Two birds of a feather, but three would be a crowd

It had been a little boring that night at Outlaw. There had hardly been any fighting (well, one tussle that involved a glass thrown at what he could only assume was a werewolf mob boss that ended up hitting a very, very expensive bottle of wine..) but as opposed to a normal weekday night, it was rather slow. No new bits of information on drug trafficking, no snips of conversation on the whereabouts of the celebrity blood supply for the blood bar, no hissed whispers of where the missing people of Manta Carlos had actually ended up. Ollie wiped some glasses, restocking his rail and giving a sigh.

The walls of the bar were charmed by some witches he owed a lifetime of free drinks too, but were too afraid to actually show up here. Anything spoken about in these walls could never be spoken about outside of them. The speakers throat would clam up and they'd choke until they tried to change the subject. Unless, of course, you were Ollie. There was a caveat, as there always was with him. He could waive it for people he wanted, too, but did he really ever want to? Nah. Think of it as Vegas on the island. What happens in Outlaw stays in Outlaw. After all, he did like seeing the things he overheard actually come to fruition. It was as close to a proud father as he'd ever be.

The chatter of the bar was steady, a gentle hum in the background of his internal complaining as he looked down at what he was doing. It dipped slightly, rising back up to its normal level again after a few seconds. This normally meant a.. woman.. had entered the bar. Not one of the criminal women, the ones who did heavy lifting and weren't big on actual appearances, but a lady. There was a difference in this area of the island. Ollie looked up.

"Welcome to the neighborhood, what would you like tonight?" He said with a smirk, setting the glass down on the counter and leaning on his elbows.

Oh there would be no naming drinks after anyone. Seducing, maybe, but after that Ollie was a very "Oh, you're still here? I got shit to do." kinda guy. No doubt someone would try eventually, and he might name something after the memory, but it wouldn't favor them in the least.

He'd seen her before in passing. She owned the club down the street and he knew of her, but that's about all. Othello didn't much care for that going on outside of his little world, so he never made the effort to learn more. The dancers had come in here before, a few on the arms of other guys and a few by themselves, but Ollie couldn't really care less since they never made an issue out of themselves. The place had come up in passing conversations, and that means obviously so had this woman. She'd had mixed reviews, being such a strong personality, but hey- so was he- so Ollie couldn't judge too harshly.

"That it does." he said, pulling out a glass and scooping some ice into it. "So about that conversation." He kept his head dipped, continuing to assemble the drink for her with a little casual finesse, only looking up with his eyes and a bit of a smirk before plopping the cherry on top and passing it to her on a cork coaster. "No one ever comes here to talk to me because something good happened to them."

Oh honey, Ollie didn't need to try to upstage anyone.

"Oh of course, I don't get the best clientele after all." he said, motioning to the general populace behind her. It was at best a ragtag group of wanna-bes, a bunch of initiates, and some people who had wandered in there not knowing what the place really was. At worst, the Outlaw was a night of mob hits in the making, a brawl, and Ollie turning around to 'adjust the stock' as everything was cleaned up as much as they would before he finished after hours.

Ollie snorted at the thought of some middled aged biddy just wandering into an exotic club, absolutely aghast, clutching her pearls and apron at these ladies and the men (and women, really) who would patronize the place. "That sounds absolutely hilarious, honestly. What was she expecting? Did she try to hand you Jesus pamplets or something?" Ollie poured himself a scotch neat and leaned more on the bar, crossing one leg behind the one he put his weight on. It wasn't hard. Not like the bar wasn't already a pretty comfortable resting height.

He thought about any real explosions here. Most of them he'd managed to clean up himself before they got real. After all, this form of his wasn't exactly the real Ollie. The real Othello was closer to a demon than anything else, at least that's how he'd been described. The real Othello was almost 9 feet tall, soulless and disgusting- bleeding over the floors from 2-foot antlers made of rotting wood with bloody velvet, clawed hands dragging against his shins, and knees snapped backwards. The real Othello was screaming with hunger for any physical being he could get to- and all his patrons knew it, even if they'd never seen him truly. It seemed like a far cry to say that criminals were scared of the 5'4 Englishman, but honestly? Word got around that he wasn't one to be messed with, and the bar was a convenient place. No one wanted this place going anywhere.

"People tend to.. respect my place here." he said finally. "I don't get much actual quarrels, and if I do, it's taken care of quickly. The people involved don't come back." There was a note of finality in his voice as he gave a little smile, but not in a looming-sense-of-dread way. It was a very upbeat and casual finality, that of a man who knew what he was doing and had done it before. Nothing to see here and nothing to worry about. "Been a bunch of people what drank themselves to death here, though. Then their spirits came in and drank more. Bit awkward serving whisky to a guy you just saw die 12 hours ago."