Above, a canopy of coherent light beams, intelligent while under the tutelage of new-aged bass and shrouded in the innovative luxury of New York’s prestigious lambent night club: La Vela. Prestigious enough, as it’s survived the first three-quarters of its debut year. With the ever rapid improvement of technology and its persistent infusion in after dark entertainment, that was no small achievement. Its boastful features include, among a flood of costumed attendees, an opulent main stage and floor with four rooms separated by genre; an upstairs with sections gated by laser partition and four more rooms, one at every corner. He had been beguiled to host this Halloween event by one persistent, anonymous redhead, and though reluctantly willing he never does anything half-assed. This set up spared no expense. But what he couldn’t afford was to be too negligent under Max’s watchful eye. For what may be the last time this holiday night, the light of his phone disappears-- thankfully, too. He’d just had an nonconsensual eyeful of said-redhead’s skimpy ensemble pop up in the assortment of other messages he’d have to ignore-- or in this case, brain-bleach gone.
Speaking of ensembles, the power couple made of one part Max and another part himself created a pact: he would worry about her costume, she would worry about his. Leave it to Max to find any excuse to get him in something formal. He probably hasn’t owned a blazer since he was a preteen and it likely had a Ross tag still attached so his mother in all her vanity-damned-destitute could return it the day after a funeral, and no amount of “please”s or sexual favors had swayed him to since try again. It’s not too much. A top hat, an undone blazer and a little ancestral make-up-- he felt a smidge sleezy, but thus was the choice to recreate Baron Samedi. He’d seen renditions on an online series or two, but wouldn’t have remembered the name if asked. Occasionally from his throne of bones he’d rub at the irritating white consumed contacts in his eye, only to be reminded from his right to leave it. The foot propped across his knee bounces, impatient and eager to participate to the pulsating cadence shaking his center-stage seat. Her mechanic taught hands have made good work of these boots, systematically crafting them into an exclusive with the additions of sterling studs up their sides. It’s a nice touch he noticed on the first run through. He’ll remember not to complain about the draft, as his sweetheart dons a much more intense outfit, if it can be called that much. It’s a semi-modest design straight from the fall line if Victoria Secret’s Angel series. Black, sleek, that slutty-classy balance on her sumptuously egocentric body that’s nearly bested by the set of animatronic befeathered wings he’s pilfered for her, a lightweight wingspan of seven feet activated by neuron responses. It’s pretty badass, but her restless gaze sweeping the crowd has got him hyped about elsewhere, too. With the short opening ceremonies out of the way, they were free to ditch the parading portion and join the festivities, wherein he’ll guide by her the hand to take her to the heart of it.
