The Sacrifice Club

[Millicent Grim]

The turn off Temple onto Dioscuri Blvd. was a game of shadow and light. The first few street lights blend a metaphysical and almost spiritual change to the transformation from electricity to fire-lit gas. It shimmered like fire-opal over the slick black paint of the Camaro, its masculine haunches choruscating like fish scales at dawn. It was a completely different kind of illumination. It went from cold, to warm... and then to darkness. Though there were a few shop windows with lights in them on the left side of the street, they looked out of time. The shop faces were old, like something from London or New Orleans. One was a coffee shop with a neon coffee mug in the Art Deco window frame. But he likely didn't have much time to survey the shops, because the right of the street was a little more strange and certainly much more busy. Almost as soon as the block started, a long line of people stood waiting. Every single one of them was wearing black, occassionally there was an accent of red or deep blue, but for the most part they were one long unit of black clad night-life. Living, breathing night. And they stretched down the longer-than-normal street, almost disappearing in the darkness on this right side of Dioscuri Blvd. Clearly this was where they were going, how could it not be?

As his car would prowl closer, the 5 story warehouse or 1920s looking bank-like structure loomed from the middle of the block. The club, itself, was black glass and stone. It was all obsidian and granite. The club had no markings on it, no words, no bills. But after he looked at it, only when he looked away, did he catch a spectre of words just below the first floor of the structure. When you looked back, looked directly at it, there was nothing there. But if you glanced at it from the corner of the eye, the words faded into view, just at the border of your subconscious. "The Sacrifice Club." The effect was like starlight. (Though certainly it must be some club wizardry in blacklight.) Captains of ships, long before technology and the world began to lack most of its mystery, knew how to navigate the world by the sky. The faintest stars could never be seen if you looked at them directly, and especially not if there was any light source in front of you or behind. You had to flirt with the stars, looking at them out of the corner of your eye. And you needed to master capturing this cool, ghostly glow to navigate the intricacies of the sea and the universe. If you didn't, you lost yourself, maybe forever.

Seduce or die.

In truth, many of the patrons of The Sacrifice Club felt that way about their haven.

There was a main entrance way that recessed into the building below this half-existing sign. The door was about 10 feet back from the wall, and in this out-cove was the obligatory tall and slightly burly (and very German) bouncer.

Though there was a long stretch of "NO PARKING," limo space in front of the Club, there were also 3 parking spots. Interestingly, the curb they were drawn in front of was red. A confusing mixture for most drivers. But these parking spots weren't for people who did not understand. Only one car was parked there, a midnight black GT Ford 500, looming like a darker shadow in the black of the night.

She directed him to park in one of the empty spots.

Millicent was home.

[Millicent Grim]

Neil: Heavenly Indulgences
Wed, May 27, 1998 13:58



Neil: The Musician


You'll never see - the courage I know
It's colours; richness won't appear within your view
I'll never glow - the way that you glow
Your presence dominates the judgements made on you.

Neil. No Family Name.
Neil, a voice like Jim Morrison had a Son with Maynard James Keenan. Impossible.
Neil, tall, 6'3" exactly.
Neil, thin, basketball build, perpetually the cat-like predator. Frozen graces.
Neil, effeminate but that touch of masculinity that wouldn't allow him to be beautiful.
Neil, just short of Carivaggio's angels.
Neil, a singer, a vampire, a monster dressed in leather.
Neil, Angel's Owner.

Neil sat in one of the plush leather couches that furnished the back-stage rooms of the Sacrifice Club. He was sunk down in it, utterly at ease, his arms spread like a crucifixion over the back of the couch, his legs were long and stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. And like a g-d-head torn down, nuzzled against him under each of his arms was a woman. There legs were crossed and grazing his own, positioned just right so they had to suffer the close tables on their sides of the couch, but they were closer to the white lines on each, to the glass things that could spark flames and night mares if you touched them to your lips. They needed them, not Neil, he'd get the dreams inadvertently, and later.

Red dresses that fit like a glove. Painted faces to hide things they didn't even know they had had. Past tense because one was dead, the other soon would be. Neil had been their goal since they'd first heard his industrial scream they call music during these lost years. He'd been the object of far too much of their money and plight ever since they heard his groans and whispers he pleaded through a microphone to anything with ears and the stomach to listen. It didn't matter though, for them he'd been singing to them alone. And tonight they had Neil between them, sisters in life, sisters in death. Neil lowered his death-kiss to the last one's throat. In her delirium she moaned softly and gave him the inspiration he'd given them. Fair is fair. An eye for an eye. A life for eternal.

"Neil..." a tentative male voice.

His hand waved the new-comer away, his face was still buried in the blond hair, still draining the elixir from her pale throat. After a moment he raised his green eyes to the musician, the one who played the Synths, a friend, a lackey. "Damnit, I'd like time to enjoy these please..?"

"I know Neil, but the one you wanted initially is still in the Club, I thought..."

Neil canted his head and waved over a large man who had found himself in the center of his own harem of harlots. He neared with a jackal grin while Neil addressed the other still. "Well then, my boy, bring her in. Send her a drink, tell her it's from me."

The tall, fair haired man that had been beckoned leaned over the back of the couch, eyeing the smaller musician before flashing his smile even more feral beneath his hawkish eyes. He offered his hyena laugh and Neil turned to look up at him. "Demitri, get rid of these, it seems like there shall be one more this evening." Neil ran his thin fingers through his unruly mane of rich brown hair, a tumble of four inch half-curls that made him look like a cross between Jim Morrison and an Achtung era Bono Vox. "Actually, Domonic, I'll go out and get her myself." He was grinning at the musician before he stood and ran his hands over his tight black shirt and midnight leathers. "I need to make an appearance anyways, after all, I Do own the place." Demitri rounded the couch and threw a girl over each shoulder, oh the indignity of crimson dresses and the ultra-blond. He leered like he enjoyed his job.

"That you do Neil, that you do." A hyena laugh and he was gone, out the back door. Neil was smirking as he left the back stage rooms. Domonic called after him faintly.

"By the way.......I thought we were really good tonight. The base needs a little work before we record but I thought we were really tight."

"We're always really good, Dom. -- but we're not as tight as I'm hoping that little blonde�s going to be."

Domonic shook his head, but Neil was already gone.

-----------------------

But as the scenery grows, I see in different lights
The shades and shadows undulate in my perception
My feelings swell and stretch; I see from greater heights
I understand what I am still too proud to mention -- to you

"Nickers, get the lady another of whatever she's drinking." Neil grinned as he slid like a serpent into the chair beside Angel at the bar. He addressed her before he had even finished appraising her with his eyes. "So you liked the show tonight?"

Angel pivoted in her seat, turning to him. His eyes told her stories with the perceptions she had that he would never understand. She spoke softly, "Yes, the music was better than usual, and I've always liked your voice." Perhaps she was teaching him a lesson by telling him what he wanted to hear.

"Oh really...? I don't think I've seen you before, and damn, I would have remembered you." It was part of his act. Neil ran this place, he ran this side of town. He was a business man, but the singing altered him every time. The blood enthralled him every time. And the drugs...well, they'd make him a Ladies' Man. Funny though, he wasn't too far gone to forget the haunting way she'd reacted to his music. That hypnotizing dance, her stare, she'd stared at him, stared at him while her eyes influenced his guitar chords. Stared like she'd been the one who'd drawn out the passion in his song. He shook his head to draw him out of reverie.

"Yes, I've been here before." Soft and simple, she nodded to 'Nick' a polite thank you as he placed the drink -her Long Island- in front of her.

The night whet on in slow conversation. Lures and games really, indulgences and finally an invitation.

-----------------------

You'll say you understand, but you don't understand
You'll say you'd never give up seeing eye to eye
But never is a promise, and you can't afford to lie.

She listened to everything he said. Smiled to any joke he made. He let her go. He let her go and he went home that night and wrote, and wrote. He finished his third album in two months of writing and musical glitches. He'd locked himself in his bed-room and would play on nights there wasn't live music at the Sacrifice Club. He didn't see Angel the entire time. It didn't matter, there'd been no connection and he had no time. No time. Lyrics and guitar rifts were his language for two months.

You'll never touch -- these things that I hold
The skin of my emotions lies beneath my own
You'll never feel the heat of this soul
My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown -- to you

You'll say, Don't fear your dreams, it's easier than it seems
You'll say you'd never let me fall from hopes so high
But never is a promise and you can't afford to lie.

The next time they would meet, would be an accident. It's what you call Fate.

Neil: and Heaven was his Oxygen...
Wed, May 27, 1998 14:42



Neil: The Hunger Artist


Darling, give me your absence tonight
Take the shade from the canvas and leave me the white
Let me sink in the silence that echoes inside
And don't bother leaving the light on
'Cuz I suddenly feel like a different person
From the roots of my soul come a gentle coercion
And I ran my hand o'er a strange inversion
A vacancy that just did not belong
The child is gone

Honey help me out of this mess
I'm a stranger to myself
But don't reach for me, I'm too far away
I don't wanna talk 'cuz there's nothing left to say
So my
Darling, give me your absence tonight
Take all of your sympathy and leave it outside
'Cuz there's no kind of loving that can make this all right
I'm trying to find a place I belong
And I suddenly feel like a different person
From the roots of my soul come a gentle coercion
And I ran my hand o'er a strange inversion
As the darkness turns into the dawn
The child is gone
The child is gone.

---"The child is gone" by Fiona Apple.

"No, I don't give a damn about who's got turf where. They know who I am, and they know what'll happen if they say No. Just watch them try and resist me." Neil jabbed his piano-player's finger at the brochures on the table. "I want it played here. That's our Opening act. They give you any lip, and you remind them what blood runs through your veins. And who the hell gave it to you." Neil could have butchered Domonic with his stare.

Domonic lifted his hands, utter compliance, his palms showed like he surrendered. "Alright Neil, I gotcha." He picked up the papers and headed out of the room, a nod to Demitri as he entered. The blond man noted Neil taking out a cigarette and wound his way to him, his lighter already in hand.

"What was that all about?"

"Domonic obviously doesn't realize what it means working here." Neil breathed in as he lit the cigarette off Demitri's flame.

"He's a good kid, he'll learn."

"If he didn't have the Synths down like a master I'd have ditched him a while back. But you're right, he will, and he is. That's why he's still around. You were the same way, so don't you forget that."

Demitri shrugged and pocketed his lighter. "Your cars out back. There's no press around now, get outa here while you can. You need time alone." Dem arched one of his far too angled brows. "You've been on edge since that night you started writing, you doing alright? You're not taking too much of Dom's..."

Neil raised his brows, crossing his arms merely waiting for Dem to finish.

"...enjoy the night alone, Neil." He turned and left out the front, Neil headed out the back.

---------------------

She moved like liquid. He'd never seen anything like it and he remembered it. Through the haze of drugs and other intoxications that night they met he still remembered it. G-d, he'd let her go. An anomaly alone. He usually took the unique ones. He liked knowing he was the last thing they tasted, the last thing that tasted them. He enjoyed knowing that he was the last thing on something so beautiful's mind. He enjoyed hunting the artistic, he enjoyed hunting ones that weren't a dime a dozen. He preferred blondes, but that wasn't his specialty, that was merely lust. Don't think bad of Neil, he wasn't just a pretty boy, you simply haven't seen his intellect yet. He's brilliant and beautiful. Demanding and dangerous. Give him time.

He stood from his seat at a table. Alone was safer, and he was. He wore dark shades in the club simply to obscure his pale features. To dull his un-earthly gifts. To mute his chiseled face and familiar lures.

She moved with her eyes closed.. Her head was tipped back exposing all the quaint seductions of those planes of her pale throat. An arm-length was given to her, and her alone on either side. He couldn't have missed this tear in the seething mass of beautiful bodies that wound in contortions to the music. The mass was seductively violent and for some reason it parted for her. It was unconscious, but he'd tasted the center of this figure- shunned. He stepped into that ring of violation. The music seemed to groan louder- the air seemed to melt, thick with it's own heat. He gripped her arm, hard, like a reflex. Her emerald gaze shot at him, wondering who had dared. There was no veil from her silver hair- the gaze was homogeneous- potent, toxic. In the cloud of radio-activity he faltered as he looked at her, his lips parted but Neil was far too himself to cast innuendo's and arrogance. Neil had melted down to his baser elements and he groaned at her, low pitched, soft but loud enough for her to hear him.

"You're ....beautiful."

Lips swallowed the words from his mouth. Swallowed the parts of himself that he'd invoked to say them. She kissed him brokenly, silver lips coveting him. Tearing like the razors they lifted their colour from. Her tongue slipped into his mouth as she wrapped arms around his neck.

The crowd surged - parting to let them stumble out of the club.

Neil: Heaven's extension...Heaven's mistake.
Wed, May 27, 1998 15:01



Neil: The Owner


I got my feet on the ground, and I don't go to sleep to dream
You got your head in the clouds and you're not at all what you seem
This mind, this body, and this voice cannot be stifled by your deviant ways
So don't forget what I told you, don't come around, I got my own hell to raise.
---"Sleep to dream" by Fiona Apple

He felt himself in his music. Something he'd never felt before. He felt the words strike true and he felt the aching of it all as he had learned the art of reaching shadow fingers through the world's speakers to make anyone who'd hear him weep or fall in love with his pain. You don't love me, you love what I know. You love the you in me.

Decades of talent, decades of dedication. He'd become eternal for this. To touch this. To make them all hunger for what he knew was bitter truth. Uncensored, unveiled. He'd become a figure-head to teach it, he'd become a leader on the side. He had had passion, he had had the desire, he'd touched everything he could, and they recognized him then. But now, oh it was so different. It was haunting beauty (like the way she could sense it). It was the fear that perfection held. It was the end that perfection promised. No, no, it was beginning. It would stay. He could make it. Perfection could not be the end, it was never supposed to be obtained.

Neil's fingers whisked through silver strands. He wasn't sleeping, he didn't need to, but he enjoyed watching her. He needed to be close to her. Her head rested atop his chest. What could she hear? He breathed, his heart beat, but could she hear how artificial he was? Could she hear the blood that must sound different as it tore past the wound he'd received in his awareness. The rift that let it seep out- the unfiltered inspiration.

What are you? How can you do this to me?

She shifted against him, her hand rising to lay open palmed upon his stomach.

You can't ever stop........

