03-04-2017, 02:29 PM
"Cody Chode wants to know if his band will still be playing tomorrow night," says Charlie, apparently without shame.
"What?" replies Harlan distractedly.
"Cody Chode, of 'Cody Chode and the Face Fuckers'. They are booked at what is now the Luxor Social Club every month for the next year," he explains.
Harlan's face freezes at the word 'face-fuckers' and does not move. "What the fuck did you just say to me?" he asks with venom in his voice.
"They are a uh, a musical act," Charlie stutters. "Cody Chode and the Face Fuc-"
"Don't you ever speak that name to me again. No, absolutely not, there will no chode fuckers at the Luxor," Harlan says firmly.
"Yes sir," says Charlie hastily. "Although, the kids will be quiet distraught at the loss of such a beloved public figure."
"Cody Chode is a beloved public figure?" Harlan asks in disbelief. His assistant shrugs.
"Of course," Charlie suggests "you can cancel it, and the kids will have no where to dance, and that is when they start to burn things, in my experience."
"Yeah yeah, the kids, they need something to do after school, right?" Harlan mumbles. He runs his hands through his hair, wondering what a pillar of the community would do in such a situation. "All right you get this, this Cody Chode Fucker, get the kids whatever they want, but not at my social club. What about that rat trap bar we’re trying to class up?”
“The Top Kek?” Charlie asks nervously. “That’s kind of a rough area still.”
“That’s why I’ll be there, to make sure things don’t get out of hand,” Harlan explains patiently. “I’ll be the chaperone.”
“Chaperone?”
“Host,” Harlan corrects himself. “I’ll be hosting.”
***
In a piano bar in Teir-5, a cloud of cigar smoke coalesces into a beautiful greyscale woman. She is dressed elegantly but simply, delicately clutching a cigarette holder in her black-gloved hand. She rotates slowly on her bar stool, taking in her surroundings. Her eyes pass over the strange tentacled creatures arguing over a game of darts and come to rest on a male Twi'lek playing a piano beautifully.
The woman's tiny hips sway as she walks across the bar. She smiles at the pianist briefly before hopping up on his piano and stretching out on it luxuriously. She watches his nimble fingers casually perform a Jerry Lee Lewis riff she had never heard before. Her eyes go wide.
"Well," she says breathily as the song ends. "If that's not the eels ankles."
Trying hard not to analyze the compliment, the Twi'lek flashes a cheesy grin at the beautiful grey woman. "Thanks, I wrote it. Here's a piece I call, well, what's your name now?"
The woman blushes, though it's hard to tell in black and white. "Audrey."
"I call this one, 'Audrey'" he says, stretching her name out into three syllables. The twi'lek croons out an off key version of 'Peggy-Sue', replacing each 'peggy-sue' with an out of time 'aud-er-y'.
Audrey could hardly remember to breathe.
"Gosh," she says as the song ends, then adds "Gosh."
The Twi'lek has the good grace to pretend to be humble. "You just inspire me," he says simply. "Hey, I'm gonna get off soon. Are you...new?"
Audrey nods. "Yes, I think I'm...new."
Several hours later Audrey is taking a tour of the Twi'leks apartment. It is small, what some would call shitty.
"So," Audrey asks innocently "Who runs that joint?"
"Hmm?" asks the Twi'lek as he removes his shirt. "Oh, Top Kek? That fat old bartender."
Audrey scrunches her nose. "He doesn't seem very...classy."
The Twi'lek laughs. "Oh the piano and the fucking felt? Donated, this guy is donating pianos and shit to the bars. He's a great guy," vouches the alien truthfully; indeed, it was a lot easier for him to pick up girls now that pianos are available in seedy bars. He gauges the elegant woman's reaction correctly. "You know, he'll be there tomorrow. I have some pull with him; why don't I introduce you?"
Audrey smiles demurely as his hand presses against her lower back. "That sounds wonderfull," she says as she lean to kiss his chest. "But I think I can find him myself," she says sadly.
The Twi'lek gasps as a pair of razorsharp fangs plunge into his heart.
***
An orc in an orange track suit by the name of Hrarg pushes open the door to a dry cleaners in Teir-5, causing a tiny bell to ring. An old Nibllonian woman is sitting behind the counter, watching the orc behind three slitted eyes.
