[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/F71nK3C/RenoBar.jpg[/img]
[i][color=6ecff6]Valentine Residence, Northern Ashton > The Parlour[/color][/i][/center]

"[color=6ecff6]Fuckin' cold,[/color]" he cursed as he stared out the window, his bluetooth earpiece attached and active.  Standing in his boxers and grimacing at the weather outside, it was finally time for Reno to get dressed.  He had been on vampire hours ever since he got into this business.  For him, this was morning.  "[color=6ecff6]Charlie, why did I ever leave Houston?[/color]"  His business associate on the other end of the line gave a small chuckle before reminding him about his own desire to expand the brand.  This was his opportunity to see if the Lobo Loco still worked as a concept in a small town setting.  Until now, it was a venue reserved for big cities with a preexisting and proven profitable nightlife.  This experiment would be interesting.  Could the Lobo Loco [i]create[/i] that experience no matter where it was built?

The floor to ceiling windows of his sizable bedroom reflected his own image back to him.  He grunted.  Something about being caught with a bluetooth earpiece always made him feel like a douchebag.  Regardless, he needed to get dressed and therefore needed his hands.  He dismissed his twatwaffle visage with a wave and retreated to his closet.  There he retrieved a red dress shirt and black slacks along with a roll of black socks before returning to his king sized bed and beginning the process of being less naked.

"[color=6ecff6]Where are we at with the license,[/color]" Reno demanded to know.  What's a club without liquor?  His associate gave a flimsy response which meant that they are now where they were before; in limbo.  Reno had a habit of putting the carriage in front of the horse.  He hadn't even established a location for his enterprise and he was already trying to cut through the red tape.  At the news, he sighed impatiently while buttoning his shirt.  "[color=6ecff6]Call me back when you have something that makes me happy about paying your salary.[/color]" With that, he took the earpiece and chucked it toward a chair across the room as if it were a disgusting booger that he found on his finger.

After slipping on his black leather boots, Reno made his way downstairs, each step clicking on the hard floor below him.  He opened his expansive refrigerator and pulled out a tallboy before making his way to the livingroom and reaching under his coffee table.  In his hands was suddenly an ornate metal box with a red sheen and a spiral pattern on the face.  He set it down and opened it up.  To the left was his tobacco and his pipe.  To the right was was his other pipe and a difference substance that wasn't tobacco.  On this particular evening, he opted for the former, grabbing a small baggy of the legal stuff and his dark wooden apparatus.  After a quick job of packing and lighting, Reno stepped through the cloud he had just created and moved toward the garage, grabbing his dark pea coat off the rack on his way.  

There to greet him was his favorite toy, the [url=https://i.ibb.co/KWYfxpZ/car.jpg]Lincoln Continental[/url] that he had gifted to himself after making his first six figures.  He nearly lost it in the divorce half a decade ago.  That event helped serve his new endeavor of branching out and moving away.  He wanted to leave that part of his life completely behind.  There was something scary, yet refreshing, about starting over.  Once in his car, he triggered the garage door to open, letting the frosty air encompass the room.  Between puffs, Reno audibly whispered "[color=6ecff6][i]Fuck[/i][/color]" once the chill kissed his exposed skin.  He pulled out of his driveway and began rolling toward town.  As the radio played, the tantric sounds of Tool was abruptly interrupted by a special bulletin.

[i]"...Sheriff found dead by Lake Azu-"[/i]

"[color=6ecff6]Oh, fuck off![/color]" he shouted, especially upset at the imposition.  [i]Schism [/i]was one of his favorite tracks.  Angrily he began turning the dial to something else.  After several rounds of static, he finally found a station that was coming through clear.

[i]"...I do my hair toss, check my nails.  Baby how you feelin'?"[/i]

"[color=6ecff6]Feelin' good as hell![/color]" he shouted in unison with the artist, his grin instantly returning.  As he rolled by several establishments in town, he noted that Brewster's Coffee was particularly busy for the hour.  As his sipped his roadie, he knew coffee was the last beverage he was seeking out tonight.  As he continued to let his toy hum down the road, The Parlour soon came into view.  As far as he could tell, this would be his main competition once he planted his roots.  To that end, it was also one of the more exciting places to be in this living Pleasantville metaphor.

Having made his decision, he found a parking spot and sat in the car for a few extra moments to finish his drink before daring to face the winter night long enough to make his way to the front door.  In one of the trashcans outside, he tossed his empty can and tapped out the used up remnants of tobacco from his pipe before stashing it into one of the inner pockets of his pea coat.  Finally, he was ready.  With a smirk and a sense of excited anticipation, he opened the doors and stepped inside.