Star's Book of Shadows

Bring Out Your Dead

Sat, 08 Dec 2007 15:22:58 GMT

http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1256781.html

Closing Time at the Salon

Sun, 02 Dec 2007 05:59:19 GMT

The salon and spa where Star worked was a small, chic affair with rose-colored walls and tile floors. It had been designed with the same philosophy that Star’s mother applied to boutique shopping. The smaller and more spare, the better the quality of clothes, even if there were only twenty outfits on display. A discount store with racks and racks of clearance items was the fashion kiss of death.

So the salon had only about two thousand square feet to its name, including the offices, but it was nicely appointed, even if the over-the-top color scheme was nauseating.

It closed just after 9p.m. Star had received her own set of keys. It wasn’t a sign of her value, so much as a sign of her convenience. It meant that Star had the privilege of staying late to sweep up the day’s messes, turn down the lights, and lock the doors. These things she did in a hurry, because she liked to take advantage of the chance to give herself facials with top-of-the-line masks and creams. She used the sample tubes. That way, her boss wouldn’t notice any loss of products.

Star justified this to herself easily. If she used the products, she was in a better position to recommend them to other people.

Freshly exfoliated and nearly done for the night, she dragged the broom across the floor. Every once in a while, a gang of motorcycles roared by. They were in town for Bikefest. The wiccan figured she’d have known about it in advance, if she was still in the entertainment business. The biker crowd didn’t really go in for facials though, however ill-advised that might be.

The sound of a door opening would almost certainly mean another customer. This one, however, would have to be refused service. It was particularly late and the only employee there was suffering the inevitable combination of boredom and tiredness. The woman was as black in her choice of clothing as she was in hair. Nobody had a need to wear sunglasses at night, either. Not unless they were suffering from some sort of medical complaint of a fashion faux pas.

One probably being as bad as the other, in the grand scheme of things.

"Um, hi... I believe I've got a waxing appointment involving a gold bikini?"

The brunette removed her glasses and smiled a friendly smile.

"Hey," Victoria greeted. "Got time for a fellow down-and-outer...?"

“Vicky!”

Star dropped her broom with a clack and ran over with arms extended. “Hey! Come in!” Not that the invitation waited long enough for a response. In less time than it took the vampire to respond, the lighter-haired female had already thrown herself at the brunette for an overzealous hug.

Star squeezed the thin vampire and rocked her back and forth.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you!” she enthused, continuing with no couth, “I was beginning to think you wound up on the ugly end of a stick.”

Star finally backed up, though her fingers still clutched the other‘s shoulders. “Okay, let me look at you.” Brown eyes did a quick scan of the darkly attired woman, taking in the detail of sunglasses in her hand. Interesting. Very ‘Hollywood, go away paparazzi’. As could be expected, Victoria was sleek and stylish, but there was something off about the appearance. Star’s brow furrowed. “Are you losing weight?”

"With worry, yeah..."

It was gallows humor and that formal smile tightened a little before leaving her face completely.

"My, um... The one who made me's pretty much gone the disownership route," Victoria explained, tucking a few errant strands of black hair behind ear. She was coming to accept it, but thinking on the subject still hurt. Vicky was, to put it bluntly, having to toughen up. "It wasn't even anything I did, but... Well, there y'are."

She did not want to appear melancholy, though. That would do no good to anyone. Still, there was no sense in hiding how she felt.

"Your note came at the right time, y'know? It really meant a lot. Especially the bikini thing," she joked with a wink.

Star’s mouth flapped. “Deanna… dumped you?” Not that dumping really put the proper label on it. In a weird way, she guessed it was more like being disowned by a mother. Not that it would break Star’s heart to see hers ride off into the sunset, but she could imagine it’d be painful for others.

“Well she’s clearly out of her mind,” the blonde continued, ushering her friend to a swiveling chair near the hair styling stations. “I’ve been run out on before, once, and I’ve gotta tell ya, I still think it was his loss.” She was speaking of course of Tyler, and the time he ran off to Japan for months before his apparent death.

Star sat in the next chair over and swiveled around to face her friend. She put her chin in her hands. “If I knew you were coming, I would’ve worn the bikini.” She plucked her bra strap out of the neck of her top. “This one’s pink.” It snapped back into position.

“So I guess you’re not rebuilding Fang Noir?”

Victoria gave a small, nervous cough. Her expression seemed to betray the fact that she was still capable of finding certain things alternatively amusing and titillating.

"I should probably tell you," the vampiress began with a further clearing of throat. "I thought I was hallucinating or whatever, but it turns out some kind of spell fell over Nevada and I really was in a TV show... I had the biggest crush on you!"

Vicky was not embarrassed by speaking the truth. Star was not the kind of woman to be offended by such. In fact, she figured the girl's ego would be rather flattered by it, if anything.

"So, um... Underwear and you has an obvious effect on me," she hinted, her mouth still curved upwards. The brunette made an attempt to recompose herself by looking away for a moment, but her face refused to co-operate and she giggled at the fact.

"And, uh... I've been thinking about that. I had one idea and... Hmm... Things've been kind of down for me, recently, but maybe you're right. Maybe I should get to that again."

She cast a serious look at the blonde and thought for a moment.

"How'd you like to be a movie star...?"

Star dropped her chin, but her eyebrows shot skyward. A crush on her? Perhaps Vicky shouldn’t look so surprised by it. They had, at one time, shared quite the make-out session on the wiccan’s couch. Since it was a while ago, Star supposed it was possible the vampire had forgotten.

Gods… she hoped not. Being forgotten was not flattering to the ego.

“First of all… The only thing awkward about your crush is that you had it on Stella Thompson, the actress version of me, who made it big playing a transvestite. Yeah,“ she gestured back and forth with two fingers, “Not a solo hallucination. Second of all…” Star cocked her head. “Every girl wants to be a movie star, but lay it bare for me. This isn’t an invitation to porn, is it?”

"I know!" Victoria pseudo-chastised. "I'm just, y'know... Saying... Back when I was 'Vicki', with an 'I', I wasn't getting any, at all and you were, like, the only one I kept thinking about. Really majorly, too... Like, 'almost every night' majorly."

Victoria gave a comical look to the floor, then back up again. That they found one another attractive was old news. What she had experienced was quite a few magitudes in excess of that.

To put it mildly.

"And that depends on how you define 'pornography', my dear..." The vampiress amended, feeling like she should be reaching for a glass of drink, right about now, but having none to physically grab for. She did, however, slightly lean forward. "I was pretty much an expert on every vampire flick going, even before getting my fangs. I'm always finding things wrong with them, too... So, why not make some?"

It was concluded of with a shrug. As with Fang Noir's last incarnation, this, too, had come from an idea of what she was obviously good at. In the last case, it was the dark side of history. In this, it would be undead cinema.

"You can make them on digital camera and have it all edited on computer, these days!" Vicky enthused. "I'd just need a small staff for that... And I could re-use some of the room plans for a few sets, right? I already had changing rooms, so... Why not? And besides, how could I pass up the chance to show some of that 'Stella' magic on screen, for real, in a naughty vampire situation, hmm?"

In a rare display, Star was speechless, except for a little exhaled laugh of disbelief. On anybody else, she would’ve excused it for a pipe dream, something beyond a regular person’s means to accomplish. Somehow on Victoria, it seemed plausible. She wondered if immortality made a personality confident enough to try anything.

“How naughty?” she wanted to know, not that she particularly cared. Star was hardly a puritan. No, she wouldn’t go in for brazen sex acts on film. She held herself in too high of a regard for that. It was her firm opinion that the ‘real deal’ with her was worth more than eight lousy bucks on a movie ticket. But shy of the deed, she’d probably strip a few layers off for the sake of a horror film. What good was one without nudity?

“Oh who cares, I’d do it for fun. Who else’ve you got in mind… Leah?”

She asked it half-joking. It happened that Leah was the only acquaintance she remembered they had in common, other than Deanna.

"I, uh... No," Victoria hesitantly decided. "She's photogenic enough, for sure, but there's..." The whole 'almost-killing-a-friend-of-Mallory's' issue would have to be carefully side-stepped. "There's a thing I need to speak with her about," Victoria gently excused. "Way before even approaching her on this. I wasn't able to get in touch before all the stuff in my unlife."

Still, Vicky sensed a coup, if she was able to get Star on side for this. The girl had looks.

Now, if only she was capable of remembering lines, too...

"You're actually the first," she added, breezing her diplomatic way through the minefield lablled 'Leah Allen'. "And I don't know about the rest of the world, but I consider 'erotic' to be a darned sight more than two people getting their clothes off and going at it, like it was the end of the world!"

That was one thing Victoria Foxworth, both of life and unlife, was a stickler for. Of course, with Star being Star, she was no doubt aware of how very uncrude the usually-seductive vampire's tastes were.

"No, there's... I can't quite explain it," she considered, glancing up in thought for a few seconds. "There's a certain... Exotic quality about the subject I'd like to bring to the big screen. And, being as I now am a member of the fanged set, I'm pretty sure I can do that... Even I'd still be tempted to sit you down for a casting couch session, regardless."

A puzzled look crossed Star’s face, as she tried to determine whether the couch thing was an innuendo or a reference to a professional part of the film industry. A certain memorable scene from the movie ‘Fame’ came to mind, during which a wannabe starlet had trusted a photographer for a legitimate job, only to realize it involved nakey-time in front of the camera.

