I'm not, like, picky or nothin'."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 21:16 Pacific Time on Mon Jan 19 2004.

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (15% full).

Temple

This building, obviously an ex-church of some kind, provides a slightly raw
      acoustic for the pounding music--muffled only by dusty velvet and 
      tapestry hangings on the stone walls. Pillars march down the nave, which 
      has become the main dance floor; a black-pipe grid about fifty feet 
      overhead holds the fixtures and dark-colored lights that sweep the mass 
      of dancers. It's evidently quite the nouveau-goth hangout of St. 
      Claire--boasting more piercings per capita than the punkest of thrash 
      clubs, and more decaying brocade than Anastasia's Antique Emporium 
      downtown. 

The sanctuary at the far end of the building is still cordoned off, often used
      for "entertainments" of varying type and quality. At other times, 
      exhibitionists crowd the higher stepped platform of the sanctuary, or 
      dance on the smaller raised areas around some of the pillars along the 
      nave. A cube of chainlink fence to one side of the sanctuary houses the 
      CD spinner and DJ of the evening. One side chapel holds the main bar of 
      the club; the other chapels along the sides of the church serve as 
      seating areas, filled with castoff furniture in dark colors and the 
      occasional unlit candelabra or swath of dark fabric. Tattered, stained 
      velvet sofas and settees, tucked into the little 'rooms', provide 
      conversation areas somewhat shielded from the noise. The back chapels, 
      arranged in an arc behind the sanctuary, provide dark places for the 
      Nachtskinder to play, exchanging their money for sex, drugs, and other 
      vices.

The arched double doors of the main church entrance lead back out to the
      street. The wood panels are tall and imposing; only one of them usually 
      can be opened. A bouncer stands beside it at a tall podium.

In both corners, enclosed staircases lead up to the second-floor
      galleries--balconies from which those less inclined to dance can watch 
      the writhing below.

The crowd is light tonight, brightly-dressed retro punks and techno fiends
      thrashing away, with spots of black amid the lurid colors of hair and 
      clothing. There's a piercing-laden boy with an impressive spiked mohawk, 
      and over there a glittery David Bowie wannabe--and under the lights, a 
      dazzling array of studded leather, Manic Panic dye, and spandex.

Crocuta loiters at the edge of the dance floor, nodding absently to the beat of
      the music and mostly watching as others dance, writhe, pose, posture, and 
      pair (or trio or quartet) up. Her expression's guarded and sullen -- eyes 
      moving restlessly, hands in pockets, teeth gnawing at her lower lip 
      unconsciously. She doesn't seem to be with anyone tonight -- the usual 
      crowd of SCCU-attending freakos is, by and large, absent tonight.

There's one, at least: the glam-drag dancer, her hair all spiked up with
      glittering reddish streaks. No restraint at all, in that one--only the 
      violent urges of the music, tempered by small concessions to the language 
      of dance. She moves without a care for anyone around her, painting her 
      eloquent release in three dimensions, utterly lost in a trance of her own 
      making.

A flash of envy passes across Crocuta's young face as she watches. Then she
      scowls, tips her chin up in a determined sort of way, and melds herself 
      into the sea of dancers, submerging into sound and motion. 
      Self-consciousness makes her awkward, but she has rhythm and energy, and 
      if it's not quite the kind of angry punk thrashing that she's in the mood 
      for, you can still move to it.

Ministry breaks out of the speakers like a plague, in the most perfect synergy
      since the casting of Casablanca. The glam-rocker breaks loose, fists 
      slamming against the air, violence clearing a space around her.

[Rina]

Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face. Rina's
      skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from 
      generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just 
      long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut 
      tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a 
      velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, 
      her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a 
      shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; 
      save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite 
      painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful 
      face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a 
      certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often 
      an element of tension as well.

