Summary:A certain orange-skinned alien beauty visits an adult entertainment club in search for a job, and meets a very helpful stripper. Log Info:Storyteller: priscilla-kitaen |
Related LogsTheme Song{$themesong} |
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Not one of the truly high-end, posh headliner clubs like those found in Midtown, or anything as swanky as the private precincts of the Hellfire Club, the Obsidian Lounge is still a decently upscale 'adult entertainment club' on the edge of Alphabet City in the Lower East Side. It is one of those places that has taken over one of the old warehouses in the district and converted it into a gentrified upscale business concern. And it's where the sultry siren headline dancer known as Voodoo has been working for a couple of weeks, since she arrived in New York City.
It is rather early right now, which means none of the headliners are out yet. Priscilla is in the back, just having arrived out back and currently working on climbing out of her biking leathers and styling up for the stage. Entry into the club through the front involves passing one of the bouncers, who checks for IDs and then puts stamps on the backs of hands accordingly; no stamp, no drink. And no one under eighteen is allowed inside at all.
This early in the evening - when it's not even really evening at all, just late afternoon - is often a key time for lesser known dancers to ply their trade, practicing and perfecting their skills to get better so that some day they can be a headliner. It's also a prime time for any newbies to show and strut their stuff to try to prove they should get a chance to work here. The place isn't crowded, but neither is it entirely empty. Already there are businessmen - and a woman or two, though not many right now - at tables enjoying dinner, drinks, and a show.
"Excuse me," comes a sweet, almost angelic voice. A woman wanders into the mirrored view behind Pris, and couldn't look more out of place if she'd come in wearing a nun's habit. Maybe not even that, given the costumes some of the strippers put on.
It's her entire demeanour that just screams 'doesn't belong'. Even if she's in a low-riding black miniskirt and a thin camisole top, already wearing stage heels.
On second look— no heels. She's 6'4" in flats, and her red hair curls in her wake with a subtle movement that sometimes has little to do with the motion of her body. She's not merely 'tanned', she is in fact a shade of orange closer to tangerine that looks robust and healthy in a way no spray tan could emulate. "I tried to come in the front door, but the security man told me to go around the back. I am around the back, but now I do not know where to go. I am applying for work as a model and someone told me that you might be hiring here! Are you the proprietor?" she asks, peering at Pris with undisguised curiousity.
Amongst dancers, Priscilla stands out as exceptionally tall, as well as being exceptionally beautiful. (Darn you, unfair comic book heroine genetics!) But at an inch shy of six feet, even she doesn't hold a candle to the orange babe who just showed up in her mirror's reflection. The coffee-skinned, purple-eyed beauty turns around, eyeing Kori up and down, and then shakes her head as she stands, heedless of the fact she's only wearing a g-string at the moment.
"Hi, honey. I'm Pris. But I'n not the proprietor. That'd be Jerry, out front sitting at the bar." She extends her right hand to Kori in welcome, and then grabs a sheer robe, slipping it on and belting it loosely around her waist. "We don't do models, here. We do dancers, and waitresses. Most dancers do both. You still interested?" Pris just assumes the orange girl is some kind of mutant or metahuman, and thusly assumes she'll understand what all of this implies. How is she supposed to know that's not the case?
Kori doesn't so much as blink at Pris' nudity and the polite greeting is returned with a brilliantly luminous smile. "Hello, friend Pris! I am Kori Anderson," the woman tells the dancer. The handshake is looked at, and then with a great ceremony Kori shakes Pris' fingers. It'd look pompous if it weren't obviously so very carefully practiced. And though her grip is smooth and gentle, there is zero give to her fingers when Pris squeezes.
"I am not allowed to waitress anymore," Kori explains. "I had a job at the House of Waffles and I was fired because I put paprika on a customer's waffles. He said they were bland! And then I was fired from McDonald's because I told someone that the ice cream machine was not working because my boss said there was a mold infestation. And there was the incident with the frying machine at the Barrel of Crackers. But the fire marshall told me it was not my fault, and that I was too pretty to be an arsonist."
All said with a completely straight face.
Pris doesn't react to the oddity of Kori's handshake, or her hand, the way others might. Which doesn't mean she failed to notice. "Well, OK. No waitressing." Pris is trying hard not to bug out her eyes at the stories this woman is telling her, but it's not easy. Cripes but that's a bad string, and it seems this woman really doesn't know what's going on around her. Scary stuff.
"If you want to look into a dancing gig, I can introduce you to Jerry. You've got the look, that much he won't object to." Priscilla offers, as she gathers up Kori to lead her out front; if she's here to meet Jerry, then out front she goes. Otherwise, she doesn't belong in the dressing rooms anyway. "But like I said, no modeling here. You need a modeling agency for that. Nothing like that here."
As they move out, the bounding of the music gets louder and more insistent, the whole world seeming to vibrate to the beat. It's not quite enough to make the air shimmer with the force, but it might seem a near thing. They emerge from behind the main stage and walk down a few steps to the main floor, then around a couple tables towards the bar. Jerry is one of only two customers seated at the main bar. Unlike the stereotypes, he does not appear to be a mob enforcer, but instead a reasonably casual businessman, jacket and tie nowhere to be seen. He's actually flipping through books on the bar as he checks the place out, as the two towering beauties approach.
