No Good Happens Here: Haunts, Hangouts and Other Locales

A look into the lives of some not particularly great people just trying not die.

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Bart Fitzroy
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No Good Happens Here: Haunts, Hangouts and Other Locales

Post by Bart Fitzroy » Sat Jun 20, 2020 11:12 am

This thread compiles the various locations our intrepid weirdos inhabit.
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Bart Fitzroy
Junior Adventurer
Junior Adventurer
Posts: 4
Joined: Sat Jun 15, 2019 9:24 pm
Location: Wherever it is, he got there at just the right time for... something.

Re: No Good Happens Here: Haunts, Hangouts and Other Locales

Post by Bart Fitzroy » Sat Jun 20, 2020 11:53 am

Fitzroy's Junkyard, Auto Repair and Cab Company, Seaside

While some might raise a brow at seeing how 'lucky' they might be on finding a ratty old gas station on a large plot of uneven, unworkable land, Bart ****in' Fitzroy has turned it into a cash cow... or rather a 'cash goat,' for scale. Far enough from the beach to keep away the sand and salt, Fitzroy's Junkyard seems like a modest little venture. The station's exterior maintains its beachy colors of coral and seafoam, while the windows to the offices and dispatch made from the gutted retail space bear curtains of bright, tropical floral prints that rotate through the seasons. Various shades of surf music burbles from an old radio near the front desk, and vending machines dispense soft drinks and snacks that almost remind visitors of something from their past, but never quite make it. It tends to smell a touch 'hippie-fied,' incense and cannabis joining smells of burnt oil and axle grease. Perhaps from some quirk of construction, or some other, less definable means, the garage is quiet to all but those inside, where acid jazz and psychedelic funk combine with the clangs and whirrs of automotive maintenance and repair.

The junkyard itself seems a modest affair from the outside, yet on gaining admittance past the daunting chain-link fence 'guarded' by a slobbery Tibetan Mastiff/Irish Setter mix named Ruby, its contents seem to sprawl into a maze of machinery from across time and space in varied states of disrepair. Crumpled starfighters sit next to paisley-painted school buses on cinder blocks, and engines of all stripes, from biodiesel, to steam, to Nuclear Fission, sit beneath the cars' hoods.

Right next door is the dispatch for the Fitzroy Cab Company, which is little more than a lengthy car port and a tiny self-contained office. The fleet is as much a hodgepodge as the rest of the operations, each cab cobbled together, modified and outfitted from the junkyard itself and painted a warm orange-yellow. Passengers who opt to take the scenic route often get their money's worth, catching sights and hidden gems that so often go unnoticed in the daily grind around RhyDin, even for Seaside natives.
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