Owner	Pose
Derek Khanata	Ring. Ring. Ring. Click. "Blaze? Khanata. I'm in your neighborhood--let's do lunch. I know a bodega near here that does a killer sandwich. I'll swing by and pick you up." A '65 Impala, a grinning, disfigured ghoul in suit and sunglasses behind the wheel, parks in front of Johnny's house. The driver strikes a cigarette as he waits, drumming his fingers against the rim of the wheel to the Sun Ra blasting from the speakers.
Johnny Blaze	Johnny was napping when Derek had called in. A sigh touching his features. "Fine, Fine." and after Johnny gets up, takes care of hygene, and gets dressed? He walks on out of his house, leaving his bike behind as he enters the car with Derek. "Boss." is all Johnny says in greeting, pulling a cigarette out of his personal pack and igniting it, letting out a puff of smoke. "Hope it's a good bodega."
Derek Khanata	"Trust me, the food's killer." Khanata navigates through traffic, right hand on the wheel while his left smokes, focusing on the task at hand. The saxophone blares and the piano plays through 'Of Sounds and Something Else'. The hood's up today; the season's turning and there's a freezing rain. The African is inscrutible, his face neutral as he drives.
Johnny Blaze	Johnny simply sits in silence, smoking his cigarette as Derek does his thing. Killer, huh? "Alright, what?s the reason? a part of me doubts you want to soften me up for dinner." Johnny jokes
Derek Khanata	They arrive, the Impala zipping into a space across from a humble corner grocery, a yellowed sign reading 'Sal's' next to a Pepsi logo of antique design. Khanata claps Johnny on the shoulder and nods, a tight smile on his face. "You're right, kid. We're here for the pastrami. C'mon." The African raises a folded newspaper over his head as he steps out of the car, an impromptu umbrella as he dashes across the street in the freezing rain. He swings open the barred door and steps inside quickly. "Bast. Cats and dogs out there. This way." Khanata gestures through a tightly-packed maze of grocery shelves to a modest counter in the back of the store, where two middle-aged Italians in flour-dusted aprons are managing a short line of customers.