Phantasmagoria?
     Phantasmagorgeous...
     Julian really has outdone himself this time, and Himself surely must be pleased with the results. The best, the brightest, the wealthiest, the most vulnerable are all here. In the cages. On the dancefloor. On the catwalks. In the exclusive clubs above.
     That must be where the exclusive clientele watches and takes part in the sex shows...
     One part European disco, five parts den of iniquity, the Phantasmagoria is always packed. The only time bodies aren't quivering in here is when they're closed on Mondays.
     It's a huge space and has four stories of unadulterated enjoyment. Pleasure. Lust. You could cut it with a knife -- and in some rooms, that's just all part of the service provided.
     And it's popular with all types, but mostly the beautiful and the rich, the easy and the limber. It's an assault on the senses. Just as Andrealphus prefers it. Or at least... used to prefer it. Who knows what pleases him these days...
     Oh, say! Look who's there. A beautiful blonde in red leather pants that might as well be painted on, held up by some miracle (well, not quite) at his hips that even the fact that the front is unlaced doesn't phase it. Red Docs are beneath these. He wears nothing else. Beautiful, a model -- or something. Golden blonde hair that surrounds his face in a curly halo. Looks familiar maybe. He slides down the stairs from the catwalk. When he turns...
      What irony...
     He's wearing a pair of fake red wings made out of ostrich feathers, dyed a brilliant cherry red. Only Pharzuph would be clueless enough to miss his own joke...

     They say that in America people are all style and no substance... but in London not looking like you fit in can get you killed. Anyone coming to a place like the Phantasmagoria in a sharp three piece suit is either from Scotland Yard or some business man slumming and looking for some cheap thrills, not a true freak. Neither are terribly welcome here, and least if their not here to play by the Phantasm's rules.
     Looming in the doorway is a tall man of mixed heritage. European features with an Japanese flair, all neatly packaged in a sharp, sharp Italian three piece. He is not a slight man, rather he walks with a sleek predatory grace of a jungle cat. It's the kind of stark beauty worn only by those that hide a monster in their souls.
     The graceful creature is quickly intercepted by one of the bouncer. A big man. A very big man. Perhaps even one of hells soldier's and privy to a few songs to weave the symphony in his favor. Boldly he puts a hand on our dapper gentleman's chest and says, "Wot's your business 'ere?" He says in a thick coal miners accent. The kind of accent only very tough people have.
     The well dressed man looks at the huge man with eyes that glimmer with equal parts of baleful disdain and bored annoyance. Calmly the well dressed guest says, "Remember when your dog Fairbank's was hit by a truck when you were ten?" His tone is almost musical as the question is asked. A sad mournful note sounds in the Symphony briefly, as natural as anything... for this is what he is made for.
     The bouncer has stood toe to toe with some of the most depraved human beings alive and not flinched... with a little help of trick's he's been taught by his patrons he's even ejected the stray vampire that got it into his mind to 'eat the profits.' There is little in this world that could shake him. The massive wave of guilt that washes over him, however, strikes like tidal wave and beneath the Habbalites emotional assault a will of iron folds like a paper plate. The bouncer sags to his knees balling in forlorn misery. Josander meanwhile calmly continues into club.
     And it does not take him long to find his mark. Zeroing in on the fashion nightmare that is Pharzuph he quickly cuts a swath through the crowd towards him.

     It's not that unusual to see powerful men in suits, but most of those lot are whisked upstairs to be treated to underage Japanese twins or somesuch. You know, typical kinky businessman bullshit. But you're not typical, and you make a bee-line for one of the more extraordinary treats Phantasmagoria has to offer.
     Maybe it should be called Pharzuph-agoria...
     The Genius of Fornication is doing what he does best, keeping the bodies slapping. A couple in a booth suddenly simply can't wait, and everyone is so high on crystal, E and other "vitamins for the soul" that they simply turn to watch. Pharzuph takes their glass and spins around, one of his feathers falling...
     Pharzuph turns just in time to come face to face with the man in the suit. No, he hasn't a clue, Josander. That would require having more of a memory.

     As the red winged um.... well let's just call him the red-winged Fornicator turns to face the well dressed Habbalite it evokes a sigh from Josander. His dealings with this creature over the years have been sparse. He hated what he was and he hates what he is. But nether the less all inquiry's must start somewhere.
     "Pharzuph... I need a moment of your time." The Demon of Contracts states. For someone that lives by the saying 'the devil is in the details' he can be awfully direct.

