This place is nearly always busy, but Friday nights are known to be among the busiest. Tonight is no exception, and in fact, it seems a little bit more tightly packed tonight than usual. There's a lot of new faces among the veteran ones...all have heard about the fantasy known as Phantasmagoria...and so they come in flocks.
     And for every flock, there are hunters... wolves.. those on the prowl, always searching for something, looking for prey. True to form, the club here is the same. Denizens and creatures mingle with the unsuspecting mortals, without tipping them off. That's the beauty of this place, is it not?
     Something punk-ish slams through the space in its usual off-key yet powerful vibe from the speakers strategically placed and stacked together. Die-hard punks slam about on the floor, screaming obscenities, flipping the bird and just generally causing more and more bruises and split lips as they crash off of each other. But there's no fighting, really.. just moving to the music.
     Then it dies off and switches... something more hardcore, but sensual... a thumping, droning rhythm, calling to the darker, more carnal sides of man. The punks filter back toward the bar, flicking lighters and puffing on their fags as their bodies are replaced by twice as many more, all dressed in leathers, PVC, denim, mesh and other assorted, dark clothing...some showing more flesh than they should. But who makes the rules (or enforces them) in this place anyway?

     A former punk princess turned punk goddess dances in a cage. Topless, she is a parade of piercings -- nipples, navel, ears, eyebrow. She wears plaid stockings, gartered at her thighs, the leather garter belt -- a sturdy leather with clips that could be used to fasten her to This Object or That Object. She sports electric fire engine red hair, cut in The Vamp style. The shoes are Docs, natch, calf-high. She might have been wearing more at one point.
     One can most assuredly bet she will be wearing less by the end of the night...
     As the music kicks into the droning thump, she becomes one with the bars of the cage she's chosen. Willingly.

     Somewhere. On the catwalks? Up. Up past the reaching of fingertips. Up to the railed catwalk that on more than one occasion since the grand re-opening of Phantasmagoria has transformed into a kind of hanging garden of Sodom and Gomorrah. The crowds are thick in the flashing light.
     The higher up one goes, the more exclusive, and the more decadent, it becomes. It is an ascent into degradation. How marvelous.
     There is beautiful laughter. Somehwere a leathered blonde murrs into the ear of a passerby. Somewhere, a man and a woman can't wait. There's a fumbling of hands, a clinking of metal with belts undone...

     Slipping into the club's confines is a figure who has been seen in more refined, more elegant places and less refined, less constructed places equally often - chatted with the royalty undead, unknowing, and played for the fallen lover of a god, and eavesdropped on a god, all equally slipping away from whole and hale. Thus is Valmiki.
     Clad simply, if not terribly thematically, in a pair of dark olive serge trousers and a white, high-collared tunic that oddly contrast and blend at once with his tanned, tea-coloured skin, the androgynous poet-musician-wanderer looks around with wide, aquamarine eyes alight. There are stories here. He is quite sure of it.

     The door staff let Valmiki in for the sheer shock value. Of course, please. A quick trip to the front of the red carpet, to the start of the velvet rope. Do come inside...
     And the men in suits watched the poet enter with smiles upon their amused faces. Wait till Julian sees that...

     There's a flash of purple here, a swish of violet there... one among the crowd, yet she manages to get the vast majority of it to see her at one point or another. The rainbow fount of braids, ponytails, twists and knots bounces around just barely visible, but is a beacon nonetheless...
     Many wonder what kind of treasure is at the end of that rainbow...? Wouldn't they like to know? Maybe some of them will get the chance to find out.
     She bumps here, grinds there and twists her way through the thronging masses, being 'one' with the music, atmosphere... and the humanity. Nain is here only by the good grace of Julian, and although she has an agreement with him, she still allows herself to have fun. Because if there was no fun, what would be the point?

