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Post by Alfred F. Jones on Aug 19, 2011 22:32:40 GMT -5
When Alfred ran out of beer, he did the same thing that any red blooded American man in his place would do. He threw on some pants and flip flops and booked it to the nearest 24 hour liquor store. Nevermind that it was 3am and he still didn't have a shirt and that he clearly hadn't bathed in the last 48 hours and his eyes were red from staring a computer screen all day. Film didn't edit itself, and a man couldn't run on 5 Hour Energy and Fritos alone. Obviously beer was the missing ingredient. Well, beer and some of those little cocktail peanuts they always sell in liquor stores.
So here Alfred found himself, standing outside a sleezy looking liquor store a good 12 blocks from his apartment. The neon lights were grimy and flickering, a good representation of everything in this part of town. Who ever said LA was a pretty city must have been blinded by hot chicks whoring themselves out for acting jobs. Alfred had met his fair share of those girls too. He wasn't some big shot director or anything, but these girls would take any chance they got. He considered himself to be a pretty good guy, and didn't take any of their offers to sleep with him in exchange for a part in one of his projects. At least not yet. Lonely nights of beer and computer screens were wearing him a bit thin. At this point, he'd happily pick up whatever cheap hooker gave him an offer in this part of town. Screw STDs.
Alfred finally pushed his way inside the sketchy liquor store and shuffled to the back. The cashier glanced up and him before turning back to his Play Boy. Alfred wondered how horrible that man's life must have been for him to have so little shame. Alfred grabbed out a couple six packs of beer and a bottle of cheap vodka, then looked down the isle at someone who just entered.
"Hoppin' place huh." He hefted up his booze and headed for the counter.
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Post by Mathias Kohler on Nov 26, 2011 8:58:45 GMT -5
Of all the pains of flying, jet lag was Mathias’ least favourite. And so, it was at times like 3am in LA that he found himself outside a dingy liquor store feeling as though it was just midday. He had even gone to the trouble of walking five blocks to reach it, thanking God for the GPS app one of his team mates had installed for him after another late night adventure. He honestly had a very bad sense of direction.
He tucked his phone away into a pair of jeans that had seen better days, many places now ripped, making cobwebs across the fabric while still holding it laced together. A voice called out to him from exactly where he wanted to be: where there was beer; although his choice of adjective confused him. Mathias would like to have thought that his English was fairly decent if not fluent by now and if per chance he couldn’t understand a word that he could at least understand the context. But ‘hopping’ was ‘hopping’ to him and could really mean nothing else but an up and down movement that he associated with rabbits. By the time he had stopped trying to decipher the word however, the man had started heading to the counter and a good few seconds had passed. “Well, now’s the best time to come.” He tried, as some sort of agreement without hinting that he isn’t sure what the American meant.
It was only after coming up with a satisfactory reply did the Dane notice the odd appearance of the man in front of him: flip flops, topless and unkempt hair; not to mention his practically seared eyes. “Workin’ late?” He guessed, slipping by the man to gather his own stash for the night; the prices practically rivalling the minibar in his fridge at the hotel. But beer was beer and he wanted lots of it.
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Post by Alfred F. Jones on Dec 10, 2011 7:30:15 GMT -5
This was one of those unfortunate occasions in which Alfred came across a foreigner. Most of the time, anything that came out of his mouth in this sort of situation was either naively racist or downright stupid. Usually Matthew's voice in the back of his mind would tell him to keep his mouth shut and would then nag at him for an hour after he failed to follow that bit of advice.
Though this man could clearly pass for an American, what with how he was hefting up several cases of beer over his shoulder, he spoke in a distinctly...not American accent. German? Alfred guessed, or Swedish. Alfred didn't usually come into contact with Swedish people, so he really wouldn't know, but this man sounded vaguely like the Swedish chef on Family Guy who was always offering people a piece of his hot "pee". Borkborkbork.
Alfred grinned at the man. "Working and playing video games, man. What's got you out so late? Partying hard?" He nodded at the cases of beer. "Is that the good stuff there?" So Alfred didn't know a thing about Swedish people, but maybe if he was German, he'd know a thing or two about beer. He glanced lamely down at his cheap PBR and smiled sheepishly and yanked up the six-pack before rolling his shoulder and sighing.
