NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC Notes and Warnings: This RP is about hardcore drug users and club culture in Khallayne, of course anyone can join but I advise that if you have any problems about participating in a story laced with sex, drugs, dance music, and the like not to join in or complain.

You have been warned.

IC:

Intro: the Spotlight

Eric Bonstron waved his press pass to the drag queen doorman(woman) who having seen Eric here before doing stories on the Spotlight let him in and when people who were still in line started to moan the dragqueen gave them a dirty look. Everyone shut up.

Inside the giant cavernous former Way of Peace Temple, there were worshipers here, but of a different kind. People who worshiped the latest dance music, the hottest fashions, and the most expensive drugs available.

The reporter stepped around a group of B-list models who were cutting up cocaine on what used to be an altar. Just a few more steps and poof! The main dance floor.

The entire main floor was packed with people gyrating and dancing agianst on another, one had to move with the flow of people shifting ever so slowly to get anywhere near the bathrooms (where drugs were being consumed, and sex was going on in the stalls) or to the bar (where drinks and drugs were being consumed) or the VIP Room (where even more sex and drugs were happening for the elite of the nightlife).

But the reason this member of the media was here at the Spotlight, the biggest and most fashionable club in Khallayne for the A-List celebrity and member of noblility was to try out the newest drug craze, Semuta.

Eric had tried the other clubs, The V-8, HARKA, 010101, and the like but the scene was the same everywhere. Everyone wanted Semuta, but none of the dealers were holding, so Eric came here to Spotlight, "If I can find Semuta here, I can't find it anywhere."

Eric was the last of the "gonzo" journalists, a reporter willing to do ANYTHING for a good story. And boy oh boy was there a good story in Semuta. The drug had been designed for treating severe depression but the side-effects (severe addiction, dementia, etc.) were considered to dangerous for it to become used for medical use. But for the party scene however... Now that is a different kettle of fish isn't it?

The reporter stood out from the crowd of hou'coture wearer set in his cheap suit and tie, but as a friend of his chatted up a known club dealer for Semuta for Eric, he took a moment to look at the fevered crowd of sex&drug&party addicts who stood (well either danced or shlumped in corners enjoying their highs is a better term) before him in all their decadance and glory.

"There is no way in the million hells that this will last forever." Eric thought as he was given a small packet filled with the powered form of Semuta, at 500 credits a packet it was the cheapest you could get.

"Here I go," the reporter thought as he went to bar, used the packet to make a line and got a straw from the bartender and up one nostril and now the other.


Semuta High

At first, nothing except a sense of a sneeze comming on from the forigen substance up the ole'nosie, but then... The world fell apart. The flashing lights seemed to melt around Eric to form a halo, all thought vanished except for the lights and now the music, who or what was playing didn't matter so long as there was a vibration. The music and the light merged, pure happiness was the hallmark of this trip.

The body achieved an orgasm of pure joy, but that was just the beginning.

Then the mind was flooded with images of pure carnal desire, scenarios and half-realities and failed truths created a feeling of sensory overload.

Then down and up became one, not reversed but they merged with everything in the club, a girl who was running around topless became a barstool from the waist down. An obvious undercover cop became part of the straw he was using to snort his cocaine (or was it Semuta?) and then melted into a newspaper clipping that couldn't be read.

Then images became reality and reality itself died.

Welcome one and all to Semuta land.

But I hate to burst your bubble,
but this bubble is about to burst.

Pat Gator's Penthouse, Rystal

The owner of the Spotlight sat quietly drinking a cup of coffee at 2 AM at night while a pool of blood stained his carpet while it oozed out of the head of his girlfriend (ex, now). "That damm bodyguard of mine had better be comming back with that box and axe soon" he thought as he looked at the big time mess he had to clean up.

How did all this happen? Well considering that Alison had found out that Pat was cheating on her blah, blah, blah, drunken drugged up two people fought for plenty of reason that will never be defined. Pat had used a hammer to try to fend Alison off but, OOPS! He broke a huge hole into her head and then smothered her thinking it was a mercy killing.