Kori stays in Pris' wake, moving with an unearthly grace. Like her feet barely touch the ground despite her size. She's slender, but far from willowy or 'skinny'. A dancer like Pris would have a good sense for how Kori *should* move— after all, the discipline of dance demands an intimate knowledge of how people move and work and live. Almost certainly a metahuman, then, though the naievete makes her a tall and very *awkward* sort of minority.
Kori keeps up with Pris and when they approach Jerry she stands shoulder to shoulder, hands interlaced in front of her and a beamingly friendly smile fixed on her ruddy features. The peculiar intruder into this little domain waits for Pris to make with the introductions, though she's already looking pleasantly excited to be meeting someone new. Again.
Jerry turns to look at Pris and then at the - no offense intended - freakishly huge orange chick beside her. Then back to Pris, who steps forward enough not to have to shout so loud the whole club can hear her. "Hey, Jerry. This kid got shown around back. Name's Kori. Said she was looking for a modeling gig. I told her we don't have models, best we can do is dancer. She still wanted to meet you." That said, the purple-eyed woman steps back beside Kori, staying tuned in and being present as a means of support. She has no problems with Kori being a metahuman; that would be ludicrously hypocritical of her. But she can't help worrying that this is really not the right environment for the other woman.
Jerry looks Kori over carefully before he speaks. "OK, 'Kori'. You say you want a job, here? Dancing?" He waits for her to a least nod to confirm, before he continues. It's not that he doesn't trust Pris, but he barely knows her, so each woman needs to own up to her responses for herself. "Well then, we can do an audition." He glances at Pris. "We got anything that'll fit her?"
Pris eyes Kori carefully, then shrugs her shoulders. "Honestly? No. We can come close, but it'll be super-tight, which will make it harder for her. That's not fair for an audition."
Jerry considers this, and then nods. "Alright. So, she performs in her clothes." He looks to Kori. "You can audition. If you get the gig, we'll cover a pair of outfits out of your first week's pay, club rates. And you can get more, club rates, as you like."
Kori blinks twice at Jerry. "Oh, I did not say that, but Pris said that all you will hire are dancers and waitresses, and I have been told I am no longer allowed to waitress because of property damage issues," Kori explains again, patiently. "I am not from America; I am from Malta. We do not do much of the dancings except for formal affairs or declarations of war, so I am unfamiliar with the dancings that you Americans prefer to see."
"But, friend Rose always says, 'grab opportunities when they arrive'!" she declares, brightly. "If you will teach of me the dances of your people, I will aspire to learn them. I am graduated recently from the high school, you see, so the only dancings I know are the ones my friends did for the celebration of prom. I did not do any of the dancings, but they went like this:" She looks around, then down at Priss, then holds her hands out at the woman. Once they're taken, she steps smoothly into Pris' personal circle and they start doing the awkward left-right shuffling teen lean that is the iconic prom dance of upper-middle class America, though Kori's bellied up closer than most people would prefer. Leave room for Jesus!
Priscilla hasn't left room for Jesus since … well, maybe never. She smirks at Kori's answers to Jerry, and actually eagerly steps in to take the other woman's hand, her own going to Kori's hip as they start to dance. She shows no discomfort at all at the close press of their bodies together. Her empathy means she knows when and where Kori is going to move, and she flows quite naturally, instinctively to partner with her well, despite the inevitable question of 'who is going to lead?' that arises.
But as cutely sexy as this is, it's not what Jerry hires dancers for. "Hey. We don't teach lessons, here. You want to learn, you can pay someone to teach you. Or trade with them. Pris is damned good, so if you like her so much, you make a deal with her to learn." Jerry shrugs. "Sorry. But no job today, 'Kori'. Thanks for coming in. You ever want to come back for an audition, you're welcome. And you can stay tonight, if you want, and watch the other girls. Maybe you'll learn something."
Dancing with Kori's a surreal experience, to say the least. She's muscular enough that she'd be hard to throw around, but responds with an effortless grace to the least nudge or motion. She even has a decent sense of rhythm, falling in line with the thundering bass of the club's speaker systems as a metronome to guide them.
She comes up short when Jerry rebukes her, face falling slightly. Arms release Pris and fall to her side though Kori doesn't back out of the other dancer's personal space. "Oh, I see," she says, looking sad. Even a little wounded. "That is not the unfair, I suppose. I am grateful to you for your time," she tells Jerry. "Perhaps I will watch and see if any learning can be accomplished."
When Jerry ambles off to find something else that demands his attention, Kori looks down at Pris with a frustrated expression. "The practice of hiring for jobs is incredibly frustrating," she confeses. "Everywhere I go, they will not hire me without experience and skills. If I cannot learn how to do the job, how am I going to ever *get* a job?" she demands, exasperation in her lyrical voice.
