Hello! This first chapter is small, but it's very late (or very early) so the chapters will be longer in the future chapters!
Happy reading. Sorry about the summary broskis.
Disclaim: the usual, I don't own homestuck or the characters.
"Waddya want?" the messy haired brunette bartender barked over the counter to the tall blonde that had just come up. His hair had that impeccably messy spiky look that rich men and pretty boys notoriously had. The bartender blinked, flashing eyes that were bright red (via contacts) looking like he didn't want to deal with anyone's shit, which he didn't.
"I'll give ya the order if you'll give me your name, eh?" the man said with a heavy and slurred southern accent. He leaned unsteadily over the counter, probably trying to appear attractive. He just looked drunk. He pushed his pointed shades back over his hair winking one strikingly orange eye.
"How about you just order and get the fuck off my bar?" yelled the bartender, struggling to be heard over the din of the club.
The blonde swayed, and for a second the bartender feared he would throw up all over his nice, clean bar. Then, he ordered a gin and tonic. The dark haired man poured the drink with an annoyed sigh. His sleeve rode up, exposing the cancer sign tattooed on his wrist, and the blonde reached over to grab his sleeve, attempting to get a closer look at the tattoo. The dark haired man brushed the hand off easily, the grip was already weak to start with. He'd dealt with drunker, and fifteen minutes of tolerance and he would be home free. He scooted the drink to the ten thousandth annoying customer of the night, and the blonde man slapped a 50 on the counter, telling him to keep the change with an exaggerated lick of the lips. He staggered back into the main dance floor, taking great care to grab an ass here or there until he disappeared into the crowd. As the bartender scooped up the bill on the counter, a card that was somehow strategically placed under it fluttered off the bar and onto his shoes. He bent over and picked it up, inspecting it. On the front were the words Strider Enterprises, and an address, with nothing else. He flipped it over and on the reverse side was a number scrawled under the name Dirk Strider. He pocketed the card, shrugging and meaning to throw it in the bin on his way out. Ten minutes later he fetched his grey hoodie and went to go get his car. He exited via the back alley, and a few seconds later heard the same door open then close. He spun, thinking it was someone from the bar telling him he'd forgotten something. He saw the tall blonde from earlier limp out. Under his arm, attempting to support him was a shorter man with aviators. They'd been knocked askew by the other man's shoulder, exposing red eyes of a much darker shade than the bartender's.
"Fucking help me out here, Bro. Walk, you fucker. The car is really fucking close, just dear god do not fucking puke on me." The shorter man said to his unresponsive friend. The bartender hesitated for a moment, but went over to see if he could help this guy out.
"Need some help kid?" he said as he approached, announcing himself.
"Look, we don't have any fucking money or anything, so just leave us the fuck alone. Don't got the fucking time to take care of your sorry ass right now. Come back fucking tomorrow and I'm yours bro, but get the fuck out." said the shorter blonde, the effect of his sarcasm somewhat marred by the sounds of vomiting coming from Dirk. A fucking improvement to the scenery, he thought.
"No, its fine, I work here," he said, brandishing the emblem on his polo." Do you want my fucking help, or not?"
"Sure. Dave Strider." The guy said by way of an introduction, offering a hand to shake.
"Karkat Vantas." The bartender said, taking the offered hand and shaking firmly. At least he's got a firm handshake. Karkat thought.
The two simultaneously turned to face the mess standing over his own puke in the middle of the alleyway. They each took an arm, and together they hauled the man to the front of the club. There was no doubt which car was theirs, standing out from the shitty barely running cars was a shiny, new looking orange corvette. Karkat admired it silently for a moment before dumping the orange eyed man in the back seat. Dave closed the door with a disgusted frown, his eyes once again covered by his dark shades. The two shared a manly fist bump, and Dave reached into his back pocket, pulling out a twenty, and giving it to Karkat on his way around the car.
"It's the least I can do bro." he said as he climbed into the driver's side, closed the door and opened the window a fraction. Karkat scowled.
"Nope, I can't take this. I just did what any sensible person would do. Take it back, asshole!" Karkat yelled through the small crack, trying to stuff the bill into the window. Dave closed it before he could get it through. Before he knew it, he was suddenly eating the exhaust of the car as Dave peeled off down the street in the speeding orange deathtrap of doom.
"Fucking Striders and their fucking money." Karkat yelled at the empty street.
Sighing, he looked at the neon sign of the club. It flashed a dancing woman and advertised Gay Wednesday for the next day on a banner beneath the name of the club. The purple neon words identified it as "Jayme and the Girls". He scoffed once again at the use of the word "girls" in the title of a strip club. He walked over to his shabby Subaru and started the short drive home. If this neighborhood was less shitty and he didn't have to worry about getting mugged even in broad fucking daylight, he wouldn't drive, but these things were of course altogether impossible in the slums of Portland. On the drive, he couldn't get the handsome blonde and his red eyes out of his head, and he regretted that he would never see him again.
See there we go, wasn't that a great intro?