Post by sham on Nov 3, 2008 2:51:10 GMT -5
The rough planks of wood grated against the dusty floor as the door creaked open, groaning from its retirement as a functioning bar. The sign hung crooked from the cramped lobby, thin paint cracked and peeling against the gray wood. The dust had lain an inch thick before they had the lock had been picked and the boarded up windows stuffed with crusty pieces of cloth to better conceal the dim light from the single working lightbulb that hung from a thick cord on the ceiling. It had taken longer to find all of the extension cord for even that luxury; her apartment only a block away now carried more than 200 metres of electricity stapled through the sewers to provide light for the dingy hole they called an establishment.
Chunky black heels clattered across the kitchen to the carpeted floor of the night club, muddy hazel eyes caressing the white sheets crumpled in a corner from the discarded furniture, the short catwalk that extended from the stage into the crowded masses of ghostly tables, once draped in people and white restaurant cloth. They found the hastily repaired notches in the table legs, the odd heights of chairs that had worn away with time and poverty as the owner had gambled his life and his family away. 'Friday Night' had been shut down over 3 years ago, leaving broken memories and furniture.
It had taken a month to clean out all of the rats. Miss Blackwell moved to the end of the catwalk, the whisper of material sliding across thin metal loud in the silence of the bar. She'd found a homeless person in here once, she recalled; kicking him out of his latest haven had been a difficult job and she had installed a better lock system shortly after. The spare key lay incongruously in a broken pipe two feet below the door, half hidden by the endless garbage the filled such alleyways.
At twenty four years of age, Miss Blackwell wondered why she bothered with teenagers antics; why she left university at precisely 5:30PM every afternoon on Friday's to return to this miserable hovel instead of her small apartment to have a second shower for the day and getting ready to visit the nightclubs that were still in fact, open. The shapeshifter rubbed her eyes tiredly, pulling her hair out of the loose bun she kept for formal purposes at university and flicked the hair tie across the room. It wasn't often that people turned up on these nights, but she was here all the same. They often had news when they did come here, in such a rush they knocked the lightbulb and it swung crazily on its short rope, messy figure eights creating writhing shadows across the crumbling dancefloor.
There was always the chance that she would hear of her favourite thieves again. Absently she swung her legs, feet only just brushing the ground. Perhaps she would be able to kill Dan's new partner as well. The floor creaked gently with the wind, the building betraying its age to one of the older members of what could only be called an organised street gang. Even Shelpey Alley would grow old, eventually. But it dnied its age as with everyone, hiding behind new paint and a shiny carpet freshly bought from the store across the road. False perceptions and characters were rampant in this new world, so similar and so different to the life she tried to build outside of the chaos of the Guilds. She wouldn't give it up for anything.
Here she was Lolly. The heels came off her feet, carefully arranged next to her as she leant against the pole, eyes raised to the ceiling. Gaping, empty holes lay where the blue lights had once hung, shining against whomever graced the stage as they stepped out from behind the moth eaten velvet curtain that was necessary of any decent stage set up. A slender, lightly freckled arm reached up, pale fingers grasping the dancing pole lightly. If she lay long enough, she could see in her minds eye the blonde, willowy figure that brought claps from the audience, throwing etheral hats into the dust-choked air.
Chunky black heels clattered across the kitchen to the carpeted floor of the night club, muddy hazel eyes caressing the white sheets crumpled in a corner from the discarded furniture, the short catwalk that extended from the stage into the crowded masses of ghostly tables, once draped in people and white restaurant cloth. They found the hastily repaired notches in the table legs, the odd heights of chairs that had worn away with time and poverty as the owner had gambled his life and his family away. 'Friday Night' had been shut down over 3 years ago, leaving broken memories and furniture.
It had taken a month to clean out all of the rats. Miss Blackwell moved to the end of the catwalk, the whisper of material sliding across thin metal loud in the silence of the bar. She'd found a homeless person in here once, she recalled; kicking him out of his latest haven had been a difficult job and she had installed a better lock system shortly after. The spare key lay incongruously in a broken pipe two feet below the door, half hidden by the endless garbage the filled such alleyways.
At twenty four years of age, Miss Blackwell wondered why she bothered with teenagers antics; why she left university at precisely 5:30PM every afternoon on Friday's to return to this miserable hovel instead of her small apartment to have a second shower for the day and getting ready to visit the nightclubs that were still in fact, open. The shapeshifter rubbed her eyes tiredly, pulling her hair out of the loose bun she kept for formal purposes at university and flicked the hair tie across the room. It wasn't often that people turned up on these nights, but she was here all the same. They often had news when they did come here, in such a rush they knocked the lightbulb and it swung crazily on its short rope, messy figure eights creating writhing shadows across the crumbling dancefloor.
There was always the chance that she would hear of her favourite thieves again. Absently she swung her legs, feet only just brushing the ground. Perhaps she would be able to kill Dan's new partner as well. The floor creaked gently with the wind, the building betraying its age to one of the older members of what could only be called an organised street gang. Even Shelpey Alley would grow old, eventually. But it dnied its age as with everyone, hiding behind new paint and a shiny carpet freshly bought from the store across the road. False perceptions and characters were rampant in this new world, so similar and so different to the life she tried to build outside of the chaos of the Guilds. She wouldn't give it up for anything.
Here she was Lolly. The heels came off her feet, carefully arranged next to her as she leant against the pole, eyes raised to the ceiling. Gaping, empty holes lay where the blue lights had once hung, shining against whomever graced the stage as they stepped out from behind the moth eaten velvet curtain that was necessary of any decent stage set up. A slender, lightly freckled arm reached up, pale fingers grasping the dancing pole lightly. If she lay long enough, she could see in her minds eye the blonde, willowy figure that brought claps from the audience, throwing etheral hats into the dust-choked air.