Ariadne leans forward, flopping more than halfway across the hotel bar's counter. Not so much to be heard over the music as to keep from sliding off her stool entirely.
"You know, it's a good thing I'm going to miserably fail these exams," she yells at the bartender. He's giving her that smile that means he wants her money, but he'll deal with her crazy, if that's what it takes.
"It's a good thing," she repeats, undeterrred, " because otherwise I'd be a for real architect in five months."
She pauses for effect. "And then I'd have to report you for owning a Public Establishment of Death, basically."
This does not seem to produce the desired effect on the bartender.
Ariadne elaborates: "You have a padlock on your one exit door."
She flails widely towards the back of the bar. "What if there was a fire, huh?" pointing an accusing finger back at the bartender. "What if some douchebag decides to firebreathe his whiskey all over his girlfriend's hair or something? What if the girls hair then spreafd to the truly atrocious fake palm tree you have hanging over there? Do you know what the flame spread rating is on these things? If they actually qualify under NFPA 255, I'll drink a fucking case of Yusuf's most experimental somnacin."
The bartender doesn't even blink at that.
"Anyway," Ariadne rambles on, "five minutes in, you have a WALL OF FIRE over there, and that flickering EXIT sign is the only thing the patrons can see through the smoke. They all rush in, and then, PADLOCK! THIS RIGHT THERE IS A TRAGEDY WAITING TO HAPPEN!' she exclaims, pointing at the terrible, no good, very bad door.
Which is now propped slightly opened by an empty bottle of beer.
"…or it would be," Adriane frowns, deflating, "if Eames wasn't excellent at lock picking and Arthur wasn't a giant horndog."
She faces the bar again and rests her head on the table. "Saved by the queers…" she mumbles, as the bartender tops her glass again. Not raising her head, Ariadne fishes a twenty out of her coat pocket and edges it over the counter. "Kepp the change," she says. He's going to need it for the lawsuits, she thinks vaguely.
"Don't think that means you're off the hook though," she says after a long silence in which she debates the merits of raising her head to drink over communing with the woodgrain (quartersawn, not flatsawn. Nice) a bit more.
"Your front door opens inwards," she continues. "Did you know we had to kill hundreds of kiddies before we figured out that wasn't the smartest idea? Just google the Collinwood fire. Piles of kiddies in the fire staircases. Man, am I glad I went to architecture school for this,
" she sighs. "That was money well spent. And kiddies."
The bartender is giving her a Look. Fuck him, he's the one with the deathtrap doors.
"Who stamped the plans for this place, anyway?" Ariadne asks in indignation, her grip on the countertop slowly slipping. "I would never stamp plans like these. If the morons at the Order are dumb enough to gibe me my title, imma go bury my stamp somewhere I can never find it. Someone else can get insured for these 20M$ projects."
Ariadne finally looses the battle against gravity and lets herself slide from her stool to the floor.
"Does this place even have sprinklers?" she asks the ceiling. "Do you fall under 3.2.2. 26 or 188.8.131.52 of the Building Code?"
Everything is spiny now. Aruadne bets there's a CNB article againstr that too. "What's the fire rating of this column?" she asks a pair of leather loafers which just stopped next to her face.
Someone is lifting her up. That's nice.
"Whoever signed your certificate of substantial completion should be fired, dude," she warns the bartender, as he comes into view once more, briefly. He's shooting a grateful look at whoever's got her vertical and moving towards th exit.
"BUILDING OF DEATH!" Ariadne yells from over Arthur's shoulder, before the totally not up to code door muffles her rambling at last.