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Post by Mathias Kohler on Dec 15, 2011 19:03:48 GMT -5
Mathias returned the infection grin, even through the rather unorthodox answer he received. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d played a video game and for some unknown reason he instantly craved the new ‘COD’ or ‘Battle Field’ as his entertainment for tonight. Was he that bored already? “Sounds like a good night.” He chuckled, finding himself curious as to what the American did for a living that gave him such a strange schedule. Was he bogged down by inhumane amounts of work, or was he just lazy and procrastinated until this time of night? If he was playing video games now then the latter seemed more plausible.
“Jet lag.” He answered simply since there really was no better explanation for insomnia in his opinion. The Dane looked at the beer cases when they were pointed out and made a face that suggested that he wasn’t particularly pleased about having to pay for them. “It’s the expensive stuff…” He rolled his eyes, because he’d gone straight for the imported beer and not the crappy American brands. “But it’s this or the mini bar.” The smile returned instantly as he pulled a card from his wallet which distinctly lacked cash. “I- uhhh… I don’t drink a lot of American beer.” He admitted honestly and ever so intelligently, adding a second later. “But is that one good?” He can't read the label from where he's standing.
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Post by Alfred F. Jones on Jan 4, 2012 0:27:50 GMT -5
Alfred liked this guy already. He seemed to have some excitement for life...or beer, and he had that laid back look to him that always made for a good friend. He didn't know the guy, but he was already thinking that this would be a good drinking buddy. He looked like he could hold his own and he had big enough thumbs that Alfred could probably beat him in any video game. Big thumbs always meant easy opponents. "Hey, when my eyes get too tired of video editing, I gotta change up the pace a little." Never mind that he was still staring at a screen without blinking for hours.
"Jet lag, huh? Where you from? Germany or something" Alfred scratched the back of his head, pushing Matthew's voice out of his mind as he carried on, "You should buy some Red Bull too, or 5 Hour Energy or something. Keep you up for hours until you're all settled in!" He grinned, thinking his advice was instant cause for friendship. "Expensive, huh? You must make a lot to drink like that. And that minibar stuff is never worth it. Ten bucks for a dinky bottle of rum? Hell no." Alfred laughed and shrugged the beer on his shoulder against his head. "This stuff here? No way man. This is what college kids drink. College kids and broke people. I'm still waiting to hit it big. Maybe then I can afford that stuff. But PBR isn't all bad. It gets the job done, you know?" That, and with the small amount of alcohol in cheaper beers, that meant he could drink and play video games longer and get a better buzz.
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Post by Mathias Kohler on Jan 9, 2012 19:42:55 GMT -5
If he edited movies then that meant Alfred had something to do with film making, right? He probably wasn’t the director since he was editing the movies himself, and chances were that he hadn’t quite reached the peak of his career like the Dane was close to. But with video games and computer screens seemingly structuring his life then it was no wonder the American wore glasses. “Video games.” He chuckled lugging his beer by Alfred and shook his head fondly. “I think I have every platform out but they just sit there. Buy them and never use ‘em.”
He pulled his wallet out and flipped through the different currencies until he found a few American bills. “Copenhagen.” He said simply then thought for a moment, wondering if the American knew a single city off this continent. “Denmark.” The correction came as quickly as he thought of it.
“There’s lots of sugar in those, right?” He asked, not too keen to try energy drinks when he had no intention of burning them off any time soon. “Can’t drink ‘em; work.” He grimaced then smiled again at his companion who he was glad was so chipper despite the time of day. He seemed to surround himself with a lot of gloomy people, brain-dead team mates or bossy friends, talking about video games and beer was a nice change of pace.
Mathias was not the kind to sugar coat or act modest about anything related to himself; so when his salary was brought up he instantly turned to bragging. “eight years then retirement.” He laughed even if that wasn’t entirely true. It probably wasn’t that far off the mark though at the rate he was going. If he lived that long, anyway. Although he waved his hand dismissively at the other drinks, not that he’d complain about drinking them but he did like to think he was a little better than those smart asses in college, even if he was young enough that he could still be a student. “If you’re going to drink I think you should just go for it. Take long to get hammered with those?” He pointed to Alfred’s beers.
