Note: I am going to try to post two or three more chapters of this story in the next month before I leave for China. At that point, all updates will halt until my return in mid/late October. I have no real outline for this fic. It's all just inspiration and experimentation. Mignonne, Freddie chapters to arrive next! Everyone else, if you have a star you want to see in this fic, or a song you'd like me to fit in, write me. I'm happy to incorporate them if they actually visited, or were played at, 54 in the 70's. Also, be aware that I'm likely to make stars IC but wacked out.
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So, here I am again.  Night after night, the same old shit.  I put on an outfit, grab some coke and a few pills, and hit the street.  I always end up here.  54.

I think about stayin' home.  I think about skippin' the scene.  I think about ditchin' this double life.

Then, I think about how dull it would be to play Mr. Joe Average with a station wagon, two kids, and a pooch; kick myself in the ass; and walk out the door smiling.

Braska's got it right in a way – this is a den of iniquity.  It's hell.  It's heaven.  It's everything in between.  Rubell is in the business of fantasy.  A mechanic from Jersey can clean his ass up, put an a pair of tight pants, flash a smile and some sex appeal and mingle with stars.  With royalty.  Real honest-to-Christ royalty.  Once a month, a Saudi Arabian prince flies seven thousand miles just to press his tan flesh against every beautiful woman he can see.  Then, when he calls it a night, he flies his well fucked, drugged up, happy Arabic ass back to Saudi at dawn on his private plane fueled with oil from his own country.  And when he's hot, sweaty, hard as a rock, and flying on coke with three women grinding him on the dance floor while Wild Cherry sings "Play that Funky Music," you know what he says?  He says that 54 is the only place on earth where he can feel totally free.

Preach on.

Princess Grace comes to this club.  Liza and Elton, Bowie and George Burns, Travolta and Truman Capote.  Nobodies and millionaires, teens and transvestites, octogenarian disco queens, creeps and cultural icons - you see them all in one night on the floor of 54.  Steve calls it "tossing the salad."  He cranks out the booze, drugs, music, and sex like it will never end.  It's his motto – the party lasts forever.

More power to him.

I hate tell him; the party will end.  It always does.  Of course, that doesn't mean I'm not gonna enjoy the hell out of the ride like everyone else.  I'm not fuckin' stupid.

"Hey, Wakka, hand me a blue ribbon.  And keep the change, I'll be back."

Normally, I get here and it's all fun and games.  Make a few contacts, do a little business, set up for the next bust.  Not tonight.  I've got a score to settle and I need to jerk a knot Yuna's ass.  Two bitch slaps in one night.  Should be interesting.

First things first.  Seymour.  That son-of-a-bitch is going down.  Where's that god damn waste of fuckin' existence slithered off to?  Even in 54, that creep's hair stands out like a whore on the sidewalk.  He's not on the dance floor.  Looks like I have to troll.

Time to hit the balcony.

Any man who can walk through 54's balcony and not get a hard-on has got to be impotent.  This place sees more action than the back of a '57 Chevy.  Right now, I can see three people wearing nothing but body paint; two men dressed like gladiators and some model having a threesome; Mick Jagger getting a blow job (Man I love the Stones!  I'll have to talk to him later…); and countless faceless shadowed forms in various states of undress crawling all over each other in an effort to satisfy some primal lust that this place just seems to bring out in people.  God Damn!  I need a cigarette!

"What do you want, Tidus?"

Jesus.  Of course, the kid is up here.  Where else, other than on his knees in a bathroom stall or the dance floor, is he gonna be?

"No.  I'm not slippin' you any ludes.  You know, you keep this shit up and I'm gonna drag your ass to Betty Goddamn Ford myself."

Jecht and I gotta have a serious rap about this kid.  I think I'll have him over next week for pizza, beer, and some Mary Jane.  I got some nice shit this week from Panama.  I'm keeping some for the private collection. 

"Where's Seymour?"

Hell, no wonder Tidus is hitting me up for a score.  He hasn't seen the dick either. 

"Stay out of trouble tonight, or I'll kick your ass.  Got me?"

Yeah, Yeah…Uncle Auron…blah blah…

So, if Seymour's here, he's in the dungeon.  God I hate the dungeon.  I know it's the VIP lounge.  I know all the big names hang there.  But, I'm sorry, it's a trussed up musty dank basement that just happens to have plush velvet seating and a Hollywood A list.  Not much my scene. 

That pimp Seymour loves it.

Oh well.  Glad I brought the coke.  I'm gonna need it down there…