Regardless of whether it was an innuendo, Star felt justified in socking Victoria on the arm. “Hey! Don’t worry, I can act,” she assured the brunette. To be honest, her experience in the arts was limited to spirited tap-dancing and a couple runs of community theatre as a teen, but Star had utter confidence in herself. She could do anything she put her mind to.

Except spelling well. And maybe Calculus.

“What would you call your production company?” she asked, getting excited over the prospect. It was the most interesting thing going, as far as she was concerned. Sweeping up the droppings of haircuts could hardly be considered entertainment.

Rubbing said-arm lightly, Victoria had only grinned in her direction, by way of a response. Quite what she was thinking of when she did so, however, might have to remain a teasing mystery...

"Well, I was thinking of..." The vampiress blinked rapidly, looking away, as she appeared to mentally sort through the most applicable labels. In truth, it was more a case of gathering her confidence for a potential rejection of her idea as 'crap'. "Yeah, it's... Well..."

A pause.

"'Development Hell'... Whatcha' think?"

Star twisted her hair thought. “Unexpected… but not bad. Just as long as you come up with a cool animation to go with it, on the front of your movies. Not like that weird one where the kid in swimming trunks randomly jumps off a pier and freezes mid-air.”

She couldn’t remember for the life of her what company it belonged to, but she always thought it was inexplicably dumb. Too poignant or something.

“Anyway, I think it’s good. I mean, you’re doing better than me. When shit hit the fan, what did I do? Moved in with Leah and got a job using as little of my brain as possible. These aren’t even skills I’m using.” She pointed at the wax station.

Rather than launch into a pity party, Star allowed herself three-point-five seconds to mope and then went on, “But it’s like that time I was talking about, when Tyler and me broke up? That’s when I got handed The Witching Hour, and I completely poured myself into it. It actually helped. Maybe this is exactly what you need, because it’ll be totally yours and since it’s just starting out, all the hard work’s going to hand your ass to you, anyway. Distraction central.”

Inadvertently, Star had just given her friend a reason to feel suddenly depressed. Not for herself, but, well, for Star. The girl was doing facials for other people. She was probably even waxing pubic hair, for God's sake.

It must have been the ultimate punishment for a girl like Star.

Even then, it was not so much that, as an obvious reminder of the 'Victoria who could have been'. Star, likewise, had owned one of the most popular entertainment venues in Las Vegas, had it ripped away from her, then been forced to do...

The types of jobs she once had.

Bottom lip quivered and she suddenly felt like hugging the life out of Star. Oh, heavens, but it was difficult to imagine the sort of overheads the living had to deal with... Dear God, she needed to help this woman! This poor, poor woman! Someone forced to sweep up floors, like some Victorian street urchin!

"Oh, Star!" She cried and flung arms around her dear, beloved friend. "You can't even buy the basics! You have to spend all your money on, like, food and taxes and-and-and stuff! I'm so going to get you an Oscar! Or... Well, OK, maybe not an Oscar, but an Emmy - at the very least! And your own talk show!"

Practically bowled over, Star grasped the stool for dear life. The last thing she wanted was to fall back and crack her head open on the tile floor. Not only would it hurt, she’d have to clean it up. “Jesus, Vicky, it’s okay!” Now she felt it necessary to console her friend for her own life’s circumstances. In a way, Star hadn’t realized just how shitty she had it, until she saw the pity in Victoria’s eyes.

Holy shit… what had she gotten herself into?

Was it somehow worse than her old job at the Gas ’n Go? Was it so bad that she shouldn’t show her face in public? So bad that she’d have to lie on dates and call herself a Flight Attendant? ‘Peanuts? Pillow?’

Not that she dated. Somewhere between murdered love-of-her-life and now, she’d forgotten to do things like meet men. For such a big city, Las Vegas seemed to run at a severe shortage of them.

“Just… remember me when the time comes to cast a gorgeous damsel in distress. I can scream like you wouldn’t…believe,” Star reassured, giving the vampire’s back a double-handed pat. “Plus, hey… witchcraft. Authenticity!”

[Thread: Open to Star and Victoria}

Delivered to Her Hotel

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 23:19:59 GMT

Dear Victoria,

Please insert an image of me crawling around on hands and knees, begging for your forgiveness. If it helps, I could wear a gold bikini.

What sparked this most recent bout of melodramatic show-boating?

Your club got thrashed and I didn’t call!

You know that I can relate on this topic!

Here’s hoping the undead have more creative ways of making money that working in a spa called Rouge., post riches. If you ever need your legs waxed, you know where to find me.

Wait. Do vampires have to shave?

If not, sign me up!

Love,

STAR

PS- What's new?

Flowers and a Note for Leah

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 23:49:49 GMT

“Dear Roomie,

Some love-struck kid put these outside the door and rang the bell. Then he ran. All I saw was a blue baseball cat and the sagging ass of his jeans. You cradle-snatching these days?

Dude, I’m employed now. PLEASE let me take you out. I promise there are hot men out there above the age of 15!!!!

-STAR”

It Only Hurts a Little

Fri, 16 Nov 2007 01:45:12 GMT

Dear Vivian,

I landed a job at an upscale spa called Rouge. That’s right. Red and heavy on the period.

The owner refers to herself as Margaux. She’s fat and white and overly moisturized, and for those reasons, she reminds me of warm dough. She also has a fake French accent. I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling. I snatched her wallet and checked out her real name. Marge Bloomberg.

Of course I’m not that qualified. Usually I’m the one going to the spa. But good old warm-dough Margaux took me under her wing. I have the dubious joy of sweeping up hair, handing out bottles of Evian, taking reservations from rich bitches on the telephone, and waxing people’s pubes.

Sigh.

I miss being nouveau riche.

On the upside, ripping epidermis off is surprisingly good stress relief.

STAR

PS- Would you like a warm towel?

Halloween Thread: Skydiving

Fri, 02 Nov 2007 01:36:28 GMT

http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1241963.html

A Dream Within a Dream

Tue, 23 Oct 2007 22:19:05 GMT

Dear Vivian,

Sometimes in life, no matter how much it may kill to admit it, a girl needs the wise words of a Matriarch to solve an unpleasant conundrum. Resolution would come a fuck of a lot faster if that girl picked up a cell and dialed instead of sending an email, but pride goes before a fall. Or so I’m told. I don’t remember the last time I fell down, and it‘s highly unlikely I’d admit it anyway.

I’ll go ahead and ask and hopefully you can shed some light on the subject.

Last night I was taking a shower. In the middle of shampoo, rinse, repeat, I got a funky-dizzy-wasted feeling. I shut my eyes, lest some John Frieda get in, and then it got weird. I swear to god I had a full-fledged set of separate life memories plugged into my brain while I stood there. My name was Stella Thompson. I was a movie star (note: these were shitty, B-grade movies) and my ‘life’ as Star Tomlin was part of a serial supernatural drama I also starred in. Everybody I ever knew was a character in said show, and I had this whole other list of acquaintances for real-life family and friends. You were just some mysterious mother-figure that only existed in my letters home, and I even had a perfume line. Worst of all, there was Scientology.

After an unknown amount of time passage, the feeling went away. Only I was no longer in the shower. I won’t get into details of what exactly I was doing. Suffice it to say, it was tawdry enough to suit my fake life as a Lifetime TV Network celebutante.

So here’s my question. Does this sound like an acid flashback to you?

Maybe I’ve just gone delusional. I wanted to ask my roommate Leah her take on it, but she wasn’t around when I got back to the apartment. There was nothing weird on TV. I even read a newspaper (you know, through the glass on front of the newsstand). Nada.

What the fuck?

Maybe this is stress-related insanity, but I would swear on a Bible I went to a fan convention a few days ago, if that made any sense and if Bibles were religiously significant to me.

In other news, when I got back and checked the voicemail, I had a call from brothers-in-law Nobody, No Scruples, and No Ass. The case against me (RE: nightclub destruction) is being dropped. LACK OF EVIDENCE! Which is what I’ve been screaming all along. Since random building disintegration isn’t covered under the insurance policy, I lost a shit-load of cash anyway, and I have to pay off some employees who were out of work or hospitalized. Once it’s all said in done, I’ll stroll away from this rich, privileged chapter of my life with a whopping...

Are you ready for this...?

$24,617.08

You heard me. Riches to rags in how many months? It doesn’t sound so bad until you realize I lost my penthouse, my business, my furniture, my clothes, and everything else except my goddamn car.

Surprisingly the media is NOWHERE IN SIGHT to report on the news that I’m INNOCENT.

It figures. Then again I wouldn’t tune in to that either, as a tabloid fan. No one cares you’re innocent unless you’re O.J.

Get back to me on the acid flashback.

-STAR

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 15:47:34 GMT

The Birthright Crew (Convention Panel Thread)

http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1236779.html

Hollywood's Promising 30 Under 30

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 00:56:12 GMT

“Number 29: Stella Thompson

This actress and former model says she always wanted to be a star. Her dream came true when she was cast as the shoe-obsessed Wicca ‘Star Tomlin’ on OZTv’s hit show Birthright.

Stella Thompson grew up in Los Angeles, California. By the age of thirteen, she signed a contract with Elite Model Management. Thompson enjoyed moderate success for six years before her agent encouraged her to try her hand at acting. She auditioned for a role in Leila Davenport’s independent film Butterfly Kisses, portraying a seventeen year old transvestite. The film was a runaway hit, and Thompson won an Independent Spirit Award for Best Break-Through Performance.