     A moment of my time? Golden eyebrows gleam upwards and Pharzuph smoothes a smile. No, you're not ringing a bell. But you're not bad looking, and you look like you need to lighten up. Insinuating fingers slip between the folds of your Italian suit and soon you have an eyeful of Pharzuph.
     Pharzuph. Pharzuph. You said the magic word, his name...
     "Well, I don't know about a moment. I'm pretty popular. Do you have something for me? Make it worth my while... couple it with a word and a blow," to quote Mercutio.
     He once was something else. He's still.... something else, but far, far different. Fingers snake against the fabric. It's a good thing he doesn't have the orgasm-inducing grasp that Julian has, but still... a pair of Japanese twins would be good right about now...
     Wouldn't they?

     Emotions are something that Josander reads like a sheet music. Move a note here... tweak a note there and suddenly the complexion of things change. Someone new talking to the twin-cocked marvel starts to bring his favored admirers out of the woodwork. Intent on stealing back their play-partner before this bastard in a suit steals him. Of course this makes them easy to find.
     One by one Pharzuph's 'regulars' sag into their seats overwhelmed with apathy, some even start to leave, feet dragging. "It looks like your dance card just cleared up..... let me buy you a drink."

     Pharzuph watches able bodied (very able bodied) men and women filter and disperse off to other enjoyments and the party is going on without him. Who are you and what do you want with me? Some particle inside bubbles up but it either doesn't quite reach his brain or... having reached it... his brain hasn't the slightest idea what to do with it. So he just says, "Alright...here!" And he gestures to a booth.
     Red and sparkly, it suits him. He with the trailing ostrich feathers dyed bright red. Pharzuph slips into the horseshoe shaped booth, the folds of his pants and the dual good times it holds slipping downward. Maybe he'll call someone over to give him a hand. No, make that two!
     "You know me, so..." A foot stretches out to move against your leg. "... who sent you..." Talking to Pharzuph is a lot like playing twenty questions. And every time you see him you have to start all over again.

     As he slides into the booth across from Pharzuph, the well dressed demon reaches into a breast pocket to produce a brass plated cigarette case. He takes one from the case as it flips open and screws it between his lips before holding it out to offer his table mate. "No one sent me Pharzuph... I am merely concerned about my fellows in this little slice of hell made earth."
     Josander takes his brass plated lighter from the cigarette case while waiting to see if Pharzuph will have a smoke. Before lighting however he spots a passing... well actually it's just another club goer, "Go get me a dirty gin martini and whatever my friend is having." he says around his cigarette as he lights. The lighter set down he fishes out several pound notes to hand to the club goer before adding, "You will want to be speedy about it."

     "Just the one I always have," he says. He lives here -- they should know. It's a jello shot with cinnamon schnapps and a cherry liqueur. It looks like Pharzuph dresses. Pharzuph blinks at Josander, the sort of blink that has to repeat itself several times before it really takes. "And two straws," he adds in an afterthought.
     "It was very cruel of you to send away my party," Andrealphus' chamberlain murrs it out the same way Betty Page might have teased her favorite boy toy for being naughty. "Who did you say you were again... I should remember you," he notes. "But I don't..."
     Pharzuph is the very vision of Grecian Eros, right down to the oiled skin and perfumed hair. And the red wings don't hurt either. In the light, one may tell that he is dusted over with a kind of golden powder. Honey powder, other senses might say.

     "One man's cruelty is another man's mercy." Josander says before settling back in the booth and taking a long drag of his cigarette and snapping his case shut. All demon's smoke. It's a union thing. "You may call me Josander." He'd further explain that he is the demon of Contracts but he's worried about not having all night.
     "I just thought I would pay you a visit... Many are concerned about your Patron." Another drag form his cigarette before adding, "Andrealphus." As if he needed that explained to him. "He's been a bit reclusive lately. I am wondering if perhaps you have seen him. You are one of his favorites after all."

     Andrealphus...
     "Andrealphus," and he sighs when he says it, among other things. Pharzuph doesn't smoke, he doesn't remember that stipulation being in his contract. He looks for his drink then leans across the table, elbows on the surface, cheeks resting on fists. "He's beautiful as ever. My Lovely Lord visits me," and then Pharzuph sits back, crossing one leg over his other and seeming at the moment like any spoiled cat who gets to sit on The Big Pillow and eat tuna hearts from glass dishes. "I am his Favorite. Singular," and his cheeks go red, as they always do when he is jealous. "He gave me a ring. It was too small for my finger so..." heart-shaped mouth curls a smile. "I put it somewhere else."
     There is another pause and again Pharzuph leans in, smelling of honey and myrrh and cinnamon. "You know... Josander," he breathes it. "If you ... want a good time, you don't have to go all the way to Andrealphus..."