At least no one would look for Alison for a few weeks, a month if he was lucky since she was legally homeless and broke (well she was part of the hou'coture crowd but all of that was paid for by Pat), no one would care for awhile, her family wouldn't care since they hadn't spoken to their wayward child in 20 years.

"If I play this right no one will ever know, and even fewer will even care." he thought as his bodyguard came back.

An hour later the carpet had been removed and two men were bribed to burn the carpet and to keep quiet about what the stain was. But before that Pat and his bodyguard (Tim was his name) had hacked up Alison's body and put it into a cardboard box, drove to the docks in a taxi and then threw the box into the river (but of course the box was lined with cork) so instead of sinking our two dumbfounded killers watched it float away...

the Spotlight, the same night

Silmarlia VanderBull danced with a fevor born of a combo of ecstasy, three mountain dews, and a small bump of coke. Nothing else mattered to this borderline-anorexic supermodel who had graced the pages of Khallayne-Vogue, Naxum, and FunGirl Magazine, within a three week period and was now going to do a full walkway fashion show in two days time for Uucci Fashion House.

But right now this uber-thin model was going to party till dawn. The music grew more intence, the dancing grew even more so. Silmarlia caught the eye of a cute bouncer...

An Hour Later

Silmarlia felt Brian kiss her neck as he slipped back into his undershorts and pants and Silmarlia pulled herself back together. They both had enjoyed themselves completly so on a whim, this new Supermodel gave her number to the lowly (but cute) club bouncer.

"And with a little training, he could be a top male model himself." Silmarlia thought as she followed him out of the bathroom stall and back to the dance floor and the open bar.



OOC: If your confused on how to join in, there are partygoers, the taxi cab driver, the two guys who handed the blood-stained carpet, make something up! (within some level of reason).

Sonatine drifted lazily about the club, looking carefully at every substance he came across. The Yakuza-turned-Detective was having a moral dilemma. On one hand, he was working for the law now, and was only here to get a sample of the elusive new Semuta drug. Still, the allure of the club, of an old life, tempted him to release himself back into the crime world. No matter what he thought now. If he didn't complete his mission, he would be dead. He searched the club carefully for some willing idiot who would be so delerious with drugs that Sonatine could easily pickpocket a sample of Semuta.

A bare-boned women who Sonatine thought farmiliar-has he seen her on a magazine?-caught his eye. He made a beeline towards her and 'accidently' tripped, smashing into her. Both parties fell to the ground.

"Sorry about that." Sonatine lifted himself up, offering his hand. "Care for a dance?"

Silmarlia however had taken another bump of coke so she was feeling quiet lovely and took the man's hand and said (mind you it's hard for anyone to hear anything over the music), "Sure!"

A friend of her's, the black hair brown eyed (and equally thin) supermodel Penelope Manderhorn then bumped into Silmarlia and both started to dance with Sonatine.

The music began to hit it's true stride, the DJ was making things go faster and faster, everything and everyone was about to hit the true high one feels when hitting the peak of the song (and/or drugs).

This was true hardcore partying at it's finest.

Sonatine quickly went through the girl's pockets. He was an expert pickpocket, a skill he gained in his early Yakuza days. Nothing except the normal party drugs-cocaine and ecstacy. Sonatine would have to try a more direct approach if he was to get what he wanted. He grimaced as the music got faster. Sonatine hated dance music, and was much more accustomed to light jazz. Still, he could tough it out for now. He pulled Silmarlia in close.

"Have you heard of Semuta? It's supposed to be crazy."

Silmarlia replyed after giving this mystery man a peck on the lips, "Penelope has some on her, she always does." The black haired model was kind enough to put a packet into one of Sonatine's pockets.

"Now let's dance!" Silmarlia said, having to scream over the roaring music to be heard.

