[@Letter Bee]

[color=#669900]"Oh, Mike McNulty? That piece'a'shit?"[/color] The super mutant bartender grumbled, his voice a low, annoyed growl. He polished off a used glass with a dirty rag. [color=#669900]"He's in the backhall, second last door to the left. If you get your fuckin' head blown off, then don't come crying to me, though."[/color]

The Wolfe Bar was a dank, disgusting place - mold seemed to cling to the walls, errant and dirtied bottlecaps were scattered around, and there was an undeniable scent of corpse that seemed to reek through the whole place, wafting around the crumbling wooden pillars. The tables appeared to be made out of old and used milk cartons, the chairs sawed barrels that had been through their fair share of woodlice. The few patrons loitering about looked particularly dangerous, some missing legs and hands - one ghoul who's head seemed to have been half blown off by a gunshot was sipping at some of the crappy drinks the place had to offer. Overall, it was a place where an Order Knight would literally [i]never[/i] set foot in, because the whole place made you constantly itch at the skin, and the royal garb a soldier wore would most likely fall apart if exposed to the contaminated air here.

As Par Rapids opened the door to the backroom, his body guards flanking him, he would notice a long and winding hallway with a wide variety of doors - most of them were random, most likely having been ripped off of crashed ships or old, demolished houses and placed here. It was filled with a variety of chem-heads, shooting up with Psycho or huffing Jet in the corners - he would have to step over multiple chem-heads to get by, their long, straggly hair and vacant eyes glazed over as they tripped. As he passed by the wide array of doors, he would notice multiple odd scenes going on behind them, through the small glass window peering in. One door hid a super mutant beating up a fat, bloated ghoul, another door hid a circle of mannequins with a corpse in the center, another contained a few teddybears posed in odd scenes such as drinking from shot glasses or playing boardgames.

As he opened the door into the back hall, he would notice a group of heisters sitting around a circular table, layed out with playing cards, drinks, and cigarette butts. [color=#cc9900]Par Rapids, huh?"[/color] Mike McNulty said, his voice robotic and stilted, a generation two synth wearing an old and ragged suit and tie and fedora with a tommy gun resting at his side. [color=#cc9900]"Welcome to the club."[/color]