Simlog #31, recorded by Babsie, VIP lounge, Mad Women
The room she is shoved in is cooled by an aircon, the smell of snuff and smoke is in the air. A couple of tables with obviously rich people in them and their cheap slummy companions, guarded by bulky bodyguards that hide behind black or mirrored sunglasses and that stand with their back to their clients, motionless scanning for any dangers that might come.
At the moment scanning Babsie with less than interest. “Hey”, she complains after she feels another push from behind. “I’m going, I’m going.” The red light is putting the location in some colouration like from old comic books she knows with just the colors red and black with sharp, dark shadows where naked legs stretch in the air and rich assholes molest them or fuck them without any restraint. Because they can do. The drugs are heaped on the table like hills of white glimmering snow that is gleaming bloody red under the lights.
Packets of other drugs lying on the floor like someone was throwing them into the air. All kinds of pills, where she’s stepping on and that crunch under her feet like fresh snow. Enough for a girl like her to be thrown into the hellhole of Hollywood Correction for a long long time, but the people here don’t even care to hide. On the left there’s the big halve mirrored wall, giving a perfect view to the stage, that she was passing by on her way to the chill room. Voyeuristic screens are put up on top of the window that show couples making out in the chill room or fucking near the toilet. That catch the most stylish girls and boys in the joint and seem to be controlled by someone who is selecting the most interesting scenes.
Laughter and giggling from the booths where mostly young girls adore and rub themselves against the bodies of the famous as sitting on a painted park bench would make you shining with enamel instead of stripy stained. The bodyguard guides her to a booth on the other side of the room. One that is just in front of the spot where she had stood outside to check her looks.
They wear blue tatts on their faces. Blue patches on their bodies. Feathers in their hairs, decorative armor of bones, fringes on their leather jackets. It’s a couple of guys and girls. No joygirls at their sides. There are some drugs in the middle of the table. Drugs she at first can’t identify then she spots that iridescent reflection.
They smile. The middle one is about mid twenty. “Sit”, he invites. “Why?” She is standing a bit stiff. “Because it’s so much nicer.” She hesitates, then she sits on the edge of the leather seats. “What’s up?” “Drink? Sniff? Just take it, if you like. It’s on the house.” “No thank you. I’m not here for recreation”, she declines, the bulky bodyguard behind her. “And you are…” Now the smile vanishes. “You don’t know who we are, girl?” “No. No idea. Blue tatts. A club like this. Are you some winners of a game show or what? How should I know?” The whole group just stares at her. “You want to shit us. You don’t look that stupid. Or…” “Man I really have no idea who you are. You’re just some average guys that I’ve never seen on telly. Are you some rock stars or what?” Now they start to laugh. “Girl you have nerves. But no. You’re living on the street?” “Ya, I do.” “Then you should have heard of us.” “Is that so?” “First Nations?”
She starts to swallow dry. “N-Nations? You mean that indian gang?” They just stare. “Okay. And what the fuck have I done wrong that you call me for my execution or what is it?” “What’re doing here? – What’s your name?” “What’s yours?” The elf was raising himself up so his impressive figure was dominating the table. “I’m called Blood-of-the-Buffalo.” “Babsie, nice to meet ya.” “If you don’t mind – Horned Owl, check her.” The bodyguard lifts her up and put her upper body over the table, his hands doing a quick pat-down, not forgetting to slap her booty." He produced that CO2 crossbow. The other gangers lough, but the elf just takes it in his hand. “You can stand or sit, as you like.” She throws an angry look to the Horned Asshole and stuffs her hands scowling into the pockets of her parka. She’s feeling the grip of her knife that he had missed, with the other she grips the can of pepper punch, playing nervously with the release-button.
The elf is examining the weapon. “Neat thing. It reminds me of our old times. When we were fighting our wars with those Saturday Night Specials. Today of course it’s more the AK-97 that’s ruling. I sometimes wish back the old times.” She bites her lip, when he plays around with the thing, holds it into her direction. “Well enough played.” He puts it on the table and shoves it over to her. She’s not moving.
