( username: kinney )
photo id

Best bar in town? Ten words or less. I need something strong and fast — hard’s optional.

1. ) [ brian kinney is quintessentially wealthy. this is where he’s most comfortable. when he gets out of the limo and up to his floor and walks into his apartment, it’s almost enough for him to forget the entire examination - except for the tacky paper gown. he showers to get the crawling feeling off of his skin and strides over to the closet, recognizing a few outfits from home. it’s bizarre ( he doesn’t remember packing ) but he’ll take the small sense of familiarity over nothing. he dresses in black jeans and a white t-shirt, tracks down his favorite pair of boots and slips those on. after that, it’s really just finding a black leather jacket that smells like his cologne.

with the suggestions in mind from the network on his limo ride ( and some that came in while he was dressing ) he heads out the door.

the fancy clothes, the spacious living space, power, all of it - it’s the universe he’s spent years building up for himself. and yet, the down doesn’t sound too different than parts of pittsburgh, particularly liberty avenue. he zips the jacket up to the base of his throat to keep off as much of the chill as he can manage. it figures his corvette didn’t make the trip to whatever the fuck kind of porno city he’s presently living in.

he remains unconvinced that he isn’t tripping on a bad strain or a spiked drink, sprawled out on his living room floor and this is all part of a dream.

be that as it may, real or hallucinated, brian pushes into a recommended bar or a club and makes a beeline for the alcohol. ]

Whiskey, neat. [ with his arms crossed on the bar, leaning into it and ignoring the stool entirely, he glances to the side. either bugging someone that's already settled in or that's just walked in. ] What are you having?


2. ) [ on the off-chance that you just can't even with people at the same time, feel free to catch him on the dimly-lit curb, lighting up a cigarette. perhaps farther out, leaning into the bricks of an alley wall because fuck conversation. either way, he's puffing little smoke rings into the night. yeah, it's because someone's watching and brian is nothing if not a showboat. the hand with the lighter dips back into his jacket pocket — it's freezing out here — and after a moment, he cocks his head to the side quizzically.

the whiskey ( and the beer ) has subdued the attitude in him marginally, soothing him enough to bring out his social side as opposed to the knee-jerk can i help you? that would usually be itching to claw its way out.

clutching his smoke between two fingers, he draws it down from between his lips. ]

Not a fan of crowds? [ like he gives a shit. ] You want a drag?