But the actress has yet to fully capitalize on her early success. Her follow-up projects include a series of cable and straight-to-dvd films. Last year, Thompson also drew criticism for her participation in an ad campaign for cigarettes. However, she has since made a public announcement on The View that she’s converting to Scientology and has denounced substance abuse, including the use of tobacco products. Thompson has a new perfume line and says she’s refocusing her energy on more positive pursuits.

Number 28 is..."

Roomies

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 01:29:35 GMT

Done with a successful shopping trip to acquire the clothes she needed to impersonate a teacher, Leah parked in front of her garage and walked to the front door with a spring in her step.

The clothes were bland, true, but they were camouflage meant to disguise her true nature and blend in with the other adults. The goal was to look like an eager young teacher fresh out of college and ready to shape young minds.

It wasn't far from the truth, really, if a person looked at it from her point of view. She did want to shape young minds, just not in the way people expected. If all went according to plan she would end up with a small group of worshippers who would grow up to be movers and shakers in Las Vegas, perhaps further.

Who knew where the future would lead if everything worked perfectly?

“Why does everything suuuuuuck?!”

Star groaned and let her body roll off the couch. She thudded on the floor. A local tabloid’s pages crumpled under her weight. “Fuck fuck fuck,” she whimpered and covered her head with her hands. If the rule of three was true and not just some garbage cooked up by her religion, then Star must’ve done some serious damage in recent years. Absolutely all that could go wrong for her seemed to.

The newest catastro-fuck? A picture of some drag queen with her face superimposed on his body. Headline: ‘Star’s Secret Revealed! Ruined Vegas ‘It’ Girl Comes ‘Out’!’ Whoever the hell Ernesto Tomlin was, he needed not only a serious ass kicking, but a better set of falsies.

“Kill me.” Star banged her forehead on the carpet.

"Now what?" Leah asked rhetorically as she found her roommate prostrate and banging her head on the floor.

Star had been going through a rough patch lately, Leah knew that.   She felt sympathetic toward her friend which was why the hybrid had offered the spare bedroom to the wiccan, but sometimes Leah felt Star needed a good kick in the ass.

Her life had been turned upside down when she'd agreed to do that job for Simon the year before, but she'd landed on her feet and things had only improved since. Granted, she'd nearly become a sex slave to a demon lord in an alternate dimension around Thanksgiving, but Leah tried not to think about that particular event.

The hybrid pulled the aforementioned tabloid out from under her friend and snorted when she saw the picture and caption. "He needs to get a boob job if he wants to pass for you."

Star flopped on her back. “Oh sure. Don’t even mention his giant bulge.” She snatched the tabloid back for one last look. It was just as horrifying the second time, so it was bound for the waste basket. She aimed, tossed, and missed. “God I can’t wait for this investigation to blow over so they’ll leave me alone and I can buy some shoes.”

She pouted for ten seconds more and then focused on Leah. At that angle, she was practically staring up her roommate’s skirt. “What’re you up to?” Across the room, shopping bags loomed. Star smelled retail items. Eau de Banana Republic.

"Shopping for some new clothes." Leah wasn't sure how much she should tell the other woman. Star wasn't a goody two shoes; after all, she knew how Leah kept herself alive and didn't seem to have a problem with it, but she might not be so thrilled with the plans the hybrid had made for herself.

"I got you something," she told her friend, moving to the shopping bags and removing one from the bunch. One bearing the logo of Marc Jacobs and bulging with items. "You seemed down the other day and I thought you could use a pick me up."

Maybe it would distract the wiccan from the other bags, but sooner or later Leah would have to talk to Star about what she was up to. If nothing else it would seem odd that her hours had suddenly switched from evenings to daytime work.

Star scrambled into Indian position. Her eyes had found the logo in question. The purchase was awfully coincidental, but she wasn‘t going to argue. “You must be joking! Don’t tease me, Leah, I can’t take it.” Her words said no, but her eyes and grabby hands said yes. The blonde tore into the bag and opened the box inside. “No way, how did you afford these?” It was mostly rhetorical because Star didn’t care.

She took the peep-toe shoes out of their delicate paper. Star couldn’t resist inhaling the way they smelled. She rolled her eyes. “You’re so lucky I’m not having an orgasm right now. Awkward roommate moment.”

She got up and smacked her lips on Leah’s cheek. “You rock. I swear I’ll do your dishes for the next week.”

"Two weeks," Leah laughed and hugged her friend back. "With the amount of money I dropped, you can humor me that long I think." She winked at Star and then shrugged as she pulled back. "Let's just say I had a lucky night at the strip and decided to share the wealth."

She gathered up the other bags and took them upstairs while Star exulted over her new shoes. Once they were safely stashed away in her bedroom she came back downstairs. Her roommate was still caressing the shoes like Golem and his 'Precious'. "Try them on, I'm pretty sure they'll fit but you never know."

“Already on it.” Star had her socks off and her toes making the dive. When the shoes were on, she stuck her legs out and twisted them to and fro. “Wow. Hey, Leah, these are ‘come fuck me’ shoes! You got your mind on something?”

She hauled herself up and went to the kitchen, just to listen to the heels punishing the floor. Star made herself a drink just to draw out the occasion, going cabinet to refrigerator with exaggerated steps. “Hey, by the way... did you notice the maintenance guy lurking around a lot?” She popped ice out of a tray. “He’s kinda weird. He came in last week to fix the faucet in your bathtub and now he keeps finding reasons to trim the shrubs. He’s got this wife, she’s always bringing him sandwiches, and he‘s like a 80 years old, so I don‘t get it.”

Thread: http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1214727.html

Pigeon Stools

Sun, 02 Sep 2007 00:13:00 GMT

Star was ruined.

Sure, the results of the investigation into her club weren’t public yet. Not even the heiress knew what had been determined. But while she and the tabloids waited with baited breath, a bunch of bureaucrats took their sweet time. Tongues wagged, rumors got more and more twisted, and her reputation as a Vegas ‘It Girl’ was down the toilet.

Estella ‘Star’ Tomlin was now a ‘Has Been’.

In the meantime she lived off a meager allowance. After all, her fortune might get sued from underneath her. She joined the ranks of the unemployed. And she shacked up with Leah, trying not to notice that lately the place reeked of sex, and god only knew why. As far as Star knew, no action ever went on there.

But penniless or not, she could still afford a fashion mag and a milkshake. Depression demanded chocolate and brain candy. It was like a rule or something.

In a bad mock-up of a 1950s diner, Star sat on a swivel stool and wiled away the afternoon. Her straw made rude noises. It dripped chocolate on the pages of Vogue. She mopped at the latest splotch with a napkin and balled it up.

"That girl."

In the 1950s and into the decade beyond, many a young woman parked themselves in the soda shops at Hollywood and Vine, drank sodas and pretended to read magazines. Charlie Chaplin's had an office nearby. Will Rogers too. Studios were within walking distance. So it was the hope of every starstruck girl that a movie producer would walk by, glance into the window, be mesmerized by their mere presence, and strike those fabled words.

Whistler far from fit that bill.

If anything, he walked along the less known path that the Los Angeles section was known for: Haunted Hollywood. If he concentrated, he could see not necessarily the ghosts of what came before, but where the living were headed. And as an Agent for the Powers That Be, sometimes he was instructed to do exactly that.

Never was he allowed to examine his own path. That was a bone of contention; if he'd had a heads-up that The Witching Hour was to implode a few months back, he would've socked away more of his paychecks. He would've picked up more double-shifts to line what little of a nest-egg he had. And he sure as hell would've gone in earlier to get the last of the payroll.

Hands stuffed in (non-jean clad) pockets, he scuffed his way through the more brightly-lit areas of Las Vegas, occasionally peeking up to look for 'help wanted' signs. The worn notice at the 50s diner caught his attention. The woman seated with her back to the window. "That girl."

That cemented his reasoning for going inside.

Star gave her shoulder an absent rub and turned the page. A sweet fragrance wafted from her magazine. It was a perfume sample meant to imitate gardenias. She leaned in and pressed her nose to it. It smelled like a department store for geriatrics. Immediate turn-off.

She wrinkled her nose and fished the cherry out of her milkshake. This accomplishment made her a little smug. Most times, she ate that right off.

The cow bell on the door rang. She looked up, saw who it was, and immediately dove back into her reading materials. Ohhhh shit, shit shit, shit. Angry employee. Star combed her hair over her profile.

The hatted man took his time from the door to the counter. Star's body language screamed I'M NOT HER AND EVEN IF I WAS I DON'T HAVE YOUR MONEY, and a purposeful approach might've caused her to rabbit. No one liked to see Whistler run. His arms flailed like an eight year-old child chasing an ice cream truck. He wondered if that was why Rhiannon never took him up on his offer for a tandem early morning jog. Well that thought was pointless, now.

Whistler sat on the swivel stool and shifted his weight until he found comfort. He dropped his hat onto the seat next to his. A silent rule of thumb: no one liked an asshat, so people usually respected its privacy.

"How're you holding up, then?" he asked with barely any inflection of emotion.

Was Star wearing gardenias?

Immediate turn-on.

Star sniffed and straightened. “Fine.” It would’ve been easier to turn the next page if chocolate hadn’t glued it down. She pretended to study a collection of Fendi handbags. It didn’t take a lot of acting talent, once she got an eyeful of them. Sigh. The things she’d never have. Her fingernail traced a periwinkle strap.