“Impressive little toy. So, Babsie what are you doing here? You are not for recreation, you are clearly not security for anyone. You didn’t let check yourself by one of the bouncers. What are you?” She’s looking around, but there is no chance to get away, so she plays the game. “I’m looking for a friend.” “Loyalty is a virtue. Who is your friend?” “One of the Neo Tokyo girls in the chill. Her name was Annie.”
The one at the other side of the table is looking right through her, which makes her a bit twitchy. “She disappeared.” “Annie?” The elf raises an eyebrow. “And you are on your warpath to revenge?” They laugh. “No.” She presses her lips together to a slim line. “I suppose it happened something bad to her.” “Okay. Anybody knows this Annie?” The elf is quite amused and the other gangers enjoy the show. “That’s one of the groupies who couldn’t get enough”, a female says. “Long black hair. About eighteen maybe. You know? That junkie whore.” The one that calls himself Blood-of-the-Buffalo nods. “I remember. We told her to pay or go to hell. She said she will pay. Did anybody see her after that?” They shake their heads. “Sorry ‘Little Squirrel’. We can’t help you. She’s gone.” “Which drugs do you sell?” “You don’t know? It’s called Tempo. Magical compound, way to the totems. Take a look around this club. It’s the drug. And we provide. But now that we helped you a lot.” “Did you?” “We did. I ask would you help us in return?” “Help? What the fuck can I help you?” “You are street-smart. You look innocent. You are an elf like I am. Do you deal drugs?” “What?!” “I ask you do you want to deal for us?” “What about, no?! I am clean since twenty days and I don’t touch drugs anymore. I stay clean, check?”
The elf is smiling. “You seem to be misunderstanding this conversation. Do you think you have a choice?” “Before I start dealing you better snuff me off”, Babsie crosses her arms. “Because I’m not doing this shit. I may be poor as a church mouse but I’m not kicking down on those, that are below and need my help. I am more that kind of girl that kicks ass of those who think they can push me around, kapiert?”
The nations gang kept silent for a moment, then they all started to laugh. “Cocky”, the elf nodded. “I tell you what, little squirrel. I like your pride. It’s not a bad attitude. And I told you”, he turns to the other at the table, “that one is most likely entertaining. You know, we were watching your stunt at that backdoor. Nice trick. Take your toy and leave, I suggest. Cause the bouncers should be on you soon.” They started to laugh. Babsie grabs her crossbow, turns on her heels and gets out of the lounge as fast as she could.
She evades the Nation bouncer, flips out the door and bounces off the rail towards the chill like the steel-ball in a pinball. She reaches the table with the girls, but two of them are already so stoned that she ignores them. “Where did Annie say, she’ll go to get the money?” Miko looks at her with a glazed look. “She said she gets some at Touristville”, she slurrs, than giggles and starts kissing the dude whom she is lying in his arms. “Thanks”, she turns, runs to the galley. She’s looking around and sees the bouncer rushing towards her. She runs off into the other direction, evading some people on the gallery, barging against somebodies. Down on the stage the Celtic Cross play their finish. Theres a huge troll drummer and an elven singer who is fragile like a matchstick, with a sharp face and some goth tats that don’t look like they’re tribal at all. The noise is overwhelming and she trips over some of the people, who are sitting on the floor.
Everywhere there are these small empty packets on the floor that she now knows are the new drug. She is feeling claustrophobic and just wants to get out. Rushing down a circular stair, pushing more people out of her way. “Fuck you, rich fags”, she is showing a fuck you into one of the surveillance cams on her way out, greets the bouncer at the door to the backstage area, who just nods and let’s her pass, and runs into the arms of the drummer of Celtic Cross. “Hey, Dark Angel, look what I got”, he says in a deep sing-sung voice that’s awkwardly queer. “How did you like our gig?” “It was mind bogglingly noisy, man”, she answers quickly and ducks under his massive arms. “Hey, streetrat”, the troll asks, “wanna chill a bit with the band and enjoy the rush of a good gig?” “Thanks, gotta go”, she yells over her shoulder, darts into the corridors that lead to the exit and finally runs past the surprised ork at the back door. “Tizzy!”, are squeaking a couple of teenager girls. “No fucking Tizzy, he’s fucking a queer troll!”, she answers and runs off into the drizzling night.