"Shit," he said under his breath, "Guess I'll just have to get an early start tomorrow." He smiled a little, turned towards Vivian. Didn't notice her staring down the four other people sitting just a short distance down the bar from her. "Right, Viv? Early start?"
Then he finally noticed the others sitting down the bar from them. Quite a motley assortment, they were. All of them were considerably younger than the senior-est members of Legion, sure, but they all looked like hell. Some of them looked less like normal, functional hotel-goers and more like the junkies you would find hiding in the alley behind the hotel, shooting up and picking the dumpsters for food. They all wore sleeved shirts, but Rick could easily discern if he were to lift the sleeves, he could make out a more extensive network of tracks than the entire Los Angeles Metro system on at least one of them. A blonde, a dark-haired girl, a rather handsome guy and -
"Wilford H. Brimley there's a zombie sittin' at the bar." The deadpan statement was completely at odds with Rick's desperate attempt to dive off of his barstool and through the door at least eight feet away at the same time, which ended - unsurprisingly - with both of his legs tangled in the stool's and him facedown on the ground. He let out a pained moan as his nose filled with the scent of years' worth of spilled beer and vomit on the carpet, slowly regaining his feet as his headache returned full force. He looked back down the bar at the foursome gathered there - which he now noticed at least one of whom was staring at Vivian with something akin to murder in her eyes - and immediately noticed that the 'zombie' was not, in fact, of the undead persuasion, but instead just a very, very, very skinny Englishman. Rick shrugged, pulling himself very slowly back to the bar. Along the way, he finally noticed the band poster that Vivian had ages ago, and recognized his own photo. Rick was not a photogenic man on his best day, and he had showed up to this shoot particularly raging drunk. As a result, he looked stupid and shitfaced, a facial expression which - ironically - slightly mirrored his own expression. Then he noticed that the four seated down the bar from him looked a lot like the guys from Nerveshock, the band they were co-headlining with. Somewhere, the back of his mind registered a slight 'Oh yeah', and then he shrugged. He looked down the bar at the dead-looking guy again.
"Oi, skin and bones," he said in a slightly raised tone, "sorry 'bout the zombie thing. Pint of Guinness to make up for it?"