[Millicent Grim]

Demitri: ..and opposites find razor-halos like magnets...
Wed, May 27, 1998 15:29



Demitri: The Feral Lackey


Won't do no good to hold no seance
What's gone is gone and you can't bring it back around
Won't do no good to hold no searchlight
You can't illuminate what time has anchored down

Oh, Honey (I've gone a-)
Oh, Honey (I've gone a-)
Oh, Honey (I've gone away)

----"Carrion" by Fiona Apple

Demitri Romanov.
Demitri, a laugh like a hyena, a gaze like a hawk. Predator and muscle.
Demitri, tall, near 7'
Demitri, thick and strong, brute and Russian. Blond and fair behind all that terror.
Demitri, a man who would make a woman submit, a man who could never be happy.
Demitri, something that wont dissipate like a fog, but must be pinched out like a flame.
Demitri, a lackey, a vampire, an animal that learned the secret of fire beside man.
Demitri, Neil's right hand.

Neil had asked about her when he woke up. He said he'd dreamt about the past. He said he'd dreamt he'd been holding her. He'd said he needed his fix.

Demitri had told him. Told him of the things that had taken Neil's angel away. He'd told him that he didn't need her anymore, her affects were permanent, they could all be satisfied.

That girl was worse than the beast.

Demitri flew down the vacant streets in the small hours of the night. He drove his jet black car like a hurricane. It was his childe, part of his pride. He didn't play in the band but his pride was his close contact with Neil, and his car. He loved extravagance and he gulped it down in messy convulsions of his head as he tore into indulgence with a fever.

He'd seen Neil become attached. He'd seen it cloud him over. He'd witnessed the nights Neil would be too worked up to do business and all he wanted to do was write, or find her. That girl was too far implanted by the time he'd made up his mind that they all would have been better off without her.

He snarled as he spun the wheel, flinging the car across the street, fish-tailing like an aquatic. It was worse that he couldn't get enough of her himself. It was worse that she made him think things. It was dangerous. It was fatal to invoke the beast of something that was already half carnal. He wanted to take things from her�
Purity. Sanctity. Penance. Innocence. ...Freedom.

She took everything so hypnotic. The girl asked to be over-come. His fists made knuckles white above the wheel. Erotica in domination. G-d, what was she?

His black car prowled the streets.
His maniac hyena laughter rung through the vacant streets.


He'd been right. He should have stopped it.
She liked instincts.
He couldn't understand hers.
But he lived by his.

[Millicent Grim]

Evan: Ultimately good natured brute with Seraphin Ego
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 15:46 EDT



Evan: Flesh and Rhythm


Lost in a world of doubt and insecurity
Nothing that you hold sacred nothing you believe.
You're life is a contradiction,
while you thrive on manipulation.
I fight to just hold on to what I believe

--"The Thing I hate" by Stabbing Westward

Evan Fletcher.
Evan, the percussionist for Neil's band. One of the Boys.
Evan, tall, thin, rugged. Shaved head, goatee.
Evan, a lion's pride, a shark's bite and a serpent's graces.
Evan, a lady's man. G-d's gift to us All.
Evan, a man who knows where priorities are and sometimes they fall with the ladies.
Evan, a drummer. a mortal. a man.
Evan, a Regular.

Evan sat at the bar, toying with the napkin underneath his glass. Bloody Mary. How...ironic. His head was tilted like the napkin held something he wanted to entice it to reveal. Nick behind the bar was shaking his head as he mopped up the left over condensation rings from the couple who'd just left to go finish whatever they'd been doing. Nick could never get used to those two blond Fetish Dolls that enjoyed the Club.

"Man, Fox and Lamia freak me out sometimes." Spoke Nick, under his breath but to Evan as well.

Evan raised his gaze and ran his busy hand over his closely shaved head- dark stubble.

"FoxGlove is alright, Lamia is a pisser though." Evan grinned and became himself. Nick smiled like he'd conquered Evan's mood all by himself and kept on wiping down the bar. "I got a question for you, Nickers." And without further ado, or invitation. "Should I have issues with being the only warm blooded thing in Neil's group? I mean, sure, I get the chicks and actually keep them alive but...still."

"Evan, Neil loves you and your cocky attitude. And you Know it comes from being the only Breather outa the bunch." Nick smirked and let the masquerade slip away under a glimpse of fang. "I mean, c'mon, that's what gave you the balls to pin down that little china shadow, blind...chick...thing." He trailed off, trying to rope in his first impressions of the girl Evan was presently preening himself over. He muttered softly, "I'll never get used to the weirdo's in this town. Though" he got a little louder. "She was Quite a dish..."

Evan flashed his gaudy smirk. Those grins that just smell of "Yeah, you're even enjoying this grin, because it's Perfect". He rolled his shoulder and laughed his deep, masculine laugh- an attraction even among his lithe form. "You can say that again. Though, it just makes things more exotic, if you know what I mean." He gave a low, smirking coo that caused Nick to even laugh at his fiendishness. "I mean....look at Angel. She's got that ....."

"Hey hey.... don't you go..."

"Nah, Nick. It's all good. Angel and I are just friends. We understand each other. Her sprite-ness just brings on this little protective quality whether she knows it or not" He reached a hand up to smooth his goatee between forefinger and thumb, an open handed stroke. "That's just me though." Under his breath now, "and she needs it"

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, you know, I think Angel knows your little Shadow Girl. Saw 'em talking once." Nick paused and tossed the slightly wet wag into the sink behind the bar.

"Oh Reeeaallly..." He downed his drink. Evan was grinning as he stood up. "Well it seems to be that little dishes lucky day. I'll have Angel Properly, " he half-sneered. "Introduce...us." Evan took a few steps away from the bar, adjusting what he could in the mirror behind it. The Club was empty, it was too early.

"You go get 'em Tiger. And give Angel my.... Hello."

"You got it, Nickers." Evan gave Nick a tilt of his head, a half wink and a grin. All above a pointed finger, hand like a gun. One of, Those. Only a few people can get away with this gesture. Evan was one of them.





Nick: The Bartender with Wings...
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 16:34



Nick: The Club's Private Lion


I know I should have told you,
but I was so afraid you'd leave.
And now there's nothing left to say.
well nothing you'd believe.
I never meant to hurt you with
the things I couldn't say.
I promise you tomorrow while
denying you today.

--"Torn ap art" by Stabbing Westward

Nicholas Cooper
Nick, a deep voice and a deep set jaw. Sturdy, something to rely on. A Rock.
Nick, tall. Burly, brute strength checked by a good heart.
Nick, a bear or lion. Graceful as nature has made him so. Big hands that can hold you up.
Nick, shoulders and ice blue eyes. Dark hair that had a touch of flames in it.
Nick, Scottish. Accent slowly disappearing with age. Never forget.
Nick, The Bartender, a vampire, a conscience.
Nick, Neil and the Boy's almost fatherly advisor.

A bartender knows Everything. And more often then not, Everyone. A removed observer who can offer you advice on love, lust, drugs, men and fashion. He remembers your drinks if you're worth remembering. He's a shadow back-drop. A vague man with fountains of knowledge. He seems like he knows fate, and is bound by some unnatural law to just guide you along. He has secrets, he Must.

Complacent and good natured. Cunning and humorous under all situations. He's got an affinity to boyish humor and the occasional dirty joke, but like a father, he'd keep bad influences from daughter and wife and yet these trespasses of amusement are almost always enjoyed by the employer. This, this was Nick.

Unconsciously he was holding a pendant around his throat, a gesture. A silver figure of someone he once knew. Nick was a bachelor, always will be, though it was never by choice. Whenever he actually looked at the little figurine of a woman he remembered fire. Remembered ashes, remembered his daughter. And ultimately, he remembered that he had the present. Each little piece of advice was a part of his penance...... If I can make their life
better than mine...then....

His ice cold eyes that seemed like they should melt under the influence of his big heart watched Evan leave. "What a boy..." softly uttered, neither discontent nor approval, just a comment.

"Who, Evan?"

Nick turned to the other side of the room, he'd been lost in thought, hadn't heard the approach. "Oh, why hello, Domonic." Thick fingers curled around Evan's emptied glass as he brought it to the sink to rinse and wash. "And yes, Evan. He pretends he's not sentimental in there. He's got an ego that could poison his mother, but he's a good kid."

"He's probably a better Drummer, but I'll take your word for it." Domonic grinned as he slid up to the bar. Nick started to dry his glass. Two handed now, he'd dropped his memory under his shirt. "You seen Angel?"

Nick paused, arched one of his big brows and turned to place the glass on the shelf before the mirror, there was a discourse of eyes in the reflection there. Nick spoke to Domonic through it. "Evan just went to find her, but I haven't seen her in a good week and a half."

Domonic frowned. He was shaking his head softly. "Neil's going to flip. Just going to Flip. It's good that she gets away but she's pushing it." He began to drum his fingers on the bar-top. Nick turned around to look at him. He crossed the small space behind the bar and placed his own large palms on the bartop.

"Neil's already unamused. And Demitri, ...Demitri is Pissed."

"You've seen him then, haven't you Nick?" Domonic was looking at him, curious. His gaze couldn't belay his intelligence and his rather good natured inquisitiveness.

"Dom, I'm the Bar-tender, I see Everything." Dom muttered an epithet under his breath, shaking his head he turned from the bar, took a few steps away, he began to pace. Nick couldn't help but offer a simple smile. He liked Domonic, a lot, but his tendency to pace was amusing.

"I didn't think it was true. I thought that Neil was 'Right', not just in his weird-ass denial. Do you know who he is?"

"Nah, but I think Stephen saw them last night, at least that's what the Fetish-Sisters said in between ....whatever you'd like to call what they were doing." He mock shuddered and shook his head. "Took him to the ball-room last night, she did. Lucky Dem and Neil never got into hanging out there."

"Hmm, do you know where Stephen is right now?"

"Heh, Probably at that little coffee shop he likes to frequent with Adrienne and Gabriel"

"Oh, Geeeeez. I'll pass."

Nick gave his low, jovial laugh. Pure amusement and not an undertone in sight. He leaned back away from the bar and continued shaking his head. "Yeah, those twins creep me out."

"Screw 'creeping me out', they Hit on me." Domonic turned to go back the way he came. Back stage.

"Man, sorry about that, Domonic." He didn't have another thing to say on That topic. "Good luck with the Synths and the new sound system. If you need a strong back, let me know, I'm going to clean up and then go home before my shift starts. I don't know a thing about that fancy electronic stuff though."

"You got it, Nick."

Domonic: Iced Angel; Bittersweet
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 17:33



Domonic: Most likely, Martyr


I know the tears you're crying in your bed at night alone
I've dried those tears a thousand times
But those shallow empty songs about suicide are patronizing
You've got to learn to face your fears
Or do you think I'll be less lonely when I'm dead
It can't silence all the voices in my head
I close my eyes but I can't make it go away...
Do you think I'll be less lonely when I'm dead
When I'm dead
I know the songs you're singing, saying nothing loud and clear
I've heard that song a thousand times
But your noble empty lies about suicide are patronizing
You can never understand what I feel
--"When I'm dead" by Stabbing Westward

Domonic Michael Octavian
Domonic, a Saint. Smart, too smart. A touch of perfection. Where are Your wings?
Domonic, tall, thin. Regal, angular.
Domonic, the firm fey-ish build. Poison when need be.
Domonic, looks to kill for, ice blue eyes and cheek bone length black waves. Leather wit.
Domonic, perceptive gaze. A perfect smirk. A dangerous laugh.
Domonic, the synth player, a vampire. You're lucky he uses his talents like he Should.
Domonic, a musician with an intelligence you should be afraid of.

Domonic turned the corner to make his way to the back of the stage. He hadn't stopped shaking his head, the motion was welcomed. He cursed under his breath.

"The girl is going to be the death of us all." He kicked an empty packing crate, brushing away his ebon waves of hair from his ice gaze. "Everything that Neil built is going to be ashes at his feet if he keeps this up." He sneered as he picked up one of his beloved keyboards. "And Demitri can shove all his pumped up extravagance." He placed it upon it's metal cradle amid the other two keyboards he treasured. "Punks."

Domonic played the messenger boy because he was quick. He didn't like Neil's turf plans because Neil was getting sloppy. He wasn't focused when he gave his orders, but Domonic respected Neil because he was a quick wit, and wasn't afraid of his own sarcasm and intelligence. Neil was also the head man, you respect that breed easier when you work for him. Besides, his music was Incredible.

It had been a long time since Domonic had heard lyrics that could be as provoking as his keyboards. It had been a long time since he'd actually seen someone be inspired and inspire because of it. Domonic was good with knives, he was a perilous immortal, but his passion was music. He played his instruments like poetry.

She helped him though, and if there was anyone who could place a finger upon a title, or something to name her. It would be him. Domonic would be the one to find Angel when she was broken. No-one ever knew. She could recite tales to him, tell him things, whisper things. Weave stories more beautiful than the ones he'd sometimes read her. Angel was smarter than any of them knew, and he was sure she'd hadn't ever showed him the depthless amount of what she understood. He envied it really, but he wouldn't ever try to take it. Like Neil did. He wouldn't condemn her for the ebbing control she had over them all, like Demitri did. There was something hypnotically sweet about the things she could subconsciously steal from him. Nick didn't know about it. Nick was her father figure, Domonic, well, Domonic was her friend.

Who was the one who'd finally won her over? (Who could do what he couldn't?) It was a curiosity. He'd help her get away if she wanted to. He'd miss her voluminous knowledge of the mythologies he loved. He'd miss her grasp of the concepts of human nature. Her tiny form could form understandings so perfectly upon her silver lips. He'd never kissed them. She'd never become that weakness for him. Domonic was a special case. He'd been street sharpened and would always remain the impenetrable poet. The one who'd been caught, but didn't know it, really.

He'd been standing still. Just thinking, his fingers stroking the key's of his personal voice. The instrument that could manifest what he Did understand.

Domonic shook his head.

"This is Not amusing.."

[Millicent Grim]

Lamia and Foxglove: The Spider Sisters
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 18:12



Lamia and Foxglove: The Fetish Sisters


So how can I hold on
with nothing to hold on to...
Why should I hold on
when there's nothing to hold on to

I thought you were my friend. that you
were someone I could turn to
But now I realize you were a
friend when you needed something
--"How Can I hold On (Dog Attack)" by Stabbing Westward.

