London Calling: Far Away Towns
May. 1st, 2008 05:20 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsPete heads for The Crown to see if any of his old mates have heard anything. Things do not proceed as expected.
Pete sighed as he got up from the table and headed for the bar at The Crown to get yet another round in. "The damage this is going to do my credit card..."
The he blinked. The bar had changed rather drastically in the time it had taken him to turn around. The pumps were gone. So were the tills. There were large barrels behind the bar, and the attractive young polish girl who was about to take his order had been replaced by an old man with a wart on his nose and about three teeth. The whole room was smaller, more cramped, and much smokier.
"What can I get you?"
"I suppose a large scotch is out of the bloody question?"
"A what?"
Just then, there was a crash from over by the door.
"Wisdom! Walsingham sends his regards, witchbreed!"
Pete turned just in time to see a man in tights, and doublet, and of all things, a ruff, point a pistol at him and fire. Fortunately for him, the pistol was a flintlock, and the bullet went very wide indeed, shooting a hole in one of the barrels behind the bar.
"Oh, look, this is just beyond fucking stupid. Who in christ's name are you, and why have I walked onto the set of some bad period drama?"
"Damn you sir, my drama is the talk of London." The other man drew a sword, and ran at Pete, who sidestepped without too much effort.
"Wait a minute..." Pete ducked a rather clumsily executed swing. "Walsingham, playwright.... You're supposed to be Christopher fucking Marlowe?" He ducked again, and then kicked hard at the man's kneecap, before taking off out of the building at a run while 'Marlowe' was getting back up.
The street outside was considerably muddier than he remembered, and there was rather more wood being used in the construction of the buildings than there had been.
"No. This has not happened. I am not 400 years in the past, and major literary figures are not trying to kill me. God, bring back the fucking dinosaurs, all is forgiven..."
Pete sighed as he got up from the table and headed for the bar at The Crown to get yet another round in. "The damage this is going to do my credit card..."
The he blinked. The bar had changed rather drastically in the time it had taken him to turn around. The pumps were gone. So were the tills. There were large barrels behind the bar, and the attractive young polish girl who was about to take his order had been replaced by an old man with a wart on his nose and about three teeth. The whole room was smaller, more cramped, and much smokier.
"What can I get you?"
"I suppose a large scotch is out of the bloody question?"
"A what?"
Just then, there was a crash from over by the door.
"Wisdom! Walsingham sends his regards, witchbreed!"
Pete turned just in time to see a man in tights, and doublet, and of all things, a ruff, point a pistol at him and fire. Fortunately for him, the pistol was a flintlock, and the bullet went very wide indeed, shooting a hole in one of the barrels behind the bar.
"Oh, look, this is just beyond fucking stupid. Who in christ's name are you, and why have I walked onto the set of some bad period drama?"
"Damn you sir, my drama is the talk of London." The other man drew a sword, and ran at Pete, who sidestepped without too much effort.
"Wait a minute..." Pete ducked a rather clumsily executed swing. "Walsingham, playwright.... You're supposed to be Christopher fucking Marlowe?" He ducked again, and then kicked hard at the man's kneecap, before taking off out of the building at a run while 'Marlowe' was getting back up.
The street outside was considerably muddier than he remembered, and there was rather more wood being used in the construction of the buildings than there had been.
"No. This has not happened. I am not 400 years in the past, and major literary figures are not trying to kill me. God, bring back the fucking dinosaurs, all is forgiven..."
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