the old boy may be barely breathing
Nov 13, 2017 23:11:06 GMT -5
Post by Graf von Krolock on Nov 13, 2017 23:11:06 GMT -5
It cost $65 to get from Gotham to Maspeth in a yellow cab, but money was at the top of the list of things Johannes von Krolock was finding difficult to care about anymore. He’d already spent plenty of it tracking down the address of the warehouse to which he was headed, so it was more or less all the same at this point.
Beyond Williamsburg, Grand Avenue went mostly dark, shored up on either side by hulking, blank-sided warehouses. The driver, who had been visibly apprehensive about being pulled into the middle of nowhere by an obvious vampire, was almost overcome with relief when Krolock merely paid him and moved along.
He glanced up the side of the warehouse. He could hear music coming from inside, though he couldn’t figure out exactly which kind.
Krolock smiled to himself and walked around to the other side. One of the rolling doors was partially up, with light showing from beyond.
He ducked under it.
Inside was a riot of activity. Someone had hung a number of pink streamers from the ceiling, and there was a cheap, mass-produced-looking banner stretched over one window that read Happy Third Birthday to a Special Girl. A man wearing a lampshade on his head and carrying a tray of red plastic cups nearly collided with Krolock as he walked through the crowd.
He noticed, with mild interest, that the crowd was all male, and all appeared to have the same face.
A group of the men was crowded around an air hockey table, with one cluster cheering another clone wearing wraparound sunglasses and the other cheering his opponent, whose hair had been shaved into a tall crest on top of his head. They didn’t notice Krolock as he passed. Neither did the crowd that had gathered to watch one of them performing a sort of Slavic kick dance that was wildly out of sync with the music emanating from the makeshift stage yet another little posse of clones had set up in one corner.
Krolock paused to watch them for a moment, as one of the clones stepped up to a mic stand that had been prepared with some kind of cheap plastic toy microphone and began singing into it.
”New York, New York is everything they say, there’s no place I’d rather be...”
One of his bandmates somehow produced an impressive pair of guitar chords in response on what appeared to be an unplugged ukelele. Behind them, a clone with a very severe and medieval-looking bowl cut was turning his head back and forth robotically while moving his hands equally unconvincingly up and down on an unplugged electric keyboard.
Krolock turned away in time to see a sullen-looking, faintly androgynous blonde woman pass. He followed her with his eyes with mild curiosity, wondering if she belonged here or if she had also come to seek assistance.
”But it’s still that same old back-beat rhythm that really, really drives ‘em wild...”
Krolock watched as the woman shoved past a group of bearded clones who were apparently engaged in a hamboning contest, and as they scattered, they revealed the Queen.
”They say the heart of rock ‘n’ roll’s still beating, and from what I’ve seen I believe ‘em...”
The Queen sat sideways in an inflatable green armchair, one leg slung over the armrest, her shoulders in a sullen slouch as she tapped her stiletto-heeled boot with the spear she had stolen from the museum. Behind the tall, crownlike reach of her green-streaked hair, Krolock saw crude, childlike, oversized crayon drawings had been taped to the corrugated metal wall of the warehouse- a badly rendered Severus Snape impaled with what appeared to be the spear and dripping bright red blood, a few that he eventually recognized as Loki (one of which was labeled BIG DUMMY), and one last one he couldn’t identify on sight until he saw the scribbled-on explanation TOM SELLECK: TV’S MAGNUM!
Krolock stepped into the clearing before her, smiling his most inoffensive and obliging smile, his hands clasped together agreeably.
Beyond Williamsburg, Grand Avenue went mostly dark, shored up on either side by hulking, blank-sided warehouses. The driver, who had been visibly apprehensive about being pulled into the middle of nowhere by an obvious vampire, was almost overcome with relief when Krolock merely paid him and moved along.
He glanced up the side of the warehouse. He could hear music coming from inside, though he couldn’t figure out exactly which kind.
Krolock smiled to himself and walked around to the other side. One of the rolling doors was partially up, with light showing from beyond.
He ducked under it.
Inside was a riot of activity. Someone had hung a number of pink streamers from the ceiling, and there was a cheap, mass-produced-looking banner stretched over one window that read Happy Third Birthday to a Special Girl. A man wearing a lampshade on his head and carrying a tray of red plastic cups nearly collided with Krolock as he walked through the crowd.
He noticed, with mild interest, that the crowd was all male, and all appeared to have the same face.
A group of the men was crowded around an air hockey table, with one cluster cheering another clone wearing wraparound sunglasses and the other cheering his opponent, whose hair had been shaved into a tall crest on top of his head. They didn’t notice Krolock as he passed. Neither did the crowd that had gathered to watch one of them performing a sort of Slavic kick dance that was wildly out of sync with the music emanating from the makeshift stage yet another little posse of clones had set up in one corner.
Krolock paused to watch them for a moment, as one of the clones stepped up to a mic stand that had been prepared with some kind of cheap plastic toy microphone and began singing into it.
”New York, New York is everything they say, there’s no place I’d rather be...”
One of his bandmates somehow produced an impressive pair of guitar chords in response on what appeared to be an unplugged ukelele. Behind them, a clone with a very severe and medieval-looking bowl cut was turning his head back and forth robotically while moving his hands equally unconvincingly up and down on an unplugged electric keyboard.
Krolock turned away in time to see a sullen-looking, faintly androgynous blonde woman pass. He followed her with his eyes with mild curiosity, wondering if she belonged here or if she had also come to seek assistance.
”But it’s still that same old back-beat rhythm that really, really drives ‘em wild...”
Krolock watched as the woman shoved past a group of bearded clones who were apparently engaged in a hamboning contest, and as they scattered, they revealed the Queen.
”They say the heart of rock ‘n’ roll’s still beating, and from what I’ve seen I believe ‘em...”
The Queen sat sideways in an inflatable green armchair, one leg slung over the armrest, her shoulders in a sullen slouch as she tapped her stiletto-heeled boot with the spear she had stolen from the museum. Behind the tall, crownlike reach of her green-streaked hair, Krolock saw crude, childlike, oversized crayon drawings had been taped to the corrugated metal wall of the warehouse- a badly rendered Severus Snape impaled with what appeared to be the spear and dripping bright red blood, a few that he eventually recognized as Loki (one of which was labeled BIG DUMMY), and one last one he couldn’t identify on sight until he saw the scribbled-on explanation TOM SELLECK: TV’S MAGNUM!
Krolock stepped into the clearing before her, smiling his most inoffensive and obliging smile, his hands clasped together agreeably.