“You?” Star could’ve shot herself on the spot for asking. But the guy was a former kitchen employee, so she wasn’t exactly going to be rude, even if they always got on each others’ nerves. Especially now that she might need tips on the local classified section. A guy like him probably trolled them often.

The counter waitress made a drive-by.

"Uh, whatever she had," Whistler grunted to the Lucille Ball lookalike. "Another for my old boss. And don't believe her when she declines. Put it on my bill," he finished, not giving Star a chance to protest.

The Agent swiveled from left to right, a small half-circle. Everyone should have chairs like this, he thought. You couldn't be sad when you could spin until you got dizzy. It also helped you forget things, if done right. "Broke up with my girlfriend. Kinda. I think. No. We did." He'd double-checked the transit system once he made his way into Las Vegas. No subway.

"My home's a wreck, I barely have any furniture to my name. Working midnights at the Rock 'N Bowl and looking for more work. I'm peachy." Whistler nodded in thanks as the waitress brought over two glasses of water. Some niceties still remained in the food service industry. "I saw the implosion on You Tube. Spectacular. Did you know it's got over two million hits so far?"

Star closed her magazine with as much patience as she could muster. Which wasn’t a lot. She swiveled around and let loose one of her patented bitch looks. “Listen. I didn’t blow it up. Capisce? You’ll get your paycheck as soon as I get mine. Which’ll happen when that tight-ass insurance investigator gets his thumb out of his ass and declares me free and clear.

“Furthermore...

“You had a girlfriend?” Star shook her head and peeled the paper off her new straw. “That’s baffling.”

On a hot, late-summer day, you could always count on a cold blast of air from Star Tomlin. Whistler heard that a lot from the (former) employees of the Witching Hour. He'd believed there was a softer side to the blonde.

Apparently not so much.

"First of all," he brought up his pointing™ finger. "I never accused you of blowing your place up. I think I would've known, after a fashion." Which was true. It wouldn't have been for his personal safety that the Agent would've gotten a flash of that future, but more so for the other workers. If Star planned to destroy her own restaurant and nightclub, not to mention the place where she lived, there probably would've been residual energy.

"Second, while yeah I'd fuckin' love my money, I'm wasn't gonna burn that bridge quite so fast. When that insurance kicks in, you might decide to rebuild. And how many people do you think would risk comin' back to workin' for ya right away?

"And three...

"Fuck off."

Star’s smile dripped sugar. “I was here first.” She plucked the cherry from Whistler’s matching milkshake and glomped it along with hers.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Whistler, if I don’t roll out the welcome mat. The whole,” she put up quote fingers, “ ‘support for the owner’ concept seems to be missing from the Witching Hour crowd. See..,” she ticked items off with her fingers, “I paid the best wages in town. I stacked the tip jars. I let ‘em have free drinks after closing. And I never once questioned it when somebody was too hung over to come in, having been there myself.”

Star took a breath, because blowing hot air was hard work. “All in all, I’d say it made for a fucking sweet working environment. Particularly considering the previous owner was a warlock who pranced around in leather pants with a security detail, and he never once spoke to an employee, unless it was to get into his or her pants. That’s right! I said it!”

She brushed back her hair. “So yeah. You making the polite approach? All walking up and not implying I’m a psychotic bitch and demanding restitution for pain and suffering, which puh-lease...? One in a hundred. And if by chance you are one in a hundred? Congratulations. You actually have a soul.”

"Yeah, I got one," Whistler snapped back. It was never a good idea to snipe at someone who knew when you'd draw your terminal breath and considered telling you. "Bit tarnished of late but it still works."

He scooped up a spoon with a long handle and stirred it in his milkshake, suppressing the urge to tell Star anyway for stealing his cherry. "And you wanna know a truth? It doesn't fuckin' matter how well you stack the tip jar or forgive someone for slackin' off because of a hangover, Miss Tomlin. 'Cuz it's one thing to act the concerned patron and another to actually give a shit about someone other than yourself."

With more whipped cream than actual frosted chocolaty goodness in the curve of his spoon, Whistler brought the utensil to his mouth and let it coat his throat

Star’s face flamed up. Whistler’d hit a nerve. She bit her cheek hard enough to cut through. “You think you fucking know who I am? You don’t.”

It took all her self-restraint not to hex him with some kind of pox, just for shits and giggles. She slid the ‘free’ milkshake out of her way and reopened Vogue. Let him sit there and imagine she was some dumb, selfish socialite. He’d never get her. Only Tyler did, and he was gone. She rested her chin in her hand.

Everyone, to a degree, broadcast their thoughts. Like radio static, it would be impossible for most to hear without focus. And unless you could attune to their frequency, the best you'd pick up was sports on the AM dial. Star's tirade lashed out in Dolby Surround 7.5™. Whistler instinctively flinched and saw beyond.

He sucked back on the milkshake until it was half-gone. "White roses," he finally mumbled.

Star mumbled around her palm, “I prefer pink,” and flipped a page. Then her brow furrowed. “Wait, what?”

The man shrugged and finished his milkshake. Immediately he suffered a pain in his frontal lobe. "Ow, fuck!"

The most likely culprit was the icy treat, but Whistler was an Agent and when he blatantly ignored the wishes of the Powers, they tended to grab his attention. Like that time he carried a migraine for days. "It's all about primary colors. See if you can wrap your head around this.

"You've got red, which of course mean love, everlasting. Then you've got white, yeah?" He puffed as his temples still throbbed. "Purity and brightness, two things you obviously aren't." FUCK! Okay, already! "But when given by a lover, they represent them thinking you're a...."

Oh, don't make me say it. Nggggggguhhhhh!!!

"Means they think you're an angel. Mix the white and the red, you get pink. Which I'm sure you have a lot of in your closet. So basically it's an expression of deep love, purity, and sympathy. And NO, it's not me."

Star cocked her head. “Really. So then... what’re you doing, spying on me? Orrr... have your newest career aspirations led you to a lucrative job in floral delivery?” She waited on an answer. “Take your time. Don’t stress it. You’ll only aggravate your bald spot.” She folded her arms.

Aha. The headache became a dull roar in the back of his skull. "Better to be the bearer of bad news than the person who receives it. Or somethin' similar. I think Shakespeare wrote that. Or maybe Marlowe. Or Dick Cheney. They get jumbled up sometimes.

"And for the bald spot crack, I don't think I'll tell you." Whistler reached to his left and grabbed his fedora, putting it square on his head.

Star rolled her eyes and took another pass at the magazine. “Whatever. Like a pot shot at your hairline is anything compared to implying I have no heart or virtue.” She flipped past the perfume sample and shot straight to the horoscopes. Since when did Vogue have horoscopes? “Anyway, I don’t have time for this, so either you know something or you don’t. I don’t beg.”

"I know that, despite your many faults, someone loves you, Miss Tomlin." Whistler sucked up the dregs of his milkshake through the straw, ensuring the noise grated. "And even death itself isn't a concern. So as bad as you feel right now, as low as you've gone. You've got somethin' special to look forward to."

Star’s head buzzed. “I don’t get it.” It was just like the meeting with Detective Starnes. Puzzle pieces flying everywhere but none of them fit. “If you’ve got something to say, say it straight. Otherwise shut up. And lay off the death remarks. It‘s a thing.”

Whistler slowly shook his head. He could see Star's probable future and had given the nudge allowed. But -- remembering the time he tried to directly interfere and warn Rhiannon of the coming Scourge -- there were consequences involved. This time, it might not be directly aimed at him. His bosses could throw up any number of roadblocks and prevent it from coming to pass. And given what lay beyond that for the blonde, and her place in the coming storm, that was a very, very bad idea.

"It'll make sense in time. You'll likely smack your forehead, ya know like those 'I could'a had a vee-eight' commercials. Just trust me on this." He dug in his (still) denim-free pants and pulled out a few bills, and slapped them on the counter. "Enjoy the magazine, and pay attention to page one hundred and twelve. And oh, I'll let you tip the waitress. You've said you're good at that."

Whistler swiveled to his left on the stool and held back a smirk at the miniature ride. It made him homesick for the Teacups at Disneyland. Maybe he and... maybe he'd visit there someday soon.

Star waited until he was gone and flipped hurriedly to page one-twelve.

It was just a stupid cologne ad. Some guy with a body like a Grecian god walking out of the ocean.

Star slapped her forehead for being so gullible.

“That guy’s a complete fraud.”

Wed, 15 Aug 2007 02:41:39 GMT

Test

Empathetic Ears

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 23:35:22 GMT

The vase of flowers loomed pink and huge on her table.

Otherwise the hotel room was ordinary. Bland watercolors on the walls. Heavy drapes that unleashed dust whenever she slid them on their track. A mysterious stain or two on the carpet. Paisley print on the bedspread. A bolted television. A standing lamp. A desk that promised free internet. That would’ve been helpful, had her laptop not undergone rocky doom.

Star jazzed it up. She hung a few salvaged scarves over the lampshades. She pulled pink and white roses from the vase and thumb-tacked them up on the walls. Maybe they’d dry and be pretty. Not so

Ordinary.

You’re ordinary, now, too.

“Ugh shut up, my stupid head.” Star hammered it with her palm, not for the first time. Vodka in the micro fridge. Little Styrofoam cups for shot glasses. One sitting empty on the nightstand.

She drew up her knees and tucked her feet into the sheets, because it was always damp and cool in that room. At least the promised air conditioning worked. So too did the porno channel, if you didn’t mind the multi-tonal line scrolling down the screen.