Pat Gator's Penthouse

Pat's world had turned upside down within an hour of mayhem and chaos. Alison Page was dead, the incriminating carpet had been destroyed, the body dumped into the Rystal River, the bribes doled out as needed. Everything should be fine...

"Bullshit!" thought the evil voice in Pat's head, the one that always came during his mammoth crack binges, the one that always ruined his buzz. Endlessly the voice repeated the word bullshit in Pat's head, when he lit up the rock, when he did a bunch of coke with a prostitute, when he was feeling the effects of all the combos of alcohol, crack, cocaine, valium, meth, and crushed up esctasy.

As Pat ran around naked in the hallways with a hooker in nothing but a dogchain and collar around her neck in one hand and a crackpipe in the other the evil voice began to go away. Lost among the broken dreams and thoughts in a pit dug by years of crack abuse.

"You know what? This carpet's kinda nice. Mebee we could cut out the messed up part and sell the rest. Get a couple cases of Blatz for it, no doubt."

"Forget about it, Yoz. It ain't gonna happen. Mr. Gator paid us good to burn this crap, and I ain't gonna blow no future work from a good customer so's you can get some crapola beer."

"You don't pay me enough boss. What he give you this time? A couple bills? I can barely get zonked on what you dish out, 'an I gotta do all the dirty work."

"Look, doofus. You wanna go back to busting butt on a garbage truck? You do a couple disposal jobs for me a week, and get to bang off the rest of the time. I pay you way too much to bitch like that."

"Dammit boss! It's my cousin's birthday, and I just wanna have a few beers with him. Forget about it. I'll take this down to Zerk at St. Agnes General, he'll burn it up with all the other medical waste."

"What'll he want for his 'services'?"

"The usual - fifty Credits."

"Here's forty. Don't screw it up - or it's back to humping trash!"

"Yeah, boss. Sure sure."

Yoz dropped the boss man off in front of Gator's place. "Piss on him", Yoz thought. "I know enough guys to put together my own crew. I'll keep the cash, and stash the rug. Maybe use the 40 to get it cleaned real nice - should be able to get more than a couple measly cases for that." Driving the van off in a cloud of exhaust, Yoz felt better than he had in a long time. "Pulled one on Mr. Smart-ass, I did".

Undercover Cop, the Spotlight

Jericho had fallen back to his old habits again, "Dammit! The Capt. knows my past, why did he send ME to this drug cesspool to find out about Semuta?" The straw moved up and down on the coke lines on the surface of the bar, up one nostril and then the other one.

This brown haired, blue eyed, tan skined, and obvious undercover police officer in Armani (bought and paid for by the Rystal Police Department or RPD) felt the old familar buzz comming, the old familar song of cocaine in his body. Once more for the first time in five years the sense of inherent sexiness that can only come from coke filled Jericho's flesh.

Then nothing else mattered, except who he was going to nail and who was holding more coke.

"God I hate dance music." was Jericho's last coherent thought for the evening.

Taxi Driver, Outside the Spotlight

"Fuckin' coke heads, smashed out their skulls," Tony Mason spat, the wad of tobacco hitting the sidewalk and sticking. Fifty years old, with greying hair and stubbled chin, he reached into his pocket and dug out one of his filthy home-made fags, pushing the dashboard lighter into the board, and waiting for it to pop out. When it did, he held it to the end of his fag, and took a long puff, inhaling deeply and then letting the smoke drift out the rolled down window.

He glanced over at the lurid facade of the club once more, the neon lighting straining his eyes. Eddie Harris, the drag queen, was an old friend of his from high school. He'd told him that something could go down tonight... hell, in the Spotlight, anything could go down. SO far, he'd seen that bloody crack head reporter, Eric Bonstron enter, along with that ex-addict gone straight, Jericho, from the RPD. A taxi driver learned to recognize people... some were easier than others. He took another drag of the cigarette held between his slender fingers, and glanced at the clock on the dashboard, tapping the top of it. It read five past midnight,"Buisness as usual."

