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Daniel Ciin (miaiphonos) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2011-07-23 00:21:00

it's not the door you're using
Who: Rylee & Samuel.
What: The aforementioned field trip.
Where: The Foxhole.
When: 23 July, 11:01 p.m.
Warnings: Bewbs. Foul language. General badness.


In spite of the timorous nature of his texts Samuel was not earnestly surprised to see Rylee at his door, precisely on time, dressed precisely as instructed. He was after all a military man, and as such had perhaps less trouble with clearly delineated missives than others might. Not for the first time Samuel found himself wishing more people had the same quality, that his life might be made easier for the more ready, reliable obedience of others when it came to his wishes. It was a ludicrous thought, but one that made perfect sense to him, whether applied to his personal or professional interactions. After all, he had every faith in his instruction; why shouldn't others?

This narcissistic line of thought had thankfully been derailed by Rylee's appearance, as Samuel turned his attention from himself to his self-appointed protégé. Pleased with his own preparedness, this wickedly brilliant idea, he had given away nothing of his real intent as they had left the streetlit shadow of Pax Letale. Something of the evening's plans was hinted at by the appearance of a cab, whisking them away to parts unknown, Samuel's monstrous, cherry-red Dodge Ram remaining safely in its parking place. But even this gave no real detail, and Samuel steered the conversation away from anything that might by fixing wholly on Rylee, on his work, on his settling into Pax and Newport Beach in general. It wasn't until they arrived at their destination that their purpose came solidly into focus.

The windowless building was nondescript, its sign easily overlooked by the distracted or unobservant. It called no attention to itself, no garish lights or thumping bass seeping out into the dim parking lot. Such low key qualities made it a favored club for married or otherwise claimed officers, for those looking to climb the slippery rungs of the career ladder, or those who were for some other reason simply too anxious to be seen openly patronizing such an establishment. Samuel's natural inclination was to bypass such timid-seeming places, ever in search of venues raucous, earthy, and entirely morally questionable. But he had heard good things about this club in spite of its demure outward appearance, and curiosity was one of his many and varied weaknesses.

A quick flash of cash and IDs got them in the door. The hallway beyond was close and dark, the only light filtering through to them from the main room beyond: dim, red, and thick from the haze of smoke issuing from the vicinity of the stage. What lingering doubt regarding the place Samuel felt wholly dissipated as the next dancer took the stage, clad in little more than black panties, electrical tape, and black boots fitted to her coltish legs tight as a second skin. The Dead Weather's "Hang You From the Heavens" purred through the speakers, and she wasted no time moving to its gritty beat.

To Rylee's almost certain dismay Samuel found a table uncomfortably close to the stage, pushing the chair nearest to it out with one booted foot, motioning for him to sit. "Lesson One," he said, leaning toward him, in the same motion gesturing to a nearby - topless, naturally - waitress. "How not to act freaked the fuck out when you finally get Charlie naked."