Even the most avid wedding goer would have declared it a sorry mess. From the sparsely decorated living room, to the grand meal of macaroni and cheese, ending with the chosen location-the Belues’ apartment, the wedding was sure to have no place in the history books. Thankfully, no guests had arrived to cement its memory as the most unexciting wedding of the season. It would fade into the years with only four to remember its uninspired proceedings.
As Bender and Nina exchanged rings, Vodka eyed the clock. It was growing late. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her skirt. They were being terribly slow about the whole business. A ring should not take thirty minutes to slip on a finger, thought Vodka. A wedding should be a quick and hurried business so as to make the attendees suffer as little as possible. This was more boring than wood shop. If Plasma 501 did not loom in the not so distant future, Vodka would have fallen asleep before her father said, “I do. ”
Pandora yawned, glancing at the clock. She had never been to a real club before-she thought Waylon’s Haunt hardly counted, because there had been nothing more exciting than bathroom graffiti, and she assumed real clubs had much more to them than scribbles in a stall-and hoped she’d be able to stay awake through the cab ride there. She felt as if she was sitting in the poppy field outside of Emerald City, desperately blinking to remain conscious.
Bender leaned in to kiss his bride, and Pandora began to cheer out of sheer relief. Vodka smiled tightly. It was a deep, passionate, and subjectively beautiful kiss, but frankly the eldest Belue child thought it dreadfully boring. She had better business to attend to and a swift plan to get there to boot. As Bender pulled away from Nina, Vodka brought her blueprints to life. “So champagne?” she asked, grinning slyly.
Bender’s entire face lit up. He leapt away from his wife and danced to the fridge. “The Bridgeport public only gets it in juice cartons,” he laughed but felt that this fact was slightly degrading, “but it still tastes the same, just fruitier.”
He grabbed a carton for himself and a carton for Nina. They didn’t bother to take a seat at the table to drink, and declined to offer any to their teenage daughters. This was not because they had a problem with their daughters touching alcohol, but rather that they were so wrapped up in each other that the girls had become pieces of furniture. Breathing, sleepy, and anxious to depart pieces of furniture, but pieces of furniture nonetheless.
With one carton of champagne down, the gate had been swallowed, and a flood was released. Bender grabbed three more-two for him and one for Nina. “It’s your wedding night,” goaded Vodka. “Have some more!”
“Oh, gawsh,” slurred Nina, “but I really shouldn’t.”
“Beer me, Vods!” shouted Bender, a loopy grin brightening his features.
“You mean champagne me?” asked Vodka, handing him another drink.
“Whizzer plan, Vods,” said Pandora. She grabbed another carton from the fridge and put it on the table. “Reckon we should motor now? We don’t want to get rattled home in a cop car.”
Bender and Nina were laughing uncontrollably about a children’s television show. “So Lion-O was, like, a lion,” hooted Nina, slapping Bender’s knee, “and, and, and… Oh, bother! Hahaha, did you ever meet my dad? Let me tell you about my daddy!”
“I’m a daddy!” said Bender proudly.
Vodka rolled her eyes and reached into Nina’s pocket. All of the preparations were made. “Let’s go.”
It was common knowledge to Bridgeport’s older residents that despite its refined visage, Plasma 501 hosted some of the darkest creatures of the city’s underbelly. Beneath its burlesque jazz and inhumanly stunning inhabitants, whispers spoke of unearthly pleasures steaming up the club’s darkest corners, of terrifying eyes glowing beneath pronounced brows, of sickly pale skin slipping between frightened patrons and their escape to the outside. Rumors circulated more quickly than blood through a beating heart. Humans knew to hurry past the front doors, keeping their heads down and collars pulled over their throats.
Such was the threat of its mysterious pets that most refused to look in its direction unless the sun sat at the peak of the sky. Word crept about the street that a woman had glanced in its direction as darkness settled; ice-cold hands grasped her ankles and yanked her through a manhole. It was assumed that she had been eaten by an alligator.
Bridgeport was not known for its educational system.
