[center][color=silver][h1][I]~Bartholomew~[/I][/h1][/color][/center]
[sub][I]Location: NYC Compound, Wit's End - 3:05 PM.[/I][/sub]
[sub][I]Mentions & Interactions: [@RedVII] & [@savannahssu].[/i][/sub]
[hr]
Bartholomew cast a brief glance at a heavily tattooed woman that strode out of the bars entrance as he approached and quickly processed and stored her face deep within his memory should he end up running into her later on, be it purposefully or by accident. Shifting his attention back to the entryway of the bar, Bartholomew's eyes narrowed into slits as he saw a familiar figure with ash smeared eyes and blood painted lips walk out a few seconds later. It was the mad clown, Pickles. And the insane way with which he remarked on his overall appearance as he passed by only helped to solidify that fact within Bartholomew's mind. Pickles, also known as Jack Perkins when his "other" personality wasn't in control, was someone certain members of his branch of the DRM had come into contact with several times over recent months and in various locations throughout the Compound before he suddenly dropped off the map.

When his subordinates finally did encounter the man again he was working at a local bar, seemingly in his right mind, and using the alias Jack Perkins. Upon further research into some old barely touched medical records, it was brought to Bartholomew's attention that the man apparently had Dissociative Identity Disorder which explained why his behavior was so erratic and strange. And while Bartholomew had never personally met the either of the man's identities himself, he had heard more than enough about Pickles to be able to recognize him. Letting out a barely audible sigh, Bartholomew pushed his thoughts about Jack and his other personality to the back of his mind as he stepped into the bar and strode over to a stool in front of the main counter. As long as the crazy bastard didn't interfere with his plans, then he couldn't care less about what he did. 

Sitting down and propping his cane against the smooth oak counter, Bartholomew ordered a glass of Mar Rohk Firebrand Whiskey as he pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and lit it. Letting his gaze wander around the room aimlessly as he alternated between taking long slow tokes from his cigar and small sips of whiskey, Bartholomew idly observed the remaining patrons.