His cell phone buzzed in his jeans pocket, and he got it out, flipping the clamshell design open,"Mason"

"Did you deliver it to them?"

"Yeah, boss. Just like we said"

"The money?"

"The small fry are getting it now. Same deal as before. Anyone fucks us over, they get kneecapped"

"Good boy."

The caller hung up, and Tony put the phone away, flicking the cigarette stub out the window, and waited. The mob had a hand in everything in this city... especially Semuta. The mob dealt in the Spotlight, because anyone who was anyone would come here for it. Hell, just getting through the front door was a job. And, at five hundred for a tiny bag, they were raking it in.

Outside the Spotlight

The clubdealer Dylan Fori (called "Sweet Tooth" by the regulars at the Spotlight) had called his old friend Ginger Snap, the drag queen at the door who had the guestlist and decided who went in and who didn't. Ginger Snap smiled when he/she noticed the old man in the taxi and whispered something to a well-known corrupt bouncer (like all the bouncers at the Spotlight) and Jerry (that was his name) picked up a briefcase he had kept hidden in a nook in the front of the club and went to the taxi to do some negoiations on the behalf of all the people who sold Semuta at the Spotlight.

Ginger Snap then let a guy with five gorgeous women in who had just shown up, in comparison to people who had been waiting for over three hours to get a glimmer of glammour.


Inside the Spotlight

The reporter Eric Bonstron, having only taken the cheap stuff began to come back to reality.

As the music and the light split apart and became two seperate fixtures of one being based by sight and one by sound rather than everything meta-merged as a single polar meta reality that only Semuta users and God could understand in perfect infinity Eric asked the barkeep what time it was. After getting his answer he thought, "Only 20 minutes? Well that's what I get for going economy I suppose."

But still, it was quiet a ride.

Feeling bored Eric ordered up a couple of Vodka shots and noticed once agian the painfully obvious undercover cop who was STILL doing coke for godsake!

"Hey man!" Eric had to yell at the cop, "Why don't you put down the straw and have a shot wtth me."

Our police officer coke fiend obliged, not because he was done with coke, but because he had run out and it was a free drink.

"Your quiet cute." Eric said to the cop as he downed his shot of Vodka.

Outside The Spotlight

Berk watched Yoz drive off in the van. "That damned kid is gonna get me in trouble" he thought. "I'll check up on him later - God help him if he tries anything." He adjusted the crease in one of the legs of his Savile Row suit. A thin, prematurely balding man, he looked more like a mid-level banker than a hired gun. A sleeper, some called him. He enjoyed getting past security unnoticed. Unnoticed, that is until he put a bullet between his victim's surprised eyes. His Colt Python was a reassuring weight in its holster. He never could get comfortable with a semi, and besides, from three inches away, a two and a half inch barrel and six shots were plenty to get the job done.

Glancing around casually, he noticed a briefcase-toting bouncer in a tight wife-beater headed towards a taxi. Recognizing the driver, he smiled. "Good, they'll all be watching the Semuta deal go down, I can hitch a ride in with the high roller and his harem." He had a little unfinished business to attend to, and it wouldn't do to have the broad shouldered Watch-Tranny with the five o'clock shadow recognize him as one of Gator's "consultants"...

Pat Gator's Penthouse

Tim, Pat Gator's main bodyguard looked at the elaborate (and expensive) pseudo-roman orgy of hookers, drugs, and all the nefarious delights that his increasingly unstable boss indulged in like the old Roman Emperor Caligula.

"But this time Pat's gone to far." Tim thought as he looked at the bare floor where just a few hours ago a white carpet had been stained with a pool of human blood. "But since I helped to dispose the body I'm an acomplise to all this madness."

Tim then looked at the coffee table where a pile of drugs the size of a small mountain sat, being picked at by a couple of naked hookers who were playing a game of bridge since their rich client was too high to "do the deed".

"How in the hell did my life turn out like this?" Tim thought to himself as he poured himself a glass of brandy.