Oblivious to the above paragraphs, Vodka and Pandora slipped out the apartment door, being careful to lock the door behind them and slide the key under the rug. They tiptoed to the elevator. Vodka was unsure of why they were sneaking about, but if it made Pandora, who did not make rule breaking a habit, calmer, then Vodka supposed it had some minuscule purpose. Pandora gingerly stepped into the elevator, and was greeted by a boisterous voice. “Hi there, Pandora! You’re looking chipper, as always.” If the elevator had eyes, it would have swiveled them to Vodka. “Oh. Greetings and salutations to you, Ms. Belue.”
“Thank you!” gushed Pandora. “We’ve just had a whizzer time, elevator! Mom and Dad are roaring drunk and probably aping on the kitchen table, and Vods and me are off to go ra ra on these things.”
“Wowzers!” cried the elevator. “You’ve certainly had quite the night, haven’t you? What sort of things are you going to be beating up?”
“First floor,” barked Vodka. “We’ve got an appointment with the night.”
“Oh, hush,” said the elevator glumly, “what’s the point of living if you can’t catch up with an especially good friend? I wish I could go to an appointment at night. I can’t even go to an appointment at all. My therapist has to come to me. It’s especially miserable when you’re going up and down and feeling terribly ill, and she has to wallow about at the bottom and wait for me to finish delivering ungratefuls to their homesteads.”
“I’m not an ungrateful!” Pandora protested.
“Of course not, Panda!” agreed the elevator. It continued. “The only thing I ask is for a simple conversation, but some will not be satisfied until I’m miserable. A miserable, mumbling mechanism.”
The elevator began to shake. “Oh, elevator, please stop shaking!” cried Pandora. Vodka scowled. “What if the cable snaps? That’d be one rusty time.”
“A bit more than rusty,” sighed Vodka. “We’d be dead, and we wouldn’t be at PLASMA 501, where we would be right now if you weren’t dallying with the elevator!”
“I like being dallied with!” said the elevator indignantly.
Begrudgingly, the elevator began to surge downwards, mumbling darkly the entire way down. Vodka could only pick out the occasional word, but they all seemed to do with the same miserable subject of miserable elevators and their miserable chores, so she turned her thoughts to the task ahead.
She wasn’t quite sure what to ask or even to whom she should speak first. A knot of anxiety wrapped around her heartstrings. She bit her lip. A simple plan would suffice. They’d have to bribe the bouncer, surely. Neither of them had any sort of name around town, and the most Bridgeport clubs seemed to regard when granting entry was social status-as opposed to usual things such as age, money, and sexual attractiveness. Vodka knew she couldn’t just impress the man at the door with a few trivial facts about Isaac Newton, nor could Pandora persuade him with a few misused words to let them in for free. She checked the wallet. Good, the money was still there. It wasn’t stealing if her stepmother was drunk, was it?
As they stepped out of the elevator, who curtly said goodbye to Vodka and morosely said so to Pandora, Pandora made a thoughtful suggestion. “Maybe we should get a gun,” she said quietly.
Vodka thought this over before answering. “We wouldn’t be able to get one. I wish we could ask the aliens, though! Lasers, Pandora! We could take down anything in our way.”
“Right,” said Pandora. “I think that’d be sort of harder to get and all, though.”
On that point they reached a firm agreement. The two girls ran outside and hailed a cab. “Plasma 501,” said Vodka.
“What?” choked out the driver, eyes widening. “Are you sure?”
“Is everyone trying to get in my way tonight?” cried Vodka. “Of course I’m sure!”
“Listen,” said the driver, voice low. “Can I drop you off a block away? You won’t even have to pay, I swear. Just don’t make me look at the place.”
“Swell price,” chirped Pandora. “Let’s go!”
Tension filled the taxi as they swerved through the brightly lit streets. Pandora nibbled her nails. Vodka counted the streetlights they passed. The driver wailed into the steering wheel. “Oh, would you shut it?” snapped Vodka.
The car screeched to a halt. “I’ll have to let you off here, girls,” said the driver, glaring at Vodka.
He had kept his word, though. Plasma 501 stood only a block away, hidden behind a corner shop and the infinite skyscrapers. Pandora suggested that they should pay him anyway-he had just driven them across the treacherous city, after all, but her idea was quickly shot down by the cabbie himself. “It’ll be payment enough just to get out of this place,” he said, shivering.