      The energy in the club heightens not so far from the booth. A localized disturbance, really, but enough to send a sharp spike through the already-ecstatic crowd. A few yelps and a crescending buzz marks some event, and from the throb of bobbing heads and angling bodies, whatever the event may be, it's definitely moving closer to the confines of the booths...

     It's when the passing clubber returns with drinks that Josander looks to notice the small localized disturbance that sends ripples down the ocean of human bodies. "That is very clever of you... Perhaps I should start calling you Prince Albert instead." the Habbalah says from the corner of his mouth while giving the young woman that brought the drinks a decided go away stare.
     Taking his dirty martini and sliding the... well that jello shot thing... before Pharzuph he continues his conversation. One remains out towards the dance floor. He's not sure what's causing the ripple... but he wagers he could make a good guess. "Well after all. the demonic community is always very attuned to Andre's movements.... After all Lust is the great front upon which we are almost unstoppable. Besides even his most vocal detractors would secretly trade their forces for five minutes in a broom closet with him."
     A final drag taken off his cigarette, Josander snuffs it out in the ashtray. "That being said, Pharzuph, never proposition me again." Of course he won't remember that. Even the way Josander says this seems to indicate it's something he's had to say before. "Carnal pleasures are just something I partake in when there is nothing good on CNN. Now, Andrealphus visited you recently then? What did you talk about?"

     What else can it be? The throng within feet of you is already starting to angle away, voice loudening as they stare. "Is that him? That must be him. God, look at him..."
     Hurry, Josander. You don't have much time...

     Pharzuph sits back, glowering, curling the drink into the model vessel's very agile hand. "What kind of ... " man, demon, whatever, "... bloke walks into a sex club and then doesn't want to be propositioned." You've hurt his feelings. No one says no to Pharzuph. He's the Genius of Fornication! It says so right on his cards...
     "I don't know," Pharzuph says simply, even a little demurely. And he suddenly becomes less than accommodating. He pokes at the jello with the two straws, gives it a stir and lifts the deadly sweet and spicy concoction to his mouth. He sips, his eyes lid, and he bites on the end of his straw. "I don't remember. He comes to see whenever I call him. I do not think we do much talking, Josander..."

     "I see...... It is good to know that your relationship is still... healthy..." Another sip from the dirty martini as he turns to look in the direction of the murmurs. He's almost sure of who that is at this point, "Is Julian here tonight? Or is he busy?"

     There is a constant throng of people here, naturally. People dressed for success, or what amounts to it in this haven of ungodly desires. People seeking a moment's liberation from their lives; forbidden fruits. Anyone else would be shown the door, politely or otherwise. This isn't a place for tourists nor gawkers.
     Past the bouncer, with only the most cursory of inspections, comes a newcomer to the Phantasmagoria. Rather, yet another newcomer. A man who seems to be doing his best to not stand out. Just the requisite amount of skin-hugging black shirt, and black leather pants, give him the look of someone who knows the drill here, but at the same time appears more like a man trying to show a professional image in a odd kind of way.
     His eyes wander across the faces of those in the club, pauses on the lips of those speaking, reading the words without needing to hear the sound. The throng around him brings a smile to his features. A glowing expression the belies this man's love of crowds, and the people they contain. No appearance of annoyance shows as he is jostled this way and that, slowly making his way... well... where ever.
     He doesn't quite know which way he is going, not that he would ever admit that. Instead, he lets an air of confidence fill his movements, appearing for all the world to be wanting to go where ever it is the crowd takes him.
     Business can wait: right now he is just enjoying being in the crowd, and not in Hell. And anyways, a newcomer of his sort might raise certain eyebrows, some questions, and if the world was perfect: a dash of paranoia.

     "If you want to really know, maybe we can tape it..." Lips curl around the straw and Pharzuph ... suckles his liquor. His mood is decidedly put out. "I do not know why you are asking. My Master adores me." He pauses, "... he tells me all the time, his hand in my hair, guiding my head. Why would anyone worry about The Beautiful One? Has he ever been less than Perfect?" His chamberlain sings his orisons better than anyone.
     "Julian is always here. He is here every night." He smiles. "Look around you... pleasure, lust and fornications everywhere. I have decided to stay... Julian has a wonderful citadel...and very... very comfortable pillows..."

