Nice To Meet You

jesus_icon.png timothy_icon.png

Where: North Las Vegas

When: June 24, 2012; Night

What: A chance meeting turns into an odd sort of introduction.

The end of a long day, and on a Sunday no less, is going out, but Timothy's lost enthusiasm for the bars, and simply strolls down the street. Perhaps he'll find a different bar at some point. Odds are he won't and he'll make his way back home. Jacket and tie have long since been left in the office, and the lawyer's rolled up the sleeves and unbuttoned the top button of the tailored light pink dress shirt.

"Pink, you know-" It's a guys voice, a man in slacks and a button down, sleeves rolled up as well and expansive tattoo's exposed beneath. He's Latino, bald as can be and the tattoo's end at his throat, that if buttoned up would be unseen as well. "Used to be a boys color. Little girls had the blue. It all changed sometime, but not so long ago, pink was masculine" hands resting easy in his pants pockets, he offers a smile to Timothy, facial hair trimmed close around his jaw.

Timothy smiles, ever so slightly. His expression might be pleased, if it weren't so difficult to read. "I like to think it works on me," he responds, looking over the other man. "Suits me, if you know what I mean."

"Well, if I were that kind of a man, I might agree with you, but I'm not" His voice colored by his accent. "I can't pull off pink. My wife, she tried once, but I can't do it." the man offers his hand to Timothy "Robert, you are?"

Timothy considers, and smiles ever so slightly more. "Tim," he responds. The handshake in return is firm, and assertive, without being entirely too forward. "Pleasure to meet you, in any case." Brows raise a half tick.

"Tim. Short for anything? Call me Rob" Friendly people are not uncommon in Vegas. Roberts own shirt and slacks being of high quality as well. "Visiting, here for a convention or work here? You strike me as an accountant or something" Something like that. He gestures to further down the street and the lit sign for a more upper class bar. Ones that don't cater to tourists, colleges or club goers.

Unfriendly people aren't uncommon in Vegas, either, sadly. Mid-conversation, Tim finds the barrel of a gun shoved unkindly against his back. Jesus can't quite make out the dark figure from behind the tall man, but he certainly can hear him when a nervous voice barks out from the shadows beyond Tim.

"Money, now!" Maybe the pink shirt made him look like the easier mark. Or maybe Jesus' tats made him too intimidating. Whatever the reason, the man in the dark clothes seems rather insistent. If shaky.

Timothy makes a soft 'heh' sound. "I work around these parts," he agrees, and then he goes still at the feeling of a gun, the steps forward that he'd been taking towards the bar that is indicated halting. But he certainly doesn't panic the way that one might expect a mere office worker to, and his feet plant in a rather experienced stance. "Okay, okay. Money," Tim agrees, one hand at his side and the other comes out with a billclip, with … bills. And nothing else in the billclip.

"Well this bites" Robert stops in his tracks too, pulling his hands slowly from his pockets and with it, his wallet. he has no billclip like tim, but he has a handful of twenties that he pulls out, holding them up for the man behind them to take if he wants. "We don't want any trouble. Take the money and go"

The gunman takes the bill clip, and the twenties, although he seems reluctant to reach for anything. But the gun seems to be enough to stand in or self-assurance. It presses into Timothy's back again, harder this time, as he glances from Jesus to Tim and back again.

"Good. I don't want… I don't want trouble, either! Um, put your hands behind your heads and get down on your knees," he demands, a little less sure than the demand for money. Maybe he's a first timer? These are hard times, after all.

Timothy chews on his lower lip at the new demand. "Just take the money and go, please?" Tim's even asking nicely, and there's a very careful half-step backwards as he moves to comply. Though he's doing so rather slowly. "Sooner you go, the sooner none of us have trouble." His companion gets a bit of a glance as Tim gets half-way to his knees, to see how Robert is handling this. There's some amount of nervousness in the glance, allowed in perhaps. "That's all the money I have." Right now, at least. His clothing certainly suggests money, but that's not uncommon around here.

Robert is complying, his own movement slow, ensuring there's nothing quick to it that might be an excuse to shoot. "You heard him. We're cool here, we're doing what you want, it's cool, It's cool man" One knee hits the ground, in the process of dropping the others and his hands up and in sight.