     "That is not what he said," a tall blonde man says loudly at a table. Friends have just walked away, and he's left with one to argue with. A large hand waves off the others, and...is that a celphone at his ear?
     "Look, this isn't the time to get into it. And I can barely...no...I wanted a Scotch, neat...hear you any way. I'll call you later." The man is quite broad and tall, terribly fit. Dressed in perfectly cut slacks and a white shirt, he seems rather fashionably dressed instead of fetishly so. Despite it, he's ruling his roost...there's no accounting for real Charisma.
     The remaining companion at the table blinks at the drinks. Fine. A redhead, he looks around for a waitress to go by. Nevermind. Grabbing the drinks, he heads towards the bar to see about an exchange.

     He has such the urge to find the DJ and request Love Potion No. 9. Would that be in poor taste? The blonde on the catwalk leans over the railing. You're all wearing too many clothes! Don't let The Man repress you! A finger trailing along the iron, Pharzuph winds his way downward from the high and exclusive quarters, a silken and leather splendor. He drums and taps his way downward, shirt flowing open.
     Well, and you just knew he'd be grabbed. He's trouble in trousers. He's... well... he doesn't remember really, but whatever he is... it's hot, right? Right! There's a tight knot of Party All The Time gathering at the foot of the winding iron stairs....

     Wandering through the crowd, Valmiki seems the epitome of Out Of Place. He's got a pair of scuffed, worn shoes on his feet - not sandals, but something close to it, leather boat shoes or the like. A belt, on which is a pouch (and another on the inside, where deft fingers will have more difficulty stealing its contents), a flute stuck through the belt (made of bone, well-aged, it'd seem), and a woven bracelet around one wrist - these are all the ornamentation he wears.
     Shaking thick dark locks from his eyes, the young man makes his way to the bar, where he squeezes in as best he can. "Excuse me..." Soft-spoken as his voice is, it's easily overlooked, save for his oddness. "Excuse me - could I get a cup of tea, please?"

     The patrons to Valmiki's left and right look oddly at the man, but say nothing. Behind the bar, the closest bartender looks up with fountains in his hand. "Ain't no tea here, love," he says as politely as it gets on a Friday night. "Can I get you something else?" naturally follows, though the bartender's gaze is already on fixing another drink for someone else.

     Apparently, the celphone call hasn't ended. The blonde man reaches for his drink, only to notice his glass and companion both gone. Well, looks like the phone call can occupy his time now. Sebastian de Rancey twists in his booth, finger in one ear as he goes ahead and continues with his phone call.

     Yeah, yeah... she knows you're here. She'll find you soon enough, Pharzuph. Nain's too busy doing the bump&grind with some fine young thing with dreads and leather pants... oh, where did his shirt go? Likely never even put one on tonight. Leather pants, leather boots, and a body that just doesn't quit. Dark skinned with ice-blue eyes...oh, what a treat. Nain will have to remember to look this one up later.
     Then she flits away from him, leaving him frustrated and off in search of another partner, though he'll keep looking for the purple-wearing gal.
     Gradually, she makes her way toward the bar, grabbing a handful of chest, hair, other body part as she moves... she's horrible, but that's Nain. Eyes flicker to the woman up in the cage, melding herself to the bars and an evil grin lands upon her purple-painted lips. "Now... that looks like fun," patrons at the bar hear as she squeezes her way between two very built gentlemen and nods in the direction of the cage.

     Dot wiggles her fingers and wiggles her nose as she catches Nain's look. She does more in a cage than many women can do in a whole room, and there's a table of drinks and offerings waiting.
     When the music switches, there's a changing of the guard. And why not? It's fucking steaming in here, and she's due! "Coming!" she shouts against the din and the music, the voices, the conversations (cell phone or otherwise), and she slides down the rope, giving a twist as she does so, trapese-style. Hey, life is a performance, isn't it?
     It might as well be...

     Pharzuph untangles himself. His work is done here. Well, it's being done here. All over. In every way imaginable. With hands clasping.... this and that behind him, he makes his golden way past another blonde and his cell phone. There's a glance back. The lifing of a golden eyebrow. Stunning isn't he. Peerless skin. Blonde curly hair. Body built for one purpose, and the requisite 'sin' original or otherwise.
     But then, as always, he forgets why he cared and starts to head out to the thick of the dance. You know, Julian, your friends just aren't going to be satisfied until you lose your license...