An hour later and drunk as a skunk, Tim began to blab about Alison Page's murder to the two hookers in the room, how Pat had bashed her skull in with a hammer that was STILL on the floor, how Tim had been sent to buy a big TV (cause they needed the box) and an axe to chop up the body and then dump the mess into the river and had the carpet burned.

What Tim didn't realize (in fact he would forget all about spilling his guts out to these ladies of the night) was that this was the true beginning of the end.

For Him.
For Pat.
For Everyone.

Inside the Spotlight, Bathroom Stall

It had taken a little acrobatic skill but our so-called "gonzo" reporter and his cop friend had managed to spend over two hours in a filthy bathroom stall doing things that would make Caligula blush with shame.

Eric had felt his new boy-toy finish off inside of him and as he moaned with a final gasp of pleasure he managed to say, "That was... amazing..." Eric only grunted as he pulled up his pants and did the belt back up, the undercover cop then slipped our reporter a card with his name and number on it.

"I think I've found a new source for my story." Eric thought as he began to pull himself together, after all there was still a whole bunch of "work" to do.


Pat Gator's Penthouse

Andrea Candy (yes, that is her real last name) felt her jaw drop to the floor at this sorid story of drugs and sex... and now murder.

Andrea couldn't utter a single sound as Tim's drunken confession sounded through the crack din, where her best (and richest) client lay somewhere in his bedroom and far removed from the living room where this stunning story had been revealed.

A sex slave sent from Russia at the tender age of 12, her virginity had been sold to the highest bidder and now at 20 she knew the rules of the game. But none of them covered a murder confession.

As she uttered soothing non-sequelar words to comfort this drunken (and now dangerous) man and to get him to take a few sleeping pills to render him less of a threat.

"Now what the fuck do I do?" Andrea thought to herself as she waved away a drink, she needed to be clear headed for this. "I'll call Donny, he will know what to do."

A few minutes later...

"Well... Well... Well..." a masculine, and very controling voice uttered over the cellphone, "Doll, I need you to look for any evidence to this story, we will need it for the blackmail." a slight chuckle could be heard over the phone, "We are going to make some big money of this man before throwing him out to the sharks."

Outside the Spotlight

The clubdealer Dylan Fori (called "Sweet Tooth" by the regulars at the Spotlight) had called his old friend Ginger Snap, the drag queen at the door who had the guestlist and decided who went in and who didn't. Ginger Snap smiled when he/she noticed the old man in the taxi and whispered something to a well-known corrupt bouncer (like all the bouncers at the Spotlight) and Jerry (that was his name) picked up a briefcase he had kept hidden in a nook in the front of the club and went to the taxi to do some negoiations on the behalf of all the people who sold Semuta at the Spotlight.

Ginger Snap then let a guy with five gorgeous women in who had just shown up, in comparison to people who had been waiting for over three hours to get a glimmer of glammour.


Tony looked up as Jerry approached his cab, briefcase in hand. He smiled, and lit another cigarette, breathing the smoke out through his nostrils,"Alright mate, how much tonight? We've given you enough of the good stuff to supply most of the goddamn city, and I got a customer on the way," he said, motioning towards the high roller and his bird stumbling blearily towards the cab.

Tony looked up as Jerry approached his cab, briefcase in hand. He smiled, and lit another cigarette, breathing the smoke out through his nostrils,"Alright mate, how much tonight? We've given you enough of the good stuff to supply most of the goddamn city, and I got a customer on the way," he said, motioning towards the high roller and his bird stumbling blearily towards the cab.

"The usual," Jerry said as he opened the briefcase and showed Tony the usual sight of over 15 million Khallaynan Credits (the bills are the highest denomination within the Empire, 100,000 each).

