70′s Mixup - { Duke & David } RP
The Duke fumbled in agitation with his bowtie. He wasn't quite certain what brought him here. Here, Los Angeles, in the dying days of 1976. A warm winter, sun low in the sky yet warm enough to beat like sheet metal down on the Duke's pale skin. His skin burnt easily in the sun, and the uppers which he'd downed that morning only exacerbated his overwarmth. Out of lust after shelter from the tyranny of the elements, more than anything else, the Duke entered the venue to which he had been guest-listed.
It was a press conference, a press conference for the release of an album by a man named David Bowie. David Bowie. The name reminded him of some happy thing, some happy time, people, faces, bodies, but he couldn't put his finger on it. That dream was long since gone.
When David arrived, chauffeured in a dark yellow limousine, the Duke was not paying attention. He paced on the spot, swinging his legs to the side and back again, flipping his hat up and down. A woman approached him. He barely took notice. The woman - more a girl, really, couldn't have been more than 20 - said something, something in a tone like the Duke imagined trying to eat heavy syrup out of the tin. He swatted her away. He didn't have time for women today. He didn't have time for this unnatural winter heat and this silly conference. If anything, it was even warmer inside the building. The Duke took off his hat and held it under his arm.
The event was coming to an end. Many women, and a couple of men, had approached the Duke in apparent proposition, but he had given them all the selfsame disregard. He was, however, growing interested in meeting this "David Bowie". The Duke walked towards the exit, unsteady on his feet, and waited for the crowd to file out. He had very little patience. He twiddled his thumbs, played with the sunglasses which he had forgotten to remove upon coming indoors, slipped them up onto his pristine ginger combover, and waited, and waited, and waited.
An inhumanly familiar face strode from the crowd. A man just short of six foot, dark blond hair in disarray, with the very same heterochromic eyes as the Duke himself. The Duke suppressed a gasp. David Bowie.
"I think you and I need to talk." It took a second for it to hit the Duke that Bowie was talking to him. He looked up, pocketing his sunglasses and replacing his hat, straightening his waistcoat and jacket, adjusting his bowtie - masquerading dignified and sober as best he could. It worked quite well, the Duke believed. Yes, he was quite satisfied with it. Bowie continued, looking directly into the Duke's near-identical eyes. " - but not here. Come with me to Berlin, would you?"
"Why, of course", answered the Duke. "I've never been to Berlin, I don't think. My memory fails me. But, either way, I would certainly like to come to Berlin."