"Number?" she asks in a thick Niblonian accent, the eyeball atop her stalk glaring.
The orc sighs and hands over a number, and a crumpled dollar bill. The two stare at each other as the automated rack moves his matching tracksuit to the front. The old Niblonian woman hands the orc his suit.
"Need change," grumbles Hrarg.
"No," says the Niblonian firmly. "Already pay."
Hrarg tenses. This is now the third time today he has heard this story. "No, you didn't pay ME," he insists, drool dripping from his tusks.
The Niblonian is unfazed. "No, already pay. Pay Gentleman Jacks. You go collect from them."
The orcs claws dig into the counter and he growls. The shop-owner glares back. They both look up as they hear the bell on the front door jingle.
A young blonde man in a bowler hat and three-piece-suit is grinning politely at the entrance, holding the door open. His friend pops his head through, another handsome young man in a bowler hat, this one with brown hair. The pair sidle up to Hrarg, leaning on the counter on either side of him.
"Is there a...problem here?" the blonde one asks, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth.
The orc grunts. "You know who I work for?" he asks slowly.
"We got a pretty good idea," responds his brown-haired friend. "You know who WE work for?" he asks, leaning into the orcs ear.
"I have pretty good idea," Hrarg growls.
The blonde laughs. "You never had a good idea in your life. But I'll give you one for free; fuck off," he says genially.
The orc grabs the blonde by the lapel, but his friend brings the long barrel of his six shooter up against the orcs temple.
"Now don't make me get blood all over my stupid fucking suit," he whispers to the orc, who gently lets the blonde man down. "That's right."
"Will be back," the orc warns as he exits the store, tracksuit over his shoulder.
"You better bring a fucking army next time!"
***
Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons, is sitting in a small one-bedroom home in Teir-5 drinking a beer. When his son arrives from school he turns the T.V. off.
"It is good to see you, Kilgrot" Kolgoth says, struggling to bridge the gap that had arose between him and his son. "How was school?" he asks in his rumbling baritone.
"It was ok," replies the moody Kilgrot. Silence hangs in the air for a moment. "Dad, I bought some drugs at school today."
Kolgoth the Mighty nods calmly and grips his armchair. He breathes deeply as his worst fears are confirmed.
"It's ok I've... I've known for a while now," Kolgoth confesses.
"Don't be stupid, I'm not on drugs," Kilgrot says, offended. Kolgoth lets out a sigh. "I just, I thought you might want to get a look at it. It's everywhere right now, all my friends are taking it, even the Klingons. They're not on hard stuff, they say you don't WANT to do anything else when you're on it. It's called Amaranth," he says as he tosses a sealed red packet to his father.
Kolgoth inspects it carefully.
"It also makes them...act funny. Like stupid. They start using words I've never heard before like," Kilgoth rolls his eyes "Ring-a-ding-ding and doll-face. And they're listening to the stupidest music."
"Did you ask where you could get some more?" Kolgoth asks seriously.
Kilgrot grins. "Yeah, the guy gave me this," he says as he hands over a flyer.
***
"We've taken four new corners today, on Hover Ave from 3.14th Street to 9.75th Street. The Metalheads haven't done anything," reports Flobber Worm, a heavily pierced young Hufflepunk boy. "Actually, no ones fucking seen them for days."
"Well fuck," responds Weasel, the red-haired leader of the Westside Hufflepunk drug empire. "How much money did you make?"
"Uh, not that much," Worm responds sheepishly while Weasel glares. "I mean, they're basically dead corners. Everyone's looking for Amaranth."
"Amaranth? Fuck is that?" says Weasel distastefully. Worm shrugs. "You couldn't get some?" she asks.
"I could, if I was allowed to go north of Hover," he responds fairly.
"So go," says Weasel, as if explaining to a child. "You have mommy's permission."
Flobber Worm stares for just a moment. "Don't you need council authorization?" he asks quietly.
"I don't need council authorization to take a piss, or to tell my goons they can walk where they fucking want," Weasel says, her voice level starting to rise. Worm nods quietly.
Weasel's Westside-phone rings. She holds up a single finger to quiet Worm.
"Hello?" she says in her most grown-up voice.