Tony took the cigarette out his mouth, and smiled,"All used notes, as per usual then... Mr. Kazunov is a very happy man with you and the dealers"

He glanced around, before taking the case and sliding it under his seat, and then he motioned to Jerry,"Hey, listen. Jericho, that old smack head? He's in tonight... Kazunov would love to get his hands on the man that helped stamp out our human trafficking. So, if you could do something about it, I'm sure the boss would be grateful"

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, and nodded,"Buisness as usual. Might be Jack tomorrow, so keep tell your boss to keep his eyes open"

"I'll tell 'im and about the ole smack head..." Jerry said quietly, "I'll have him taken care of tonight."

With the bill for the Semuta paid for Jerry breathed a sigh of relief, since that idiot Pat had gotten hooked on crack he had more or less taken control of the Spotlight, if it wasn't for him none of the bouncers would get paid, nor would the club even be open. SOMEONE had to pay the bribes to the KPD to keep them looking the otherway on the illegal Semuta dealing.

Oh sure, things like pot and esctasy were legal but hard drugs like crack, cocaine, heroin (which was beginning to grow popular again), and the new thing Semuta were still very illegal in Khallayne.

Well with the bills paid for Jerry just waited for the night's delivery of Semuta, then he would be on his merry way.

Tony smiled, and sat back, waiting for a fare.

OOC: I'm confused, is this a drug payment (for something already delivered) or is this a drug deal (exchange of one thing for another)?

Sorry about my diztyness right now but I'm running on about 4 hours sleep at the moment.

OOC: If the drug is already in the club, it's fair to assume that this payment is for that shipment.

OOC: Thanks...

IC: Jerry then walked off back to the entrance of the Spotlight, he then said something no one could hear into his walkie-talkie...

Inside the Spotlight

The bartender had just had an order whispered into his ear from one of the bouncers that wasn't that unusual in the seedy world that existed just beneath the glammour of the Spotlight. The coke head cop Jericho had to "vanish".

It wasn't an easy thing to do but it had been done before, "Whoever's big idea this was had better have some good bribe money for the cops to get them to ignore the death of one of their own." the bartender thought as he noticed that Jericho had just emerged from one of the bathrooms and was making his way to the bar.

Knowing the cop's favorite drink the bartender made it under the table and slipped into it a bunch of crushed up sleeping pills he kept in a small container for just such an emergency.

"Martini on the rocks, on the house." the bartender said as Jericho sat back down, the music had slipped towards a more slower dance beat. The red-faced (and red-nosed) Jericho picked up the drink and downed it in one shot.

In five minutes he was out cold and three bouncers were taking him out the back of the club...

Nowhere Near the Trendy Part of Town

Yoz drove the van into a run-down area of town and parked it behind his favorite watering hole. "How 'bout a couple boilermakers - I'm too sober right now" Yoz said to the barkeep who responded "How 'bout we see some cash?" Yoz pulled out one of the twenty Credit bills the boss gave him. Snatching the bill from Yoz's hand, the barkeep poured out the beer and whiskey, and growled "That'll be ten fer the booze and ten towards payin' down yer tab." Annoyed, Yoz started to protest, but the barkeep just smiled his near-toothless leer. "Forget about it, you tightwad - things are on the up and up now - pretty soon I'll own this joint and you'll be on the fucking street" The only response this ellicited from the barkeep whas an abrupt cackle - "Look son, you ain't the first dumb-ass to try that line on me, and out of all of them, you're the least likely to come through with it!" He continued "Now why don't you just sit the hell down and drink up - or I'll have Rupert over there administer a dope slap or two".

Rupert was the only bouncer that joint needed. Mostly he just sat in a back corner with his eyes half closed, and his lower lip drooping. Pretty much never moved, until some commotion broke out, then he'd pull himself off his stool, waddle over to the center of the fight and start smashing heads together with the huge hams he had at the ends of his equally huge arms. Nobody had managed to get much more than a grunt out of him, but he understood what the old barkeep wanted from him and seemed to really enjoy his job. Having been swatted once or twice by Rupert, and discretion being the better part of valor anyway, Yoz sat the hell down and proceeded to hammer down the two drinks in quick succession.