Lamia. No Family Name.
Lamia, Twisted Sister. Leather and lace. Voice like lost passions.
Lamia, 5'7". Curves to kill for, though they're usually wrapped around Foxglove.
Lamia, a backdrop woman. A touch of the elite's connoisseurs.
Lamia, creature of the night that will suck you dry. Black rooted blond hair. Red-rose lips.
Lamia, a vulture with first impressions.
Lamia, a Regular, a vampire. A broken being.
Lamia, Foxglove�s.

Foxglove. No Family Name.
Foxglove, Twisted Sister. Leather and lace. Violet eyes to offset Lamia's blue.
Foxglove, 5'7". Curves to kill for, though they're usually wrapped around Lamia.
Foxglove, a backdrop woman. Naive arachnid of the elite.
Foxglove, creature of the night that waste you away. Blond-white hair. Red-rose lips.
Foxglove, timid when caught without her savior.
Foxglove, a Regular, a vampire. A broken being.
Foxglove, Lamia's.

Purred and chiding laughter. A vision of white netting and red dresses. Blond hair spilling from underneath the white toole, somewhere there were blue and violet eyes but the faces were so obscure. A plastic spider was hooked in each of the veils and Evan nearly started when he caught a glimpse of the ladies that had never left the premises after their drinks at the bar.

"Man, you guys are Wacked." Evan was shaking his head as he skirted them, crossing to the other side of the inlet that led to the Club's door.

"Angel was with him you know." The blue eyed Sister half unwound from her entanglement with the other. "Fox and I saw them. Neil isn't happy."

"Who him?"

"Ohhhh..." it was too like a hiss, Evan backed up a step, unconscious. "You don't know do you." breathy words before a seductive coo of sorts. Vile thing, Lamia deserved her name. "Her knew Thrall, that girl is blood-poison, we tell you. She mystifies us." Lamia lowered her face to Foxglove's neck, silenced, waiting for Evan's reply.

"Man, you two are Always all over each other...but how the hell do you even get Through all that crazy crap you wear.."

Foxglove winced and turned her violet eyes to him. A blink of blond lashes.

Lamia bared her fangs at him and rolled a red-laced shoulder. "It's more efficient than trying to impress your Shadow Princess, don't you think?"

"Any-How..." Evan glared at them. Brown eyes unamused, not impressed by their knowledge either. The two of them had "Violation!" written all over them as far as he was concerned. If one of them Ever touched him, he'd tear off their clawed hand.

Lamia laughed softly. An almost raspy laugh, it was all theatrical, she was really quite beautiful but she was just...Insane. (As far as Evan was concerned.)

Evan snarled and wondered if she'd even bleed.

"Angel's not home right now, Evan. Look for her when she wakes up."

"What? If you know something..." Lamia straightened, Foxglove just watched, another blink. She was even more creepy than Lamia, Fox never spoke. Ever.

They stood there, stock still, just looking at him before they turned around, a 180 on their stilettos. "We don't know a Thing..."

Evan watched, near speechless as the Fetish-Sisters stalked off and slid around the corner. He blinked, ran a hand over his shaved head. "Man, I will Never, Ever get used to those wackos." He turned and made his way down the other direction on the sidewalk. He'll find Angel later, he was in the mood for an Inn, and maybe even his Shadow Doll.

Stephen: An Angel who Knows he is...
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 19:30 EDT



Stephen: British Barbie


Six o'clock in the morning
my head is ready to explode
I can't believe I made it home alive
I don't remember where I went
or what I was drinking
but I know its made me sick
and I'm not denying
that I get this way...
---"Sometimes it hurts" by Stabbing Westward

Stephen Constantine
Stephen, a blond haired blue eyed boy-doll.
Stephen, 6 foot. Muscular but effeminate. Poetry.
Stephen, a silk and leather European. Old English.
Stephen, blond waves to his jaw line, silk and gold. Vain and Proud. But somehow Sweet.
Stephen, lost in lost worlds. Tastes for the exotic, and you.
Stephen, a singer of old world songs, a vampire, a sensuous monster.
Stephen, leader of the feminine triumvirate of fashion and violins.


Musical laughter.

"Oh my darling, please, do that again.
No, no, right here...
Oooooh... Yeah..."

A feminine giggle and Stephen Constantine turns the corner onto the block of his favorite haunt (The Sacrifice Club being his second). A silk draped arm wrapped around a slip of a girl who's coquettishly buried her lips in his blond hair around his neck. No, you'd have liked to think the giggle was from Stephen, but it was from the toy he'd found. Stephen was quite sure about his tastes, he walked no fences. Though.... then there was the
Twins...

None the less he laughed softly and reluctantly idled the girl off his arm. "My dear, my dear. I'm quite sorry, but I have a ...meeting of sorts and I'll Have to finish this later." The girl smiled, a slightly intoxicated smile as she nodded, her disheveled hair falling over her cheeks. "I'll meet you at my room, yes?" He took one of her hands between both his own, discreetly there was a key between them that was placed in her palm. She nodded and
teetered off.

He grinned, British charms as he turned and watched her sway around the corner. It would be unfair to not make a point to note that he wasn't looking at the back of her Head as he watched her depart.

He swooped around the corner of his Coffee Shop and held the door frame as he leaned away from it. A leg lifting a foot from the ground as the arm anchoring him outstretched in his twirl and the other hand fell on his heart and he gave a long, dramatic sigh. "G-d, I simply Adore..." the word was purred. "Virgin Blood." His angel-worthy features permitted his characteristic Fiend's Smile and he slid into the one empty chair of the table he faced.
"She'll be Wonderful after my scones."

"Darla was a delight.."
"Yes, we adored her."

Stephen was just positively grinning at the two he sat across from. Perfect male specimens. Three angels sat at the table, but two had the same face. Surely the Creator had run out of perfection among the making of the two sets of eyes. Four amber, two blue. The Twins were a double copy of something far too delicious. Stephen was always overwhelmed by them. "Well, she'll be a final dream this evening. You're more than welcome to come."

"Perhaps we shall..."
"...yes, the offer is quite tempting."

Stephen propped his feet up on one of the Twin's chairs. The rung beneath it fell into the arch of his riding boots. He crossed his silk draped arms and grinned like a jackal as he scanned the coffee shop with his perfect blues. "Ooooh, look at That one, she looks...Pocket-able." He smirked and nodded his forever-smooth chin to the vision at the counter. "And look at that boys, she's a Red Head too."

The Twins turned in a mirror image of each other to look at the one he indicated. They both muttered a quiet "Hmmmm."

"She's red headed alright..."
"But she's too..."
"Normal."
"Yes."

"Ahh, but my dears, it seems we've lost our little Gothic Doll to that ....man, she brought with her last evening." Stephen was looking at the Twins again, and this time they turned and watched him, canting their heads, again, mirror images.

"He.."
"Was Delectable.."
"Completely Edible."
"Dark hair, dark eyes."
"Even dyed...Maroon."
They purred.

"Hey hey, I don't have dark hair nor dark eyes, and *I'm*...Delectable'." Stephen sat up and peered at the twins. A light brow raised though a grin curled his lips. The twins grinned at him.

"Yes.."
"You are.."
In Unison, "Stephen."

Stephen was pleased. (He was easy to please with Compliments, though not with criticism, at All.) His feet had found the floor and he was shaking his head at the waitress who had come to ask him if he wanted his regular. He looked between the two cups of coffee the Twins had had and he dropped a twenty on the table with a smirk to the waitress. He licked his lips, all so subtly and a touch of preternatural quickness. He was standing soon after. "I'm not even going to have a cup of coffee, I rather have a cup of Darla."
The twins grinned, it turned their lips at the near exact same speed. It was thoroughly eerie. How did Stephen stand them?

"We'll take you up on your.."
"Offer."

The Twins rose. They all nodded to the other regulars they were familiar with at the coffee shop and slid out down the sidewalk the way Darla had gone. A flock of Caravaggio worthy man-boys.

Adrienne and Gabriel: Horrid Heaven times Two
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 20:08 EDT



Adrienne and Gabriel: The Twins


I'm drowning in nothing
nothing real
nothing left ... nothing
I'm losing myself
sinking deeper down

Silently
leaving this behind
nothing left but me
--"Drowning" by Stabbing Westward

Adrienne and Gabriel Hall.
Adrienne and Gabriel, Auburn curls to their jaw-lines. Amber eyes, wide and innocent. Deception.
Adrienne and Gabriel, young. gracefully awkward. 5'9"
Adrienne and Gabriel, thin, dancer's bodies, fingers for the violin, voices for the choir.
Adrienne and Gabriel, effeminate beautiful boys. Angel's admirers.
Adrienne and Gabriel, Angels who have need of finding their wings.
Adrienne and Gabriel, violinists, vampires. Twins. Lovers.
Adrienne and Gabriel, the body of the feminine triumvirate of fashion and violins.


They say that leather is vogue and that the appreciation of fine wine and music is In. They say that the Club scene is becoming the new past time for the wealthy. They say that times change and either you have it, or you do not.

Adrienne and Gabriel were Vogue.

Everyone knew them, or of them. Those that didn't have the right to wave hello at them in public, feigned the action for face's sake, or announced that they'd had a tift with the Twins and couldn't stand them.

They were part and parcel of Stephen's pack and they thoroughly enjoyed the fiendish things they were allowed to get away with because of this. Beautiful boys, and in this case, it wasn't only in the eye of the beholder. For they .."beheld' everyone. Adrienne and Gabriel were only an acquired taste to those who knew them well enough to know their..... habits. And if you knew that...well, you had the acquired taste.

Before they met Stephen at the coffee shop, like they always did mind you, they'd been polishing their violins. This was a religious act and they did it by candle light and while they listened to Mozart. Delicate musicians fingers stroked the strings of bows and the fine wood of their beloved tools of their trade. They sat in their red velvet lined apartment and let candle light dance along the silk ruffles of shirts and kid-leather of pants. The Twins were rich wine on the outside, devils on the interior. Funny how they were so wide eyed with wonder when they used to watch Angel when they'd invite her out with them.

"She's stirring things up with Neil's crew you know." Soft, faint Italian accents, though they weren't Italian.

"So they say."

"You saw her with ...Him, I wonder what happened....after we left." They placed the violins upon their knees. Always mirror images, they looked at each other as they sat in identical lounges across the center hall of their apartment.

"They're worse than Us."

They both smirked and laughed.

A soft whisper, in unison again. "I wonder what he tastes likes."

A grin was the discourse amid a sparkle in amber eyes. Four of them.

"I bet he's good." Sounding like a revelation from far too pale lips.

Something like a masculine tinted giggle followed.

"Heh heh....yeah."

[Millicent Grim]

Christopher: Feather by Feather, he pieces it together....
Fri, Jul 31, 1998 13:12



Christopher: New Confusion- The Manager


I FEEL YOUR REFLECTION
BUT YOU�RE A STRANGER TO ME
I SAW YOU STARING BACK NOW
YOUR SHADOW RIGHT NEXT TO ME
CAN YOU BE MY ENEMY. MY DISEASE
LOOKING THROUGH. WHAT�S LEFT OF YOU TO HOLD ON TO
DROWNING. HOLD MY HEAD DOWN UNDER.
WAITING. YOU TOUCH BUT YOU CAN�T FEEL
YOU WANT TO BREAK MY SILENCE
YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TOO MUCH TO LOSE
YOU THINK THAT YOU�RE SO HOLY
YOU THINK YOU�RE BREAKING ME IN TWO
--�DROWN� By Gravity Kills

Christopher Hall. Older brother of Adrienne and Gabriel.
Christopher, A voice to rival Neil�s. Poetic Pretty Boy.
Christopher, tall, pale, chin length chocolate hair streaked in blond and green.
Christopher. Sardonic. Ego driven but capable of much, much more.
Christopher, Gay Magnet. A touch of something new and normal for the Club.
Christopher, a young man with aspirations. Vision.
Christopher, a singer, a writer, a vampire, a touch of hope.
Christopher, the new manager of the Club.



He waited in the car. I must know myself before I understand you. Fully aware she�d not hint at where she was going. My eyes are letting you see. Rumors were enough to make it clear Angel had found a retreat. He�d known the members of the club for quite some time, however the dynamics of working there was another story all together. Each of Neil�s band members was a Prince to his own Estate. This situation gave it another look. Another feel. (Taste.) He could cater only so much. Neil respected Chris. But he was undoubtedly a rival. Another singer who sung the un-synthetic. �Of course Chris can have the stage tonight. What do you think I am?�

Chris� passion was his lyrics, but his first ambition was the Club. Something to grasp with immortal fingers. Something to Nurture. /Club/Angel/ His hands raised and covered his features. A pulling downwards. Scratch the faceless. Tear what they will recognize. Anonymity. He paused, leaving her to wait for him before he slowly eased the clutch and fled the scene.



Domonic and Christopher were good friends. Familiar with your blood. Each of them could also deconstruct Angel. Christopher couldn�t understand how someone could be enlightened, and yet not have the need to give an equal gift to someone else. Oh, to understand. If only the gifts were so abundant. She knows you. Let them know. Please, tell them what I can not. (tear down these walls.) Maddening, simply maddening. He searched unlife for something so simple and so thoroughly obtained by a near-child. (Lie) Something wrong. Something so wrong that Dom and Chris never let the assumptions fall from lips. In such a short time, the unsaid had formed a bond. This was Chris� niche.

I�ve been here before.

Chris strolled into the Club late. Night shadows hid worried features, dark chocolate hair was untamed. He strode, pantherine, into the Club. Simply a nod for Nick. He�d stopped to change and think, a tight black tank top and conforming pants of some synthetic material. (Ode to the Name sake.)

Takes a Second to say Goodbye� In the moment it took to nod there was a hulking form in his way. A grin lowered to him. He fell from above. Demitri licked his teeth as he rumbled a mocking hello. �You like her, huh, Christopher? I�m surprised, being raised with your ---�gay�--- brothers of yours.� Chris held Demitri in a neat stare. Finish. Dem touched Chris� hair, brushing it away with his tapered fingers. Jointed arthropoda legs, scent and balance. Dem leaned in (for the kill). �You�ll show me where they stay, later.� Jackal laugh. Wingtip touch to his cheek and Demitri coiled away. Touch and I Slay.