The deep baritone of Kolgoth's voice comes through the other line. "Hello, Weasel? This is Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons. Is this Weasel?"
Weasel sighs. "Yeah, hi Kolgoth, what's up big guy??"
"My son bought drugs!" the Klingon yells into the receiver.
"Ah jeez man," stutters Weasel nervously. "I mean, we don't sell to kids as a general rule, and Klingon kids, that's like, a very specific no-no-"
"I know you did not sell the drugs," the Klingons says, more calmly this time. "And I know where to get more. I request that you escort one of my Mighty Westside Klingons on a reconnaissance mission. The mission in question will require attending a rock-and-roll event, and we request your help in navigating this unfamiliar arena."
"What?" asks Weasel. "You want us to get you drugs? We can just, you know, GET you drugs, dude."
"I do not think you can get this drug," says the Klingon says dryly. "Have you heard of Amaranth?"
***
This is how Girg the Indomitable, First Lieutenant of the Mighty Westside Klingons, ends up sulking in the back of the Top Kek surrounded by rowdy, pierced, brightly-haired teenagers.
On either side of the towering Klingon, blending easily into the crowd, are Hufflepunks; a pair of twin witches, one of them named Danny and the other named Dungbomb. Their matching blue mohawks make them hard to tell apart.
"I don't see any Metalheads," says one of the twins.
"Or smell any," says the other. She grabs a seemingly random passerby, a young dwarf in a leather jacket. "Carl!"
"My name's Gordoujettun," says the Dwarf dryly. "What do you want?"
The Hufflepunk is unfazed. "Where's all the Metalheads? Isn't this their party?"
The dwarf shrugs. "Metals out. Jacks are in."
The twins nod gravely as the Klingon scowls.
“Hey,” says Dungbomb to her sister. “I’m gonna go score some Amaranth. Try to keep John Cena here from clotheslining anyone.”
A vein twitches on one of Kirg’s foreheads.
***
Across the room, a beautiful woman rendered all in shades of grey watches the Westsiders carefully.
***
A trio of orcs shuffle quietly through the crowd towards the stage. The are careful to keep their guns concealed beneath their jackets.
***
Everyone's attention is brought to the stage as the lights go down.
"What?" replies Harlan distractedly.
"Cody Chode, of 'Cody Chode and the Face Fuckers'. They are booked at what is now the Luxor Social Club every month for the next year," he explains.
Harlan's face freezes at the word 'face-fuckers' and does not move. "What the fuck did you just say to me?" he asks with venom in his voice.
"They are a uh, a musical act," Charlie stutters. "Cody Chode and the Face Fuc-"
"Don't you ever speak that name to me again. No, absolutely not, there will no chode fuckers at the Luxor," Harlan says firmly.
"Yes sir," says Charlie hastily. "Although, the kids will be quiet distraught at the loss of such a beloved public figure."
"Cody Chode is a beloved public figure?" Harlan asks in disbelief. His assistant shrugs.
"Of course," Charlie suggests "you can cancel it, and the kids will have no where to dance, and that is when they start to burn things, in my experience."
"Yeah yeah, the kids, they need something to do after school, right?" Harlan mumbles. He runs his hands through his hair, wondering what a pillar of the community would do in such a situation. "All right you get this, this Cody Chode Fucker, get the kids whatever they want, but not at my social club. What about that rat trap bar we’re trying to class up?”
“The Top Kek?” Charlie asks nervously. “That’s kind of a rough area still.”
“That’s why I’ll be there, to make sure things don’t get out of hand,” Harlan explains patiently. “I’ll be the chaperone.”
“Chaperone?”
“Host,” Harlan corrects himself. “I’ll be hosting.”
***
In a piano bar in Teir-5, a cloud of cigar smoke coalesces into a beautiful greyscale woman. She is dressed elegantly but simply, delicately clutching a cigarette holder in her black-gloved hand. She rotates slowly on her bar stool, taking in her surroundings. Her eyes pass over the strange tentacled creatures arguing over a game of darts and come to rest on a male Twi'lek playing a piano beautifully.
The woman's tiny hips sway as she walks across the bar. She smiles at the pianist briefly before hopping up on his piano and stretching out on it luxuriously. She watches his nimble fingers casually perform a Jerry Lee Lewis riff she had never heard before. Her eyes go wide.
