BalletGirl: Was inspired by a number of sources, enjoy!

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Club Rouge

Chapter 1:

It was constantly raining on the coast of Westopolis. Cars rumbled down the streets, screeching to a stop at the colored lights. The streets themselves were illuminated day and night, by the sun and by the bulbs of cars, streetlights, the moon and her hidden stars. The air was wet and smelled of damp concrete. The kind of odor that people find appealing, but with acrid, smoggy notes to it. It was the big city; where everyone wanted to be.

On the left side of the streets were homeless men, shaking plastic cups or blessing pedestrians as they passed heads down as if trying to block out the shaky voices of the bearded men. One man sat on a white bucket with a tenor saxophone in his leathery hands, drawing out each note as if trying to mimic the nights in Westopolis: long, sultry, endless. Not far off—about ten blocks or so—another saxophone draws out deep notes, hot breath and spit floating out of the end of the brass instrument. The rain serves as percussion, dancing along the sidewalks that had been abandoned by black heels and shiny oxfords at ten sharp. The occasional business man or cocktail waitress came scurrying down the walkway, head tucked between shoulders, trying to avoid the rain. But it was constantly raining in Westopolis.

Skyscrapers loomed over the wet streets of the big city, their walls a shiny grey. On the south side of the city, the buildings followed a gradient that, when going deeper south-farther from the coast—the buildings became more ancient. Cement turned to bricks, flat windows turned to decorated sills. North to South, Westopolis went from beautifully modern, to wonderfully vintage. The South side was less desirable by the big city dreamers, however; all of the action went on in the Northern Side. Because the Northern side was absolutely littered with obscenity. During light hours, Westopolis was a city of business; women in suits scuttled along the sidewalk while men in black took the bus. Negotiations went on from dawn 'til dusk, and the crowd watching the stocks change went on for blocks.

At night, the buildings shined like Gatsby's.

The streets were desolate at night, and yet, it seemed as though it teemed with life. Not even rats squirmed across the streets—the streets were clean. The life didn't come from traffic or mobs of busy employees, it came from underground parties. The speakeasies, that's what made the nights in Westopolis. The city still retained its signature from when it was a town of artistic philanthropy. When television aired in black and white, when alcohol was forbidden, Westopolis shined as a sort of bubble, inside of which was filled from tip to toe top full of dirty parties. Sultry women with their cheating husbands going in as common couples, and coming out as drunken bastards.

Westopolis was a regal city with a sensual underside. Neon lights of clubs buzzed down the streets. These clubs were different than the ones that have become so popular; the raves with strippers swinging off of poles and money flying everywhere. The clubs in Westopolis were classy—very rare. They had velvet couches and sultry singers with their hair up in tight buns.

One of these clubs, known by few, was Club Rouge.

The neon lights above the door glowed in pink cursive font. No lines trailed out the entrance, and no bouncers stood with their arms crossed. The door itself was a single door made of dark brown oak with Victorian carvings. The windows were covered by red velvet curtains that were never open.

Inside, the floors were dressed in red carpeting similar to the curtains. Golden chandeliers hung from the wooden ceilings like a ball gown covered in diamonds. On the side opposite the door, a dusty stage stood in all of its creaking wooden glory. A band of young Mobians stood, all in suits, playing a slow jazz song, the trumpeter drawing out the notes as if he were asleep. The sounds of the xylophone vibrated through the room, and the piano sent chills down everyone's spine. On the left, a black panther polished glasses and filled cups with beer from the tap, occasionally exchanging a few conversational words with the drunken guests. In the middle, a few tables were scattered. Each one scantily clad with a white silk cloth and a candle placed in a bubble of glass. The guests that littered the club chatted to themselves, sipped from crystal glasses, and fell into a hypnotized state from the luscious song played by the young Mobians. On the right were abandoned red velvet couches, completely empty save for a young black hedgehog holding a glass of scotch.

Shadow.

He observed the club like he did every night. This place held the old vintage style that he had been told about fifty years ago. It wasn't too much of a culture shock. There was no inappropriate touching; everyone kept to themselves. The black hedgehog let the vibrations of the music take him away, feeling the golden liquor boiling in his stomach. There was no use in trying to live; he was well past his time. Shadow had no purpose anymore, now he just existed. The alcohol did a good job at making him numb. And it made the spectacle of the night much more enjoyable. The colors were softer, the music was sweeter, and the night was longer.

Across the way, a young female bat stood leaning against the bar. Her curves were subdued by a classy silk dress, her thieving jumpsuit changed for a more fitting outfit for managing a club. Her hands swayed through the air as she chatted up a young canine in a white button-up shirt, forearms dressed in black silk gloves. Her plump lips flapped up and down in their red-inked glory. Shadow watched as she turned and clicked her black heels across the club in his direction. Her hips swayed like palm trees in a tropical breeze. Red eyes locked with turquoise. The bat girl slinked to his right and sat down softly.

"Good evening, " She said, voice as smooth as a cat's purr.

"Hello, Rouge." She crossed her leg, foot brushing against Shadow's shin as if it were an accident. She turned her black nose up in the air as if she were aloof to something.

"You've been here a while." She purred.

"I know." Shadow replied.

"And you're quite the eye candy for my club." Rouge scooted closer ever so slightly.

"…" Shadow went to take another sip from his glass, the ice cubes clinking. Rouge next to him said nothing for a time. "What are you getting at?" He questioned finally. Rouge just smiled and closed her eyes, turning up her nose again. The black hedgehog went to take another sip from his glass, but ended up downing the rest of it.

The night went on. The musicians on the stage seemed to play on and on, their energy seeming to come to a standstill where they were neither tired nor energetic. The people chatted, some danced, and some sat hypnotized by the saxophone. Shadow downed his glass, and rouge refilled it. Over and over again. To the black hedgehog, the world became blurrier and blurrier; more golden, more sickeningly beautiful. His surroundings began to ripple like a pond in the rain. The smooth, golden liquor made his insides burn. And he was drunk. Rouge took her button nose down from its high throne and leaned into Shadow's ear,

"Let's go upstairs," She purred into a black furred ear. Rouge breathed on his neck, waiting for a response. She had been trying for months, but the black hedgehog held out very well, normally simply refraining from drinking so heavily. But there must have been something about this night that made him want to get roaring drunk. Said black hedgehog simply turned his head to face Rouge; he looked at her with cold, drunken eyes. But then the coldness turned to something different, a sort of inebriated arousal.

For any bystanders that cared to watch the figure of the bat girl walking with a black hedgehog stumbling behind her, guiding him with her right hand clutched in his, striding through a back door and up the stairs, it looked like just another night at the gentleman's club. But this was Club Rouge, the rich man's wife in a room full of hookers.

God would be watching two more sinners that night.

Up in Rouge's apartment, sheets flew up in a flourish. The lights flickered in their dim setting at the mattress supported the weight of two beings instead of one.

Tbc…

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