[center][color=darkgray][b][h1]J O H N  D O Y L E[/h1][/b][/color][img]https://data.whicdn.com/images/293457122/original.gif[/img]
[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iOFyErybNrI]♫♫♫[/url][/center][right][b][color=darkgray]Friday, June 10th. 3 AM
Jackson Row, Charity Beach, Florida[/color][/b][/right][hr]
John rode into town with the wind at his back and his gun on his hip, and though he wasn't looking for trouble, it wouldn't be long before it found him. The journey to Charity Beach had been a long one. He'd kissed his wife goodbye in Pickett's Ridge when the sun had already been down for an hour, so Doyle had the pleasure of spending the ride in darkness. There was little to accompany him other than the grainy country tunes of 104.3 FM, and he'd gotten tired of those an hour ago. Now he rode in silence, save for the hum of the engine and the dull roar of his tires on the pavement.

Part of him wanted to head straight to the CBPD Headquarters. He wanted to do his part of the job as soon as he could, put the onus of the work on the locals so he could be outta there nice and quick. John wasn't opposed to traveling, but after everything that happened in the Ridge, he just wanted to be home with his family. If only that pesky sense of duty didn't keep getting in his way.

Any desire he had to go right into the belly of the beast was dashed when he glanced down at the blinking series of numbers on the dash. 3 AM. Not exactly the optimal time to be doing interviews and filling out paperwork. Doyle ran the back of his calloused hand up against his eyes and choked down an obnoxiously persistent yawn. Too late to work. Too late to fill the void in his stomach. The only thing he could do for tonight was to find somewhere to lay his head. Luckily for him, there was a hotel on every corner 'round these parts, so it didn't take long for him to pull his Chevrolet Caprice into a barely occupied parking lot. John climbed out of the black-and-white vehicle, grabbing his hat from the passenger seat as he did, and started toward the front office.

The hotel's lobby was small, yet sleek and modern. Cream colored walls contrasted well with the slate gray carpet. Odd paintings that didn't seem to mean anything, in particular, sat beside even stranger sculptures. The furniture looked like wood but turned out to be plastic on closer inspection, and it was all drenched in a dreary black. It was all a little too modern for Doyle's sensibilities. He'd take a log cabin over this place any day of the week.

What really bothered him though was not the interior design, but the people.

"Come oonnn, [i]chica[/i], you'se can't be this fuckin' boring!" A young gentleman with greasy hair and a scraggly excuse for a beard was leaning across the check-in desk, his tattooed arms spread over its surface as he got up into the receptionist's face.

The receptionist was a head shorter than the man, but given the prickly frown on her freckled face, John could tell she wasn't the least bit intimidated by him. "Like I said, I'm working, so you can fuck right off." She hissed, her hands hovering close to something hidden underneath the lip of the counter.

Another young man accompanying the first let out an ugly, hyena laugh. "She's got some bite, Hector!" The pale skinned specter heckled, ramming his elbow into his Hispanic buddy's ribs. He was shorter than his compatriot but much wider; he either ate too much or spent too much time at the gym. Doyle couldn't quite tell which with the baggy clothes, but he was leaning toward the former.

Hector didn't back down, his unwashed smile only growing wider. "Alrightalrightalright," He started with a wave of his hand. "Clearly, you can't afford the product, so's I'll cut ya a deal: gimme a blow and I'll give ya half-off. How's that sound to ya, [i]chica?[/i]" He asked with a wink and a nod as if he was the most generous junkie on the block for that one.

The receptionist stood up on the tips of her toes, practically pressing her nose up against Hector's as she did. She stared right up into the dealer's bloodshot eyes without so much as blinking. "I've got a better one: how about you two leave before I cut your dicks off and shove it up your asses-" She started, though the last word seemed to catch in her throat as her eyes flickered over Hector's shoulder.

"You gentlemen havin'a nice night?" Doyle called a little too loudly, drawing every eye in the room back to him. He didn't cut a very intimidating figure in his campaign hat and olive green pants, but the very visible holster on his hip more than made up for it. "S'pose it'd be mornin' by now, though, innit? What're you boys doin' out so late?"

The stumpy blond one ripped around like a rattlesnake, his eyes lighting up with surprise, followed quickly by a touch of mischief. "That we are, sur!" He responded in a flanderized, mocking drawl. "N' how're you doin' this fiiinee night, cowpoke?"