A black barbed-wire tattoo encircles her neck, and matching inked bracelets are
      visible on her wrists.  There is another marking visible at the base of 
      her neck, not ink but a scarred-in symbol that looks as if it was branded 
      into her skin.  (page for details if taking a closer look) 

The evening's theme seems to be a Bowie-esque version of gothic drag. Low-slung
      pants of shiny black PVC pour over her hips and legs, descending into 
      battered black thrash boots that buckle up the sides. A knee-length frock 
      coat of wine-scarlet brocade fits her upper body tightly, then flares out 
      at her waist. Beige lace falls from beneath the turned-back cuffs of 
      black velvet; under the jacket, the girl wears a Byronesque poet's shirt 
      of ivory silk, with a fall of the same antique lace tied at the throat. 
      Gloves of black leather stretch tight over her hands.

Her makeup is a glittering homage to the days of glam rock and Charlie's
      Angels--but somehow she skirts a tasteful edge. Dark-red lipstick, a 
      smudge of black eyeliner, an asymmetrical paint job of silvery-rose that 
      slants up from one eye and down over the opposite cheek: it complements 
      the glam-rock drag, and plays up the rakish side of her beauty. 

She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. Her right hand bears a single
      diamond framed by two smaller ones, the decorative work on the ring 
      elegant and subtle, perhaps Art Deco. On the left she wears a simpler 
      band decorated with letters and scrollwork.

[Crocuta]

A lean, slim specimen of _Homo gothius punkius_, Crocuta is a little under five
      and a half feet tall and looks to be around college-age. Her smooth, 
      youthful face is attractive in its way; her nose is a little large, but 
      it fits in with the rest of her features, and her dark blue eyes -- 
      touched with green in certain lights -- are especially distinctive. A 
      lack of piercings and tattoos gives the broodling goth-punk the naive 
      aura of a warrior that hasn't yet been blooded.

Her light brown hair has been shaved off along the sides, leaving an inch-wide,
      two-inch long strip down along the middle. This has been dyed a toxic 
      shade of green and spiked up into a short but perfectly servicable mohawk.

Ripped blue jeans sport giant holes, displaying bright yellow tights
      underneath. Her t-shirt's torn off just above the waistline and displays 
      a picture of Chunk from _The Goonies_ -- fresh from Hot Topic. Red Chuck 
      Taylor sneakers cover her feet, and a small padlock hangs from a chain 
      around her slender neck. Another chain's been threaded through her 
      beltloops. 

Crocuta grins briefly and toothily as "Just One Fix" lunges out and starts
      raping the air and lets her motion devolve into thrashing anger. When 
      someone steps on her foot, she yelps, then shoves back, and an impromptu 
      mosh-fest erupts around her, the group frenzy threatening to engulf the 
      Bowie glam-girl.

Rina gives as good as she gets, kicking a classic preppie out of her way; the
      trance is broken, and she joins the fierce chaos for a while. After a few 
      minutes, though, she pushes her way back out to the edge and leans 
      against one of the stone pillars, watching with a crooked grin.

Crocuta meanwhile gets another lesson in why steel-toed heavy boots are better,
      if not more comfortable, than Chuck Taylors, but she holds her own pretty 
      well, lasting until the tides of war wash her up on shore -- not far from 
      Rina, as it happens. A good deal sweatier and breathing hard, she limps 
      over to a nearby pillar and braces a hand against it.

Rina glances over, flashing her a rakish grin and then slipping over to the new
      neighbor, sneaking around the back of the stone column to come up behind 
      the toxic-punk. "Buy you a drink, Thrash?" she half-shouts above the 
      music.

Crocuta, poking gingerly at her left foot through the thick canvas of her
      sneaker, glances up in startlement, then grins back, nods, and 
      straightens up.

Rina offers a gloved hand with a flamboyant gesture, just in case the lady
      should wish to take her arm.

Lady? What lady? Punk-girl's good at taking suggestions, though, and indeed
      takes Rina's arm. Her grin stays, broad and toothy, as the night starts 
      looking up. As they head for the bar, Crocuta's free hand dips briefly 
      into her front pocket, making sure her wallet's still there -- the 
      habitual gesture of a paranoid New Yorker.