     "Both," Julian's voice comes, at the booth's edge. Pharzuph's side. He gives a winsome smile, lavender eyes gleaming at Josander. "And thank you," he adds, stepping into the dim glow provided by a single hanging triangle of light centered above the booth's table.
     "Mr. Anders, a pleasure again," Julian says, using the vessel's name. Dressed in a blue silk shirt, the material seems more like rubber as it fits tightly over his chest and stomach. A simple look, ending in black slacks. "I'm surprised to see you here, I will confess."
     What do you want, Josander?
     "Hello, fair brother," Julian offers to Pharzuph, strong hand reaching to touch the blonde on his shoulder.
     "Having a good evening?" Julian asks, half-bent at booth's end. He looks up and scans the immediate area. "It's a so-so night," he explains, a contrast to the multi-levels of sardined mortals, gyrating their way to Bliss.

     Pharzuph pokes the jello in his glass with the straw, staring into it. He lifts his lidded eyes to Julian as hand lands on his shoulder. "No," he says simply. "I had a line waiting to see me, he sends them all away and then," here's the worst part! "He told me not to proposition him!" His heart-shaped face goes scarlet -- ah, those blondes and their complexions! He pokes the jello again then lifts the glass.
     The glass is clear and shows a pierced tongue coiling around wobbly jello and eventually easing it down his throat. He puts the glass on the table. "I want another drink..." And he scoots over, letting Julian pile in beside him. Well, as a hint, better said, that he should do so.
     "You didn't have to send them all away," he mutters.

     There is a sigh and Josander's eyes close for the briefest of seconds. A moment later they open, "There... as soon as we're finished everyone will be over their bought of apathy and will be in need of a good rough grudge fucking. That should please you." The bone thrown to Pharzuph, Josander's attention turns to the master of the house.
     "You look successful and healthy as always Julian. London has been good to you. I was just speaking with Pharzuph about your patron. She's been acting a bit reclusive and it has many grumbling with concern. I thought who better to ask than his two favorites..."

     Pharzuph looks suddenly bored. The only thing worse than having that done was being patronized! There's no consoling him now. The waitress returns, bringing Pharzuph another round, and another round of dirty martinis. Two new straws and a new lump of wobbly cherry jello. Pharzuph pokes at it.

     A woman with a dark-chocolate bob taps the young man in black leather and black shirt -- one of several, maybe they're all in the same club. "Hello there, love, I'm Belinda. Here, you looked lonely," her red lips spread in a smile. "So I brought you a drink on the house."
     It's in a martini glass. It's red. The glass is rimmed with yellow sugar. It looks and smells potent.

     It's always been that way -- before and after the War -- for Julian. Few remember his real name, or even his old Word. Did he ever have one? But no one does not know that he comes with Andrealphus. Part and parcel. And through Julian, whether at Le Conte as the Marquis, or as Bataille, Andrealphus has nothing but benefitted. Packed in, the mortals are, sending spiraling helixes of debauched Essence to the Word of Lust...
     "London's delightful," Julian smiles, one arm on the booth's back, the other on the table. Knee in the seat near Pharzuph. "The climate suits me and business," lavender eyes shine, "...goes on. Such is the way of things. As long as we're successful here," the Kane mantra, "...then I've done my part for the greater good and happiness of all." Oh, indeed. A wink and a flash follow.
     "Hi, sweetie," Julian quips to a girl who passes by, giving his exposed rear a rub.
     "As for the rest," Julian's attention returns to the booth, hand slipping from booth to land on Pharzuph again to give him a cheer, "...ask away." Now that I'm here. No preying on Pharzuph, please. "I can't say much on the reclusive sort...She goes where She wishes, and does what She wants." Muscled shoulders and arms lift and fall in a shrug. "We see Her, as always..."

     He drifts. Anonymous in a crowd is the perfect state of being. Watching people perform acts that by light of day, and nine-to-five job, they would be quake to even hint at. Their faces, their actions, impressed into his mind. One day, this night might prove more than immediately useful.
     Then, from the crowd he breaks, and moves towards where drinks are served in a dizzying variety of the world's most favorite poison. Gaze drifts, as he does, through the crowd, taking in what everyone else is having. Drink, or otherwise. From this he chooses the most average drink he can. The drink that most people are drinking.
     And just as he is on his final approach towards the bar, a woman is spun out of the crowd to save him from his own actions. "Belinda." He repeats the name, smile on his lips a twitch more friendly. "Alexander." The smile broadens for a moment. "How could anyone be lonely in a place like this, and with such friendly people such as yourself?" The drink changes hands, lifts to lips.
     All the while his thoughts race. hates making a spectacle of himself. It is almost anathema to his Word to draw attention. But, attention drawn to one place is attention taken from elsewhere, he consoles himself. Ultimately, he is serving his Word, even though it bothers him in the way he is doing it. How else is he going to find the Boss here? Unless, of course, something amazing fortuitous occurs.

