Near the entrance.
Now, Lukas wasn’t a selective, or even particularly well-groomed man by any means of measure.. but he wouldn’t have been buried in half the ensembles he saw loitering at the club’s entrance. Was that actually a fucking codpiece? Disturbed, and a little shaken in his grubby Converses, Lukas ground his cigarette out on the hood of a waiting taxi before heading for the door. With hands wedged into pockets after getting the stamp of approval from the bouncer checking IDs, he looked a little out of place. No, more than a little. While he at least managed to trade in his grease-stained bluejeans for a pair of dark slacks, he was still wearing the height of middle school punk fashion in those black, canvas kicks. He was working the modern mime look, with his striped shirt -- which was also miraculously free of tears or stains. If you’re sensing a theme here, forget it -- he still looked like he hadn’t shaved in a full week.
This was not Lukas’ kind of place. He didn’t do concerts or music, for the obvious reasons, and aside from that it was dark and crowded. But free drinks until midnight? Not even a shut-in like himself could deny that cat call.