And so Vodka and Pandora stepped onto the cold concrete of the silver jungle and began to make their way to what was to become the most momentous occasion of their young lives. It was a blessing in disguise that their parents had been wed earlier that evening-this ensured that they fell within the dress code, which the club owners called “Fancier Than Blood.” FTB, for short. This also stood for Fortunate Tubby Bores, who were laughed at by most of Plasma 501’s patrons and everyone else in Bridgeport. They were too integral to corporate life to kill and too hilariously boring to tolerate. Thus everyone laughed them out of whatever restaurant they weren’t enjoying, which was usually met with a moment of dull surprise, and then the Fortunate Tubby Bore would be off to do fortunate, tubby, and boring things such as miniature golf and file organizing.
Vodka looked up into the night sky, relishing the shimmering stars and twirling planets. Another headache was beginning to creep up on her. More cups of coffee was in order-she hoped the bar served caffeine to minors.
Upon entering the establishment, the first thing Vodka noticed was the extensively ornate flooring. “These creatures have awful taste,” muttered Vodka, who was not one for classical designs. They made her think of the English, who she was greatly prejudiced against. This was not by any fault of their own, but rather of their reality television shows, which Pandora liked to watch and Vodka liked to complain about. They stepped into the elevator. It was very dark inside, and there was an odd stain on the carpet. It smelled strongly, and Vodka wrinkled her nose.
“Going up,” said Vodka.
The gothic elevator cleared its throat. “Excuse me? You? Going up?”
Vodka ground her teeth. “Just shut up and take me to the bar, please.”
Silently, the elevator rose. “Wow, Vods!” cheered Pandora. “You went all medieval on it!”
“Thanks,” said Vodka, smiling. “I hope I can do the same thing to the creatures.”
“D’ya think they’ve really got your eyes?” asked Pandora, eyes widening as the elevator doors slid open.
Vodka didn’t answer. Menacing eyes glared at them just before the club’s doorway. Beneath pronounced brows, they flickered from girl to girl, savoring the chills running up each one’s spine. Pandora huddled closer to her sister, and a shiver shot through Vodka. She took a deep breath. She had not come so far to be frightened away by a mere bouncer. Vodka took a step forward. “May we go in?” she asked, steeling her gaze.
“You’re underage,” observed the bouncer, “and you’re hardly famous.”
“That didn’t stop Lindsey Lohan,” snapped Vodka. “Look, I’ve got money. We only need an hour tops, alright?”
The bouncer glanced around quickly before turning back to the Belue sisters. Money slipped into an eager hand, and the path was cleared. Another deep breath. The great unknown spun behind that cold doorway. Pandora squeezed Vodka’s hand reassuringly. “We’re in this together,” she whispered. “Just take one more step.”
Vodka smiled back at her and lurched forward.
A man sat at the bar, back erect, palms flat on the wooden countertop, chattering away to the bartender. A few dark strands of hair dangled in front of his eyes, glowing in the dimly lit club. For a moment, Vodka’s heart stopped. Eyes. Glowing eyes. “Do you see his eyes?” she whispered to Pandora. Suddenly, the man froze.
He leapt from the stool and crouched towards the ground in an animal like fashion. Pandora nodded. “I know he’s one of the bad guys and blah, blah, blah, but he’s kind of cute. I bet he’s got all sorts of girls going gaga over him.”
A low growl surged through the club. Pandora clutched Vodka’s arm; a small squeal escape. Frozen, Vodka could say nothing. Teeth. Bare, gleaming teeth. Fangs, sharp, protruding from his curled lip. His snarl shook the room, ripping through bodies, windows, and blind aristocrats. His piercing red eyes struck Vodka. The creature began to roar as he whipped around. She took a step backwards.
Designer Drugs – “Drop Down”
A/N: ^^Since Plasma 501 is a club, I thought I’d post some good ol’ club music. 🙂
Do any of you guys use Spotify? You should friend me, because it’s the best.
Mmmmm. Malix is the most attractive thing my Sims game has seen…period.