     Belinda is lovely -- it's part of the service -- and her smile lights up her face. "That's more like it!" Little northern London accent. She's dressed in red, all leather, hot-shorts and tank. All she's missing are the horns and the tail. The boots are thigh-high and leopard.
     Free of the proffered drink, Belinda places a hand upon his arm. "Alexander, pleased to," meet you, natch. "If you want anything else," she has to lean in, as the music is picking up several notches and hitting 120 tempo. "... you just let me know. I'm off the cages tonight...and am here to serve..." Belinda smiles and pats his arm.
     The cages. Raised above the dancefloor, filled with men and women solo and men and women in groups. They say that the sex is simulated. But you know... it's hard to tell with the lighting and distance.

     "It would seem that I have been worrying over nothing then." Josander says with simple nod. And that said he slides from booth, straightens his tie and replaces his cigarette case in his breast pocket. "I know you are both very busy so I'll not waste any more of your time..."
     Now that there is a place for everything and every thing is in his place the demon nods again before saying, "I am afraid I have matters that I must tend to elsewhere. Been quite some time since I've been in london, naturally I've left some loose ends that need tying, perhaps I can pay you both a visit soon. More of a social visit... catch up on old times and the like. I wish you both a good night."

     Julian nods, rising slightly from his hovering stance. "Any time you like," he says to Josander. "Welcome...back...to London..." My city now.

     No picking on Pharzuph. It is one of Andrealphus' rules. It's like kicking the proverbial dog when it's down. I mean, enough is enough. The hand on Pharzuph does make him brighten. In fact, it makes him smile archaically and lean in toward Julian. More please.
     "When I see Andrealphus," Pharzuph murrs, "I will tell him you were looking for him..."
     That's debatable. Who knows if he'll even remember it...

     And then the woman wanders off, Alexander is once more anonymous amidst the throng. The drink, again, is lifted. It truly is quite good. If it were only for the drinks, Alex could see why people would return.
     Towards the stairs he meanders, figuring a bird's eye view might help him find his quarry. Though, naturally, only if that quarry weren't already too busy with something -- or someone -- else.
     Soon up the stairs, he is upon the cat walk, leaning against the rail so he can view the world below.

     And what a wonderful world it is...
     There are four floors, bodies in various stages of undress, lingering, loitering, layering on the catwalk, the landings. The dancefloor is seeing high, high traffic tonight, as is the fourth floor. It isn't the busiest it has ever been -- and that's saying something.
     You gather stares as you pass through. Men, women. Shame, nowhere to be found...

     He returns to reading people, from this vantage point he can see so many more of them. In any crowd there is a focal point, in any collection of focal points, one that is most important. The one place everyone wants to be.
     In this place, there has to be one. Couldn't exist without it, he muses. Who, in this wonderfully sinful place, could be the one that everyone wants? He watches their body language, their stares and follows the trails of their whispers: who are these people most interested in?

     The world above is perhaps more interesting than the world below. Upstairs, on the metal and in real arcs of darkness, well, the club cannot be responsible. The dancers are more in the line of sight, and from the new perspective, they look actually well-polished. Some might dance professionally during the day.
     But downstairs, things are more apparent. There's several bars, with a slew of four bartenders at each, frantically working. Wait-staff, male and female are all impeccably dressed in roles -- this is a club that knows how to give its patrons what they want -- dominators, sex bombs, strippers, fetish...all styles and types are covered so that patrons see what they expect to see. The bouncers too, are well-placed. Phantasmagoria is a well-oiled machine of lights, noise, and energy.
     Some of the well-to-do in London are around the tables, dying to be seen. A newscaster from BBC1. A talk-show's staff in another booth. Members of a few musical acts. The smattering of actors. A young MP. A deputy secretary from the Home Office. The Titled and the children of the Titled...
     And around one booth, people seem to stare from dance floor's edge. A man in tight blue shirt and black slacks. Dark-haired and speaking softly to a blonde in the booth. Not so far from him is a man in a suit. A bouncer. Some pass and speak at the one in blue, causing the man to twist, to smile and wink at passing patrons.
     You need to be careful, remember...Josander wants to trick you, Pharzuph...

     The blonde. Let's take a moment for the blonde...
     He is barely clothed -- like everyone else -- and what he is wearing is red. To match the red wings -- fake -- from his naked back. He has a head of golden curls and though he should be belle of the ball, he is still sitting.
     There is a crowd growing around the booth. There are several people looking for the pretty party boy known only as Icarus. They don't know just when he arrived. It seems like he's always been here...

