Morbid Much?

The low, pulsating hum of a microphone whose switch the former handler had neglected to thumb to “off” rose to an eardrum rattling shriek of indignation as the mesh grill picked up on the feedback of the sullied, primordial and guttural white noise of dirty amps as it rested at a perilously haphazard angle atop a speaker filled the otherwise silent room with the glorious riot of expletives that would make your dear grandmother blush. “Jesus, Aidan!” came the melodious lit, if one could call the still ever-changing brazen baritones of an Irishman melodious, “What’re you trying to do, you bampot?” Aidan smoothed a stray lock the color of corn silk, moist with sweat from his brow and glowered at Brian with all the fury of brooding storm clouds, bellies heavy with unburdened lightening. “If the Irishman is quite finished,” he began with a mild air, severing a thin coil of crimson wire with a deft upward flash of his wrist, his pocketknife a flash of liquid mercury in the sporadic lighting of the Vixen. He scowled, then, and with a subtle air, seized the volume control between thumb and forefinger, shaking his head in open displeasure at the audible snap and pop of white noise. “The amps still sound dirty to me. Perhaps you’d like to come up here and offer your opinion on the matter, Irishman? Provided you aren’t too drunk to do anything, like the rest of you great thistle-gnawers.” “Hold your tongue, ye bloodthirsty Scott,” Brian returned. “Shut up,” warned Aidan. “No, you shut up.” “Ladies first,” Aidan commented sweetly. The banter exchanged between the two continued on in this ponderous manner for some moments, until at last a detached voice run through with the vague undertones of authority offered up its humble opinion from the darker shade of the stage. “Let’s settle this diplomatically. Both of you shut up,” said Aisling.

Aidan hissed but once, his eyes narrowing with open contempt, the pallid pinprick of his fangs eclipsing his lower lip in dire warning, though he made no further reply. “That’s right,” crowed Brian in triumphant tones. “You’d best be silent. I’ll have you know I happen to be a very powerful man-witch.” “Warlock,” Aisling corrected. “Unless you are a sandwich constructed of canned meat by-products.” unyielding against the tides of weariness. Aisling altered his position on her crude stool. The stool was old and tired, its pallid mahogany paint peeling and flaking off to settle in the sands of time well trodden by hurrying feet. Deep grooves had been worn into the crossbar, where weary feet has moved fore and aft over it in times of mirth and the pure concentration of narration of a tale. She exhaled nosily, and once more occupied herself by deftly manipulating the tune of her guitar, plucking at the strings with an experimental finger every now and then, only to shake her head in dissatisfaction and bend over her instrument once more. She was attired, from her head to her tones, in a single, uniform shade of black.

Her shirt was a mere whisper of fabric, an intricate ebon web of spider-silk fishnet, her tanned flesh making a striking contrast as it revealed itself among the meandering spirals of the fabric. The shirt she wore over the interlocking spider-web was a dull, faded black, nearing gray in certain shades of light, sporting the equally faded and cracked emblem of the rather popular punkrock band Green Day, the cracked and faded white emblem spider-webbing across the length of the shirt, a large shamrock with a single safety pin threaded through leaf beneath it. Beneath that, words once more resurfaced like an elusive shadow of a dream, proclaiming with elegant simplicity, “Kiss me, I’m Punk.” However, she had exercised her own artistic license over the shirt, and had written on the virgin surface of a piece of masking tape, the letter “a”, which graced the space provided between the words “I’m” and “Punk,” the final message thereby reading “I’m a punk.” Even though, though they dared not voice it aloud, some of her band mates privately thought it should read “I’m a (Scottish) bitch.” Her stockings were made of the same nylon fishnet, her black leather mini-skirt riding dangerously high up the length of her thigh. Her shoes were lace-up combat boots purchased at the local Goodwill, with iron toes affixed, rather awkwardly, into them by her own hand. She was simply adorned. Her neck bore only a single necklace; an iron railroad spike suspended from a cheap metal chain-linked chain, and a black (go figure) leather color studded throughout with silver spikes. Her left wrist bore studded armbands, while her right was a vivid splash of color, her clan’s tartan colors of green and gold and crimson with a rearing lion and a crown stamped onto it. The only other adornment she bore was located on her upper right arm, a black Celtic knot of a tattoo with an intricate, arrow like design trailing from it like banners to either side of the central designs. Her ensemble came to an elegant completion with the large black leather trench coat that draped itself over the back of a chair like an overenthusiastic lover.