"Well," she says breathily as the song ends. "If that's not the eels ankles."
Trying hard not to analyze the compliment, the Twi'lek flashes a cheesy grin at the beautiful grey woman. "Thanks, I wrote it. Here's a piece I call, well, what's your name now?"
The woman blushes, though it's hard to tell in black and white. "Audrey."
"I call this one, 'Audrey'" he says, stretching her name out into three syllables. The twi'lek croons out an off key version of 'Peggy-Sue', replacing each 'peggy-sue' with an out of time 'aud-er-y'.
Audrey could hardly remember to breathe.
"Gosh," she says as the song ends, then adds "Gosh."
The Twi'lek has the good grace to pretend to be humble. "You just inspire me," he says simply. "Hey, I'm gonna get off soon. Are you...new?"
Audrey nods. "Yes, I think I'm...new."
Several hours later Audrey is taking a tour of the Twi'leks apartment. It is small, what some would call shitty.
"So," Audrey asks innocently "Who runs that joint?"
"Hmm?" asks the Twi'lek as he removes his shirt. "Oh, Top Kek? That fat old bartender."
Audrey scrunches her nose. "He doesn't seem very...classy."
The Twi'lek laughs. "Oh the piano and the fucking felt? Donated, this guy is donating pianos and shit to the bars. He's a great guy," vouches the alien truthfully; indeed, it was a lot easier for him to pick up girls now that pianos are available in seedy bars. He gauges the elegant woman's reaction correctly. "You know, he'll be there tomorrow. I have some pull with him; why don't I introduce you?"
Audrey smiles demurely as his hand presses against her lower back. "That sounds wonderfull," she says as she lean to kiss his chest. "But I think I can find him myself," she says sadly.
The Twi'lek gasps as a pair of razorsharp fangs plunge into his heart.
***
An orc in an orange track suit by the name of Hrarg pushes open the door to a dry cleaners in Teir-5, causing a tiny bell to ring. An old Nibllonian woman is sitting behind the counter, watching the orc behind three slitted eyes.
"Number?" she asks in a thick Niblonian accent, the eyeball atop her stalk glaring.
The orc sighs and hands over a number, and a crumpled dollar bill. The two stare at each other as the automated rack moves his matching tracksuit to the front. The old Niblonian woman hands the orc his suit.
"Need change," grumbles Hrarg.
"No," says the Niblonian firmly. "Already pay."
Hrarg tenses. This is now the third time today he has heard this story. "No, you didn't pay ME," he insists, drool dripping from his tusks.
The Niblonian is unfazed. "No, already pay. Pay Gentleman Jacks. You go collect from them."
The orcs claws dig into the counter and he growls. The shop-owner glares back. They both look up as they hear the bell on the front door jingle.
A young blonde man in a bowler hat and three-piece-suit is grinning politely at the entrance, holding the door open. His friend pops his head through, another handsome young man in a bowler hat, this one with brown hair. The pair sidle up to Hrarg, leaning on the counter on either side of him.
"Is there a...problem here?" the blonde one asks, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth.
The orc grunts. "You know who I work for?" he asks slowly.
"We got a pretty good idea," responds his brown-haired friend. "You know who WE work for?" he asks, leaning into the orcs ear.
"I have pretty good idea," Hrarg growls.
The blonde laughs. "You never had a good idea in your life. But I'll give you one for free; fuck off," he says genially.
The orc grabs the blonde by the lapel, but his friend brings the long barrel of his six shooter up against the orcs temple.
"Now don't make me get blood all over my stupid fucking suit," he whispers to the orc, who gently lets the blonde man down. "That's right."
"Will be back," the orc warns as he exits the store, tracksuit over his shoulder.
"You better bring a fucking army next time!"
***
Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons, is sitting in a small one-bedroom home in Teir-5 drinking a beer. When his son arrives from school he turns the T.V. off.
"It is good to see you, Kilgrot" Kolgoth says, struggling to bridge the gap that had arose between him and his son. "How was school?" he asks in his rumbling baritone.
"It was ok," replies the moody Kilgrot. Silence hangs in the air for a moment. "Dad, I bought some drugs at school today."
Kolgoth the Mighty nods calmly and grips his armchair. He breathes deeply as his worst fears are confirmed.