Rina escorts her around the quieter edges of the cathedral, giving the chaos of
      the dancefloor a wide berth and taking the opportunity to study the punk 
      on her arm. "Haven't seen you here before. Not that that's saying much... 
      it's been a while since I was a regular."

Crocuta wipes at her forehead with the back of her free hand. "Yeah?" The Noo
      Yawk accent's plain to be heard. "Me neitha'. But it's only, I d'no, 
      like, my second're third time."

Rina's accent is a Chicago-urban muddle--but something sharpens in her eyes.
      "You from back east?" she prompts, her attention suddenly focused.

"Yeah, Noo Yawk. Lon' Gyland actually." Her brow furrows as she frowns.
      "Somethin' wrong wi' that?"

Rina shakes her head minutely. "Nah." There is, but she isn't saying,
      evidently. Her free hand comes up to rub at the back of her neck, 
      covering the mark there. "What's your poison?" she asks, early enough 
      that they haven't yet been drowned out by bar chatter.

Crocuta's eyes flick to the mark, though she's as interested in the woman's
      other tattoos. She shrugs. "Beer's fine, whateva'. I'm not, like, picky 
      or nothin'."

Releasing her arm, the glam-punk steps ahead of her to head for the bar. Before
      too long, she returns with two tall glasses.

Crocuta's face brightens with an enthusiastic grin. "Cool, ya wanna get a
      table? That last fucker really stomped on my fuckin' foot."

Rina flashes a grin. "Yeah, sure..." It's easy enough to find one. Rina sets
      down both drinks and flops into a chair. "You ever go to this club in 
      Manhattan, called Mother?"

Crocuta flops into the opposite chair and swallows a generous throatful of cold
      beer. Wiping her mouth, she ums a bit at the question, looking unsure. 
      "Uh... don't think so? I mean, mebbe I mighta', but I don' recognize 
      th'name."

Rina waves a hand, and then picks up her beer. "Enh, prolly gone by now
      anyway." She drinks, and then looks across to the woman through narrowed 
      eyes. "You know a guy that goes by Balthasar?"

Crocuta's brow furrows; she shifts her weight nervously, frowns as if thinking
      about it, and then shakes her head. "No... but I kinda ran with a small 
      crowd." She shrugs.

Rina lifts a shoulder, and lets it fall. The dark eyes lower as she drinks.
      "Y'like Ministry? Or were you just fed up?"

Crocuta jitters a leg absently. "Little'a both, I guess." She shrugs. "I don't
      dance a lot, just flail around enthusiastically, ya know?"

Rina flashes a quick, shockingly pretty smile. "Yeah. Nothin' wrong with that."
      She lifts her glass, drinking again, sharp dark eyes watching the punk.

Crocuta returns it with a shy, crooked grin and looks down to take a drink.
      "Yeah... so, um." She looks up, sticks a hand out. "Crocuta," she says, 
      introducing herself. "Like the hyena."

Rina's brow furrows. "Like what?" Bemused, she raises an eyebrow and offers a
      gloved hand in answer.

"Spotted hyena," the punk explains, smirking. "Crocuta crocuta."

"Oh..." A sheepish smile, then. "Only Latin I know is the church kind." She
      rises, to bow theatrically over the woman's hand. "Rina. Nice to 
      meetcha." A grin, as she straightens, and she gives a little jerk over 
      her shoulder. "They're playin' my song.

Crocuta looks briefly disappointed, but nods. "'Kay. Nice meetin' ya, Rina."
      She grins again. "See ya 'round?"

The crooked smile comes again, and Rina nods, her eyes bright with the need to
      move again. "Yeah. Come out and thrash some more, when you feel better." 
      A skipping step back, and she turns the dive into the crowd again.

"Sure," the punkgirl murmurs, too late for Rina to hear. She nurses the rest of
      her beer, watching.