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Post by Alfred F. Jones on Mar 5, 2012 0:24:59 GMT -5
Alfred pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and grinned at the other man, taking a moment to study his wild hair and muscled figure. He mentally made a note to go to the eye doctor, since his prescription seemed a bit off. It was probably all those hours in front of the computer screen, or maybe he was just tired. Since he was still so low on the food chain, he had long hours at strange times, and he probably did more than his fair share of work, but he was happy to do it all. "What? You have all of those different gaming consoles, and you don't use any of them? Damn! Seems like a waste, don't it? Get your buddies to come over, drink up, and have a tournament! You seem like the kind of guy who would get competitive, y'know? It could be like bro bonding or something."
His beers clanked against the counter. "Copenhagen, huh? That's in like...Sweden or something, ain't it?" Alfred never claimed to be a geography wiz, but he knew it was one of those countries with all of the hot blondes, and maybe Hamlet. He had better things to worry about than national borders. "Oh. Denmark?" That's the one that looked like a penis, wasn't it? Or was that Latvia? Finland? He shrugged. "Sounds cool. You're here for work, yea? What do you do? Don't tell me you're a businessman or some shit like that." He laughed and patted the man a bit too roughly on the shoulder.
"Of course they have a ton of sugar! That's the whole point. See like, one minute you're all tired, right" He made an overly exaggerated tired face, "And then have have the Red Bull and--" With the snap of his fingers and jerked his feet back and forth across the floor, doing what is commonly known as 'the Jerk,' "And then you're alive, man! It tastes awesome too." Alfred flashed the man a thumbs up. "What do you mean you can't drink 'em? What, is your boss a Nazi or something? That's bullshit man. You can drink beer, but no Red Bull? Red Bull is practically a requirement for my line of work. How do you think I'm so energetic right now?" He let out a long obnoxiously loud laugh, not caring if it gave the sleep deprived cashier a heart attack.
"Holy shi-- What? Eight years and you get to retire? What are you, Michael Jordan or something?" He couldn't stop the massive smile that cut across his face. He was envious, sure, but he was more pleased that his new found friend seemed to be rich and successful. He wasn't entirely shallow, and would definitely keep talking to this man if he found out the poor sap was homeless, but now this was networking. Wait, no. He couldn't really network after talking about Red Bull, video games, and beer. Friendworking it was, then. "Yea man, you say that, but you have no idea how tight my budget is. I drink one good beer a week, maybe, and the rest are all shit. That way, it makes the good beer even better, y'know? As soon as I hit it big though, I'm going to drink nothing but Sam Adams." Alfred swept his hand across the air in a rainbow arch, clearly off in his own dream land. "These?" He scratched his head, "Yea...at least two of these for one of those, y'know? Cheap beer is like that."
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Post by Mathias Kohler on Mar 7, 2012 7:16:01 GMT -5
A tournament didn’t sound like a bad idea at all if he could round up a group in the first place. Some of his team mates might be game, especially if he provoked them into playing with him. But apart from them, he had no idea if any of his friends would sit down with him for an hour for such a mind numbing activity. And of course he’d have to drag them over to Denmark first… one of the biggest problems with his career was the constant traveling and hence a collection of pen pals who would not be too keen on the idea of flying over for a night of drinking and Battle Field. “Yeah maybe next time I’m home.” He said just to humour the American who was not just in high spirits but far too energetic even by his standards for this time of night.
He shrugged at the mention of work, not wanting to sound like he’s bragging even if that was exactly what he'll end up doing. “I get paid to fly all over the world, drink beer and fight. So if you call that business...” He grinned while trailing off, paying for his beers and feeling oh so clever for lamely dodging the question out of very false modesty. Not that the description was too far from what he actually did for a living.
And just how many Red Bulls had Alfred had before he left for the store today? Probably five too many, he was almost bouncing in excitement and making Mathias kind of dozy, like he was sucking the energy out of him. “I’ll try one in eight years.” He promised with a laugh at his behaviour, he seemed like a really fun guy. “I wouldn’t mind if they put energy drinks in my contract. But they’re just… they’re so bad for you, man.” He cringed a little just at the thought of drinking more than one a day which clearly the American was capable of… and because Alfred had a /really/ loud laugh.
“Do I look like Michael Jordan?” He asked with a smirk, signing his name to finish the transaction and crammed the card back into his wallet. “I play hockey.” He admitted finally, hoping that everything just clicks with the other now so he doesn’t have to brag out loud. “And it’s eight years at the worst.”
“Oh… here then. Good beer for the week.” He pulled one of the beers from the packaging and placed it in front of him on the counter.
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