Quotes / Bad-Guy Bar

Tobacco and pipes and the dark candle lights
So outlaws are taking their hide
Draught beer and rum and dark shanties are sung
At a sinister dive called The Drift
Running Wild, "The Drift"

The Last Mistake was a place where the underworld of Camorr bubbled to the surface; a flat-out crook's tavern, where Right People of every sort could drink and speak freely of their business, where respectable citizens stood out like serpents in a nursery and were quickly escorted out the door by mean-looking, thick-armed men with very small imaginations.

Here entire gangs would come to drink and arrange jobs and just show themselves off. In their cups, men would argue loudly about the best way to strangle someone from behind, and the best sorts of poisons to use in wine or food. They would openly proclaim the folly of the duke's court, or his taxation schemes, or his diplomatic arrangements with the other cities of the Iron Sea. They would refight entire battles with dice and fragments of chicken bones as their armies, loudly announcing how they would have turned left when Duke Nicovante had gone right, how they would have stood fast when the five thousand blackened iron spears of the Mad Count's Rebellion had come surging down Godsgate Hill toward them.

But not one of them, no matter how far doused in liquor or Gaze of the strange narcotic powders of Jerem—no matter what feats of generalship or statecraft he credited himself with the foresight to bring off—would dare suggest to Capa Vencarlo Barsavi that he should ever change so much as a single button on his waistcoat.

Yes, Karedonia has bars that cater to minions, where after long months of ruthless fighting with superheroes, police, security guards, and whatever insanity their boss has cooked up, supervillain minions can blow off steam - by fighting the minions of other supervillains. Mom says that itís all part of the minion headspace, go figure.
—Dragonblade, "The Road to Whateley, part 1", Whateley Universe

The Desperate Measure was the kind of bar in which most people wouldn't set a fire, let alone a foot. A green shamrock barely stood out from the dirty white of the illuminated sign outside, and its windows were small bevelled panes of blue and orange. It was a place where men went to drink and think about hitting other men, and where women went to drink and think about hitting men as well. Inset into the door was a small square of glass, barred like the entrance to a keep, presumably so those within could check on anyone seeking entry once the door was locked. It wasn't clear why they felt the need to check. Nobody outside could be any more threatening than the kind of people who were already inside.

The moon was up and the night was, thankfully, almost cloudless. Willyís Bar was a place which the living had no business visiting. It still had a bustling and varied clientele. It was run by a bumbling demon who trucked with the criminal supernatural element (which, in Sunnydale, was just about all of it), and you could find pretty much your phantasmagoria of ghoulies, ghosties, and long-leggity beasties there, with their beverages of choice.
Buffy and her friends were among the few breathing folk who came there in a capacity other than as victims.
This time, the Slayer went in with her redheaded friend, the latter of whom was wearing her Supergirl outfit under her jumpsuit.


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