The club was full of gaudy screaming lights and sweaty bodies. The vibrations from the music shook the floor.

Marik Ishtar maneuvered skillfully through the grinding couples and talentless loners. The leather jacket he wore brushed against a woman's sizable breasts and she gave a little shriek before noting him duly and curling the noise to a purr.

Marik looked like sex. He sashayed like sex. He smirked like sex.

He had been called exotic even in his own backyard of Egyptian desert. It was rare to have that dark skin tone and natural pale blonde hair, not to mention the kohl-lined cat-like eyes that alternated between lilac and gold-sprinkled amethyst.

The heavy earrings swung as he walked and the clinging pants left very little to the imagination.

Strutting to the bar, and acting for all appearances like he owned the place, he set his elbow and arm down firmly on the counter and ordered vodka.

"Master Marik!"

Okay, so maybe he did own the place.

"Keep your voice lowered, Ahamad," said Marik calmly, eyes gleaming with a strange feral power that meant nothing good for anyone around him. "Is he here?"

The man cleared his throat, brought the vodka with traditional lemon slice, and murmured: "Down there, with the golden-haired teeth-down-her-throat bitch."

Marik turned and glanced in that direction, giving the man beside him a good view of his ass. "Ah," he ran one hand through wild, spiked-up hair that made him look perpetually sex-driven; tousling it further and giving it a good bedroom appearance. "I see him."

The purr that came with the words caused the man to heat up in several regions and shiver visibly.

The self proclaimed Egyptian sex god picked up his vodka with the one hand clad in leather fingerless glove and unzipped the jacket fully with the other; walking with swaying hips towards the unimpressive man across the room who was currently feeling up a sluttily dressed platinum blonde.

Marik made sure the man saw him nearing, and noted the obvious appreciative gaze that lingered on his lithe form. He was right beside him before he spoke, drawing the man a little away from the loud music so it was possible to converse, albeit not very quietly.

"Mr Hashini, I presume," he breathed huskily, looking up through long inked lashes with sultry purple eyes.

He took a long sip of vodka.

The man ignored the Western broad who was practically dancing on his lap in favour of the leather clad Ishtar who practically breathed sensuality.

"That is correct. Stella, darling, mind getting yourself another Scotch?" he handed her a note and pushed her gently in the correct direction.

"Marik Ishtar. You asked for a meeting." He noted that the purple muscle shirt he was wearing definitely had the right effect. So did the bare skin beneath the goldstudded collar and half-visible tattoo.

"A pleasure."

They shook hands and let the touch linger a moment too long.

"Come." Marik led the man, knowing that the sharp grey eyes were firmly lodged on his derrière and were likely to remain there until he turned. Point one for him.

He climbed over several couples and stepped pointedly on a a security bouncer who was receiving an extensive naked-body exploration.

For artistic purposes only. Right.

The room they ended up in trickled a mere echo of the music played above. There were cushioned velvet chairs in a pleasant burgundy trimmed with black. The copious amount of detailed woodwork was done in mahogany.

Marik was very fond of mahogany.

"Won't you sit down?" Marik placed his glass on a shelf and slipped the leather jacket off his shoulders, splaying himself invitingly over a chaise lounge.

"My thanks," Mr Hashini sat as close as he could without actually touching the Egyptian boy. His eyes did not falter from their intense gaze for a moment.

Then one large hand deliberately touched Marik's calve, and remained when he did not push it away.

"So what did you wish to discuss with me, Highlord," the Egyptian asked sweetly, shirt riding up his chest as he settled. "I hope you are not upset about the shootout. I had no idea that things were going to get so messy."

"I did lose several excellent men, Ishtar" - "Oh do call me Marik" - "Marik..." the Gang Lord stopped to savour the taste of the name on his tongue.

Predictable. And yes, if he had asked, he would have been told that Marik was a excellent name to scream in the midst of ecstasy. And no, he would not tolerate being called 'rik.