Her hair was a different matter altogether. Unlike most members of the band Jaded Demise, she retained her natural hair color. The sun never shone on such glory as tumbled wantonly from the beautiful woman's head and down her back, a cascade of indistinct waterfalls. It was a deep russet-gold, When the russet ringlets, glossy as a raven's wing, curled against her sun-darkened complexion, It reminded one of blood against cooling corpses on the battlefield. But, when she turned her head slightly, everything changed and the russet mane transformed into a cascade of rose petals, delicate and soft and crying out to be touched. Her eyes, too, proved to be rather arresting, as well. Her eyes were a rich, ethereal cerulean that had given sway to the blue-green of the ocean; flecked with a hazel so rich it was almost gold. At length, Aidan ceased fiddling with the amps, and straightened with an air of victory, giving one of his infamous, shy grins. “Amps are clean,” he announced with a nod to Aisling. Aisling nodded briskly in return, her gaze drifting like a moored ship to the glow-in-the-dark hands of the lock. “We have a new member,” she announced. “He should have been here by―” her words were cut off sharply by the sound of a door sighing open, then promptly slamming shut. “Now,” she murmured, flashing a coy smile in the general direction of the tall, dark-haired youth silhouetted in the threshold. “This is Faolan, guys,” she said by way of introduction, rising from her chair and crossing the length of the floor to shake hands with the crimson-haired young man. As their hands met, a minute, electric thrill, like static shock from clothing, sparked between the warmth of their joined hands, causing her skin to raise in gooselike flesh. They held each other’s eyes for a moment, a flicker of remembrance and affinity within their depths, and a feral, hungry look from Faolan as his eyes reflected gold.

Aisling cast the youth’s hand from her with a brisk air, and with an elegant air, gestured to the gathered members as they tuned their instruments. “That’s Aidan,” she said, indicating the tall, lanky youth with eyes the color of steel and corn silk hair with the very tips dyed a metallic silver. Aidan lifted up a hand in acknowledgement. “Cahan,” she said, forefinger indicating a dark-haired youth who glared at the world from beneath lowered brows and long, ebon locks, who merely raised a brow and smirked in reply, “Brian,” she said, indicating the crimson-blond haired warlock, who nodded shortly, “Cearul,” she said, gesturing to a young woman whose hair was a dyed deep blue-black, and who sported the tattoo of a dragon along the length of her forearms and back, that showed clearly through her see-through, tight-screened white t-shirt and cutoff jeans bedecked in safety pins, “Dylan,” she said again, pointing to a tanned young man with sky-blue hair and a piercing in his eyebrow, who nodded once “’Sup?” She completed the circle of introductions by thumbing herself in the chest with a blunt air. “Aisling.” Faolan nodded, eyes never ceasing their endless sweep of her form. “Faolan…” mused Dylan. “Doesn’t that mean ‘wolf’ in Gaelic?” Faolan nodded once. “Yeah,” he mumbled, nervously running his fingers through his strawberry-hued hair. Aisling swung onto the stage with a practiced ease, glaring pointedly as the mostly-male band ceased their open staring as her skirt once more revealed a bit more. With coughs and digs of the corners of their tear-ducts, they averted their gaze and turned their attentions to their instruments as Aisling promptly flicked them off, her smirk across her features silently reassuring it was all in jest.

“Nice skirt,” Faolan commented to Aidan with a wry twist of his lips. “It’s a kilt,” Aidan growled, ducking his head slightly as he settled his guitar strap over his head and chest. “You wouldn’t understand. Only real men wear them, anyway.” “So…” Cearul began in a effort to break the mounting tension. “What are we playing tonight?” “I figured we’d start with the basic crowd pleasures. Trot out the usual metal songs more familiar to them, then move to the classic ballads, then bring out our originals,” Aisling replied. Cearul shrugged. “Sounds good. You guys in?” The band murmured their consent and took up their respective places. Once everyone was settled, they wordlessly awaited Aisling’s cue. She didn’t disappoint. Without a word, she launched into the opening rifts of “Dizzy.” After a minute of Brian catching up to her with the ponderous rumble of the drums, she stepped up to the microphone. “You’re cynical, you’re beautiful, you always make a scene,” she belted, “You’re monochrome, delirious, you’re nothing that you seem…” At these last words, her eyes faltered like the flickering dance of candle flames caught by a breeze towards Faolan. “I’m drowning in your vanity, your laugh is a disease, you’re dirty and you’re sweet, you know you’re everything to me…” with that, she concentrated once more on solely playing, stepping back and nodding to Aidan, who stepped up to the microphone next with a drawn out “Oh… everything you are falls from the sky like a star…whatever ever you are…I wanna kill the machine…” he backed away, and once more Aisling stepped to the fore. “…That made you piss away your dreams…” They finished the song, and quickly launched into four more, before breaking.

…”You don’t smell human,” Faolan muttered, narrowing his eyes at Cahan. “I am human!” argued Cahan, voice rife with indignation. No sooner had the words passed from his mouth, than he let out a powerful sneeze. When next he turned around, however, the texture of skin had transformed, and small, porcupine-like needles protruded from his flesh. “Uh-huh,” remarked Faolan doubtfully. “What?” he demanded, lifting his finger to his face. “Ah…shit,” he muttered, as one of the spikes caused a bead of blood to well up upon his finger. “Okay, so I’m not human. Not fully, anyway. My mother was a demon, okay? Got a problem with that….asshole?” “Not at all. It’s cool,” Faolan replied, his gaze falling away from Cahan, and trailing instead to a laughing Aisling as she playfully shoved Aidan, who seized her hands in one large hand a deftly tickled her sides with the other. Cahan tracked his gaze with idle interest. “Ah..you wouldn’t be interested in her, mutt,” he muttered. “What makes you think so?” “She’s a dangerous one, that Aisling. As intricate as that Celtic tattoo of hers. And with a soul just as black. Besides,” he said, tilting his head as a ridiculous grin played across his features. “She’s a pureblood female. She wouldn’t spare a second glance at a mutt like you.” “Pureblood?” “She was born into it. She’s a pureblood werewolf. Comes from one of the ancient families. You, on the other hand…” “Shut up,” snarled Faolan. “Even if you were a pureblood,” continued Cahan, patting the burly youth’s shoulder in mock sympathy, “You still wouldn’t have chance. She and Dylan are somewhat of ‘an item’”. “But he’s a…” he spluttered. “A what? Vampire? Hell, yes.” “Are any of you human?” he demanded. “Cearul, Brian.” “But I warn you, mutt.. If I…if we catch you panting after her heels like a lost puppy…well…let’s just say, you don’t know what true terror is…yet.”