"Yeah, yeah," the guy says, hopping there on his feet a little as the two men do as he asks. It might be that it's hit him, that he's got some sort of control here, because he grins next and gives Jesus a little shove against his back. "You do as I say, everything'll be cool," he says with a laugh. There's a glance to his gun before he moves to swing the butt toward Tim's head. It's unpracticed and wide, but there's little doubt that it's coming with a lot of oomph behind it.

Progress to his knees continues, and the impact of the butt of the gun catches the back of Tim's head, but there's a fluidity to the young man's movement, a wince as he turns the impact into motion to fall, hands still behind his head. And hopefully, to twist as he falls so that he can get a better view on their attacker.

Robert remains, where he is, eyes widened in surprise at tim's movement and turn to face their attacker even as his own body gives a little to the shove. He keeps his hands straight though, up, and non-agressive.

"Ha, woo!" The gunman looks like nothing more than a teenaged delinquent. He looks young, hair covered in a bandana, clothes dark. He waves the gun around a bit before he comes over to drop a boot down on Tim's stomach, as if he felled the dragon. "You sure you don't got anything else? Dude with a billfold tends to got more than just cash on him. Watch? Cuff… things? Whatever you got!" He leans over some, leaving Jesus off his radar for a moment while he picks on Tim.

Robert takes the chance, when the guy is focused on Tim and the kick. He doesn't see Robert and his body coming. Of the hand grasping the arm with the gun, yanking it up - and therefore not going to shoot Tim should it happen to go off. Then elbow to his throat, strikes meant to incapacitate and bring the man down to the ground with as little danger as possible to Tim or to himself. That would be the sweep with his foot to the back of the guys knees and following him to the ground, pinnning his hand and attempting to grab the gun and throw it away.

Timothy's breath is knocked out of him in a heavy whoosh, but that does nothing to account for the speed and dexterity and practise with which Timothy regains his footing afterwards, almost as if he hadn't just been knocked to the ground, hit with a gun, or kicked. "You know," Tim says, moving in to pin the would-be mugger to the ground with a knee and a hand wrapping around the youth's throat enough to cut off air but not make speaking impossible, "while I appreciate the heroics…" He's talking to Robert, but his gaze is locked and focused on the gunman as he sets about recovering his billfold and the handful of bills that the other had given.

The gunman doesn't seem to have been expecting that, exactly, and there's a series of aaaaa's from him as Jesus goes on the offensive. He hits the pavement with a crack or two, followed by a whimper. There's a bit of a protest when Tim takes the money back, but it's shortlived, considering his position.

"You were the one taking all his attention. I wanted a little something for myself" There's an extra kick to the ribs of the downed man, gathering back his own money and then eventually the gun. "I'll let you decide whether he's going to be turned over into the loving care of the police, or whether he should run free with a reminder everytime he breaths, think twice about his actions." This while standing over the guy.

And nudging his foot against bruised ribs, possibly cracked ones. Intending to make the man groan.

Timothy lets the words for the would-be mugger hang in the air, slowly cutting off the youth's breath, and then strengthening the choke, hand twisting in the youth's shirtcollar. "Leave 'em here," Tim eventually says, holding the grip long enough for the intended effect, then letting go. Tim pulls off the boy's bandana, shoves it in his mouth, then pushes up to his feet, tugging at his sleeves so that the rolled up sleeves lay properly again. "He'll learn." The billfold is examined, tucked into his pocket again, and Tim raises one hand to his head, following the stickiness of blood down to his shirt collar. "And I liked this shirt," he remarks. "Hate getting blood-stains out."

It isn't terribly long before the choke has the intended effect, and the groaning fades into blissful silence when the boy passes out. Left here, it's likely he won't have much left by the time he wakes up, but at least he'll miss having jail time. He's too pretty for jail.

'Reason to buy another" is Roberts supplied offer of condolence. "At least it was just a shirt" There's nary a look to the prone would be robber, even as he is tucking hisbills back in his wallet, his somber face looking up from his lisence, Robert Patricks, age 43.

"Guess we could both use that beer now?"

Despite the bloody, Timothy neither looks nor acts that much worse for the wear. There's a small nod, another one of those hard to ascertain smiles. "On me, then," he says, as if it's absolutely decided that he'll be paying for drinks tonight. One glance to the youth, and Tim steps over him and down the street in the direction of the aforementioned bar. "Just a shirt."

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