"It's ok I've... I've known for a while now," Kolgoth confesses.
"Don't be stupid, I'm not on drugs," Kilgrot says, offended. Kolgoth lets out a sigh. "I just, I thought you might want to get a look at it. It's everywhere right now, all my friends are taking it, even the Klingons. They're not on hard stuff, they say you don't WANT to do anything else when you're on it. It's called Amaranth," he says as he tosses a sealed red packet to his father.
Kolgoth inspects it carefully.
"It also makes them...act funny. Like stupid. They start using words I've never heard before like," Kilgoth rolls his eyes "Ring-a-ding-ding and doll-face. And they're listening to the stupidest music."
"Did you ask where you could get some more?" Kolgoth asks seriously.
Kilgrot grins. "Yeah, the guy gave me this," he says as he hands over a flyer.
***
"We've taken four new corners today, on Hover Ave from 3.14th Street to 9.75th Street. The Metalheads haven't done anything," reports Flobber Worm, a heavily pierced young Hufflepunk boy. "Actually, no ones fucking seen them for days."
"Well fuck," responds Weasel, the red-haired leader of the Westside Hufflepunk drug empire. "How much money did you make?"
"Uh, not that much," Worm responds sheepishly while Weasel glares. "I mean, they're basically dead corners. Everyone's looking for Amaranth."
"Amaranth? Fuck is that?" says Weasel distastefully. Worm shrugs. "You couldn't get some?" she asks.
"I could, if I was allowed to go north of Hover," he responds fairly.
"So go," says Weasel, as if explaining to a child. "You have mommy's permission."
Flobber Worm stares for just a moment. "Don't you need council authorization?" he asks quietly.
"I don't need council authorization to take a piss, or to tell my goons they can walk where they fucking want," Weasel says, her voice level starting to rise. Worm nods quietly.
Weasel's Westside-phone rings. She holds up a single finger to quiet Worm.
"Hello?" she says in her most grown-up voice.
The deep baritone of Kolgoth's voice comes through the other line. "Hello, Weasel? This is Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons. Is this Weasel?"
Weasel sighs. "Yeah, hi Kolgoth, what's up big guy??"
"My son bought drugs!" the Klingon yells into the receiver.
"Ah jeez man," stutters Weasel nervously. "I mean, we don't sell to kids as a general rule, and Klingon kids, that's like, a very specific no-no-"
"I know you did not sell the drugs," the Klingons says, more calmly this time. "And I know where to get more. I request that you escort one of my Mighty Westside Klingons on a reconnaissance mission. The mission in question will require attending a rock-and-roll event, and we request your help in navigating this unfamiliar arena."
"What?" asks Weasel. "You want us to get you drugs? We can just, you know, GET you drugs, dude."
"I do not think you can get this drug," says the Klingon says dryly. "Have you heard of Amaranth?"
***
This is how Girg the Indomitable, First Lieutenant of the Mighty Westside Klingons, ends up sulking in the back of the Top Kek surrounded by rowdy, pierced, brightly-haired teenagers.
On either side of the towering Klingon, blending easily into the crowd, are Hufflepunks; a pair of twin witches, one of them named Danny and the other named Dungbomb. Their matching blue mohawks make them hard to tell apart.
"I don't see any Metalheads," says one of the twins.
"Or smell any," says the other. She grabs a seemingly random passerby, a young dwarf in a leather jacket. "Carl!"
"My name's Gordoujettun," says the Dwarf dryly. "What do you want?"
The Hufflepunk is unfazed. "Where's all the Metalheads? Isn't this their party?"
The dwarf shrugs. "Metals out. Jacks are in."
The twins nod gravely as the Klingon scowls.
“Hey,” says Dungbomb to her sister. “I’m gonna go score some Amaranth. Try to keep John Cena here from clotheslining anyone.”
A vein twitches on one of Kirg’s foreheads.
***
Across the room, a beautiful woman rendered all in shades of grey watches the Westsiders carefully.
***
A trio of orcs shuffle quietly through the crowd towards the stage. The are careful to keep their guns concealed beneath their jackets.
***
Everyone's attention is brought to the stage as the lights go down.
![[Image: V4Dvvfy.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/V4Dvvfy.gif)