appendix position in his waistband (OOC :: Appendix is at approximately 1 o'clock. I'm also assuming a concealed carry holster provided.)

" I appreciate da offer fer a ride but I'd prefer not to hit da bricks widaht our ride. I'll follow you. I'm assuming everyone is gowen?"

J.R. doesn't want to leave the vehicle alone, allowing someone an opportunity to tamper with it.

Several of you ride with Deena in her sheriff's department panel van, and J.R. and whomever else desires follow behind Deena. Florida Cracker BBQ is about one mile south of the county courthouse in Greenfield, on State Road 9. The building is red, small, and sits perched amidst a narrow gravel parking lot.



The restaurant is tacky. There's no other word for it. Fake wood paneling lines the walls, and wobbly tables obviously bought second-hand from someone else's restaurant failure line floors sticky with gummy residue that a mop and hot water couldn't dream of getting clean. A woman with an eye-watering neon yellow "Florida Cracker BBQ" t-shirt and a pair of jeans that belie a muffin top seats you at two adjoining tables. She slaps a plastic laminated menu down in front of each you. "Special's all-you-can-eat catfish, comes with slaw, texas toast, your choice of dessert, and a drink. $9.95. The waitress saunters off without taking a drink order.


When the waitress returns, Deena orders fried pickles, Mountain Dew, a pulled pork platter, and a slab of sugar cream pie. Deena is petite, so who the hell knows where she'll put all that food. Before the food arrives, Deena gets up and grabs the Greenfield Daily Reporter, the local newsrag, from the hostess counter. The headline reads:


Deena quirks an eyebrow. She ignores the plate of fried pickles the waitress puts down in front of her and reads the article, engrossed. After a couple of paragraphs, she snorts in disgust. "Jesus. They didn't even get his wife's name right. Let alone the unit that's doing the investigating."

Feral whistles as they enter they enter the BBQ joint, "Wow. I didn't think Hicksville literally existed until today. This place belongs in an episode of the X-Files or something."

He suddenly has second thoughts about ordering anything here, "I wonder if everything here is deep fried. Yuck."

Deena looks up at Feral. "Yeah, it isn't too clean, but Darryl makes some mean chow. Classic hole-in-the-wall joint. Did you see this?" She pushes the newspaper across the table to Feral.

Feral skims through the article, "Looks like they'll need a new mayor." His tone indicates he doesn't particularly care. He does hand the paper to Cyril, though, "Let us know if any electronics start talking to you about this, k?"

Without even looking at the menu, T-dawg orders the special, with water for the drink. He has a hungry look in his eyes - who knew a day at the range would work up such an appetite? Guess that revolver must have been heavier than it looked.

When Deena speaks up, he gives the paper a cursory glance, but the death of a local mayor doesn't really interest him unless anything more unusual is mentioned.

Cyril glanced around the joint. "What a shi-" he started, before noticing the hostess eyeing the team, "-pshape place!" Grimacing, he took a seat with the rest of the team. Picking up the menu, the former lawyer read through the selections and gagged, trying to cover it up as a cough. Conch? Shrimp? Alligator? Nasty! Cyril didn't talk about Miami all that much, but he retained the coastal native's disdain for non-native seafood served in non-coastal areas.

Better go with what they know... Cyril ordered smoked turkey and a lemonade. Leaning against the chair back, he distinctly felt the hard metal of the handgun pressing into the small of his back. Seriously, what insane person signed off on giving convicted felons nearly free-reign and giving them concealed carry permits. This whole thing was screwy.

When the newspaper flopped in front of his place setting, it startled the lawyer our of his reverie. "Huh?" Picking up the paper, he read through the headline and flipped it over to read below the fold. Glancing over to Deena, he asked, "He screwing around?"

"Ah!" Otter exulted on seeing the menu. "Oh god! Alligator! I'll have that! Is it like lobster, do I get to pick out the gator you wrassle to death? Do you have them out back? I shall name mine, 'Squicky.'"

At the waitresses look she rolled her eyes and said, "Mountain Dew. Texas Toast. I'm guessing that's like...regular toast, but you dip it in petroleum, right? Whatever, toast and gator and dew. That's it."

She yawned then. "I think I can actually feel my intelligence seeping out into the decor here. We've entered the singularity, but it is not what we were promised."

"Cyrill. Gimme that. The paper. Ngh."

Otter made grabby motions over the table.