Which she didn’t.

Bow-chicka-chicka-boom...reer reer chicka chocka.

She pressed mute and picked up her cell phone. Pink with encrusted cubic zirconium around the front screen. It was tacky as hell and she loved it. She scrolled through the numbers just looking for somebody to talk to. Somebody who wouldn’t worsen her completely agonizing humiliation over the whole debacle.

Wait... Leah!

Leah understood tragedy. A parking garage fell on her car, for sobbing out loud. That was pain.

Star, a little drunk, a little distracted by the pornography channel, pressed ‘send’ and waited for an answer. Her eyes drifted to the vase full of flowers. She’d put them on the bed and roll around in them, if it didn’t remind her of Mary Stuart Masterson.

[Thread: Open to Leah and Star]

Star Tomlin: Tragic Heroine

Thu, 05 Jul 2007 20:56:50 GMT

Dear Vivian,

People say that when it rains, it pours. I’d like to up the ante. Let’s call this occasion a de-fucking-luge. Roads washing out. Toads falling out of the sky. The whole nine and a half yards. I know you read the tabloids, even the ones out here in what you consider BFE, but I’ll give you the gist on my tabloid life for old time’s sake.

Please hold in the guffaws of laughter at your daughter’s most recent humiliation until she’s done story-telling. If it helps, meditate for uno momento and remember how I’m recently widowed (okay not exactly widowed... what’s the word for when the love of your life so far croaks, but you were just screwing? There’s gotta be one besides ’tragic’.).

I’m going to take it on faith that you’re sympathizing with my plight. Commence guilt if you aren’t.

Alright, here’s the low-down dirty shame. The guy who left me the club was Julian St. Constantinople or whatever. He was a warlock. I didn’t know that when he built the joint, he went halfsies on construction and mojo. Think of it as a 1:1 hammer to wand ratio. The whole club (and my penthouse, may it rest in peace) was held together by spells! The gods only know what other spells he was doing upstairs on his bearskin rugs before he moved out.

But I digress! Since an obnoxiously high number of my spells had been going... let’s say ‘awry’, I figured some of Julian’s magic residue might be left behind. I have a nose for other people’s spells, Mother, and trust you me, Julian was into some skanky-smelling sorcery. Calling it ‘unsavory’ would be generous. So I did a spell that was like spring cleaning.

As a result, my club fell down. With my wardrobe in it! And most of my ‘personal effects’, the remains of which were delivered to me at the freaking Days Inn by the crew that dug it out of the rubble.

Stop the press. Did Star just write Days Inn?

Yes, she did! Do you know why? Because she’s being investigated for INSURANCE FRAUD. They think I tore the Witching Hour down with all my shit in it (including my actual body) for money. Might I mention how absolutely retarded that is, since I’d make more money with the club still running? Hello! Las Vegas’s Top Ten New Nightspots 2010?!?!

So, on top of being HOMELESS and UNEMPLOYED, I’m being investigated for insurance fraud, and they’re considering charging me for, 1) Blowing the place up without a permit (whatever! I dare those pricks to find an explosive on the premises!), and 2) Reckless endangerment.

The only person who got hurt was Shawn, my general manager. Apparently he told his lawyer that I whacked him on the head prior to evacuating, and now he’s trying to sue me. Let the record show that I did NOT hit Shawn; a support pole under the dancing cage nicked his head on its way down. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So I’m in the Days Inn because I’m probably going to end up poor and imprisoned because some dillweed with a hard-on for cutting corners build his house out of straw and then gave it to me. My accountant and my lawyer advised me to be cheap wherever I can, HENCE the Days Inn, which boasts air conditioning, an outdoor pool, and HBO.

God, why couldn’t I have been taken out by the top shelf liquor when it fell?

Kill me.

-STAR

Club Implodes! Spectators Watch in Horror!

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 22:14:22 GMT

Witnesses were stunned early Thursday morning when hot Vegas nightspot The Witching Hour imploded in what’s being touted as the most spectacular display of building demolition since the Stardust resort was taken out in 2007!

The walls came tumbling down at 2:14a.m., mere moments after the club closed its doors to customers. Witness Shelly O’Kelly, a local socialite and long-time owner of Melons, a nearby fruit establishment, described the scene. “It was pandemonium!” she said. “We saw the staff run outside screaming. Then the whole place lit up wicked green and collapsed! I was freaking out. I couldn’t stop jumping up and down!”

No one was seriously injured.

An insider who identified himself only as ‘LuTrell’ told the Beacon that club owner Star Tomlin seemed just as stunned by the demolition as the dozens of people racing from the mangled heap. “That [female canine] was hollerin’ and carryin’ on like everybody else. I don’t think she knew nothing, ‘cept the direction of the emergency exit.“ Photographs taken at the scene revealed Tomlin fleeing from the building with an armload of shoes.

No charges have been filed. But sources say an investigation is underway and that local police haven’t ruled out foul play. A spokesman for the city police, Chief Lou Diggs, said in a Thursday press conference that insurance fraud might’ve been a factor. Diggs also revealed that no city permit had been filed for property demolition. He wouldn’t estimate the cost of damages to the surrounding properties.

Shawn Myers, general manager of The Witching Hour, was taken to a medical facility by ambulance for what paramedics described as a ‘blunt injury to the head’. Before losing consciousness, Myers told the press, “...I told [her]... didn’t know about [the] warlock... [He] had leather pants...leather pants and orange juice...”

Since the incident, Myers has obtained a lawyer and is no longer available for comment.

Witnesses were stunned early Thursday morning when hot Vegas nightspot The Witching Hour imploded in what’s being touted as the most spectacular display of building demolition since the Stardust resort was taken out in 2007!

The walls came tumbling down at 2:14a.m., mere moments after the club closed its doors to customers. Witness Shelly O’Kelly, a local socialite and long-time owner of Melons, a nearby fruit establishment, described the scene. “It was pandemonium!” she said. “We saw the staff run outside screaming. Then the whole place lit up wicked green and collapsed! I was freaking out. I couldn’t stop jumping up and down!”

No one was seriously injured.

An insider who identified himself only as ‘LuTrell’ told the Beacon that club owner Star Tomlin seemed just as stunned by the demolition as the dozens of people racing from the mangled heap. “That [female canine] was hollerin’ and carryin’ on like everybody else. I don’t think she knew nothing, ‘cept the direction of the emergency exit.“ Photographs taken at the scene revealed Tomlin fleeing from the area with an armload of shoes.

No charges have been filed. But sources say an investigation is underway and that local police haven’t ruled out foul play. A spokesman for the city police, Chief Lou Diggs, said in a Thursday press conference that insurance fraud might’ve been a factor. Diggs also revealed that no city permit had been filed for property demolition. He wouldn’t estimate the cost of damages to the surrounding properties.

Shawn Myers, general manager of The Witching Hour, was taken to a medical facility by ambulance for what paramedics described as a ‘blunt injury to the head’. Before losing consciousness, Myers told the press, “...I told [her]... didn’t know about [the] warlock... [He] had leather pants...leather pants and orange juice.”

Since the incident, Myers has obtained a lawyer and is no longer available for comment.

At least one person was glad to see the club's demise. Gladys Perkins, retired homemaker and Sunday pianist for the First Church of the Holiest Redeemer By Far, called the building an 'albatross'. Perkins said, "It was crazies in and crazies out, all the time! A restaurant and a club and a concert hall all in one place, I never heard of such a thing! That occultist [presumably Tomlin] ought to be ashamed!" Tomlin's most recent publicity stunt, 'No Rest for the Wicked', included a Sunday morning brunch making use of performers in drag.

Tomlin was taken in for questioning and released Thursday afternoon.

[Submitted by Kate]

Oops

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 23:45:09 GMT

It was long rumored that construction of The Witching Hour in 2008 went by remarkably fast. True, the handsome sum paid by its former benefactor kept the contractors on site and the power tools running late into the night. Julian St. Constantine had been willing to absorb the exorbitant costs of work done round the clock. So when cracks in the walls and structural settling occurred, it was no real surprise. For one thing, ‘settling’ was a reality of all foundations, and for another, buildings rapidly thrown together were bound to show signs of duress eventually.

Whenever it happened, Star just ordered her general manager to call up the ‘plaster guys’ and the ‘paint dudes’ to tidy up things. So Shawn, who kept a bottle of Excedrine for Migraines in his pocket, got out his palm pilot and started his index finger dialing. Sometimes he didn’t even wait for Star to say something before scheduling the work, because god only knew how long it might take the girl to notice it. Especially after that horrible incident with her last boyfriend.

Tyler. Right, that had been his name.

This all created a situation where Star remained unaware of the severity of her venue’s problems, even while she danced the nights away with newfound detachment. Amongst the zillions of things from which her staff (blessed be) kept her sheltered, there were other things that not even a general manager like Shawn knew. For instance, the heavy role that magic played in the building’s quick assembly. Julian St. Constantine was more than an heir to a fortune; he was a warlock. And he didn’t play by nature’s rules.

Star had sensed that the environment in her apartment wasn’t ideal for her spells. They went horribly awry quite often... More often than her forgetful tendencies would explain. She pulled the usual cleansing tricks. Sage. Clearing a sacred space for rituals. She asked the gods to bless her spell work, so that she wouldn’t accidentally turn everyone into space mutants. But none of it got rid of that ‘funk’ in the air. Stale magic. Little did she know it held her penthouse and club in place like so much glue.