The pale blonde blinked his purple eyes innocently. Those large orbs screamed: 'I'm young and beautiful and naive. I couldn't have possibly done anything remarkably evil or crafty. Take advantage of me before someone else does.'

"I am loath to inform you...Marik...that the repercussions of that shootout forces my hand. I have to set an example to the other Lords so they don't think I am going soft," Mr. Hashini (whose real name had never as of yet been discovered) posed in most apologetic tones.

No, Marik thought, glancing subtly at the man's crotch, you are definitely not going soft.

"You understand, of course, that I will take over your place of leadership and you will have to send 40% of all profits to me. I am not so drastic as to execute you for your treason...so long as you give me good reason not to."

Fuck this guy was good! His wording was excellent as were the tiny facial movements in all the right places. If the guy wasn't such a egotistical dickhead, Marik would have hired him himself.

Taking his silence for assent, the Gang Lord's hand moved from the tight-clad calve to the equally tight-clad thigh.

"I am afraid that is impossible," said the Ishtar head coldly. He half sat up, moving to brush past, but found himself being pushed violently back down.

There was a click and he was staring down the barrel of a cocked gun. His shoulderblades pulsated slightly from being shoved against lightly cushioned wood. A chill swept over him and he slowly closed his open mouth.

He swallowed and licked his lips nervously.

"No need to be frightened, ne? Just be a good boy, yes?"

"How are you so sure I won't attack you when you put the gun down?" asked Marik in a throaty, somewhat choked voice.

The Highlord gave him a condescending glance. "You didn't really think I came alone, did you? I have snipers trained on your sister's every movement, and my own men blending in this quaint little club."

The Ishtar became subdued, and the gun disappeared into somewhere in the man's clothing. Mr. Hashini lowered himself onto his exotic prey and moved to bring hot, disgusting lips to the tanned neck.

"You need not trouble yourself, I pose no threat."

"Indeed," murmured the man, unbuttoning and unzipping Marik's skin-tight trousers. He hardly paid any attention to the words.

"However," Marik breathed against a pale ear before pushing the man back lightly to give a pleasant view of flushed skin and defined bite-marks, "He might."

A crack echoed across the room and Marik turned away, to avoid the spurt of blood and brains. Mr. Hashini's body slumped and fell onto the end of the chaise in an undignified heap.

The calm, calculating look returned to Marik's eyes as he rose. "Well, that is one goal accomplished," he muttered. "It is a pity though, about the chaise lounge. Third one I've had to buy. It has a good colour to hide bloodstains but I am not sure if the brain fluids will wash out."

He called across the length of the room to the figure polishing the lightly smoking gun that had taken out the late Mr. Hashini with uttermost care: "I suppose you took care of my sister's stalkers and the blunderers upstairs?" the Egyptian leaned against the mahogany bookshelf, arching a pale eyebrow.

"Of course," replied the sniper carelessly, blowing the smoke away, "the bodies have already been taken care of," he paused and ran a critical eye over the other's apparell. "Nice ass, but not quite suitable for your business dinner."

"I'm glad you think so," said Marik deftly zipping and rebuttoning said eyecatching pants. "I would hate to be all eyes and no derrière," he winked, blew a mocking kiss, and slipped his arms into his leather jacket. His tone grew a note more desolate "but you are right of course. I hardly wish to be bait again tonight. If anything comes up, you'll have to fall in with Japanese Schoolgirl."

His companion snorted, conveying the likelihood of that happening.

Marik nudged the dead body distastefully with the toe of his boot. He'd get Amahad to take care of it the usual way. "Tsk. I know I'm attractive, but hardly enough to distract him that thoroughly. I wonder why he did not see it coming."

The sniper took apart the gun and put back together and out of sight in record time. He glanced up with eyes that were exactly the same shade as the woodwork.

Marik really liked mahogany. Really-really.

"That is always how it is, Marik-love," said Ryou Bakura icily, setting a cigarette between pale rose lips, "They never see me coming."