Christopher seethed. Assault from all directions. He met eyes with Neil; just a figure in a corner. After a long silence, he turned and walked away.


�I don�t know what it is Chris. It just makes sense.�
�She�s something to indulge in Christopher, do you want a try?�
�Demitri?� A laugh. �He doesn�t even know she�s alive.�
�If I can�t, then no-one will.�
�I love her��
�Kill him�
�.. in front of her.�



** Gravity Kills in here
** U2

[Millicent Grim]

Demitri: On the Path to Heaven, gun in hand
Sun, 13 June 1999 12:51 PM EDT



DESENSITIZED BY THE VALUES OF LIFE
MALIGNED AND DESPAIRED BY GOVERNMENT LIES

REVENGE IS SO STRONG
I TASTE IT ON MY TONGUE
MY GUN WILL BE
YOUR ANGEL OF MERCY

DISLOCATED BY THE EYES OF DISDAIN
ABUSED BEYOND RECOGNITION

I CAN'T COPE WITH
THE MADNESS ABOUNDING
BLASTS IN MY HEAD
OF GUNFIRE RESOUNDING

FIRING RELENTLESS
KILLING THE SENSES

I'VE GOT NO MORE G-DDAMN REGRETS
I'VE GOT NO MORE G-DD--- RESPECT

I AM THE THORN
IN YOUR EYE
AM THE THORN
IN YOUR EYE

I'VE GOT NO MORE G-DD--- REGRETS
I'VE GOT NO MORE G-DD--- RESPECT
--"DEMANUFACTURE" BY FEAR FACTORY


Demitri roared. He was all claws and muzzle. He was half-beast beneath the shell of human skin. He drew blood and he so could not help himself, he licked it from his fingertips.

"She's a Whore. Read her mind, she knows Everything. She's a slut.
She's Dirty."

Hisses and growls, it was half in and out of an old dialect. A pronunciation to ravage. A predisposition to defile. "I couldn't make her any more than she already was." The Russian was being overcome by shear will. He was laughing. He didn't think he could lose. (Oh Demitri, Demitri, can't you see this is your deathbed? Behind the Club of your beloved leader? Hush, sweet Demitri. Lick your wounds. Priest up to his neck in dirt. Holy mother.)

"Sorry? Son... I am her Savior." He bit the curve of Grant's shoulder when he came in close. Bit him like an animal, turning his head and wanting to roll like the alligator, to tear like a hyena. He thrashed, and for all it's vitality, it was almost perverse(pathetic), and keenly unintelligent choice. The rag of a woman was stepped on, smashing features, shattering bone. Violence in the alleyway, the last songs of the club were blaring their baseline through the half opened back door. Demitri was shoved and pinned against it, it slammed with another sound to add to the cacophony of final, vicious moments. It was almost commendable...it was all for his Master. (I would have been your lover...)





The Triumvirate of Fashion and Violins: Discussions w/Angel(')s.
Mon, 21 June 1999 01:58 PM EDT



Her ankles were crossed as she lounged on the couch in the Twin's ballroom. Their brownstone was pretty. Guilded with rich carpets and intricate (but elegant) wall papers. She yawned (every part of me is tired.) Her pale fingers covered her lips. She sighed softly and the twins peeked up from their lounge upon the floor where they braided her hair in two perfectly symmetrical winding patterns. A circlet of woven hair, that they must certainly have to stud with flowers. -these words I don't just say--

"It's like they forgot me." Angel was studious/serious. She frowned. Her head was hanging off the side of the couch and thus it all looked quite foreign. She was dressed in a dress of cobalt blue velvet. A gift from the twins who purred and pulled at her braids like hissing kittens. One smelt her neck and another pawed his double's shoulder.

"They are in an uproar. Their sire is mad as a hatter." Stephen sat like a man next to her. One leg was crossed, his ankle upon his knee. The hand upon the arm clossest to her rested on her tiny stomach and pet the soft fabric there. (Strangle me) --never open myself this way-- His boots were highly oiled and his hair was waves of flax. "Demitri is gone."

Angel blinked, sulfur in her heart, but it spewed silk like a web from her throat. "He was a man who followed his desires. Demitri played himself well." She looked between the amber eyes of the twins and she couldn't help but frown as they smiled gaily.

"You find nothing wrong in him�
�even though he hurt you so."
Their voices alternated their question between them.
"Too sweet, Angel." In unison.

"You know�and I know you do, but hear me out." Stephen crooned, but it was a convincing timbre, he was going to teach her something of the street smarts he worried she didn't use. He knew they were in there, or she'd be a bore, but he wanted to �refresh her memory. (You are not my keeper. I will love you sweetly!) "You don't have to take half the s--- they dish out to you. Demitri was horrid. He wanted nothing more than to tear you in two, Angel. Be it with his teeth, his hands, his manhood�any sick appendage (and mall deformed at that)" Stephen the Straight snorted "he had." His petting fingers continued their play over every individual rib he could feel under his fingertips. So delicate. She was unreal, and she wasn't human. Oh, but she was "in" and the social points he gained for being her confidant as well as the Twins, well� it was how he got his "women". His treats, the blood to sip with his scones. His whores.

"Stephen, I know. Why do you think I spend my time with�"
"But you Don't lately, and this is exactly my point."

"There is uproar in the Club�" Adrienne.
�the Pack is whispering of new.." Gabriel.
"Leadership." They trilled together. They finished their braids and made a design worthy of a broach at the back of her head. She sat up, and how they loved to doll her up so. Her almond eyes and ageless aura made her seem the elven doll, the foreign countess.

"Nick keeps all these things from me! I ask and I ask him."
"He doesn't want you there, Angel." Stephen was always right, and he never lost his sensual tenor. The twins seemed to scatter and then surround her on the couch, pawing and fussing.

She looked hurt, pain changed her features, like a dark cloud over her snowy scape of skin and white lashes.

"Angel, I mean for your protection. Demitri would have killed you, and Neil�Lord knows what Neil would do. Lord knows what Neil Is anymore!"

"I will help him then. To heaven or to Hell!" The girl panted and the three pretty boys around her looked to each other for guidance. "He needs an end to his story. Don't you see! And he wants me to be it!" Her shoulders slumped. "Christopher says he says my name�he howls it in the middle of the night."

"Fever-like dreams..."
"�he is mad"
And softer, the twins said in unison�"Christopher, our brother."

"Christopher says that he is a wraith of a thing! A starving man, a mad vampire! He wont eat and he chases the sun!" She splayed out her hands and she looked to them all for help, for guidance. "He is one of you! I don't know what to do�"

"He is a leader of a Pack. He is the last word in the Lasombra of the Sacrifice Club. If he is mad, Nick or Domonic will know what to do. Even Evan has more wits about this sort of thing than Demetri did, and he's more mortal than Dom." Angel was shaking her head, and Stephen continued as he soothed her with his fingertips, touching the braids the Twins were finally proud of. "They will go to the Sisters�.they will at least ask them. Let them do that before you go to Neil. I can't save you when you go there. We are independent of the Club. We are just some time riddled fools." Stephen sighed, there was only so much he could do. The saga was unfolding like a poisonous lotus blossom.

"Yes�but Stephen�"
"�we have Taste."
"And manners."

The Triumvirate of Fashion and Violins: Stephen's Metaphors
Wed, 23 June 1999 10:39 AM EDT



Stephen had leaned back upon the lounge where angel had turned upright. She slid to her feet and the Twins tilted their heads in symmetrical directions and watched her rather cattily as they pawed each other. They blinked their four amber eyes and their secret smile between each other, thin lipped and pallid, even made Stephen shiver as he wondered what they thought.

Angel passed, the thought riddled little angel. A cameo clipped from Venice, her cobalt dress smooth against her form, not ribbed, and the torso of the dress creating little angles above her hips, it's center, a point plunging down past her waist. She was sleek and soft, and tiny. Stephen frowned as he noticed her couldn't take advantage of the meeting contours, he couldn't look at her with anything but gentleness and concern.

"I think�" shattered her voice, "that there is something entirely new at the club. And that I need not be afraid. Neil lives up above it in his offices and convenient rooms, but without Demitri, he has no extension of himself to filter for me." She sounded very contemplative.

"You underestimate them. I believe that Christopher is merely using his wits, and he's lucky that A Game of You can take over for Neil and his band without anyone complaining. The devout fans of each are relatively one and the same. It is Luck." He nodded, candle light in his golden hair. He lifted his hand, fingers naturally clawed, and tended to his well manicured nails. "They are all like one large cat that has stopped to muse over it's natural faculties. To pounce, or not to pounce. Neil at the befuddled head, Evan, Domonic and Christopher the massive paws, Demitri the lame one. And your Nicholas the great, responsible, always working back-bone." Angel had lifted her gaze, her green electric-shock eyes to Stephen half way through his metaphor. He felt her eyes upon him and his leather riding boot creaked as the ankle upon his opposite knee shifted. He protested� "Well..it's True." His senses fluffed. Angel smiled and then remembered she was distraught.

"Take advantage�
�of the situation"
"In it's entirety." Chimed the twins in their usual alternation and collectiveness.

"I would that I could save him." Angel sighed softly, all the stories in her mind flaring. All the memories that were not hers warring for the space within her skull. Doomed to a compartment that will always be more small and petit than even the common woman or man.

Stephen frowned and then he asked the question of all questions. "But Angel, save him from what? Himself? There isn't another power at work here." She continued her pacing even under his implications, which she was in complete ignorance of, because the thought have never crossed her mind. "�is there?" Tentatively.

"How should I Know?" Said the Muse. Of Tragedy. Doomed to know every story save her own.

Stephen stroked the smooth angles of his chin, as from the corner of his blue eyes he caught the Twins lapping at each other's thin throats. He felt a heat flame in his form and he denied it by catching glimpses rather than staring. A brow rose, the other dipped. He looked thoroughly contemplative.

Your Music�when she is here.
Your fervor. When she dances.
Muse! There was a puzzle! You are it!
So close, no matter how far�





"Flew too high and burnt the wing"-- Millicent & Angel
6/8/00 11:37 PM Eastern Daylight Time



It did her no good to twist and turn. No more good then it did to murmur quietly into her sheets or her pillow case. The night eased slowly by her, whispering dreams and subtleties into her ears, past her lips, through her eyes... through any receptacle for its wiles.

No matter. She slept soundly. She slept softly. She slept a deep and tranquil sleep. It had been ages.

-=V=-

"I'd only heard of you. He doesn't really talk about..."

"And why should he? He's got everything to hide, and nothing to lose."

The two slender figures at the bar were little more than silhouettes amongst the backdrop of busy figures. Two girls were tended by Nick, and though he was particularly gentle with them, particularly kind, he neither listened to their discussion, nor interrupted them to refill their glasses. He simply refilled them as he saw fit, transforming the hand-span tall glasses into unending founts. The idea reminded him of an old ballad he used to sing to his daughter, yet it saddened him to realize he had long forgotten the refrain. Time takes many boons. Too many.

"Did he catch you... or was it something more of a ...?"

"Wooing? Courting? Nothing so sweet. I am small and he is not. He is crafty, I am naive. He gets everything he desires, and I desire nothing."

"I still don't understand. But...if you don't like it, why don't you just leave?"

"And how long would that last? It would be like you- running from your needles, from your skeletons in the closet, has it ever worked, Millicent Grim?"

"I suppose it hasn't, but who's to say it never shall?"

The piercing green eyes of the girl stared into her. Their almond shape and their churning colours were almost unnerving, but who would look away from mysteries? Who would turn their head from an answer? A real Answer?

"...you're killing my hope, my dreams here, kid."

"Well isn't that just fitting? It seems like I'm performing my-" The smaller figure cocked its head. The gesture was much like an animal, and indeed, much of what she was seemed feral, or torn from the forest or the plains. Even the point of her proffered ear was reminiscent of stories of old woods. Woods with thick dark trees that denied even the forest floor of sunlight. Places with secrets, places that lived under a different moon.

"I'm sorry."

"Hush."

And the girl swiveled her head to the singer. There was a discourse of eyes that spoke volumes few books had ever revealed. White lashes flickered over white cheeks, and the tiny figure took it's companion's hand between her own.

"Milli, I shall tell you a story. And I shall begin it with an apology.
I'm sorry."

-=V=-


Melpomene and Millicent

*Title by Trent

This is an experimental story. My muse of Tragedy, so long created. So long ago locked into the uppermost rooms of the Sacrifice Clubs, meets her youngest boon. Circle and circle and circle. Days have past, it is now quite fashionable to play a muse. But Angel was the first. Never forget. "She who became Her"


Neil: "blue, blue, electric blue"
10/6/00 4:35 PM Eastern Daylight Time



o/~ ...that's the colour of my room. Where I will live. Blue blue.
Pale blinds drawn all day, nothing to read, nothing to say. Blue blue.

I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision. And I will sing
Waiting for the gift of sound and vision

Drifting into my solitude.
Over my head

don't you wonder sometimes o/~
Playing in Neil�s office� �David Bowie�

Neil was lain out on the couch in his office. His svelte body was all leather and angles. His ankles were crossed and he was more on his side then his back. On a combination of hip-bone and stomach sat a precariously held beer bottle. Guinness, actually. In his other hand he held a book, held open to his page by a thumb pressed between the folds of the spine.
His features were calm, but every now and then they moved with the faintest smirk or the quietest laugh. He was actively involved in reading the novel in his hands. It was something by Burroughs with a Brueghel on the cover. The nearness of its completion thrilled him to no end, and so he was deeply submerged in the narrative scrawled out in his imagination. Because of this, Laurent (Domonic's replacement after his untimely demise) had been able observe the great leader in his natural habitat.
Laurent had dove-grey eyes, and they were avid participants in any expression he made. More often than not they were the only features of him that held expression. He was quiet but razor sharp. Something had hewn him to a point, it clipped his sentences short and made every word he chose to speak quite poignant. He was the most laconic of the group, but he also had the most velvet speaking voice. Neil had scooped him up the moment he had found him.
Laurent and his piano slender fingers made madness when the group practiced, and Neil was top of the line lately. Self-control. And that was what had drawn Neil to Laurent. Laurent dripped presence, it was as plain to see as his boss silver hair and his soft eyes.
No-one was quite sure whether Neil found it an enjoyment to have him around, or just a constant reminder that he had something close at hand to conquer. It was probably a little of both. Laurent's easy smirks and aloof nature ground in the idea nearly everywhere he went. The rest of the group had nothing but respect for him, however. They just knew he was inherently an asshole.
Laurent spoke with the most subtle accent only the skilled could pinpoint to a little town in southern France.
"Neil?"
The other raised his eyes slowly, taking his time at toiling over a paragraph and looking not-surprised in the slightest. "Yes?"
Laurent licked his lips. "I have a request."
Neil shrugged but his eyes narrowed. They dipped to slits and his smile became thin lipped and serpentine. "Sure." There was a finality in his voice that made Laurent tilt his head. He felt as though the question were being answered, not just the request for the request.
Neil continued, "Just don't let her kill you." He smirked something hard, his prominent teeth nuzzling his lower lip.
Laurent shrugged and slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. His shoulders raised and lowered. Part shrug, part convenience.

