SEVERUS SNAPE AND AN UPDATE AT THE WARFRONT
The club was a mess, to say the least. Vinyl boots and slashed corsets lay in ruins everywhere. The mirrored and gloomy dance floor lay littered with hair extensions. One of the Bose speakers was clearly on fire.
It had all begun so innocently, like so many Thursday nights before it. The club had opened at nine p.m. for Goth Nite. At ten-thirty precisely, the crowd of people who had been hanging about outside since nine but wanted to appear fashionably late, entered en masse. Make-up was checked and re-checked in the smoky mirrors along the wall. Ordinary drinks mixed with black and red food coloring and given silly names were ordered. That one chick who never dances with people and then goes home to complain that nobody dances with her was sitting on one of the speakers, staring in complete pretend absorption at a concert poster on the wall from 1998.
It was at exactly the moment when Monica (also known as Hybree Icelust) had flipped her hair over her shoulder dramatically and turned to fix her scummy ex-boyfriend with a penetrating stare of pure enigmatic evil, but her white-out effect contact lense suddenly slipped and she ended up blinking very hard and weeping her mascara all overself while her pupil apparently pointed towards something floating up near the ceiling.
It was in precisely that moment when the man entered the club.
At first, he merely stood there, unobserved, seemingly oblivious of the man who was trying to stamp his hand. Then he stepped forward onto the poorly-lit dance floor, where several people were either writhing from chigger bites or trying to weasel out of their pvc outfits without using their hands and doing a very bad job of it. This counts as dancing, but only if you're very mysterious and have vague and disturbing connections to the underworld. No, not the underworld like the MAFIA, you stupid simpleton. The underworld like, you know, as in DEATH and stuff. Like totally having evil, like, POWERS, but nobody else knows what they are, they just know you're like really really powerful and they're all scared of you but also the hot ones want to make out with you, only they can't because you're all uncaged and dangerous and stuff.
Snape cleared his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, then stopped. "I guess that takes in most of you," he added as he looked around. Several people looked up from where they had been vaguely waving their arms to the music with the utmost concentration. Snape frowned at them and looked away.
"I have only one thing to say to each and every one of you so-called goth chicks tonight," he continued. He paused a moment, then filled his lungs deeply.
"FREE BLACK STICKERS!!" he bellowed. The door of the club opened to reveal a flatbed truck filled with clever slogan stickers from Hot Topic, row upon row of them coating the inside of the truck.
There was a deathly pause. As one, the women in the crowd tore through the club, stampeding each other in order to be the first on the truck. Clothing and accessories went flying. So did the chick nobody ever dances with.
The last goth chick having trampled her way onto the truck, Snape turned, produced a remote control and pressed the red button. The truck's sides folded outward and closed around the bed of the truck. The steel box lifted up vertically and began smoking at the bottom end. PROPERTY OF NASA was stamped in lead on the side of the box, which started vibrating as the outpour of burnoff increased near the base. A countdown began echoing from somewhere.
"TO THE MOON, ALICE!" Snape laughed maniacally, dancing around the impromptu launchpad. "WHAM! POW! ONE OF THESE DAYS, ALICE! RIGHT TO THE MOOOOON!!"
More events as they occur.