     But a sea-change is already on the Hindu boy. "Ah, no tea? Never mind, then - something strong and smooth," Valmiki laughs, a joyous sound. "Something which the queen of the heavens could sip upon, and her voiced exclamation ripple through the world, if you would be so kind." He slips a hand into his pocket.
     "I have ... ah. Here." Ten pounds are put down. "Something worth that much, if you would." He squares his shoulders in an attempt to buy himself a bit of breathing room, taking a deep breath within the confines of his internal binding. A glance over his shoulder, and all around - perish the thought of missing a story happening.

     Not that the bartender understood that comment. He squints, not really having much time for this all. However, at the placement of the note, he sighs and nods. "I got ya," he says, sliding barglasses left and right, filled with the cheapest requests of the evening. Brushing his hands on his pants and taking the note, he twists around to the wall to fetch another bottle and glass.
     "Try this," he says to Valmiki, sloshing together something golden in a glass. The bar thuds with the old-fashioned glass. "Aged forty-five," he says, taking the note to the nearby register for a drop.

     The redhead's finished arguing with a bartender at the east bar. He twists and angles himself through the crowd to head towards the booth. He's got one glass this time, and the annoyance on his face is evident.

     Nain's ample cleavage, barely leaving anything for the imagination rests against the bartop, attracting attention from many of the gentlemen around her. In that innocent schoolgirl-gone-clubgirl look that she's managed to muster, she calls toward the bartender, "Sweetie! Oh sweetie! One of the usual, s'il vous plais, when you get a moment?" She's not French, so it might sound a bit strange from her, but she's trying to be cute...and it's working on several people around her... why not the bartender? She flashes him a pouty expression, laced with just the right amount of amusement. Such a tease. Glancing over, people's heads a bit, she notices Dot slipping down the rope and waves energetically at her.

     By the time the redhead returns to the booth, Sebastian's done with his call. He's already fishing out a cigarette from one pocket, while hand pushes the phone into another. "Oh, right," he says, more excited about the drink than the return of the associate. "Brilliant," Sebastian says, immediately bringing the scotch to his lips.
     In the same instant, the redhead says, "Fuck ya, Sebastian," and, in stride, keeps walking towards the exit.

     One goes down, another goes up. A young man takes over the gilded cage for now. Dot is handed a shirt -- show and tell is over, kids! -- albeit the shirt is micro-mini and is probably rather pointless. It was probably made for a girl of thirteen, one who hasn't had two breast augmentations and nipple piercings. The tee is black with pink scrawl that reads, simply, Fuck.
     Say it loud and say it proud!
     The shirt is stretched, and that's putting it nicely. Dot skips over to the bar, gives Nain's ribs a tickle then leans up and damn near over the bar. "I have to go upstairs in a bit... I need a purple jesus, love, when you have a moment." Purple Jesus. Special drink. Loaded. Fully. Just enough, and you become the son of God. Too much, and you'll feel like you've been crucified. The hang-over's a real bitch.

     The bartender is amused at the arrival of the two women. Without saying much, his hands are already in motion, concocting their favorites.
     Aged forty-five. Valmiki picks up the drink curiously, lifting it to look at it as though he's not sure whether to admire it, pray to it, or drink it. Then again ... he is a Hindu, isn't he? Complete with one of those funny dots in the middle of the forehead, though the hair keeps sliding over it. "My thanks, good sir," the poet calls, bowing in the bartender's direction, and attempting to wiggle loose.

     "Umph. Begging your pardon, madam, sir, my lady..." The young man isn't entirely sure which is which, and while the aquamarine of his eyes gleams with good-natured amusement, he's not sure he wants to know. The mystery is half of the fun, isn't it? One hand steals downwards to his flute, a light, reassuring touch, wordlessly saying : Patience ... you, too, will get to sing. Eventually.

     The bartender looks up as Valmiki goes. He shakes his head and gets a good-natured pat from the bartender next to him. "Takes all kinds, eh?" he smiles as Valmiki heads off with his more-than-10quid glass of single malt.