Neil went back to reading. Laurent left as quietly as he had come.

[Millicent Grim]

[This story (ca. 2001) is a creative writing exercise deeply inspired by "Calliope" by Neil Gaiman]

9:1
�A Woman He Loved Profoundly�

They all used to ask me how I�d met her. I liked telling them that it was at some blas� social gathering I was connived into attending. Sometimes I�d think up a story about spilling Dom on her dress at New Years. I�d smirk and simply have to give an example of my smoothness by adding how I had insisted I�d buy her a new one if she only gave me her phone number. Sometimes I would think up something more romantic (I think everyone liked this one best), like we had met in the park and �right then I knew I had to have her�. At more intimate retellings where I was supposed to elaborate I�d talk about the first flower I�d sent to her door- one white rose, or the first movie we�d watched on my couch- The Seventh Seal. That never got a good response. �Typical� or �John, what were you thinking?� they�d say, and I�d have to spend ten minutes promising them it wasn�t even my idea (that�s what they wanted to hear).

People generally like to hear the little details- as though they wanted to imagine the meeting on their own. I think they also liked hearing me open up some soft side or another. People also like to hear a writer tell stories about his own life. As though we were constantly narrative geniuses. I�d tell them how I was always enamored with her will-o�-the-wisp eyes and the coy way she�d tuck her hair behind her ear when she was uneasy. I�d also tell them that she was the only woman who was good enough looking to wrap my arm around in public. �The Perfect Girl for you,� my editor would tell me. �She�s doing wonders for your work,� he�d say in his slightly authoritative but genuinely pleased monotone.

Like usual, he had no idea what he was talking about.
============


So what�s the first problem in all of this? What�s the crux in my introduction? I didn�t meet her. I caught her. No, I don�t mean I stole her away from some wallstreet flake, or some over-the-hill doctor. I mean I went out hunting for her, and I caught her. Though it wasn�t with a conventional method�there�s no bar-hunting in this story.

I�d been in Greece learning the lay of the land for myself and my current novel. My editor called it an �art day�. He thought these trips would clear up writer�s block and get the �ole creative juices flowing�. Inside the Walls was giving me more problems than I was used to, so I was visiting the actual place it was set in-- Corinth. Seeing as it was on my time, but on his cash, I took the opportunity to see some of the places I�d only learned about in college texts. I had had a weakness for these things since I was a little kid watching Kirk Douglas in Sparticus and that wicked claymation in Clash of the Titans.

The walk up the acropolis� side was slow, but under my feet the sand and the trail were hundreds of years old. I was being reflective, trying to get something out of this trip that would pry me out of my writer�s block. I have to admit, I was enthralled and just simply in awe of everything. Standing there had hundreds of stories thundering like Zeus� lightening through my brain. Mythology and history were my inspirations for some of my first novels. I suppose first novels are easiest to write if you keep them somewhat true to the things you love. As much as I understood that, and tried to adhere to it, I was well aware of the agony of going months without keeping a single page I�d typed. Standing on that pile of rocks where men had stood centuries before me, men who had done things greater than I�ll ever do-- well, it didn�t help my feeling of being small and insignificant. What was worse was feeling, no, knowing that the same applied for this crappy book I was writing. I was becoming more and more sure a total toss-out would do me better than any revision ever could.

Eventually I dragged myself to the top of the hill where some of the city fortifications still stood and decided it wasn�t anonymous enough. I needed some time up there alone with myself. Well, alone with myself and my book. I trudged through the smooth rubble and pushed through a small copse of trees. The wind was mean up there that day, and so my pushing through the bushes didn�t make a sound in comparison to the howling of that wind.

She was very pale. That was the first thing I noticed. Her skin was the colour of milk and her red hair tumbled down her back and into the silvery surface of the water. She was bathing. I can�t even tell you how long it took me to figure that out. I was just staring for a good five minutes, something about her was just so unnatural. Eventually I gave her some modesty, it was the least I could do. I lowered my eyes, and then I saw them. The scroll and the mirror were sitting on the edge of the bathing pool.

Something in my mind just clicked.

The scroll gleamed with this bright, ethereal fire and the mirror sparkled silver like fish scales under a moon-lit stream. Maybe it was dumb luck and coincidence, or maybe I just had a knack to work on impulse. I knew my stories. I knew the myths, but it took me forever to connect what I was about to do with something I knew and a justification for it. Personally, I think it was something about the hill I was standing on. Something about being where I was, in the state I was in. How could I not have recalled how to capture the very thing I�d gone up that hill to find? Shit, maybe it was just her.

My muse.

I smoked back then. I still had my normal vices at that point. I pocketed the mirror. I smiled at my reflection reassuringly as I did it. It was a young face-- the world ahead of me, my inspiration at hand. It was easy to burn the scroll. A Zippo will light in the worst of winds and rains- good old American craftsmanship. That ancient piece of paper went up like straw, and I watched it sparkle and crackle with some detached wonder. I was as interested in what would happen as I was automatically ashamed. This was supposed to bind her. This was supposed to capture her. I went up here looking for a muse, and shit did I find one.

But I was happy. I deserved this. That�s what I convinced myself. I watched her freedom burn away under my fingertips. She was unknowing. She didn�t turn around till the last piece was turning to ash on the ground. I wonder what it feels like, your freedom being burned away like that. Does it feel something like a chill? A draft? Or is it more quick, like a jogging-cramp in your ribs? I would have asked her if I had been able to. Instead I just kneeled there over the ashes and watched this person, no, this thing become mine. It was like finally being able to see what liberty really is. I was watching an idea and a thought, like love or sympathy, actually happen. I studied her in a way a writer does. Watching every nuance of this idea strike her. It was pure and she knew exactly what I had done.

The look she gave me was one of terror. Something in her faded, I had to discover her attributes all over again. Yet she was still more haunting than anything I had ever seen. Maybe it was because of what she meant to me.

�Which one are you?� I asked her. My voice was all breath.

She just looked at me, keeping the water at a decent level. I reached to a place I thought I�d seen her clothes laying just moments before. There was nothing there but a dull shimmer. It startled me, but I reflexively started to pull off my jacket.

�It�s all right. Really.� I felt like a drunk frat boy trying to corner a cheerleader. It wasn�t the most pleasant of feelings.

The corners of her lips turned down, and she had the most exquisite moue. I almost regretted what I did. I put my jacket around her shoulders, and she smelled like � inspiration. I don�t think I can quite explain it. She smelled like everything I�d been looking for. She reminded me of those days when I used to be able to just sit there for hours and write and write and write. She reminded me of the smell of honey-suckles growing in my mother�s garden�something strangely familiar. She reminded me of the feeling I got at the end of a book or lighting up a cigarette after drinking champagne.

She didn�t move when I put my coat around her. And I don�t really know why I kissed her, I just know that there was nothing else in the world I wanted to do more. I kissed her throat and she made this quiet little sound. Something half enjoying it and something half deathly afraid of it. It woke up something in me, I�d never been a shitty guy. I�d never been the type to be overly possessive or want to own someone like the way I was going to own her. But that noise she made, I could feel it in my stomach. And god help me, between that and the way she made me feel I wanted to� I wanted more.

Oh, it was hell getting her back to the States. But I didn�t leave Greece for a month to ensure I could get her home with me. My editor bitched and whined, but he couldn�t whine for long. I finished my book before the week was out. The ending was killer and even the Best Seller�s list knew that for a few months. My editor was proud of me. I was proud of me too, but I also knew it wasn�t just me. It was her.

===============

I gutted one of the empty rooms on the second floor of my house. I made it soft and pretty. I think I fancied it more as a place to keep a toy than a woman. A woman who still hadn�t said a word to me. A woman who sat there like a doll, barely moving, just watching me with her very-green eyes peeking out from auburn lashes. She looked broken and she stared. For a while I could only stare back, and then I looked beyond my awe and had to always look away from her. I�m not sure if it was guilt then. I�m not sure if I ever felt guilty. Beyond furnishing her room with things that were feminine I didn�t do much else for her. I even dressed her in my own casual clothes. I had to put them on her myself. I would find myself smelling the sweet floral scent of her hair, or pressing my lips to her neck or her knuckles. Something about her femininity was hypnotically alluring, but even after that was done, like clockwork, I�d reap the benefit of just her presence- I�d write a short story. I�d write a novella. I could finish manuscripts with a breath of her and I could write novels if I touched her.

It took me weeks to realize she was thinking inside there. It took me that long to realize that sometimes her lips ever so faintly moved into a smile or a frown. It took me that long to see the faint creases at the corners of her eyes move. She scared the shit out of me. I had no idea what to do with her.

I�d be away from her for hours and when I�d come back she hadn�t moved at all. Every wrinkle of the clothes I�d put her in would still be the same. Every tendril of her hair still slanted the same way. Do you know what was worse? When I�d come back and she�d moved maybe a finger or maybe just tilted her head. Instead of folding her hands in her lap I�d find her splaying her fingers over her knees. I�d study her for hours just to see if anything else had moved. For a week I sat there trying to figure out if she was breathing, and I always had this awkward idea that she was laughing at me when she saw me staring. But at the same time, I didn�t think she had ever laughed.

It sounds absurd but I don�t think it was. I didn�t think she had ever opened her mouth to make that noise. I don�t think the inclination had ever touched her eyes. All at once I thought I was finally losing my head. I could reason that I had her, I could reason that she wasn�t real, that this is the way things have always been, a man capturing a muse. I was fine with owning her and needing to be near her. But for some reason this idea of her laughing seemed crazy to me, like I was trying to impose some habit on her that made her human-- when I didn�t want that at all. How could I? I mean, this was some thing I had caught and locked in the room next to my bedroom. I much rather think of her as having no thoughts at all instead of being infinitely sad. Even if it seemed she was always that way. No, she couldn�t be sad. I couldn�t do that to someone.

She just looked like the pretty girl you always wanted to see laugh.

I should have known who she was then. It should have been easy as hell to figure out. But then something happened. And then it wasn�t as important for me to know her, as it was for me to keep her.

One day I caught her trying to climb out of the window. More movement than I had ever seen her do. I remember seeing her thin legs back peddle and her body try to squirm out onto the roof.

I went into a panic first, and then I went into a rage.

�What are you doing?!� I remember hearing my voice crack like I was a little kid again and my mom had found my porno mags. �What the hell do you think your doing?� Because, of course, she had no right to look in my room, just like this girl had no right to want out of her pretty little cell.

I grabbed anything of her I could. I grabbed her by the boxers I�d put her in, I grabbed her by the back of my old soccer shirt. I yanked her back through the window as I heard the threads snap in the �07� on the back. I grabbed her by the shoulders and I remember shaking her until finally, finally she said something to me.

�Stop, oh please, please stop.�

The sound of her voice made me do exactly what she asked. I wish I could say it was a human instinct to stop hurting her because she was begging me to. But it wasn�t any sort of sympathy that made me let her go. It was shock. I scanned her face. She was crying softly.

�Please,� she said.

I couldn�t look at her. I looked down at my hands that had wrapped hard around her arms above her tiny elbows. I must have stared at the contact of skin for minutes-- or hours. I could swear I was watching the finger-wide bruises bloom over her body. I�d hurt her.

I pushed her away, disgusted more with myself than her. The human mind has a problem with this. The human mind scrambles for a reason that will make sense of becoming so ugly. It�ll do anything it can in order to find out how it could be so discordant with the common ideas of sympathy and human interaction. Suddenly she went from some possession to something that could talk to me. Everything went stained and dirty. I was ugly. I. Was. Ugly.

I yelled at her. �Shut up! Don�t talk to me! God, Jesus. Don�t talk to me!�

She whimpered. I can only imagine what she was thinking. �This is it, this guy has finally flipped his shit, I�m going to get it.� Perhaps that would have been better than my actual thoughts. My thoughts gave me motive rather than irrationality. I wasn�t going to let her go.

�My sisters, they-�

�You don�t have sisters! You don�t have anything! You live in this room, there�s nothing outside of it.� I was pushing her up against the window panes with one arm and jabbing my finger at the floor like she was a dog and I was pointing out her mistakes.

She tried to move and somehow, in my haze, I�d found out that the easiest way to hold her with one hand was around the base of her throat. She gasped, afraid. She was actually afraid.

And I could feel her fear well up under my fingertips. It was hot and smooth, and it felt like I�d slid my arm into sunlight at noon. It was inspiration again, her emotions were this elixir that mingled with my cells and made them sing. Touching her had always done that, but this was better.

So much better.

And that day I learned that sleeping with her, willing or not, would last me days. Days I�d spend locked up in my room just typing and typing and typing. She was more to me when she wasn�t willing. She did more for me when she cried through it all. And I can justify it. To this day I can justify it. Look what she did for me. And look what I did for her.

=================

It was in her nature. It�s as simple as that. Just like it was in her nature to be so complacent. It was in her nature for me to bar up her windows and put locks on her door. It was in her nature to cry when I was finished with her. It was in her nature to not try to get away from me with every last drop of her being.

All of it made sense.

Do you see the games the mind plays? I�m as sure of this as you are that this is all fiction-- just another page in a John Villani collection. But it was her that gave me the string of books that bought me my house and my computer, my car and library. She was what won Nothing the accolade �The Hamlet of the new Millennium�.

I was so prolific nobody knew what to do with me. What was even better, was that I was so hard to find. I needed three concepts in my life. Food and water to keep me alive, paper and keyboard to keep me writing, and her to fill me with the ideas. I was this networked machine, and it worked so well it had to be right. She was my electricity.