“Oy, you two. Quit brooding in the shadows and pack up. We’ve got a gig here later tonight. Best rest up,” called Aisling. The two jumped apart like guilty little boys found throwing pebbles at their neighbor’s koi. With that, the band dispersed, pausing only to turn out the lights. “See you tonight,” Aisling called after their retreating forms. Later that evening, a crowd began to trickle in, slow as molasses chilled molasses through the glass doors of the Vixen. The Vixen, as its name doubtless suggests, was once a pleasure club reserved mainly for the male gender, a place full of the scent of cheap cigars, and overpriced wine mixed in with the scent of exotic dancer’s perfume. However, the former proprietors of the Vixen were issued an ultimatum-shut down the club, or renovate it into something else. The reason for this forceful measure taken by the authorities was it that it appeared that most, if not all, of the dancers had been shipped over state lines and employed illegally. Not wishing to bring to a swift close such a hefty source of income, they renovated the club into a local dance club where local bands played and competed every Thursday night.

Aisling gazed out at the growing ground, slightly distracted as her Jaded Demise warmed up with a cover of “How can I live?” She gazed with sorrow-laden eyes, with a vague undertone of jealousy as she watched the crowd, the people in front of her danced and ground in the music, their faces lit up occasionally by the strobe lights that were flashing around. Sometimes, when she was most desperate, she wished she could be like them. Not a care in the world, and no knowledge of the dangers that lurked in the depths of the night. No knowledge of the fact that it was because of her and her comrades that they were able to remain in ignorant bliss and sleep soundly at night, their dreams untroubled by the nightmares that glided in a grotesque masquerade ball within the dark corners of her mind at all times. Once they finished their first set, she nodded to Aidan, and he stepped up, launching into one of their originals, entitled “Falling For Death.” She shrugged out of her guitar strap, and discreetly made her way into the wings and into the crowd, the music pounding in her ears as she pushed past the steaming mass of humanity, making her way towards her contact. “Do you think of me? Do you dream of me? I always dream of you…” She shouldered her way through the crowd, eyes aflame with a feral light. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word…” Within a heartbeat, she found him, lounging with an indolent, idle manner against the darker corner of the wall. She strode purposefully up to him, halting just short of his reach. “Standing in the arms of death…won’t you come away, come away?…” She struck an equally careless posture, eyes never leaving his hand as he withdrew a creased sheet of paper folded into quarters from the folds of his pocket. He handed it to her then, fingers lingering across her palm as he did so. “Don’t,” she growled tone as chilled as ice, opening the paper with jerky movements. Her eyes scanned the address, written in elegant calligraphy. With a lazy air, she produced a lighter from her pocket and ignited the paper, upon memorizing the location.

She pulled a thick roll of bills from her pocket, and handed them to him. “Now that business is concluded, we may proceed with the pleasure,” he stated cockily, flipping black locks out of his face coolly. Aisling rolled her eyes and fluttered her fingers open and closed in a mocking farewell. As she turned to go, however, he seized her shoulder with inhuman reflexes, and spun her around to face him again. She snarled, then, irritated. “Let go, Cerberus,” she warned. “I said pleasure,” he stated demandingly, pressing his form against her own, resting his lips against the vein within her neck, breathing in her scent, as well as the slow, cooper scent of blood churning just below the surface. She rolled her eyes heavenward, foot tapping an impatient cadence on the floor as she waited for him to be quite finished with his little game.

She shivered slightly, and her heart accelerated as he trailed his tongue along the length of her neck, canines elongating and growing far sharper at the tips with classic bloodlust. He halted, suddenly, not daring to move as Aisling brought the tip of her stake to bare on his breast, drawing a bead of blood. “Unless you want this thorough your heart, you will back the hell off…now,” she added sweetly. Cerberus grinned against her neck and stepped back, fangs sliding back into their concealing sheaths. “Good boy. Have a biscuit. Now, you are going to let me go, and with any luck, we won’t see each other again…ever.” “I love our little games!” he called after her as she turned, gathered up her jacket, and nodded to the others of her band to move out. The song came to a close, and they respectfully said goodnight, allowing the smaller band its moment of glory, before collecting their cash and heading out of the door and into the night.