Hector eyed his friend nervously, tugging a bit on his sleeve. "Hey, uh, B-man, I'unno 'bout this." He tried to mutter, though it came out loud enough for everyone this side of the Mississipi to hear. "He's got a badge, man-"

'B-Man,' or Bjorn as his parents, unfortunately, decided to name him, either didn't hear his friend's wise words or he elected to ignore them as he stepped up closer to the sheriff. He had his thumbs stuffed into the front of his pants and his head tipped back so his chin jutted out like he was a rooster sauntering around the yard. "He ain't from around these parts. Can't ya tell, Hec?" Bjorn lifted up a long, fat finger and flicked the edge of Doyle's hat. "Ol' ten-gallon hat here ain't got no jur-is-dic-tion here. Ain't that right, [i]sur[/i]?"

John said nothing for a moment, holding Bjorn's gaze as he contemplated the situation. He shifted around to face fully toward the lanky blond, letting the silence hang long enough for 'B-Man' to begin to look uncomfortable. Only then did the sheriff finally speak. "Felony battery of a peace officer," He started, "that's, what, five years in prison? Slap a possession with intent to sell on top'a that n', well...you're lookin' to be in a spot of bother, ain't ya, sir?"

The specter of a man's face managed to get even paler, believe it or not as if he'd just realized he was stepping up to a lawman. His realization manifested in him stumbling backward and nearly tripping over himself, his hands moving up defensively in front of him. "H-hey, hey, I didn't batter nobody! N' I never done drugs in my life, man! I know my rights!" He stammered.

"That right? Why don't we all take a seat n' wait for my buddies down at CBPD to show up n' sort this out, then? I'm sure if ya didn't do anything wrong then there's no reason not to wait around." Doyle said with a smirk.

By now Hector had swooped in from behind Bjorn, wrapping an arm around his buddy and physically dragging him toward the door to make a quick exit. He seemed the soberer of the two, despite the redness in his eyes, and he was lucid enough to know they'd best leave. "We didn't mean no's trouble, [i]señor[/i], honest-"

"Yeah, yeah, just get outta here, will ya?" Doyle waved them off, turning his back to the two men as they burst out of the door and made their getaway. John whipped back around and shouted, "N' you leave this little lady alone from now on, y'hear?!"

A long, frustrated groan came from behind him. The receptionist had her head buried in her hands, her red locks draped over her face like a curtain. She kept it there for a few seconds as she mulled over whether or not she could live the rest of her life in this position. It was eventually decided that she'd need to return to reality, however, and she let her hands fall back down onto the desk. The disgust on her face was more than apparent. "Did you just unironically call me a 'little lady?' Ugh."

Doyle's eyebrow shot up, caught off-guard by the common. "Scuse me?" He asked, closing the distance between himself and the hotel's front desk. "I apologize fer not bein' hip enough for you, but a little gratitude wouldn't be unwarranted for savin' your keester."

"Oh, my [i]hero[/i]. What would I do without you?" She snorted, her arms thrown out in a wide display before they came crashing back down on the desk in a heap. She was a young woman, probably around college age, if John had to guess. She had a plaid shirt on over what looked like her uniform polo, and her name, Sarah, printed on the shirt's nametag. "The only harm those two'll ever do is to their brains with all the shit they ingest."

"You knew those two?" John was quick to ask, resting an elbow on the desk.

Sarah shrugged, too busy looking down at her computer to meet his gaze. "Duh. [i]Homestead Inn[/i] isn't exactly a popular hangout. Hector's a fuckin' creep and Bjorn's a lonely loser. They couldn't hurt anybody if they tried."

Doyle plucked a pen out of a basket on the desk and began to clumsily flip it between his fingers. "So you know them from school?"

She blinked, her eyes shifting away from the computer to glare at the sheriff. "How'd you know that?"

"Didn't," John shrugged, tapping the pen on the desk. "Was a question. What were they trying to sell you?"

"Insurance." She snorted. "What do you think?"

"Weed?" John pressed, and Sarah answered only with a laugh. He frowned, confused, and decided to set the pen down. "What?"

"Dude, seriously?" She asked incredulously, only to notice the dumbfounded look on Doyle's face and start into another giggle fit again. "Did you [i]just[/i] get here?"

"...Yes?" Doyle groaned, clearly agitated about being led around. "There a point to this?"

Instead of responding Sarah just shook her head. "You'll find out soon. So," she shifted her position, dropping further back in her office chair. "did you come in for a reason? Here to arrest my boss for not dealing with the roaches, orr?"

"Roaches-" He blinked, only to realize she was trying to mess with him again. "No, no. Need a room. Don't know how long I'll be here."

She started to poke information into her system, asking a series of questions to fill out the entry form. It didn't take much more than two or three minutes before she was handing him his keycard and pointing him down the hall. "There ya go," she nodded. "try not to trip on any of the drunks on your way out in the morning. Don't know why, but they like to sleep in front of the door. Just kick 'em a little and they'll scatter."

"Ain't this supposed to be the nice part of town?" Doyle asked, slapping the keycard against his palm as he stepped around the desk and started toward his room.

"Once upon a time. Have a nice night!"