So the spell she did on July 20th, 2011, the spell to nullify other spells?

Probably wasn’t a good idea.

All the World's a Stage

Sun, 27 May 2007 21:22:21 GMT

It was a fine afternoon in the city of Sin and Christian had pulled himself out of the depths of his apartment, figuring it was just too good to miss. That and his fridge was mourning the absolute lack of food. He didn't think he could survive on one peanut M&M and a rather out of date pint of milk he'd obviously left out on the side too long.

The streets were busy, practically humming with life, and if you stopped for long enough you could hear everybody's life story in about thirty seconds flat. Not that Christian stopped much, really.

He decided that shopping could be left ‘til later, when the streets had emptied a little more and he didn't have to fight with mothers and children for the sweets in aisle number four. There was something degrading about arguing with a child of five over the last bag of M&Ms.

He found his way to a small cafe that looked crowded inside but spacious outside; why did people bother coming out to enjoy the weather if they didn't actually enjoy it? He ambled in the direction of one of the wooden tables, trailing the tips of his fingers over the rings that indicated the age of the wood that the table had been made of.

Christian settled and picked up a nearby menu, running blue eyes over it and trying to decide from that what he felt like eating. He brushed his thumb and ring over his lower lip before he caught a strand of hair that blew into his eyes, as a slight breeze kicked up over the small railing separating the cafe from the pavement.

"Excuse me," he asked the passing waitress, "What would you recommend to eat?" He gave her his very best smile and she just blushed and leaned in to gesture to something on the menu.

Meanwhile, a few tables away, a lanky blonde waged war with a deck umbrella.

She stood on her chair in hot pants and high heels, a colorful disaster waiting to happen, and fiddled with the underpinnings of the canopy. A rusted bit of metal had jammed the umbrella into ‘open’ position, and damnit, Star wanted the thing gone! There was natural skin bronzing to be had (read: her tanning bed was on the skids), and about a gallon of Sun-In lightening solution in her hair that needed rays to make it into a California-girl masterpiece.

She pounded it repeatedly with her hand. “Fucking...let go!” The pin shot out with a clang and ricocheted off the nearest patio chair. Then the entire mushroom came down with her inside it. Star fought her way out and clambered down from her perch. “Mother of--! Are you kidding me?!”

By the time she sat down, she was out of breath and wondering when her menu blew away.

Christian cocked his head to one side at the blonde's obviously disgruntled sounds and her equally chaotic movements caught his and several other’s attention. He tried very, very hard not to laugh as the umbrella seemed set on giving her a fight and even seemed to gain the upper hand.

His eyes caught the flicker of a menu as it escaped and made a break for it; obviously it had decided that freedom was preferable to servitude. Deciding that the blonde looked like she could do with a break, Christian held onto his menu and picked himself up to wander over.

"You look like you need this more than I do," he murmured softly with a smile that caught on dimples and made his eyes glitter.

Star, who had missed the exchange between waitress and male patron, gave the menu a suspicious look.

Rarely was the waif-like blonde embarrassed. However, she had just been swallowed by an enormous beach umbrella, so this slightly qualified. At times she seemed determined to put on a show, even on a subconscious level, but since this was unintentional, she was doubly determined to act her way through a recovery.

In her manner that was occasionally bald to the point of off-putting, she scrabbled up some pride and asked, “Why? Have you got it memorized?” Then she looked up... up and into a pair of outrageously sparkly eyes. Seriously. It was like finding herself trapped in a commercial where somebody uncorked a bottle of blue champagne and it magically turned into a pair of contact lenses, only this was more realistic and it smelled like cologne.

“Oh for crying out loud.”

She rolled her eyes and lifted the menu off his hands. “You’re pretty. That‘s... great.” Star settled back in her chair and crossed her legs. She coached her face into a mask of ‘I’m so ignoring you’ and crossed her legs. One open-toed shoe tapped a feverish beat against the pavement.

There were two ways of dealing with a comment and behavior like that. One, you got offended, or two, you laughed it off and made it work to your advantage. Christian being Christian decided on the second.

He laughed huskily and slid onto a seat in front of her. "You're not so bad yourself, for a woman who just went one round with an umbrella and lost." The thing about Christian was his confidence and the way he chose to use it; it made for an otherwise unflappable persona.

An act was an act and if you were a good performer no one ever saw the flaws.

"Name's Christian," he offered as he held out a hand to the blonde that he couldn't help to want to know more about. Wasn't often you ran into women like that in places like this; usually they tended to stick to the more high-end parts of Vegas.

A pair of brown but equally engaging eyes peered over the menu. She quirked her brow, which had been plucked to perfection so she could get away with looks like that, and a bit of inherited arrogance let itself out to play. “Star,” she answered in kind, but pretended not to see his hand, even though it blatantly jutted beneath her menu. She lowered it a bit.

Star liked to consider herself an actress of sorts. All the world was her stage. Her mother brought her up to be a show-stopper. Most of the time, she accomplished that, but it never panned out the way she intended it to. For instance, like many women who put on airs, Star could end up the subject of unintentional comedy, simply because she tried too hard.

A high-heeled shoe, suspended mid-air, accidentally tapped his shin. Star cleared her throat and scooted a bit left of him, quite willing to pretend that hadn‘t happened.

Christian curled his fingers back in towards his palm and smirked a little, entirely too amused. "Star, huh?" He met eyes that reminded him of a kind of honey - rich and golden - the kind he'd always loved as a kid. "That the name your parents picked out for you or one you picked out for yourself?"

He only looked away once, only once, and that was because of the tap to his shin.

Christian tipped his head just a little until one strand of black cut his profile in two and sure enough her shoe had just tapped his shin and her slight movement indicated that she hadn't meant to do that.

Gasp!

Well, not a real one, but there was definitely an intake of breath in her imagination. Of course Christian wasn’t the first person to suspect a different name had been printed on her birth certificate, but he had asked about it in record time. That was... bold of him, now wasn’t it?

Star folded the menu and leaned around it. “Hey! I’ll have you know that I’ve been going by ‘Star’ since I was young enough to drink from a bottle!” It was a clever side-step of an actual answer, given her modern-day tendency to drink from a bottle of an altogether different sort. Feeling like she was on a roll now, she kept right on tap-dancing. “Besides... Christian,” said with a touch of... something unidentified, “I think names ought to match the people wearing them. Don’t you?”

Well, he certainly had her attention now, didn't he?

He folded his arms on the table and watched her as she went about talking. Something told him that she liked to talk. "So, I take that comment to mean that you consider yourself a Star?"

Christian gave her a long considering look, those eyes picking up on every small detail, details other people might miss. He was attempting to see if any other name might fit or do the attractive blonde any more justice than her birth name and he was coming up with nothing.

Deciding to abandon that particular string of thought, Christian turned his attention to her deliberate use of his name and the implications behind it. "And for the record, I'm as far removed from my name as a non-religious and completely sinful person can or ever will be. Not every person fits their name."

Hmm.

That brought him up a notch or so in her estimation Still, she bet she could give him a run for his money in the sinful department. Star opened her menu again, but this time, he was visible over the top of it. She acted like she was reading. In fact, though the words ‘pastrami’ and ‘rye’ floated past her eyes, they flitted out of her brain just as quickly. “Maybe you should give yourself a new one,” she mused, and took up the habit of bouncing her foot again. This time, there was a little less annoyance behind the movement.

“What springs to mind?” She asked it while turning to the next page. “How’s about ‘He Who Smells Like Calvin Klein’?”

Christian smirked at that, chuckling a little before dipping his head to catch the scent of the aftershave he'd put on this morning. "Better than 'He Who Smells Like Twelve Hour Shift'." He had, after all, pulled an all-nighter at the club he worked at because somebody had called in sick.

"Don't like it?" He feigned hurt before catching the waitress as she passed them. "Would you mind doin' me a favor?"

The waitress blinked, looking from Star to Christian. "Uh ...what kind of favor?"

"My friend over here," Christian gestured at Star. "Doesn't seem to like the aftershave I chose to put on this morning."

"Okay," the waitress answered warily.

"Would you mind sniffing me and tellin' me if I need to find myself a new scent?" Thankfully, Christian had natural charm so he eased her into it by using his smile and those eyes of his.

The waitress glanced at Star, obviously worried that the pair of them could be an item, before just giving in and sniffing Christian's neck. She pulled away a couple seconds later, a little flustered and blushing as she answered, "You smell fine."

"Thank you," he murmured before turning back to Star. "She seems to like it."

After the sniff test, Star watched the employee shuffle off to another task. Believe it or not, she actually tripped over a chair leg in the process of getting there. Apparently the experience was too much for her.

The girl across from him slumped dramatically in her chair and covered her face with their menu. “Oh, give me a breaaak!” Star moaned behind the paper barrier. “What is with people?” She gave it a couple seconds more to digest before coming out of hiding.

“First of all, you picked the homeliest girl in the entire joint to lean into your collar and sniff you. You’re lucky she didn’t hump your leg! That was practically a charity sniff. Second of all, I never said I didn’t like it. You staged that whooole thing,” a flounce of her arm, “just so I’d have to watch some ditz fall all over you like Elvis. Are you trying to impress me now?”

Giving up on the menu, Star put it on the table and folded her arms across it. She stared at him and waited for an answer.

"So you do like it," Christian answered with smirk. "Just thought I'd check."