Priscilla gently hooks a finger around one of Kori's pinkies, and guides her back into the back of the club to where her mirror is … and thusly out of the pulsing thud of the beat, so that they don't have to shout to be heard. "I get what you mean. There's a reason why this is my job." She doesn't explain that comment, however; those are details that she just doesn't offer to someone she doesn't know. But she has had similar thoughts and frustrations in her life.
Then someone came and changed her life completely. And they trained her. They didn't demand she pay for the privilege. They taught her everything she could learn, and pushed her to her limits and beyond. That means something to Priscilla.
"Any boss wants to hire someone who can 'hit the ground running', someone who already has the basic skills to do the job, and just needs to learn to adapt to the quirks of their workplace." Pris explains, giving Kori's hand a light squeeze - warmth, even if the pressure does nothing. "But Jerry offered you a good solution. If you decide this is a job you want, then I'll teach you what I can. You have great rythmn, and excellent body-awareness and control. If I can teach you the right moves, and the pizzaz, I think you could be really good."
Dancers are notoriously casual about physical contact, it's true. From strippers to swing dancers to the ballet, it's often just a sprawl of people who are fully in touch with their own skin. In that regard, Kori fits right in. She does not object when Pris tugs her to the dressing room and she listens with patient attentiveness as the reality of the labor force is explained. She squeezes Pris' fingers in response to the reassuring touch.
At the offer of training, her eyes light up. Almost literally— they're the sort of arrestingly intense that tends to cause double-takes. "Oh! You will?" she gasps, looking delighted. "I do not know if this is a job I want, but I do not wish to have *no* job, either," she says, fretting. "And my friends keep telling me to 'stick with it' and 'take what I can get'. You are the first person who has volunteered to teach me… anything! They would not even explain to me how the electric floor buffer works, and then they were the angry when it went through the doors of the hotel!"
She gets thoughtful. "I suppose I should have used a shorter cord of extension. It was very awkward when it ran out into the street traffic," she admits.
Pris can't help it; she snorts with laughter at yet another Kori Story, as she is starting to think of them. "Sticking with it is definitely important. And I agree you should take what you can get. But if you can get something that is a path to something better, that's the first thing to grab." Her personal opinion, at least.
Pris slips off her robe, hanging it up on the back of her chair, and then starts going through a rolling rack full of costumes on hangars, picks one out and starts putting it on. She shows no body modesty at all; not that Kori will recognize this, but that makes it no less true. "Let me get into costume and fix up my makeup. Then I'll give you one of my passes. You can go out front, back where we were with Jerry, and find a seat. You watch my performance, maybe a couple other girls'. That'll give you an idea of what we do, here. You still want to learn after that, I'll teach you."
"Ooh! A costume!" Kori applauds, looking more excited about the outfit than anything else Pris has said or done so far. "I find your culture of clothing very much the strange but the custom of costumes is enchanting!" She twirls in a circle, hands clasped to her cheek. "You can pretend to be the anyone! And everyone plays along with it! Someday, I too wil find a costume!" she assures Pris.
Fingers interlace in front of her thighs as she comports herself. "I will be very much the happy to observe and to learn," Kori assures Pris. "I am hoping you will be the very patient with me. I do not know how to do much of your dancing and the dancing of the exotic might be too complicated. But if you do not of the mindness, I assure you I will be a most diligent student!"
Pris suits up, then sits down in front of the mirror, watching Kori's adorable antics in the reflection as she starts applying makeup. Truth is, she doesn't have to do this; she could shapeshift herself perfectly in a few seconds. But this is how a normal woman would do this, and if she's being observed she's going to do it 'the right way'.
"I love outfits and dressing up. It's my one major weakness. I'm a real shopaholic." Pris admits to Kori. "Like Jerry said, if you get the job, you can order your costumes through the club's wholesaler. It's a big cost break, sometimes as much as half-off retail prices." She shrugs. "OK. Let's get you a pass."
Pris opens up a drawer, pulls out a laminated purple strip with a brilliant gold-accented green coiled dragon across it, and hands that to Kori. "You keep this with you. With no stamp, they'd boot you out unless you're escorted - with me - or have a pass. That's mine. Head out front, find a seat, and watch the show. Once I'm done my set, I'll come join you."
Kori accepts the ticket and examines it, lips moving slowly as she reads the tiny printed words. She doesn't have an accent, per se, pronouncing words with a clear and steady elocution. But the peculiar stresses and grammatical errors are a nod to English being a second language for the woman.
"Very well? I will find a seat out in the front, and I will observe your show." She starts to turn away, then pauses, looks back. "To be the clear: You want me to *find* a seat and… *sit* in it," she inquires, with a careful deliberation.
When confirmation is given, Kori's shoulders sag in relief and she nods twice! "Then I will go and attend the showing. Oh joy! I was worried today would be the boring, but it turning into the fun after all!" She skitters out the door with an impossibly leggy grace, following Pris' advice to the letter.
Well, more or less. The door swings back and forth and Kori can be spotted running up to a bouncer. "My name is Kori Anderson, and I have a pass! It is good for multiple visits!"
The door swings twice more and Pris can see the weary bouncer trying not to engage the effusive redhead. "Kori Anderson! Multipass!" she adds, a beat later.
She'll find a seat eventually.
scene unfinished