My editor saw the change. You can only write so many books that make it into Time before you get a phone call on top of the checks. Or rather, you can only hole yourself up for a year or two before your editor actually wants to see you face to face.

�John,� he said. �Johnny-boy, there�s this get-together I want you to attend.�

�I don�t do public appearances,� I said with a gruff voice�more gruff than when I was smoking and shaving and cutting my hair. You know, the little things.

�John, it�s a dinner at my place. It�s hardly public.�

�Same thing.� He could hear me pulling the phone away from my mouth half way through the negative response.

�John, John!� he raised his voice, �I want you to meet this girl.�

�I have a girl.� I hung up the phone.

It took him only a day to get in his car and drive out to my place.

=======

I�d been letting her out into the house more and more often. She moved, she walked, she dressed herself, but she never spoke to me. I preferred it that way. I still do.

She was utterly docile. It was hardly different from those first few weeks. Sure she moved but she was just there. Just there when I needed her or needed an intro, or a scene, or an ending, or an epilogue. A doll, only this one walked and sometimes sighed. Sometimes I would catch her sitting in a window seat, curled up around herself watching the outside or maybe just her reflection in the glass. It sounds sad, but that�s the way she always was. I�d have been thrown out of my equilibrium if she�d smiled or laughed or moved quicker than the haze I equated her to. She was this mist moving through my house. Sometimes she would watch me as I wrote, and I could literally feel her nearness licking up my ankles or wrapping me up like arms. She was soft and heavy and clung to my clothes. I�d look into the mirror and I could see the influences she had on me, like an addict staring into a mirror just to learn how to properly hate his own features. The eyes were a little too wide, the skin was a little too pale. A poke to the cheek showed the dark circles that reappeared to under-shadow my eyes.

It was easy to reason. Look what she�d done- look what I received. I only needed a little longer, another quick fix. I could swear she liked the struggle and the giving in. Whether it was hers or whether it was my own. For the last few months before my editor came to visit I�d conducted an experiment. I wanted to measure how my progress declined when I denied myself my inspiration. If I was ever worried I could just go into her room and take an easy fix. All I remember was that it was exponential. One touch equaled profound contentment on my part. The more the better. That simple equation meant she was good for me. And we were in harmony because she never complained. It was perfect as long as she was quiet. It was beautiful.

That�s exactly what my editor thought of her when she opened the door at his knock. I suppose she must have seen me do it before. I suppose she must have figured out a few day-to-day things by staying with me day-by-day.

�Oh, ehem. Hello there, dear.� I caught him mid sappy-smile. Removing her from his line of sight.

�What the f***, man. I told you to leave me alone.�

�No you didn�t, you said you weren�t going to go to any public appearances. This isn�t public anything.� He shrugged in a way that just dripped pride for his indisputable logic. �Who is she, John? She�s quite ��

�She�s my� I met her in� She�s my girlfriend.� I hadn�t been given enough time to stick to a story, so I avoided it all together. Somehow I was still on my toes. Somehow.

�Obviously,� he raised one of his thick brows. The cocky comment slid me back into a mode I�d thought I�d forgotten. I felt something like I used to, a way I had long since thought important. It was something infinitely less significant than �inspired�. I wanted to be alone with her again. �Are you going to let me in?� he interrupted my thoughts.

�No,� I smirked. To avoid questions was the only reason I opened the door. I saw her slide away slowly. She looked at me and she looked at the open door, and I wasn�t sure which she seemed more afraid of. At least I think it was a fear in her eyes, it could have been repulsion. It had been a favorite past time of mine to imagine that she hated me. That was a notion that made it all easier.

My editor came in and had a smile for the both of us. But the one for her lingered a little longer than the one for me. He concluded my portion with a sharp, �Damnit, John. You look like hell.�

�And you sound like an over used parody of Bones,� I frowned at him. �F***in� Sci-Fi.� I felt her shifting on her feet beside us. My blood was curdling at the very thought she would make a run for it. I�d never thought she�d�

�I like those stories,� said she-- quiet and gentle, her voice made me dizzy.

My editor laughed, he thought it was a riot. �Oh man, you two must get along great.� She shrugged and pushed a tendril of her red hair behind the white shell of her ear. She glanced up at me and then turned to leave. My editor stopped her. �Oh no, please, stay. I�d like to see what has Johnny Boy half out of his mind. Nevermind making me a rich man. Is that your doing, darling?�

Her lower lip trembled. It was as easy as that simple gesture. All at once hair-line fissures spread a spider web through the bullet proof glass I�d set up around the two of us. I ground my teeth and wanted to push her up against a wall. Her wide eyes were melancholy but innocent of everything, and she�d always made this man in me want to show her what it meant to be innocent- the bait and nutrients for a vivacious hunger. Wasn�t that what I had been nursing and growing the whole time? A palette for her? A dependency?

In one minute I was the guilty man, the mad man, the abductor and the abducted. And the editor was talking�

�So what�s your name?� he so naively asked.

I knew her name. I had never known her name. I had always known her name.

Melpomene.

I�d caught the only one that could ruin me�pure Tragedy.

�You have to leave.� My editor looked more than surprised.

�John, I wanted to ask you about-�

�I�ll go to your function. You have to go.�

�You should bring� your-�

�No.� I had the door closed before he could remember to inquire. It took a century for him to finally decide to go to his car. I didn�t pull my weight off the door till I�d stopped seeing the shadows his headlights made in the hall-way. Her features glowed white in the night-light.

�John?�

�God, Don�t ever say my name.� Don�t ever make this personal. Don�t ever think you�re anything but my inspiration. Don�t ever think you�re more than that first line, that first beer, that first hit.

=========

I made her abide by that for five years. That�s how long it took me to pull it all together. Five years and 30 novels- She Knows No Quarter, Melancholy Pirouette, Tears and Darjeeling, Electra Electrode, and Sunless were the most popular. I hadn�t thought about touring till they finally convinced me this year. Actually, it had been rather impossible since I couldn�t very well bring her with me on tour. That would have meant I�d have to bring her to functions and signings. And with all those writers around, how could they not know?

I still poke around at my face in the mirror. It�s shaved clean but there�s still a little bit of her always caught in the corners of my eyes. Like sand from the sandman.

She�s become somewhat catatonic again. I�m not sure when it happened. I think it must have been around last Christmas. I remember wondering if she was dead, if I�d finally fucked up. What would I do without her?

I have a picture of her in my wallet. It seemed like the normal thing to do for a man who was �engaged�. The public announcement was my editor�s idea. He thought it was perfect, he thought the public would be thrilled to have a reason for my prosperity. How romantic was the notion that a writer had a muse? �A woman he loved profoundly�, I believe is what the caption had said.

I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she understands that I honestly do believe I must somewhere love her. It�s a writer�s nature to love something like that. Perhaps it�s my only way to thank her. Sometimes I�ll whisper it into the curve of her ear. Sometimes I�ll breathe it on the nape of her neck.

I wonder if she realizes who owns who.

[Millicent Grim]

Proto-Millicent: Angel: Melpomene

Tubercular. Hollow and white as the after+burn of starlight. Her shoulder+length hair kisses her collarbones with the lie of youth and forget+me+knots. The white locks are a mix of bruise colours (black &blue)� a reworking of hallucinogenic prose on the extremities of form. She is small, delicate and sylvan. The tips of her little ears are acute angles, just like the wings at the corners of her eyes. She is bright, her too+green eyes are mad with still+life and eternity. But there was never a one such as she, who could wind her limbs in the corner of a room, and watch with such innocence, instinct and integrity. A lily over the heart during this Second Act. Forsaking the cliche Ophelia for the Girl+Hamlet that she was. She only wears black, save the tracings of little snuff+blue wings on the back of her shoulder blades. Not because it becomes her, but because that�s all they will dress her in. And they named her �Angel�, because she was innocent of all of their mourning.

Melpomene regained.

++
The Taste of Amaranth
2/22/02 5:22 PM Eastern Standard Time

The tides rendered moot by her passing were hissing, jealous things that conspired in the night. The black and white water painted her background in chiaroscuro colours. It plotted for a bigger role in this play. Though Angel held all of Hekate�s attention (aglow in blues and pearls), she left man+ordinary footprints in the sand. And the sea hungrily licked them away, its frothy tongue coating its nefarious, black deeps and boarders. Their�s was a story yet to be played in full. Angel knew many sad sea+tales that spoke of people taken by the water.

On this night, Angel had told Christopher that she was going to the ocean. And though he supposed that she meant the docks, she had taken the R5 to Glastonberry and the R27 to the sandy beaches of the lands+end. People passed her on her route, some coaxing her to smile. She always answered them the same �I am, you just can�t see me.� And with that light in her ever+green eyes, they couldn�t help but nod and somehow know what she meant.

Soft, Innocent, Intelligent; Halcyon eyes. It made them want to smile themselves, but they soon realized that for some reason, older than you or I, they could not.

This only happened a handful of times. But Angel would remember each one. Though she hadn�t asked, she knew their hearts and minds were gentle. And she hoped she would not change this too much. When the train stopped for the last time, the conductor had appeared to tell her it was time to go. She thanked him like he had done her a personal favor and this was the warmest thing someone had done for her in a long time. The man made a movement to inquire as to where she meant to go in a small, relatively deserted beach town this late at night. But their eyes met a second time, and the spiraling chartreuse comforted him and inspired him to get home quickly to his wife and children. Warm, and wild eyes.

At the beach she could see the stars better than anywhere in the city and most anywhere on the coast line. Angel liked it here most, because it truly was a small town. She might even call the houses cottages, and the docks rustled only with the son and father teams of evening fishermen coming back from secret places out in the ocean that they knew best. Angel had made friends with one of the young boys here. She didn�t visit as much as she promised him she would, but it was many summers since he had disappeared at sea. How they had liked to chase the storms. But tonight, with no history at her back and no sea+secrets in her belly, Angel sat herself down upon one of the great sea+rocks that had been left behind by nature and her consort, time. Here she took from her bag a folded cloth that held several pieces of cheese and fruit. She ate slowly, the texture was warm and soft. Fitting, a matching combination for her face. Dissolving like sugar+petals on her tongue.

Sometimes she took a sip from the juice box she�d saved for this trip from several weeks ago. The wind took nothing from her, it hardly stirred her white and bruise+coloured hair against her cheeks. The salt+smell cleaned her, rinsed the salt of man+taste from her mouth and the brine of temptations from her body.

Tonight, her blood was her own. And she would stay here till the sun took her goddess away, or Christopher came to claim her.

[Millicent Grim]

Jonathan: Angel Eyes.
Wed, 14 July 1999 10:47 PM EDT

Jonathan: New Blood, crown of thorns.



Jonathan Davis.
Jonathan, a sweet boy, sardonic and moody. He's your social vampire, center of attention.
Jonathan, tall, 6'2".
Jonathan, thin, a beautiful boy. Sensitive brown eyes and the ability to prowl. Black leather trench.
Jonathan, a boy who can growl and make fun of Satan but still curl up in your lap.
Jonathan, a pussy-cat. Long suppressed by peers, finally comfortable with himself.
Jonathan, a club-kid, Manager in training to Christopher.
Jonathan, nearly Millicent's Manager.


He shrugged his shoulders, the lycra and fishnet shifted under the trenchcoat. The scraping buckles on the upper arms of the shirt crackled and scraped, but "noone knows what the hell these are for".

Christopher had been muttering about his younger brothers. The Twins were a spectacle and they rarely came to the Sacrifice Club, and he was glad for it. Their strange, strange groupies ordered all the red wine and usually caused a fight among the slender, pretty, straight, male patrons. Even as their brother, Christopher only found their antics half amusing. Jonathan merely watched and nodded.

"They are so friggin weird sometimes." Jonathan couldn't help but smirk at the understatement.

"Yeah, but you can't take it that they all prefer it going in the back door." He snickered, his soft voice was gentle, it won any woman who glanced at him and chanced to hear him. A fingertip rubbed the lycra that covered sensitive skin and a silver barbell. "Oooh, mrowr, You Halls..oh...you make me Shiver.." he even whimpered before Christopher shoved him rather hard.

"Not funny."
"Yeahhh..but it was." Jon sneered.
"Something in your eyes makes me uneasy when you do that."
"Yeah, well, I'm secretly in love with you."
Christopher snapped his fingers. "Oh, that's right. Hell."

It died away, it was over done. The joke could only go so long before Christopher was uneasy. Christopher had more of a reason to be homophobic than Evan, but Evan was more violent about it, Chris, well, Chris was highly unamused. Disturbed even, and Jonathan exploited it wholeheartedly. This was intriguing, since Jonathan's tastes were always, questioned. But Jonathan was "never a problem" and girls would fall all over him. Constantly. He was as sweet as chocolate, and had puppy brown eyes. He had chiseled features, a pale boy, in black. Christopher found himself looking at him and snorted quietly. They were cleaning the red rooms after everyone went home. Well, these two weren't cleaning, they were checking over what had already been done by the help.

"So is she playing the damn Masquerade."
"Aww, Chris, hell yeah. You know Millicent can't say no to me."

Christopher laughed, paused and straightened to stare at his darker-haired nearly Co. Manager. "Have you shagged her?"

"Well, no. But, I'm playing hard to get." Jonathan flashed an edible smile, but it didn't work on Chris.

"Yeah, and Shirley Manson asked me out, but I said no to save face." He was grinning.

"I didn't know.... I thought.." Chris threw something at Jon and he was lucky to catch it. "Son of a... She's playing the Masque ok! I got what we wanted."

Christopher stopped, something in his tone. "Ah hell, she upped her price didn't she."

Jonathan looked sweetly sheepish. "ha...ha..ha..." A pause. "By 20%! It was the only way! I knew it was Ok...it's the only band worth it and .."

"Oh, shuttup, that's fine. Hell, knowing her, I'm surprised she didn't ask for 50."

Jonathan preened and rubbed his nails on a fake lapel.

"What did you do?" Chris asked, almost tentatively.

"I got her drunk off her a--." Christopher laughed, and then Jonathan settled more into a pleasant pose. "See, I'm damn good."

"That'll please her for One show. Then she'll be back in here asking for 65%. She's got some extra players. Eh, but that's all right. You did good." You pansy. Christopher was grinning. It was all in fun.

