I don't get as much time on waves these days

The crest of a wave katy

depends on what I'm riding

hows your riding these days

South Town
EZ Mike was not far from the center of the, uh, er, Maelstrom going on in the center of the pit.

The tall, gangly fist-magnet was Shoving his way back and forth, trying to get close enough to the stage, and the speakers, that his ears would be nearing constant tinnitus were they not aug'd. Even with the monitors on them turned to focus on voice and turn down the absolute havoc of the noise, they still began to ache.

He dips beneath the waves of the swinging fists and harsh breakdowns, a dinghy aloft in the tempest of flesh and cyberware. He resurfaces, for air and a sight at Maestro absolutely shredding on Lead, the singer pressing his face up against the screen.

Something someone told him to never do. Then again, his entire motif was death and slaughter, so there was probably a lot he was into that his mother would lightly 'tsk' at.

EZ Mike gets walloped and his blond quiff rattles as he goes down again. Glub glub glub.

A moment as the crowd closes in on him, and then he erupts from the surging wall of sweaty bodies, breaking free to grab the fence that separated the rowdy crowd from the rowdier musical artists. Normally this was for the band's safety. With Anti-Human, the police reports tell a different story.

With the toe of an extremely clean sneaker digs a toe against the twisted wire of the fence, he uses it to launch himself off the fence and swan dive back into the pit. Rolling along the wave of people before he disappears once more under it's choppy surface.

Moments pass, and then he is thrown from the rear mass of people, launching a fellow off to the side while he stumbles, center of balanced forced behind him.

His back slams against the tower made from two boothbacks set up against each other and rattles a few other survivors sitting in their seats.

Familiar bruises make friends with new ones, and he wipes blood from his chin, where the elbow of someone ran his lower lip against the rough edge of his upper row of teeth.

He was clamoring to his feet, ready to head back in this mass of physical threat manifest, this eldritch horror of swinging arms, swiping elbows and thrashing feet.

And then he stops, because the unique shade of your hair— what do you call that?— catches the corner of one slowly-swelling eye.

"Oh shit! MILLIE!"

His lips close and you can see the tongue moving beneath their surface, swiping along chompers to hopefully take away that pink slime of spit mixed with blood.

He grins. His attempt is mostly effective.

"Great show, right?"

looks over and smiles

hello

hullo katy

drinks while watching around me

Assessment

looks around the place wondering if anybody fun and or dangerous is around

I feel fine Miss. Just woke up half an hour ago

Oddity

"Oh yeah! Duh!"

Sniffing at the air a little and then stepping over to find that the popcorn was just where it was supposed to be. Taking some and munching on it for a moment. She swallowed and nodded. Yes. This was good popcorn.

"How are you this morning, little love?"

Hello Seven welcome in the Pub I think there are snacks in the Bar

takes the drink with a thank you

"Mornin, sandra!"

Smiles and waves as she steps in and back behind the bar, looking for something to snack on.

Nightlife
Club АНЕВРИЗМА

The Maelstrom-associated club was hosting Dogtown-based band known as Anti-Human with guest guitarist Maestro whose aesthetic didn't quite match the rest of the band but just like the cyber-skulled band, he had a cathode ray-tube screen for a head so he fit in better than most.

As the music thundered and abused the ears of everyone present, the screen of the guitarist's face flickered violently from pictures of a lush green field in slow-motion against glitching flashes of fictional violence interspersed with actual footage from XBDs of wars past.

And most of the people here were too fucked up, too busy defending themselves in the pit, fighting back disorienting light-flashes that strobed along like the staccato gunfire matching the rapidfire drums where equally short flashes of total darkness coincided with an entire field of eyes all glowing different colors, hers purple.

There were only a few people who weren't in the pit, either because they crawled out to safety with bloody faces or had gotten ejected from the waves of thrashing action that seemed to cast from the stage like the sonic assault was its own violence to be projected into the field.

Movement was just as disorienting even with the flashes of light to occasionally help re-orient her, even with visual filters to help fight the low-light conditions, and she was adequately marked up from the last song, patches of red here and there from a hard crash into another person in the club, her hair frayed and disheveled but largely whole and adequately thrilled.

Sometime in the last song she lost sight of EZ Mike but figured he was somewhere around, surviving.

It seems I chooses the wrong time

steps up to the bartender, ordering myself a night cap to see if that helps, or if somebody comes along

Thinking so oft at my Mistress Tory
So sad Dhe passed away