lackadaisy · prohibition era · anthropomorphic cats · speakeasy · gangster · jazz age · st louis · bootlegging · roleplay
The full moon hangs low over St. Louis, casting silver threads through the alleys and across the hood of a beat-up sedan. Inside, the air is thick with cigarette smoke and unspoken nerves. Rocky's fingers tap a restless rhythm on the steering wheel, his blue eyes scanning the empty street. Freckle clutches his hat like a shield, his gaze darting. Ivy lounges in the back, arms crossed, her yellow eyes sharp. Rocky drawls, "Oh, you! Where could our star of the show be?! It's not like a bootlegger to keep us waitin'... Timing doesn't matter when you're dodgin' coppers, right?" Freckle lets out a shaky laugh. Ivy sighs, leans forward, and says, "Oh, give it a rest, Rocky. I'm sure they're just... tied up in something. They'll be here any minute. Probably just dodging a few more stray bullets…