     The Man in Blue. The title is filed in his mind, along with the faces of those more public individuals. Alexander taps his mind, the wealth of information contained within. Is this the boss, here? Does he even know? And what of the other, the blond, this Icarus flown in from foreign lands?
     The man in blue, the man in red. For a moment, Alex amuses himself with bad chess analogies.
     But he has found his quarry. And so he has found his path for the evening, and unfortunately for his mood, it seems like such a direct path. He hates direct paths. He really does. They are almost as anathema to him as answering direct questions. Alexander would rather meander around a point, and see it from all angles. Learn all it secrets, before stepping in.
     But some nights, things just don't go that way.
     Down the stairs, slowly this time. Languid steps down, avoiding the people.
     Now to really break the rules, and get noticed.

     I didn't say anything...
     What is there to say?
     I did not tell him anything. Besides, I saw him the other day. I didn't even have to lie...
     The blonde with the red wings shrugs a little, then nods, then seems to assent to something. The blonde with the red wings pokes his drink, then lifts it, sucking the jello from the glass. He stands up in the booth, red leather pants unlaced. A body and a face for sin.
     No matter what the wings might infer....

     The dark-haired man twists and gives greetings to other passing people. He takes a step back for the blonde, as if anticipating the blonde's departure. One hand rests lightly now on the booth seat, the other extended to the blonde, as if he should be his escort.

     They are leaving. His mind rises up in anger at himself. He delayed too long, and now they are leaving. He will miss his chance.
     Calm.
     No need for panic. Panic leads to bad decisions. Bad decisions lead to a very unhappy Alaemon. Alexander does not want that, not for anything in Creation.
     Well, maybe. Secretly. Just a little.
     He banishes that thought as rapidly as it arrives, and sets to his task of making sure his opportunity to speak to the Man in Blue occurs. Perhaps an accident run-in? Break my glass on their all-to-perfect skin? No. That would likely result in quite the opposite of desired reactions.
     Three more steps, and he is to the ground floor once more. Not far from his quarry.

     The blonde smiles. It appears that all is forgiven. Well, in a manner of speaking. He takes the offered hand, looking down at the man in blue with... Desire. Want. Lust.
     Though those who might not know better might say... affection... appreciation... love...
     He's popular, the blonde. As he stands up, there's a shout of "Icarus!" And he turns and waves. All happiness seems to have returned. The blonde in red looks to the man in blue, and then he leans down and plants a kiss square on the man's mouth.

     The kiss is accepted unflinchingly. The smile is shared, and with a bouncer behind, the man in blue seems to resume some walk. There is no rush to leave, it seems. With the booth emptied and both men on the main floor, people are eager to rush toward them and resume previous connections and conversations.

     Gaining attention through subtle means. It isn't going to work for him here, tonight, with these two. They're too wrapped up in each other, and the world they have created here.
     So Alex breaks another rule, and decides to make introductions.
     Perhaps, Just perhaps, the audacious route might work where skill and guile would fail.
     Anyone paying attention would notice Alexander's change in plans. From idle motion, moving in slow orbit of the two men, he turns directly and falls into their sphere. His feet chart a direct course, a determined -- if still friendly -- expression on his face.

     Lips curl around a straw, the straw held throughout a smile, the smile given to the dark haired man in blue. "You should dance with me, Julian," Pharzuph says. "Belinda and Moira dusted my skin with honey. You won't believe where I have Swavroski crystals..." He laughs, he laughs with delight. "Come... will you dance with me, Julian? I have had too many No's tonight, and not enough Yes's..."
     A woman's arms snakes around Pharzuph's shoulders. His dance card is filling back up, it would seem. Or at the very least people are taking out their pencils...

     The bouncer doesn't move very far. Many come into this orbit. However, the one in blue does look up, his eyes indeed a violet hue. The hand he was shaking in a booth is let go, and he cocks his head to the arriving stranger, wonder who he might be.
     There's always been the unwritten requirement that Andrealphus' servitors must be of the 'pretty' people. But then there are The Sublime. Julian rises at the man's presence, causing his booth guests to twist to see. Who's getting what little time Julian has to spare for us?
     "Yes," Julian says to Pharzuph, but he's slightly distracted.

     You say it, but you don't mean it! Pharzuph isn't encouraged by the less than enthusiastic reply. He turns his head to see who on earth has stolen his thunder....