He picked up a sugar cube resting in a small pot between them and eyed it before slipping it into his mouth and chewing it slowly. "And believe it or not, Star, I'm not stupid enough to believe that somethin' like that can impress a woman of your obvious high standards. Just wanted to make sure I wasn't making a wrong choice with my aftershave s'all."

Christian leaned back, lifting his hands to tie his hair back with the small brown band that had been resting securely around his right wrist.

Star’s jaw lowered itself. Just when it was getting to the point of ridiculous, she leaned forward and smiled at his expense. “S’all? Excuse me... did you just say s’all? Jesus, where’re you from, Mayberry?” The former Californian picked a pair of sunglasses off the top of her head and slid them onto her face. “Wow, they must grow ’em smart down south. You’ve got me figured all out.” Her head tipped. “Me and my hiiiigh standards. Shit, you‘re lucky I haven‘t switched tables yet.”

Getting into the spirit of things, the wiccan craned her neck to view the patrons behind them. “Gosh. There’s gotta be someone hotter than you around here somewhere...” It was obviously sarcasm, but she searched with all the tenacity of a woman who was convinced otherwise.

Christian breathed out a laugh and shook his head with a smirk. He supposed he should be put off by Star's behavior and her sharp, barbed attack aimed at his accent but Christian had himself a thick skin, thick enough to rival that of an Elephant's. You had to when you grew up in the circus.

"Havin' any luck?" he inquired as he watched her scour the crowd for a person hotter than him.

Star wheeled around and took a sip of her lemon water. Most of the ice had melted over the long while since she was offered a menu. “Well, there was a moment when I caught sight of myself in that window over there. Otherwise, I’m out of luck. I suppose you’ll do.” She shrugged and watched a bit of foot traffic on the sidewalk.

Outwardly she appeared to be a Vegas socialite, dressed to the sex-kitten nines and as conceited as they came. Inwardly there was a weird thing happening in Star’s chest. It was the old, familiar adrenaline rush of going toe-to-toe with a beautiful guy, but it was coupled with an unpleasant flutter of guilt. Or maybe it was dread. She couldn’t figure out which and she liked neither, so Star dialed into whatever part of her supplied all the bravado and shoved the rest waaaay down, where it couldn’t see the light of day.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Twelve-Hour Shift?” She watched her straw swirling independently in her glass. Faked scrutiny of an ice cube.

"Shucks. Too bad for you, huh?" Christian's lips slid into a relaxed smile. He dropped his head forward and looked up at her through ridiculously long eyelashes. "Guess I'd better make sure I make it worth your while."

He tipped his head to catch a waitress, asking for a cup of coffee. He'd need the caffeine for later. The waitress nodded and hurried off to get his order and when she did that Christian was able to turn all his attention back to Star.

"Me? I used to be a performer." He stole another sugar cube. "These days I tend bar, work the clubs, staff social events. Pretty much anything so I can pay rent and live life." He ran his eyes over her, taking in the way she dressed and the way she made sure every layer flattered her perfectly and they did. "What do you do?"

Star let him look. “I run a club... The Witching Hour,” she told him matter-of-factly, and that was all. The truth was that people would make assumptions about her because of it, and some would be right and most would be wrong. It was an inherited job and bankroll, a fact she neither hid nor blasted from the rooftops. She brought it up when she felt like telling it.

Poised for another sip of water, she prepared to turn the tables in a playful way. “What kind of... acts would you say you performed?” Star found the straw and slowly drained the contents of her glass. Her lips pursed tellingly. She was smiling.

Christian's eyes strayed back to Star's face and he noted the name with a small nod of his head. He'd never been but maybe he'd visit, just to see. The club might or might not tell him a bit more about its owner.

When she turned the tables in that fashion he met it effortlessly, lips tugging into a slow flirtatious smile. "Let's just say they involved a lot of risk and a ton of flexibility on mine and my partner's behalf."

Let her make of that what she would.

“Hmm, kinky prostitute?” she guessed, about eighty percent kidding. “No,” she arched closer to whisper, “...Sexual exhibitionist... Baroque dancer!” Star ticked through the list in a way that was much too delighted, given she hadn‘t paid witness to any of the above. The waitress slipped by another time, and the blonde continued to ignore her.

“Wait, I’ve got it!” Star picked up a sugar cube, ready to imitate him. “Couples figure skater! Man, I love leotards on a man.” She popped it in her mouth without waiting for confirmation or rebuttal. Around the sugar cube she mumbled, “They’re snug.”

Well, he had worn one in his time. "Yeah, they are. Especially around the crotch." He arched his eyebrows and chuckled softly before deciding to give in and say what his profession had been exactly. "I was a gymnast, trapeze artist to be more exact."

He turned to thank the waitress for his coffee, turning away from her even though she lingered longer than she ought to. He added a few sugar cubes and stirred the dark liquid. "Not as exciting but equally as challenging."

Star let her face do its thing, unfettered. “Wow. Umm.” She set down her drink and nodded, lips rubbing together. “That’s a new one!” In her head, that circus music had already begun to play. She wondered if he was with Ringling Brothers. It went through town a few times when she was a teenager. Who knew... maybe she’d already gotten a good look at Christian’s crotch? “I can tap dance. Aaaannd that’s about it!”

She took a good, long look at Christian, trying to decipher certain things by the way he held himself. It wasn’t scientific, but occasionally it was telling. “So... I’ve gotta ask. Were your partners girls? Or... guys?”

Another swig of lemon water. Star figured he was agile enough to catch her drift.

"Both," Christian answered honestly. He wasn't ashamed of the fact and if people didn't like it then it was their problem and not his.

Christian picked up his cup and took a slow sip of coffee; the bitter taste skirted across his taste buds but before it had time to settle it was swallowed back and the heat was flooding his stomach.

"Tap dance, huh? I knew a couple people who could do that. Can you do it in heels?"

Star accepted his answer with a nod. Mentally she added a sardonic, ‘that makes two of us’. As for the tap-dancing, she pushed up her sunglasses and replied energetically, “Can I do it in heels? Please. I can do anything in heels. And I do. Frequently. Demonstration?”

Once her mind latched onto something, Star wasn’t easily dissuaded, even if the person said no. She scraped her chair back and prepared a tiny space for herself. “I hope you’re ready for this. Bay Area Youth talent champ, two years running. Here we go... two, three, four..!” And with that introduction made, the leggy blonde launched into her last memorized routine, a saucy number that had suited the 1999 Shania Twain hit ‘That Don’t Impress Me Much.’ Everyone said the thirteen-year-old had acted out the routine with remarkable believability.

"Please do," Christian murmured as he swept his hand out towards her.

When she pushed her chair out, Christian settled himself in to watch. He wasn't sure if he should have been watching her legs as closely as he was but they were there on show and he was a guy. His eyes watched her feet only briefly and he noted that she had to have a pair of extraordinarily strong ankles to carry her weight in her performance. He had to admire her for being able to carry herself like that.

People were staring.

Typical of Star not to care. Eventually she finished with a flourish and proclaimed, “Ta-daaaa!” The whole thing was met with a smattering of applause from curious onlookers. It was the sort of moment when you couldn’t help but stare. The spectacle ended when she picked up her pocketbook and rummaged for a few crumpled dollars that she tossed on the table.

Apparently Star was a believer in making a strong exit.

“It was nice meeting you, Christian,“ she said breezily, and she was a little winded when she slung the pocketbook on her shoulder. “But I’ve got to run.”

Christian gave Star a clap and a wolf whistle for the performance before he was chuckling. "Yeah, nice to meet you too."

He sipped at his coffee again before borrowing a pen from a nearby waitress and scribbling down his number on a napkin. He really didn't care if he was giving a girl his number. It opened up a line of communication, and it was up to her whether she took it or not. If she did then great but if not, at least he didn't regret not taking the chance when he could have.

"Here's hopin' we run into each other again," Christian muttered as he offered the slip of white to Star. The ball was now very firmly in her court.

Star had the napkin in her hand before she realized she had reached. For some reason, it seemed to weigh about a thousand karmic tons. Dilemma... dilemma, dilemma, di-- "Sure. Well, you know where to find me, don't you?" She backed out of earshot and folded the napkin into a miniscule square.

"Oh for fuck's sake," she mumbled to herself on her way off the patio. Life had a funny way of splashing water on her face.

Fri, 18 May 2007 02:36:33 GMT

Test post only.

A Needle in a Haystack

Tue, 20 Mar 2007 02:50:10 GMT

Ha ha. Funny.

You can come out now.

Seriously. I'll stomp my foot and hold my breath until you come out from... under the floorboards or the attic. (Does Fang Noir have an attic?) And given that I don't actually need oxygen, that's a long time.

Dammit missy, I've seen 'Back to the Future' and your stunt isn't original...

Deanna sat in Victoria's office for three days. And waited. And waited. The brunette was not stuck in the past. She wasn't touring Hawaii, as a mortal for fuck's sake, oblivious to the sneak attack curving over the horizon.

Goddamn but '1941' was a turgid film. Not exactly a banner year either.

Mid-evening of Day Four, the redhead accepted the inevitable. As mischievous as her childe was, she would've gotten bored of playing hide-and-seek sooner than this. And hungry.

Victoria called it a time slip. Deanna wondered if it was magic. It was as good a theory as a tear in the sky that tried to eat the world. A hell-spawn dimension just on the other side of a really nasty black cloud. If other worlds existed...