     Now... where was I going...
     Oh well, I could use a drink. A drink sounds lovely! Yes, now... why didn't I think of that before.
     Little poet, so sticking out among the fetished and freaky crowd, a brilliant beacon of purity in a most impure world, you are irresistible. And soon, you find stories on all sides of you, old and new, sordid and sad. The blonde curled one passes Sebastian's booth and detours to the bar, ending up on the other side of poor little Valmiki. Fingers do the walking -- he thinks he remembers that from a commercial once -- and Pharzuph flashes a smile to the bartender. "Mai tai." Sweet and rummy, a flash in the pan. A wholly appropriate drink for Pharzuph the Infernal Airhead.

     Nain squirms a bit and laughs, batting away the tickling fingers. "Hey, enough of that..." she warns, threatening to toss the tickle right back. "Upstairs, huh?" There's a raised eyebrow as she glances up there, then back at Dot. "What's going on? Anything interesting? Need more bodies by chance?" There's a waggle of pierced eyebrows as Nain gets intrigued. "A party to crash, perchance?"
     She leans in against the woman a bit, "C'mon... I'm gettin' bored here, doll. I need some action." The grin is spectacular. Her face follows Valmiki briefly, that black air-brushed line across her eyes accentuated as lights flash at her from the dancefloor. Then Dot gets her attention again.

     "Ah, sure," the bartender nods at Phazuph, twisting to get back to work. He can't stare at the poet too long...if you can't make two drinks in thirty seconds, you're in trouble.

     What? Sebastian calls 'Hey!' after the redhead, but that seems not to halt the man. At the booth, Sebastian shrugs and takes a drink from his newly-arrived scotch. Looks like his evening's coming to a quick end.

     It's difficult to decide if there's a circle of stares around Valmiki, or if the press of bodies is too much. Certainly, he's no Ghandi! He sniffs at the drink curiously, like a cat, then jerks his head back slightly, curling his lips back from dazzlingly white teeth. With a light laugh, he takes a sip of his drink, one hand sliding into a pocket as though at a cocktail party.
     You just know he's waiting for someone to ask him why he's not wearing leather...

      "Here you go," the bartender says, sliding two drinks at Nain and Dot. He's not expecting payment, and after wiping his hands off, he turns to make the next request.

     The smile that is flashed to the bartender makes all kinds of promises for the liquid set before her. It seems like gold to her... oh, right, there -is- gold in it. Her favourite...smells and tastes like cinnamon hearts and burns all the way going down: Goldschlager.
     Grabbing her glass and holding it up to Dot, she waits to make a toast, still waiting for an answer about what's going on upstairs. Her gaze flickers to the 'holy man' again. She can't help it. It's so... odd in this place of strangeness. So...normal.

     "Who's that?" another bartender asks, inching his way over as he fills a glass with soda. He asks Nain and Dot, because, of course, they know everything. He's been quietly watching, and at least he can now ask the question. "They let him in?"

     "You'd have to talk to Jules about that," Dot smirks then wrinkles her nose and wiggles her fingers to the 'tender. "You're a dear, you are," she says in her best Eliza Doolittle. Dot looks to where Nain looks...
     What the fuck?
     "So... who knows... it's the usual up there." The exclusive lounges. Have to have a card key to get in. Only Jules okays the card keys. And you know how he is. She's going to go far. She doesn't say a thing.
      Dot circles an arm around Nain, giving a quick hug. "He should be up there at some point. You could try to get a key." She takes her purple drink, takes a healthy drink (if you can call it healthy) and she looks to Valmiki. Holy shit, and the blond beside him. Damn. Dot looks to the bartender and shrugs. "No clue, lover," she coos. "But," a grin at the glass and she takes a drink, "I'm not the sort of pussycat what doesn't satisfy a curiosity, wot?" Dot unwinds her arm around Nain and leans over, giving a tap-tap to Valmiki's shoulder. "Hello!"

     There's a shrug toward the bartender. "Haven't the foggiest, sweetheart. I'll admit, I'm stumped... Uh oh, there she goes again," Nain giggles, watching Dot tap Valmiki's shoulder. She takes the opportunity to slap Dot's ass, shake her head, then down some of the cinnamon-hot alcohol in her hands.
     A key. Damn. Yeah, right... like Jules would give her one. Well, who knows... if she hangs out around there, maybe he'd give her one out of pity. She's just dying to know what's up there and to get in on the action. Nain's as bad as a curious cat. Her gaze flickers up toward the balcony.