"Good, that's why I'm getting out of here early tonight." A flashy smile for his superior and before Christopher could think of a snappy "no", Jonathan had slipped out the door. Christopher was muttering a few testosterone typical epithets, but he couldn't care less. He was pleased with Jonathan. He did good work, and he was too damn likeable.

Co. Manager. Not bad. The kid was learning. And he just might have an entire un-lifetime to do it.

Neil was getting worse, and worse every hour.

[Millicent Grim]

Jonathan: Halo Thirteen
Sat, 17 July 1999 07:26 PM EDT


Jonathan: your suffering because of me is Divine


"Oh, hullo." A quick smile. Jonathan was always quick on his toes. It was from years of being attacked by children who had an affinity for plaid and sheep-like tendencies. --look into my eyes, I am free--

"Sorry, I know it's Way after hours, I just needed some quiet." It was Millicent, she was curled up in one of the red chairs in the most secluded Red-Room. She was for the most part alone. She was scribbling down something, words, words words that kept her company.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I'm just surprised noone found you sooner."

"I'm sneaky like that." Flashy smile, it was shiny and died as quickly as flash powder.

"You alright?"

"I'm Always alright."

"And you're always lying when you say that. C'mon, Millicent. We've known each other for a while." He walked slowly towards her, his hands were fists in his pockets. He had a pretty-boi stride. She split her attentions between him and the lyrics she was writing.

"Just a lot of things on my mind, you know how it is."

"Yeah, I know. You're angsty and alienated from everyone by choice. You're a recluse yet you�re lonely." He shrugged, he fumbled for a cigarette.

Millicent eyed him warily. There was a lift of shoulders that was a sigh. So sensitive Jonathan, yet you rail at a mic like a mad man. She felt partly violated by his comment, and she pulled the smoking jacket (Joshua's) around her slim shoulders. The introduction of a new colour (especially this black) stung Jonathan's eyes. It was awkward, and it was an eye for an eye in this lonely room. "I just needed to write some lyrics, you know how I am when I write."

"Sure, but I also know how you are when you write after a long vacation of Not writing." He frowned, and his features fizzled behind a newly lit cigarette. He inhaled and smoke slithered from his lips like a snake. --monsters-- "What's his name, I've gotten everything from Jesus to Elvis on this one..."

She frowned, watching him as he still kept up his saunter towards her. His pants were low on his hips, she could see the wicked contours that became hip bones between belt and the edge of his lycra/fishnet shirt. She pushed back a white tendril of hair, something to do. "He's my secret, you don't need to know."

"I'm genuinely, honestly hurt by that comment." He frowned and he did stop his approach. He cast an askance glance at the bouncer who peeked in, hearing voices after he was supposed to have made sure that everyone had left. Jonathan politely flipped him off, pointing out he hadn't done his job. The bouncer returned the gesture, however and ducked out, leaving them alone. He playfully flicked off the lights, however, and Jonathan was in darkness, Millicent had one of the white spotlights on her, as they were set up above each of the chairs. It seemed fitting, but the light made her brassy (not blue) and she seemed older. Faded, her white were now creams, and she looked like faded lace.

"I'm sorry." A pause, she folded up her paper, putting it away in her coffin bag. It was really a pretty little bag, form fitted, elegant. She'd even gotten compliments from older women who were young at heart and liked streamlined, special design bags. New Yorkers, really. "Ezra. His name is Ezra. He's been here a few times." Or once, what did it matter?

"I know, I saw you two." Millicent nodded. She'd forgotten to watch Jonathan and he appeared like an undead boi from the shadows, nose-tip lit first, then cheeks, an outstretched hand; he brushed back one of her white tendrils and then declined touching her further. (He's so sweet, and such a boi.) He flicked ash to the floor. "I know you're happy under there. I can tell. I usually can." She smiled softly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. His hand in his pocket again, as he took a drag that lit the end of his cigarette a brilliant (in comparison to everything else) red-orange. "I never said anything about Damien to you, but I know you'd want it that way."

Millicent shifted in her chair, and her Doc-ed feet thud-thudded onto the ground from their fold beneath her. "You were right. And I'm alright." And you always knew that if I ever did love someone, not like that half-love that was Damien, that you'd watch me crumble to the floor. Why are you the only one, Jonathan? Why can't my ... "Can I just have a hug, Jonathan. Just something simple...just something soft...I..." Something like pain crossed his features and he knelt upon a knee --this is not for Me to do-- to slide his arms around her. She was so easy to embrace, so easy to crush against him. He was slim but he was still a young man. She shivered, he remembered that she was always prone to tremble. It would make her mad, it always admitted things sooner than she herself wanted to. She was electric, a core, something wired in parallel, but burning like they were in series.

It was a chaste hug. She can do that you know.

Cream tendrils of hair fell over his shoulder, and the light above them flickered out.

Please leave the theater in a single file line.
Exits are to the right and left of the stage.

[Millicent Grim]

Sacrifice: "but it's all the same to me"
3/21/00 7:13 PM Eastern Standard Time


All prints had been dusted by the time anyone found anything.

They were so meticulous it was frightening. It was something of the likes of Hoffa or Atlantis. The body was secure in the basement of the club, where not even a search warrant could find it. Neil had inspected it himself. So had Codey.

They were pretty sure this had nothing to do with them. And they decided that they'd save their anger for something more special.

Like a phone call to the cops.

--\(v)/--

"What the F-!" She yelped as Jonathan shook her awake. She was wrapped up in the black sheets of the bed but she was barely skin and shoulders above the top boarder. She would have reached up to smack him but instead she clutched the sheets to her chest. "Get out of my house!"

"Millicent, I'll take him away. Get dressed."

"Holy sh-t, Domonic!" Her eyes whipped to the other person she only just realized was there. Her surprise was part anguish, part swoon. She watched the keyboardist for a moment and then literally shook her head to make the thoughts fall out. When she 'woke' she jerked her head in the other direction. The bed was empty. Just the impression in the sheets. It was cold when she touched it.

"Whew, Milli. You sleep naked in his bed and you aren't shagging him? What a crock of sh-t!" Jonathan was leering as Domonic dragged him away.

"You sleep naked in My bed but we aren't f-cking you sick, prick." Jonathan gagged and Domonic could barely hold his stoic face. "So shuttup and let her dress." Jonathan nudged the pile of white on the floor with the steel of his steel-toe. He whistled as Domonic yanked him into the kitchen.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?"

"We've got..news"

"What sort of news...?" Gabriel hadn't been at home tonight, she was already feeling wary. And it was a wariness that could make her feel ill.

"That your skrewing your..." Jonathan was yapping. Domonic interrupted:

"We found a body- "

"Oh god." Milli rushed out from behind her dressing screen. "No..jesus... "

"Millicent..no. No." He actually felt uneasy for startling her. He saw life and death flash on her features and melt away once she was assured. It was such a touching look even Jonathan shut up. "No...we don't know who it was...but there was a message for you on it. This is what it said."

And he read her the message and she very simply looked confused. "I don't know..I mean. I only know someone who.... you said it was on a body? Hell, I don't have a clue." She looked between them. Wary and vaguely disbelieving. "Guys, how serious is this?"

"Milli it was a body!!" Domonic scowled at Jonathan's response. True, but still.

"I think you should be watched."

"Watched? What the...? As in some body guard? Guys, I sleep with my door unlocked and an open invite for our recordings lately...I mean..if anyone had wanted to..."

"Exactly, you shouldn't be doing that either. Too much publicity around you, Milli. There's a lot of sick people out there. But don't worry, really. We have our own-"

"Dom, I know." And Milli just looked at him. Ice blue and sea green. Dead sea. Jonathan shuffled his feet. He hadn't known she knew.

"Well fine. We give you one of us. One not so recognizable. There's a few new ones working for us. Cute kids- but lethal."

"Domonic, if this is just some prank or..."

"It's not too serious, but still. You shouldn't end up dead. Besides, " He had that thin, cold smile he was so good at. "It's bad for business to lose one of our own. And hell, Neil would be Pissed." Didn't that explain everything? - Neil would be Pissed.

"Alright Domoinic, it's your call." She didn't think this would be so bad. Though she didn't like it at all.

"Have you seen Gabriel?"

--\(v)/--

Chris walked into Neil's office. Between gloved fingers he placed the letter on Neil's desk. Neil looked at it, and looked at Christopher. Beyond him Codey came in. A solemn expression rested on the boy-genius' face. He shrugged as Chris began to speak.

"You call me about a corpse, we get a letter about a corpse."

Neil perused the words he could read. "This is either very stupid, or very unamusing."

Codey snatched it up with gloved hands as well. "I'll fingerprint it and have the camera's looked at. They can't get to the mail slot without showing up in the security system. I'm amazed they hit the blind spot with the corpse. I don't think it was planned though. If only by what I saw on that body. Don't worry though. This is easy, Neil. This is why we run this place."

Neil just nodded. If he didn't have faith in his forensics, he wouldn't have them. "I want a name and a face in front of me by tomorrow night."

Christopher was nodding. "Domonic and I will bring him in. We'll take Peyton and Slade with us too."

Neil just nodded. That was their job. They'd do it. It was as simple as that.

"Have Millicent see that note when you've gotten everything from it you can."

Christopher and Codey left to do their separate jobs. They had this eerie feeling that for just the annoyance of the situation- the annoyance, the gall and the stupidity, someone was going to die.

[Millicent Grim]

Jonathan: "Come taste the Gasoline"
Date: 8/15/00 10:21 AM Eastern Daylight Time


Jonathan, was, indeed, at the main office building this afternoon. He had handed in his beautiful trench (if only you knew the label name) for a tailored suit. The subtle stripes made his lithe form a little sleeker. The hems of his pantlegs tickled his polished shoes and his tie was a slender, solid black piece of some eighty-dollar silk blend. The transformation was amazing, and he simply looked like an Armani model because his blue-black hair was allowed to spill to his shoulders. He did, after all, work in the office buildings of a record company- Interdope Records.

There were often rumors as to who exactly had discovered Jonathan. Everyone assumed it was Christopher since the two worked so closely for the club. However, individuals with equal intuition assumed it was Neil. Because Neil did everything, didn't he? It was also a mystery as to where whoever found him, found him. Jonathan was good-natured and well kept; yet he was uncannily street wise. However, Jonathan was probably the quickest cleanup out of all of Neil's crew. Of course, Jonathan was not fully inducted into Neil's closest crew yet, but this was all a matter of time. Jonathan was an asset in both the club, and as a representative of Neil's music ventures in the real world.

Jonathan was 21 (or maybe 22). He had chiseled features and was quite pale, an illusion lended by his night-dark hair. His body was layered with just enough muscle, and just enough bones to make him unnervingly attractive. Though Jonathan had not had a known girlfriend for years now, his one-night -stands tended to be longer affairs, and he was actually considered a pretty 'good' guy. Jonathan's 'ventures' received flowers and candle light dinners, they were also privy to some of the most exclusive and well-made synthetic drugs RhyDin had on market. Jonathan had many things going for him. His hands were neither too slender, nor two wide. His walk was neither too cocky, nor too shy. He had a noticeable grace about him, but he had the ruggedness that made his tromping around in tall boots and lots of metal even more of a lure. Jonathan had a sense of humor that was keen edged, and he was an asset in any sort of negotiations. Whether they be a street deal, a gang war, or a Board Meeting. When Jonathan sat, even behind his desk, he tended to lay out his legs and cross them at his ankles. He liked to steeple his fingers as he lay them upon his stomach. This was the pensive pose that Danielle found him in. A pose he quickly rose from to give a greeting to the young woman who walked through his door.

Jonathan was discreet about his glances when he was here. Perhaps it was the breeding that bled through to him in this building. In the club he would have been more casual about it, but his look over her, in this place, was discreet and flattering. Just a glance at legs, at collarbones and shoulder blades. Then he smiled to her face. The smile was a tip of lips and something boyishly handsome. It revealed pieces of proper thoughts as well as the undertow of improper. Perhaps the latter was not meant for this building, surely many men tried to hide it, however the thoughts were inevitable. Sometimes the honesty and boldness was tantalizing. Jonathan was a paragon (when he needed to be).

"Ah yes, Danielle. Margot told me she was sending you in. I didn't know you were already up here. I'd have gotten you coffee. Would you care for any?" Where had he bought such manners?


Jonathan would look through the drawings and artwork with quiet nods and 'mmhmm's. He'd smile when she glanced at him, sometimes he'd find her eyes already on her. Something warm but also a little dangerous. He'd sidle to a place where, when reaching to point out a particular drawing, his subtle pinstripes would brush her shoulder or her forearm. Little weapons. If she was modest, or when he wanted to tell her 'why' he enjoyed something she'd done, he'd pivot his body to grace her with a touch of his shoulder, or gentle sweep of his hair.

But, it was honest delight when he pointed out the piece of black and white- the night-scape that had no colour. He tapped his finger on the desk near it. "Have you done anything else like this? Has the band seen it?"

Though he handed out his attention, he was still shuffling through the things she'd shown him. But every now and then he'd look up from under his black brows and lend her a look of deep interest.


Of course, outside, down the hall, security was hassling Margot about allowing them into the office. Apparently, someone had found Fred and his black eye. Something about the faulty CEO that Jon just couldn't handle. It didn't matter who had swung first, the shorter, wider, hip-hop singer had more of a pull than the club-kid/manager. Ah, the turmoil of the corrupted music business. If Nothing split, Jonathan was taking /\a/'/\ with it.

[Millicent Grim]

Jonathan: "Heaven or Las Vegas"
8/15/00 4:16 PM Eastern Daylight Time



"I really do think you should show them. I mean, *I* like it, but you know how musicians are." He had that conspiratorial smile. "other than submissive, of course." Perhaps that was a private joke she could appreciate. (Other than his easy laugh that accompanied it.)
He tapped his finger near the picture, and then had a sheepish look for her when he realized he'd touched her artwork. "I think the picture would be great. One of those things we might or might not add the band name to, y'know?. Something that can stand on it's own." He was thumbing through the collection with intent. Fishing for something he'd seen before.
"But this one...." he frowned at his phone as Margot rang the intercom. He ignored her for a moment. "I think this one I could use for some advertising for the club. If not particularly the night coming up, then just fliers in general." Margot interrupted by saying his name. He ignored her again, with a little curl of lip. "This, of course, means that you'll get particularly More commission on it. I don't think you'll mind that, do you?" Business humor, it tickled his fancy and made him smooth his tie.
"Jonathan!" Margot belted through the phone. "I already called down to have your car ready. I think you should be In it. I think there's 5, big, burly body guard sized reasons for you to be in it. If not right now..then in about two cubicles, a fountain, a piece of industrial art and a hall way from now."
Jonathan sort of blanched. A rather wicked epithet was muttered through his lips, and he apologized to Danielle but also grabbed her wrist.
"I'm glad you hit him snook-ums! I hate that rat-bastard!" Margot, the black-Irish, and fragile little secretary in the front suddenly became a competent cheerleader. And Jonathan was going to drag Danielle out the door with him. He knew how Fred's body guards were. 'Punch to kill', if anything.