Right. If it was magic then she was out of her league. She needed help.

Help pretended to be oblivious.

The only things acknowledged in the witch’s world were the music throbbing through equipment on an early sound check, the flurry of lights spinning across the empty floor, and the ice cold glass in her hand. Around and around she went, eyes closed but the drink held steady. Star danced because it was her first night back at The Witching Hour, and because it had been a long time since her body did anything other than knot in tension, and because she needed to just relax.

Twenty minutes to opening. Staff went through their final preparations that always were rushed, which she had never noticed before, or perhaps cared about. Their hurry set a butterfly loose in Star’s chest. It was unusual of her to feel anything other than giddy or apathetic or annoyed about a typical night at work-- it depended on her mood swing. But nerves were strangers to her. She felt them now because the act of getting back to routine terrified her. Routine made her expect to see the same faces, and there was at least one she‘d never see again.

Silence erupted between mixes, the disc jockey putting last touches on his set, and Star danced right through the space between.

The space between Deanna's fingers closed as she balled her hand into a fist and pounded on the outer door to The Witching Hour.

Finding Star Tomlin had been an incredible fluke. The vampiress was striding with purpose through the Las Vegas strip, head turning to and fro with each blonde that passed by. A needle in a haystack, but something gave the redhead pause as preternatural ears caught the deep bass reverberating from the club across the street from her. She'd given herself a moment to drink in the atmosphere, before moving on, when she caught the woman's profile through the second floor window.

She slammed her hand against the door again, louder this time.

It opened on a muscled bouncer wearing an annoyed look and a tight t-shirt. There had been general outcry over the uniform when Star took over ownership, but it was not amongst the many changes she made. So what if they looked like gay hairdressers? That little bit of nipple kissing the cold air whenever the door opened and shut? Butter.

“We open in twenty,” he said gruffly. There was a corded piece of equipment running from the bouncer’s ear to mouth.

Upstairs, clueless Star kept spinning across the dance floor. She sipped her drink and watched the light canisters twirl above her.

The redhead sized him up. The bouncer had a good seven or more inches on the redhead (with heels), and probably an extra hundred, hundred and fifty pounds on his frame. His biceps, if he squeezed correctly, could probably crack a walnut. Even his nipples looked like they lifted barbells.

But Deanna had teeth, supernatural strength and speed, a killer smile.

And, metaphorically speaking, big ol' brass balls.

"Good for you," the vampiress offered, patting big, broad and surly on the shoulder. "Good. For. You. Now be a dear and go upstairs and tell Star that Deanna's here, okay?"

The peeved bouncer went nowhere, instead standing tall and broad in front of her with his arms crossed and his feet apart. Actually, he looked like the letter A. He put his earpiece to use and called on the general manager. “Shaun, ask Star if she’s expecting somebody named Deanna.”

Seconds ticked by. A staring contest ensued. The bouncer chewed a piece of gum with a comical degree of stoicism. Eventually a rapping sound joined the thump of bass coming from the dance floor above. Star, tottering in a pair of dangerously high heels, came down the steps in a sideways shuffle. “Hey, where did you come from?”

For all the worry over familiar faces, she looked surprisingly grateful to see one, like a thirsty girl who hadn’t admitted it now laying eyes on a glass of water and gulping for all she was worth. She was a little gaunt, but nothing too drastic. There was make-up to the nth degree, and an outfit that could put a peacock’s colors to shame, but she was Star to anyone who wouldn’t recognize much difference.

"He's cute," the redhead nodded with a warm smile and hook of thumb towards the towering inferno. She took the stairs two at a time to meet the blonde half-way. Those shoes were made for walking, but not a climb down the Mount Everest of stairs. "Can he walk while he chews Dentyne or is that mutually exclusive?"

Deanna noted a slight change from her previous encounter with Star, something she couldn't put her finger on. "So," she continued, and offered the woman a small hug. "Save any damsels from whirlwinds lately?"

The blonde put a hand on the well-worn banister, and another through her hair. “No, but I’ve been out of town, so I don’t blame me.” She caught her breath and, for the first time, wondered why Deanna had come around. True, vampires did time in night clubs, but there were plenty of venues more suited to their appetites than hers. The Witching Hour fed its tills on a mainstream diet of tourists’ cash and the excess wallet weight of young, nouveau riche Vegas socialites.

“What about you? Any close calls with industrial strength Hoovers from Hell?”

It had to be the outfit. Deanna just didn't see Star as comfortable wearing Joseph's Amazing Technicolor Raincoat. Okay that just brought bad images of old men in burlesque theatres. Not fair, brain. Not fair at all.

"Me personally? No, though I did stake out a pretty nifty barbecue. Love slow-roasted pig, yess'm." She was still astonished at how something so large as firebombing a police station in one of America's biggest cities barely got any play. Blow up an airport and it's over the news for months. People chose the oddest things to focus on.

Deanna lightly chewed her bottom lip. "But my girl? Who I never got to introduce you to by the way, and mea culpa, bad vampire. She's gone missing with a mutual friend of ours. Leah."

Star chewed her thumb cuticle and furrowed her eyebrows. “Well what do you mean missing, like...ran off for an impromptu girly love fest or actually... poof?” The onomatopoeia accompanied a flick of her fingers, which then drifted off to one side, still wiggling. She frowned. “I had Leah pegged for a dick chick.”

Maybe if you were a succubus, you’d sling it just about any old direction. And if so, wow, could Star get a permission note like that?

[Thread: Open to Deanna and Star]

A Strange Girl in the Strange Land Where You Come From

Sat, 03 Mar 2007 20:12:50 GMT

Nishihama Beach,
Ryukyu Islands,
Japan

Dear Tyler,

It’s me again.

I’m still crashing at Yoshiro’s house. I know what you’re thinking. My girlfriend the free-loader. She’s vacationing her way through a graceful mourning period. She's shopping for the freshest Asian fashions, sunbathing with the rich Japanese tourists, drinking Sake like the well’s running dry. I think you’d be proud of me, too, if that‘s how it really was. You’d say ‘that’s my girl’ because you always loved me, even when I was shallow.

It’s been three weeks since the day I got here. That was a serious scene. My shoulders were drooping under the weight of my 4-piece luggage set, and I had a pair of sandals under one arm and the other one crooked around your urn. You should’ve seen Yoshiro’s face. Anyway, I started dropping bags left and right, and he practically threw himself at me, trying to snatch the urn away. I guess he thought I was gonna drop that, too. I made some crack about hanging onto my two favorite things -- shoes and you -- and he’s been looking at me like I’m an alien ever since.

I hope wherever you were, you stopped to appreciate that moment.

I bet he wonders how you got serious about a dumb, blonde, American girl like me. Then again, maybe he’s not wondering at all. He probably assumes it was the sex, and maybe sex was part of it but not everything. Don’t worry, Ty, I’ll win him over. It’ll be a posthumous gift from me to you: The approval of your surrogate dad. I’m good with men. But do you know I can’t get through his tea without making a face? That might have something to do with his hesitation to love me.

I’ve been sleeping where you did when you were little. It makes me wonder what was it like for you to grow up here. I never asked how that went down, and he’s not up for story time. I mean, you were just a scrawny white kid with shaggy hair, big eyes, and a doofy grin. Your chest seemed bony in your karate robe (what the hell's that thing called?) and you didn’t look much like a warrior against the forces of evil (trust me, that’s not speculation, I saw the photo album... by the way, puberty treated you right). But he must’ve seen something special in you. Maybe how you never quit, even when it was dumb or suicidal to keep going. That’s got to count for something. I guess it’s bravery or honor, like a kamikaze pilot.

You know what kills? The day I spread your ashes, that’s what I couldn’t get out of my head. That picture of you being a little boy, not kamikaze pilots. I kept thinking up all these questions I didn’t bother asking when you were alive, about how you got to be the Tyler I loved. For some reason, I was too caught up in ‘now’ and too caught up in me, and I guess too caught up in you only in terms of how you related to me. So there’s this gigantic chunk of your life that’ll always be a mystery. I don’t really want to ask about it now. It’s too little too late. Plus it might make me fall in love with you more, and that’s not a fabulous idea considering where you are.

It was windy that day. I had on a skirt you liked and I was in my bare feet, and I walked to the surf like they told me to, and I opened the lid and tried to spill you out the way they told me to, but the wind changed direction. It was like you didn’t want to go. Suddenly there was all this sea spray and sand and ash hitting my legs, and it stung, and do you know I cried? Not a little bit, either. I was sobbing and wailing like some woman on a bad movie. You were floating around my ankles in the water, just a layer of brownish gray at the surface, and you were blowing back over the dunes toward the house, and I thought to myself how I wasn’t ready for you to go yet, either.

I swear to the gods I can hear your voice here. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to leave.

I have to go, though. Vivian keeps dialing my cell phone and she’s calling me ‘Star, baby’ and saying how I have to let go and come home, and I think she’s just caught up in the drama of being my mother at the moment but she’s right, even if it’s an accident.

I can’t stay here or else it’ll kill whatever light I‘ve got left in me. I think about your smile and it feels like I might die inside because I miss it so much. But I need you to know, Ty, I really loved you and I want to stay. You got me and you got to me and I was more Star around you that I ever was with anybody else. I could’ve kept you around forever, just to keep living in full color.

One time we had an argument and I said you weren’t good enough for me. You said it was bullshit. I’m really glad you called me out on it.

Your girl,

-STAR