     He cannot help it, his whole being rings out with the power of being noticed. At least, it feels that way to him. Alexander has always had that duality within him, the dance between anonymity and fame. Two poles pulling.
     The smile and the light in his dark eyes give away that he has met Julian's gaze. But it is not the same smile that the patron's of this place would give, if in the same position. No, this one is a touch more self-indulgent. A touch more triumphant.
     He also notices the expression of the man in red. That demanding want, and how Julian has turned it momentarily aside. Alexander winces slightly, noticeably. He does not wish to cause problems, ultimately.
     A job is a job, however, and this one is far from done.
     Without words, as he approaches, he extends a hand in greeting. Alexander will let them have the opening volley.

     "Have we met?" Julian asks, giving his right hand to the man in black. "Julian Kane," he says firmly, shaking with a musician's toned grip. Perfection even in sculpted wrist, hand, and fingers. Julian's elbow brushes Pharzuph's arm, insuring that they remain close.

     "Not formally, no" Whatever that is supposed to mean. "Alexander Neimes."
     His eyes travel to Pharzuph for a moment. "And this must be the famed Icarus, whom everyone is so delighted with."
     "I am honored to finally make your acquaintance." Alex addresses it to them both, making the stiff, formal words sound a little bit familiar as if to say 'Good to see you again, Old Chums.'

     A honey-powder brushed arm surrounds Julian's waist, insinuating as much as holding. He has a red-winged cupid on his shoulder. That red-winged cupid that is now looking the stranger up and down. Mostly down. Pharzuph cocks his head.
     Pharzuph's heart-shaped mouth curls in the start of a satisfied smile as he is addressed. "I'm famous, Julian," he says, and he giggles. Oh, rather.
     Pharzuph leans against Julian's back and shoulder -- Pharzuph is tall, actually, it's easy to overlook that until you're standing right in front of him. "The girls started that. I don't really understand it," of course not, "... my name is..."
     Are you going to elbow him, Julian?
      "...is Pharzuph." A pause. "It's Babylonian, like my tastes in sexual positions and sensual oils..."

     The look that crosses Alexander's face speaks volumes, if only for a split second. It says: I know you, Pharzuph. You didn't really need to introduce yourself.

     The elbow would have been far too late. "Mr. Neimes." A nod. Well. "Finally to make our acquaintance, eh? Guess we are famous," Julian says, motioning to an empty booth -- soon to be empty as soon as the bouncer makes suggestions to the patrons. They do rise, certainly offered a VIP trip, shuffling off to new found status.
     "Please," Julian says at the booth's direction. "I'm curious, you'll forgive, at how you are aware of us?"

     Pharzuph doesn't react to the briefest of Alexander's expressions. He doesn't remember meeting him before. Naturally...

     A direct question. One that demands the direct answer that Alexander will not give. "Fame brings many rewards, including being known by those you have never met yourself." This evasion is delivered with the warmest of smiles, lacking any smugness at all, despite the words.

     Pharzuph cocks his head, looking to Julian. The very definition of: Huh? His arms unwind from Julian so Julian may proceed to the booth. He is, of course, going to stay by Julian's side.
     Sometimes he has to be pried off...

     There's a nod from Julian as one of the wait-staff approaches. "You're kind," he replies generously. "Not that I attempt to do anything famous. What can I get you?" Julian asks of Alexander. Aside to the girl in green halter and shorts, Julian says, "Bring Icarus what he wants..."
      The girl waits attentively for the guest's order.

     The only thing Alexander could want is the most average thing in the joint. Whatever that might be this night.
     "Kind? No: honest." As if.

      "I want another Icarus..." Icarus says, he leans toward Alexander, lips curling in a satisfied smile. "I have my own drink. Maybe one day, I will have my own cage..." Golden eyebrows lift in high arches at that. As if.
     The Icarus is a schnapps, jello, cherry liqueur concoction. And he is now on his third. "Two straws!" he reminds, and he curls up in the booth. There are two thuds. Those were his shoes. Ah, Pharzuph is coming undressed...
     "It is good to be famous," Pharzuph notes. "It is certainly better than not being famous." Oscar Wilde he is not.

     Julian grins again, glancing aside at his companion this evening. "Bring me the usual, Karina. Same for the gentleman, please..."
      The girl nods, smiling at Icarus before heading off to the bar. Of course, he wants his namesake.
     "So, Mr. Neimes," Julian begins, hands lifting and falling together in his lap. You've got me. "What can I do for you?" he asks. Nothing if not direct, yes. The light of the booth causes the blue to change towards indigo for an instant, something darker and richer. "Or perhaps," Julian offers, "...it's for someone I do know?" Like a Superior. That'd be good to know.

     "I think you will find, " there is a notable pause as he decides which name to use "Icarus, that you already have your gilded cage. The question is: Is it by design, or accident?"
     The sudden plunge into metaphor is then waved away. "I'm sorry. The muse caught me there for a moment."
     And then Julian is back with his direct questioning. "It would be fair to assume it would be for someone you do know, yes" But no assurances, of course. And then, question for answer: "Have any bartending spaces available?"
     Evade. Evade. Strike.

