Macroni's. It was a pretty nice place to kick it back and relax should the mood strike you – and should you not be an exceptionally good cook,. Honestly, a nice expensive apartment in the good side of town in great and all, but he didn't exactly have the means of a well-tailored man or woman in the kitchen making Abraham his favorite meals anymore. He lived alone in Chicago, and eating shitty pre-made food was not even the last thing on his agenda. It was non-existant! Even if it was a talent that Abe had possessed (ha, yeah right! Cooking is no activity suited for a man!), surely he'd still wish to kick it back. After all, sometimes after you beat to a pulp the underworld types on the streets of Chicago, it is nice to put your feet up. And a second floor window booth was a great spot. With his feet propped upon a chair next to the booth, and his hand digging into a deep dish pizza, he could help but narrow his brow in discontent. It was a little cold! Was the pizza truly freshly baked this time? Did it sit? Was it stale? Now, Abe's palate wasn't so tuned as to figure out what exactly was wrong, but he had engaged in enough fine dining in his experience to know when something ain't right. But the problem with a lengthy rant about how the dish wasn't ideally served was that he was feeling particularly lazy and subdued this day (and perhaps even slightly frisky ands sexually charged, as he noted while he stared off into a passing woman's curvature) and that the service didn't quite act as personal assistance for their own vices, or even recording devices, for Abe's rants were quite lengthy should he conjure the energy to perform such.
He downed half of a black cup of joe. The real drink of men! The real drink of men assuming you wished to remain sober. Delicious, powerful, and isn't weakened by the likes of cream and sugar – and Abe wasn't a “puts-cream-and-sugar-into-his-coffee-kinda-guy”. A black coffee was his drink of choice. But even better? Cuban coffee. Unfortunately, a half-baked Italian restaurant in Chicago wasn't a place to obtain Cuban coffee. Half-baked... half-baked... why did he come here again? Was it a pretty nice place? Eh, suppose so, Abe always figured. The food was just okay. Really, it was the atmosphere. But what restaurant was a restaurant that was all atmosphere and no food? Good God, when put that way, you might as well call it a casino! But even casinos have pool boards and roulettes and other gambling games! It was this sudden point A to point C epiphany that led Abraham to exclaim loudly, “what a shitty restaurant!” before he tossed the ceramic coffee mug at the wall on the other side of the restaurant.
Whether it be dumb luck or divine intervention or neither, the shattering cup was overpowered by the comparatively deafening explosions that came with the posse shooting up the building downstairs and the synchronized obliteration of the windows a couple tables down. In the span of ten seconds, the upstairs was stormed by five people, and a whole mob he couldn't count from where he was currently. The sudden bombardment was enough to jump-scare him and prompt him to clumsily fall over the bench seat and under the table. The natural reaction of getting up was of course thwarted by his head striking the bottom of the table! Instilling the jarring of several plates and empty glasses and a glass of ice water. The brought forth a whining groan as he rubbed the back of his head. Ugh, hopefully no cute girls around saw that. During his time recovering and rubbing the back of his head, he managed to pick out some words from downstairs. Along with the obvious gunfire from before, something was said about “stay in your...”, “quiet...”and “burn... down.” Obviously, nothing good.
Most of Abe's crime-fighting was street stuff. This, though? This actually sounds like loads of fun! He'd have to play it smart though. After all, there were quite a few people playing this game with him... but Abe never lost. It'd be okay in the end.
Now, how was this place, really? They were in downtown Chicago. Most of these places were brick houses. And brick houses were nice – sort of. Adobe brick houses had rustic charm, and many places and many restaurants that were made of such adobe bricks were considered valuable for their real estate value and the price it took to build it. And Macroni's was all about atmosphere. Of course Macronu's was a brick house! He looked at it when he walked in! What did he think the floors and walls were made of, marble? Oh gosh, no, full marble restaurants is royalty stuff. Brick is more Chicago style. And brick was fair game.
Sticking his head out of his booth, Abe checked out the upstairs goons. Five? Just five? Oh please, what a joke. And from the sounds downstairs, they secured the building. They had him surrounded? Those poor bastards. This was a hostage situation! Well, of course. The shooters WERE the hostages! Well, they will be. Hell, why not – they are! They just don't know it yet. He smiled to himself rather smugly before he retracted his head back into the booth where he stretched his neck and arms, prepping himself for the wonderful surprise he had in store for the lot of them. He took a deep, relaxing breathe before he stomped his foot onto the ground beneath the table, where Abe expected he was obscured from the vision of the assailants. From there, the impact carried its way across the floor. The bricks and stone of the floor and its support beneath the five upstairs was reconstructed and fell apart, causing a cave-in within the restaurant where Abe expected the gang members to be caught off guard by the surprise attack (the floor falling apart beneath them – surely not the kind of resistance they'd be expecting!) and fall with the chunks of stone one story down.
