Chuckles, thats why My public rooms are citizens only.

Would you mind bringing Me a Chardonnay

Patting the seat next to Me

and have a seat.

indeed, indeed. I was willing to even give him a chance. I do more and more understand why some people only play with citizens

*snickers* Takes all kinds, does it not.

I don't think he was part of your fan club.

looks over and smiles

hello Goddess

Giggles erupt from the corner booth...

SILLY

Surely
Inspiring
Lusty
Longings
Yield

YIELD

I see

no need pulls my beach ball from behind my back

SURPRISE!!!!

well doctor, maybe we should do somewhere and show me

I am sure i have the perfect thing

Space

smiles a bit

there's some very fun things to ride

then ride what you can

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