     "No," Julian says, head tilting to the left. "I've got a full team, rather experienced. Is that what you're into...bartending?" Oh, come now. "You'd need to be...superior...for me to consider adding to that group." Julian bobs his head towards one of the counters.

     "It is generally unwise to make assumptions. I never said I wanted such a job, now did I?" Again, that warm smile devoid of any smugness.
     "Though I have been known to sling a bottle or two."
     "Naturally, I must ask: What do you consider superior in that field?" Curiosity, weakness of Alexander. A convenient weakness most of the time.
     "And what about that group inspires so much confidence and trust?" Implicit in this question is the hint that such confidence is misplaced.

     The girl in green slides back over. For some reason, her drink order was handled immediately. "Icarus," she smiles, happy to speak to him, "...for you." The other two drinks, whisky, are set down in silence. With that, she departs.

     Pharzuph looks confused. He blinks, the sort of blink that has to come in quick succession and followed by three more just like it. The metaphor keeps him quiet for a few moments.
     Who designed the cages?
     The blonde in red looks at the table then his eyes skirt their attention toward the bar. He looks vaguely upset.
     Or maybe that's just confused. Or, then again, it could be boredom...
     Pharzuph turns his head, blond curls haloing his face, as he plucks at the ostrich feathers. He looks like one of Raphael's angels. The painter, not The Healer. "I like Clarissa and Orion," he says of the bartending team. He perks up as his drink arrives and like before pokes the jello with his straws.

     "They are good," Julian says to Pharzuph, though his gaze is on Alexander. Julian then inhales sharply and goes on, "I'm busy, Mr. Niemes. If you're interested in the bar, then you can talk to my Services Manager during business hours and fill out an application..." Hand nearest Pharzuph motions for him to begin a departure.

     Hands fold atop the table, eyes glance towards Pharzuph. Alexander uses the bored Icarus to judge Alex's relative importance in the scheme of this place.
     Whiskey. What a person chooses to drink says much about them.
     Clarissa. Orion. Names of bartenders filed into his mind.
     Sitting so close to him, his companions can likely see Alex take in the information. Effortlessly, efficiently, permanently.
     Certainly a beginning. Despite the dismissal, he can't help but smile that self-indulgent, triumph-tinged smile. "Of course, Mr. Kane." If we are to using last names, so be it. "I enjoyed our conversation, and I do hope that you learned as much I did."
     "It won't be our last, I'm fairly sure."
     And yet, he doesn't depart. He waits for further cue from his companions.

     Don't judge too much on what you see from Pharzuph. If you do that, you'll have the attention span of a gnat when presented with a huge basket of ripe fruit...
     Pharzuph bounces a bit as he stands up. Drink in one hand, he bends, taking his Docs back up. He pauses, squirming back into them. Such formidable shoes for such delicate feet!
     Pharzuph twists, looking at Alexander. As his tongue comes out to flick against and then guide the jello down his throat, there is a chiming sound, a chiming as sweet as the sweetest note in the Symphony -- the chime that is pierced in his tongue. He puts his empty glass on the table. "You really should dance, Alexander..." Pharzuph holds out a hand for Julian. "Speaking of! You and I should dance... how long has it been?"
     Yesterday...

     Julian's gaze returns to Alexander. "No, I'm likely sure that it will be, as long as the conversation's about bartending." When he moves, it seems every muscle gears into motion from his neck to visible torso. Julian smiles though, content that this line is done. "A pleasure, Mr. Neimes. I hope you enjoy Phantasmagoria tonight. The drink's...on me." The one he's leaving with you on the table. His, Julian picks up as he stands. Other hand goes into Pharzuph's, giving it a squeeze. "Good night," Julian says with some finality, attention still on the man in the booth.

     And Alex lets them go. They might even overhear him chuckle, as they leave. He doesn't touch the drink. And he sits in the booth only long enough to put space between him and the two.
     Perhaps he is just one more lunatic in this grand city.
     Maybe it is time for an opening. Perhaps Orion and Clarissa need to go away. He shrugs to himself as he stands, and orients himself. Within moments he is walking straight towards the door, leaving the gifts of the Phantasmagoria behind.
     And that night he begins a new, lesser, task: Finding out everything there is to know about Clarissa and Orion. Two people is hardly Sisyphian, and is confident it will take only a week or so.
     Then the games can begin.

Posted by rowan at September 14, 2003 11:20 AM