(no subject)
Characters: Peter Carlisle...and YOU!
Rating: PG
Time Period: Modern
Location: the kitchen
Relative Date: Peter's first day! :D
Status: OPEN OPEN OPEN. GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS.
Peter wasn't sure what the hell was going on anymore. He'd come here in search of answers, but hadn't found any thus far. There wasn't a clue or a piece of evidence to be found. He wasn't sure what he was looking for - maybe some sort of conclusive evidence that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ripley Holden was guilty, that he'd been doing horribly illegal things in order to finance his casino. Drug smuggling, prostitution, a deep entrenchment in the seedy underbelly of Blackpool. Though Blackpool was, he thought, nearly all seedy underbelly. He couldn't stand the bloody place.
Not that this was much better. It was quiet, at least, and nobody was expecting him to do much in the way of work. Peter liked his job, but working on a case that was little better than a dead end - where he was being discouraged from investigating his main suspect - was frustrating, to say the least.
And then he'd fallen in love with the suspect's wife. Or, well, he thought it was love. He'd taken it upon himself to investigate her - and then they'd had a date in a drag club, and he found himself lying to her, and for what? So he could lock her philandering husband up and woo her away? It seemed unethical, to say the least.
But that didn't matter now. What mattered was trying to figure out how to make coffee under conditions that were, to be quite honest, primitive. He'd cranked the beans through a grinder, and now he was boiling water on a hob. He rummaged through drawers to try and find a filter, a piece of toast stuck in his mouth.
Rating: PG
Time Period: Modern
Location: the kitchen
Relative Date: Peter's first day! :D
Status: OPEN OPEN OPEN. GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS.
Peter wasn't sure what the hell was going on anymore. He'd come here in search of answers, but hadn't found any thus far. There wasn't a clue or a piece of evidence to be found. He wasn't sure what he was looking for - maybe some sort of conclusive evidence that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ripley Holden was guilty, that he'd been doing horribly illegal things in order to finance his casino. Drug smuggling, prostitution, a deep entrenchment in the seedy underbelly of Blackpool. Though Blackpool was, he thought, nearly all seedy underbelly. He couldn't stand the bloody place.
Not that this was much better. It was quiet, at least, and nobody was expecting him to do much in the way of work. Peter liked his job, but working on a case that was little better than a dead end - where he was being discouraged from investigating his main suspect - was frustrating, to say the least.
And then he'd fallen in love with the suspect's wife. Or, well, he thought it was love. He'd taken it upon himself to investigate her - and then they'd had a date in a drag club, and he found himself lying to her, and for what? So he could lock her philandering husband up and woo her away? It seemed unethical, to say the least.
But that didn't matter now. What mattered was trying to figure out how to make coffee under conditions that were, to be quite honest, primitive. He'd cranked the beans through a grinder, and now he was boiling water on a hob. He rummaged through drawers to try and find a filter, a piece of toast stuck in his mouth.