Post by Maxim Panther on Sept 2, 2011 20:08:57 GMT -5
...That was the question Maxim Panther toyed with in his mind as he toyed with the virgin strawberry daiquiri on the table before him. It was very late, and the Laughing Villain wasn't terribly crowded anymore. Most of the demons, humans, and shifters had left, and it was nearly all vampires now. He only came in the wee hours before dawn; it was the Vampire's equivalent of "late night."
He often found himself with this choice. VIP was nice and all, but he liked to have a popular presence, and he only ever disappeared into the VIP rooms when it was the masses reached "writhing dance floor horde" status.
The body count was far below this now, and he felt comfortable out here. Perhaps he'd stay out here. He cast a glance around the room from the booth he sat at. He was alone save for the lovely dark-skinned slave leaning casually against the wall between his booth and the next. Like him, she surveyed the room with lovely chocolate eyes, but unlike him, she wore a thin steel bracer on her left forearm with a large scripted MP etched near her wrist, facing outward. It was his version of slave banding. On the underside was a line running its length. The lock was electronic and GPS-enabled, and the keycard to unlock it stayed at the mansion when he took a slave out with him. It also functioned as a sort of calling card that allowed his slaves to get drinks for him and friends on his tab. People recognized this signature. Nobody touched his slaves without his permission.
She was dressed in a short white tank, black booty shorts, and gold gladiator sandals, and various pieces of jewelry adorned her right hand, wrist, and neck. He wore his characteristic three-piece suit, a well-tailed blue jacket and pant, and a silk vest and tie beneath. One upon a time he'd considered getting a nice hat, but he'd decided that he didn't want to look like some Northern Yankee pimp.
He sipped the daiquiri quietly directly from the glass, looking like he owned the place as he lounged there.
He often found himself with this choice. VIP was nice and all, but he liked to have a popular presence, and he only ever disappeared into the VIP rooms when it was the masses reached "writhing dance floor horde" status.
The body count was far below this now, and he felt comfortable out here. Perhaps he'd stay out here. He cast a glance around the room from the booth he sat at. He was alone save for the lovely dark-skinned slave leaning casually against the wall between his booth and the next. Like him, she surveyed the room with lovely chocolate eyes, but unlike him, she wore a thin steel bracer on her left forearm with a large scripted MP etched near her wrist, facing outward. It was his version of slave banding. On the underside was a line running its length. The lock was electronic and GPS-enabled, and the keycard to unlock it stayed at the mansion when he took a slave out with him. It also functioned as a sort of calling card that allowed his slaves to get drinks for him and friends on his tab. People recognized this signature. Nobody touched his slaves without his permission.
She was dressed in a short white tank, black booty shorts, and gold gladiator sandals, and various pieces of jewelry adorned her right hand, wrist, and neck. He wore his characteristic three-piece suit, a well-tailed blue jacket and pant, and a silk vest and tie beneath. One upon a time he'd considered getting a nice hat, but he'd decided that he didn't want to look like some Northern Yankee pimp.
He sipped the daiquiri quietly directly from the glass, looking like he owned the place as he lounged there.