     Hell, it's as hard to get up to the top lounges as it is to get into Heaven these days. There are four floors, the first two of which are dedicated to the club proper. The next two levels contain rooms seen by the privileged few. The few. The proud. The rich....

     Mai tai in hand, pink umbrella and all, Pharzuph goes sipping on his way, content tonight to worm in and out of the dancing, throbbing, grinding crowd. Nothing captures his attention for long. Even if he had a memory, he still wouldn't have an attention span...

     "Mmph?" Right when he was actually taking a drink, too - but hey, that's luck for you. All the gods promised other than his rebirth was that he would find stories... so while Valmiki might have as many lives as a cat, he gets into as many scrapes to use them up.
     Round he twists, first in one direction, then the other, bright liquid eyes gleaming as he looks for the source of the tap and greeting. "Ahhh, a lady of undoubted poetry, and a muse to many," Valmiki proclaims, with a flash of a smile as he sweeps into a bow to Dot. "What can this humble wanderer do for you?" He straightens up - clubs don't offer proper scope for bows, really - and lifts his goblet in salute.

     The bartender blinks at Valmiki's response, staring until a partner bartender hits his arm. "Hey, where's my gin and tonic?" Sheesh. Folks are not in generous moods tonight at the bar.

     Her attention is caught by someone slipping away... Ah! Pharzuph...knew you were here. Nain motions to Dot... be right back! Slipping from her place at the bar, she squeezes through gaps between bodies, trying to catch up.

     Amused? Dot cocks her head like a confused puppy, blinks and then grins. "Poetry's going a bit too far," she says aloud, London accent (Kensington) gleaming. "I can't rhyme worth a fuck. What's your name, lambkin? I'm Dot," she sticks out her hand for a handshake. "I'm a cage-dancer and..." Dot grins. "...Probably best I leave it at that." She doesn't talk about her star performances of late. Classified info. "You look like you stepped past the looking glass, d'you know what I mean?"

      Full lips capture a straw. Diabolical mouth sips devilishly sweet rum. Pharzuph wanders. A hand strays against a woman. The woman leans into her date, then slides to her knees in the shadows of a booth table. Pharzuph slips between a group of grinding goth children, careful to stay at the edges of the punk throng.
     He's leaving ripples. Wherever he passes, whomever he passes seeks a partner (or partners) to relieve a sudden need. Fornication on their minds.

     Nain knows better... she avoids the waves, skirting around them as best she can. She gets caught in a ripple and barely manages to remember her initial quest. Dammit. She promises to return to a group of leather-clad club-goers later this evening, the slips away from them.
     It takes a little maneuvering and a bit of speed, but finally she manages to catch up. She shadows Pharzuph, waiting for him to notice her, careful not to touch him... not yet.

     "I apologize, then, my lady," Valmiki says easily, in Dot's direction. While his glance does stray down to cleavage (it was inevitable), it returns more quickly than might be entirely complimentary, to Dot's face. "I am a poet by trade - I can no more speak plainly than I do now."
     The woman's hand is accepted in a tannic one, and bowed over - more slightly, this time, and he murmurs, "A thousand stars must have thrown themselves from the heavens upon the announcement of your birth. - A looking glass?" Straightening, dark brows lift towards the ceiling, and he looks about with a gay laugh. "Drat - is that pesky Cheshire cat still with me, then?"

     Dot takes her hand back after a firm and goodly shake. "Oh, so you've heard that line before then?" she coos. "You're much more like Alice, wot. I don't remember the story all that well. I guess you could call me the Queen of Hearts. I like it my way," Dot grins and sips at the drink. It's potent as all hell. "So, what brought you to Phantastic Phantasmagoria? Morbid curiosity?"
     By the time the drink is done, the talking will be done. It's one of those sort of drinks.

Posted by rowan at September 03, 2003 10:54 PM