Jonathan was going to save his panting for the stairwell. He didn't feel right locked in an elevator that he'd have to pace (all 6 feet of it) only to find out the bad guys were on the other side of the door.
Playing Gallant though, he'd grabbed up all the artwork as he shoved her towards the door. "Go! It's the black Mustang. The Classic. Just...just Start her."


**Title by the Cocteau Twins



Jonathan: "I did it all for the Nookie"
8/16/00 10:02 AM Eastern Daylight Time



It was one of those days the good-guys weren't going to win. Or rather, it was one of those days the good guys are only going to get away with a few bruises. Now, it's safe to say that Jonathan was the good guy because of the way he got caught. He got caught grabbing for one of the pieces of paper that had fluttered out of his hands. He was half way down the last stairwell when he was seized by the collar by a large, ugly man. It was only one large, ugly man, because Margot had put her own body between herself and several cubicles. The only one of the body guards that had gotten through was this one- the guard that had physically moved her. Now, this wasn't the prime choice for who'd you like to be caught by.
Jonathan was thrown across the landing and nearly lost his hold on everything as his shoulder hit the far wall- hard.
"Hey hey! What the hell! I'm trying to-"
"Get Fired!" finished the big ugly thing.
"Neither you nor your sh--ty little boss can fire me!" The ruse was ended quickly, or rather, Damn quickly, because Jonathan was shoving himself back into the wall to miss the wicked fist trying to replace his face.
"You ..you..." swing "Thug!" Connect. "Think you come in here " Gasp as he got one in the stomach "and push everyone around because " he gave the guy a good shiner "...your boss sells records too." Jonathan's elbow cracked down on the back of the body guard's neck as he was going down, but the guard twisted and hurled him. The force glanced his cheek off the wall in a small explosion of red.
"You and your whole thing is shyte, I've been waiting to get called on you. Bunch of f'king fairies...shtty music and all that stupid wit. I'll show you 'angst', fag." (A side notation from the Narrator: Every boy that is pretty, is considered gay, but every boy that is not. It's an ego thing. So let us reiterate. This man was extremely ugly. Why? Because it was the Narrator's desire that you have no pity for him. Hence the use of brute-violance and bad language. Once again, Jonathan is meant to be the heroine. Gah! We mean... Hero!)
Jonathan was taking another one in the stomach when he heard the clarion call from about 3 floors up. It was now or never, and Jonathan was barely looking as he managed to connect either his leg, or his foot with the man's throat. See Danielle, he was very, very agile, too.
The few papers that had fluttered about in the struggle were caught, almost comically as he was leaning his weight into the metal railing. The final piece was snatched from midair as he used the railing to vault over, bypassing the last five steps or so so he could slam himself into the exit door.

A moment or two later and he was feet first through the window (or should we say, boots first) and tossing the artwork into the tiny back-seat.
"Drive! Just Drive! Ohmigod.." he was laughing as his chin was sharply turned towards the open window he'd just come in through "Drive!".
In the rearview and the trail of dust behind them, there would be left a gaggling group of 5 men. One hunched over and being sick in the parking lot. The 5 would become six, as a red baseball cap slunk out of the main doors of the building. A short, wide man with a black eye was scowling and trying to smirk at the back of the Mustang. The last thing they would see was him stomping his feet and staring at the 5, unaccomplished (and probably fired) body guards. You could almost hear his hissy-fit and whining from the car.



**Title by Fred Durst. Why? Because he's had a cameo in this scene. Couldn't you tell? Muahaha. Satyr that I am. Or..is it just being bi*chy? Oh..oh..but Jonathan Did do it all for the "nookie". He does everything for the "nookie"




Jonathan: "nothing that is sacred to me"
8/16/00 12:27 PM Eastern Daylight Time



"Ow!" He screeched as his arms flew up to push her malevolent hand away. He'd thought he'd gotten Away from the danger.
He immediately effected a whining tone as he pet his earlobe. "What the hell did *I* do?!" Tugging on his ear like he was sucking a wounded thumb.
It took him only a minute to creep out of the act and puff up like the Hero he was. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. That 'aww shucks, it wuz nutin' ' sort of wave that a guy doesn't even need a 'thank you' to preclude it in order to create it. It would have been followed by more conversation, but for moment he was distracted by watching her shift gears. His eyes lit up, he'd babble to Gabriel about this, because Gabe would 'understand'. Hot- "Daaaammnnn" he murmured before lifting his chin to look at her.
"What?! Oh!" replacing her fingers on his cheek with his own, save his came away with blood on their tips. "Shyte. The guy was Huge. I don't even know how I... I mean. 'It was nothing. There was four of them, it was no big deal.' " He smirked and then became a touch more realistic. He couldn't polish the story with her, she was there.
"I think I'll feel my internal bleeding in a few minutes. A Mac Truck would have been a quicker death." He groaned quietly. It actually wasn't a plea for sympathy. Though, he did realize it could have been. And he'd be all up on top of.... it, if she gave him any. "I was thinking that it was you, me, him or the drawings. That's what I was thinking, damnit." While she was watching the road he tried not to be uncouth about the blood on his hands. He looked at the floor, the seat, the dash, anywhere for somewhere to 'put' it. He glanced to make sure she was watching the road, and then he was licking it off his fingers. It was that or his suit! C'mon, everybody does it. And....he needed to pick up the habit, afterall. ( Cough. )
He was watching the road a moment later. Debating just where he should point her towards. He looked back down at the gear-shift. "Uh, anywhere where you have to go from 1st to 3rd, and back again, baby. Maybe even a little reverse, please? Aww yeah." He slid her a smirk that lit up his eyes like his Mom used to see them on Christmas.
"Ehem. I mean. Take the highway southwest. I want to get back to the West side, fast. I have a meeting- and you need to be there anyways." A pause. "I hope you have a lot of artsy-shyte to say about your work. You're going to have to sell it to Christopher with me." He was grinning.


**Title by Rosetta Stone



Jonathan: "Wolf in the breast"
8/16/00 4:11 PM Eastern Daylight Time



"All right, alright.... you'll get a Dinner for this. Maybe a three course one instead of McDonalds. I don't know many chicks who c-c-can - " The boy swooned. It was a slow, swaying sort of thing, his cells weren't just woken, they were ignited by the gestures on the stick-shift and the fluke touches on his arm. "Jesus G-d..." His tones sounded as if she'd discovered fire. He'd whimpered quietly, and squirmed away from her in his seat.
"Who c-c-"
"- Can drive a car like that." He pinched the fabric of his slacks and pulled them up a little. Making his sitting in the carseat a little more comfortable.

"I'd have grabbed you and tossed you over my shoulder all cave-man like if you'd asked. I only Dream of chicks who like that whole "grab and take me" thing." He was tossing her a string of grins the whole time. Watching the road and strangely at ease with the way she was driving his car. "Usually I have to go to special clubs for that shyte. And I usually get jumped by guys first." He groaned. But his mood lightened immediately. Just like how his hand alighted on her knee. Pat-patting her good-naturedly. Or maybe he was just enjoying the shortness of her skirt.
"Sweetheart, don't worry about it. Christopher is an easy sale. Just don't mention his homosexuality. That's the only thing that wont get you the job." He leered at someone he saw on the highway, pleased at seeing them broken down on the shoulder as well as pleased to hear his wit returning.
As they descended into the Westside he was slowly taking on a transformation. From businessman to his more snide trench-coat side. He wiggled his fingers as his hand rose from her leg. He was indicating the next exit- W 28th Street. The same hand remained pleasantly busy as he reached behind her seat to pull out his coat. He lay it in his lap.
"Just pull up in front of the club." Said when they were roaring down 28th.
"I think you'll get along. Christopher's a pushover." He was pulling on the leather. Perhaps he was embarrassed by the suit in this place. "Too bad you're not a guy, you could flirt with him." Jonathan was all grins. "Not that I'd let him have you or anything."
Cha-Ching.



**Title by the Cocteau Twins

[Millicent Grim]

Triumvirate of Fashion and Violins: "I think I rather crucify..."
8/16/00 11:49 AM Eastern Daylight Time



"Cha! I don't know what you're talking about, my waistline has been the same since the French Revolution!" Stephen was turning side to side in the 4 facet mirror. He simply 'adored' the French tailor at the 'Better Than Thou' mall for the upper class.

The twins were staring at him, with their double sets of amber eyes. One set rolled, and the other seemed tugged by the action, and rolled as well. Together, the actions just seemed a continuation of eachother. The tailor looked at them with a comical dose of derision. This look only lasted as long as it took the twins to pop up their heads (in unison, of course) as though they'd heard something in the hall outside the store.

"We'll be..." Adrienne
"...right back," Gabriel
"Stephen." The last word said together and curled over their tongues. The auburn haired boy-men rose and strode on slender legs out the door. Stephen was left, his jaw half dropped, staring at their departing reflections. Though, his attention never left himself for long. He was smoothing his couture coat and fluffing his blonde locks of hair.

"Monsieur, your friendz, 'zay are qwite strange. 'Zay remind me of 'toz violinists from d'Symphony lass night."

"Les sont."
"C'est vrai?"
"Oui." Stephen frowned into the mirror. "How much are you going to steal from me now?" He sighed and stamped his calf-leather foot into the floor as he insisted he have this information. French was a beautiful language, he would not litter it with whining complaints. "Fabien? How much is this Ugly coat." When shopping, one feels better if it feels more like an obligation then a whim. And so, Stephen snarled at the velvet frock (just like the velvet frock he bought a week ago, which was like the one he had bought the week before that. You could call it a fetish. But most people who knew Stephen called it 'fashionable-nostalgia'.)

The tailor, Fabien, was slowly swaying towards the window. His lips parted in a subtle gape. Stephen gave a curt, glib sigh and stalked to the window.

" 'Zay...'zay are 'urting 'er, non?"

The vision, framed in the window, that met the two in the shop was nothing less than- confusing. The street seemed alive with serpent-like motion. The Twins had caught something in their sights, and they were a vision of snaking hands and fingers that licked and pricked the little figure they'd found. They alternated whispers in the delicately pointed ear of the young girl. They circled her like jackals that had found pray, and honestly, they looked like they were tasting her- tearing away strips and swallowing them down. The dance macabre was slow and fast all at the same time, and the whispers of the Twins were unattainable through the glass, even by Stephen's ears. The French vampire stalked out into the street, raising holy hell.

"Where the hell have you been, little girl?!" Stephen went mother hen. "The boys and I have had our panties in a knot over you!" Stephen was twittering, but not to a degree that would let an opportunity escape. Stephen had a sultry grin for Angel's escort. Christopher nearly snarled at the catty smile he received. But the Manager of The Sacrifice Club was backing away from the Twins. He had...'issues' with his brothers, and the company they kept.

"Hello, Stephen." That was all the blonde got. And the Twins got even less from their brother. They backed away- feeling the disgust. They hissed at their brother. One even tugged at his hint-of-green semi-dreaded hair. He curled his lip, but was swayed by a kiss Angel pressed to his cheek to calm him. Christopher promptly forced himself into the background. He was staring at his watch.

The minutes ticked away. Stephen and The Twins twittered and hissed their information for the girl. They asked her to take her old acquaintance to another ballroom dance of theirs. They begged she extend the invitation the the 'darling band' they cackled over. They insisted that the ambiance would only be added to if the group attended. The balls that the Triumvirate of Fashion and Violins threw, were the epitome of high-society. They were enormously illegal and underground, and demanded dresses and jewelry that made each attendants worth, at the very least, reach a 5 digit price.

Angel promised she would pass the word, but she insisted she had noone to take with her, and that Neil would never let her go. Eventually, Christopher decided it was time to interrupt.

"Look, I have to bring Angel back. I have a meeting."

"Why, Christopher, I never knew you to be eager with meeting a man. My my, how things change." Stephen snickered and looked the manager up and down as he leaned into him. Stephen was about to chitter something awful at him. Christopher remembered how he detested the intuitive powers Stephen had. They dabbled far too deep into the 'uncanny'. The 'gift' worked in funny ways.

"Stephen, we must also go," Gabriel
...our brother has no wish to be..." Adrienne
...delayed by us." said in Unison as they recoiled.
Angel just smiled, and pet the auburn curls of the twins. They purred and writhed like insect-kittens. Stephen was pleased with the tiniest kiss.

"Adrienne, Gabriel, it was good to see you." Said Christopher through clenched teeth. "I..... you've been missed. If only you didn't chose such ...." The comment ended in an exchange of looks between the exquisite blue of Stephen's eyes.

"I wish you the best, brothers." Chris bowed and stepped back. "I've drawings to look over with Jonathan for the new advertising campaign. Until next time. Angel?" He turned to her and would have offered her his arm, were it not taboo. For the first time, he realized how much more sincere and fitting it would have been if he'd had her on a leash. He swallowed the thought with distaste.

The girl nodded. The groups began to part before Christopher half turned towards the Twins who stood their in a loose embrace, staring with their amber eyes at him. He couldn't help the shudder that crawled down his spine. "...Last night.... you... You did ....very well. It was ...beautiful." The word ended in a whisper.

And the groups once again separated.


Stephen returned to Fabein, who asked " i.. i 'ave zeen 'er before, 'ave I not?"

Stephen answered with a smirk. "Everybody has." And then he shoved his money purse at the tailor. "Take my money...you..you....libertine rapist."

Stephen would leave inexplicably happy, stroking his coat with one of the Twins under each arm.


- And Christopher would meet Jonathan tied in a knot. Just wait till he found out the boy had decked the CEO of the record label. Poor Jonathan.



**Title by Kittie