Flannigan's Pub (attn: Fallon)

The outside of the pub was gray concrete with narrow windows boasting neon signs. The door was painted green. Inside the air held the faint scent of boiled potatoes and cabbage along with a faint sausage spice to it. The wooden floor is scuffed to a dull black, though meticulously clean for a bar.

The tables are thick wood on sturdy legs. Some boast four chairs, while others six or even eight. There is a short line of booths made of the same dark wood, with high wooden backs and green vinyl cushions that line one wall. These generally sit empty on all but the busiest of nights, as they are the furthest from the bar.

The bar is a miracle in and of itself. Polished mohogany top scarred from long use and worn by many hands. The brass foot pole is bolted to the floor, not the treasured wooden bar. Behind the bar is a painting of Ireland in vibrant oils.

Flannigan's boasts a cafe and has always had a strict no smoking policy, due to the original Mrs. Flannigan being allergic. Four generations of actual Flannigan's have run the bar, with many cousins earning their keep there as well. It was moderately busy, with over half of the tables taken up by large loud men who ate and drank here every night.

Cyrus watched from the shadows. His golden eyes reflecting every beam of light in the dark. The alley behind the pub was clean and free from street people, its roof was slanted but posed no challenge to the leopard who watched atop it, cloaked in shadows. He had five minutes to wait before entering, perhaps he could catch a glimpse of Fallon entering.