The Last Angel

[DragnFire22]

The Last Angel

Prologue: Part One


The wind whistled through the cold, concrete canyons of New York City. The sky was a swirl of dark clouds thrown across an oncoming blackness. The sun faded in to the west, its glistening rays lighting the bottom of the ominous clouds. The icy chill blasted through the streets, blowing garbage and litter up in miniature twisters. People scurried home from work, clutching at jackets and hats. Breath escaped them in billowing clouds, puffing out from reddened cheeks. It was Friday night, and the people of New York City were prepared for a rather dismal weekend. Rain, lots of rain, was in the forecast. And with a resounding boom, it began. Thunder blasted through the city, rumbling through high-rise windows. Lightning arched from the clouds above, lancing down towards the top of the Empire State Building. With a flash, it comes and goes, beginning the storm. Rain begins to fall all over the city. At first, it is a soft shower, wetting the brick buildings and concrete roads. Then, as more thunder booms, it slowly becomes stronger and stronger. Until, at last, it is falling in torrents. Water is dumped from the sky, flooding the streets and drenching any unlucky soul who found themselves outside at the time. The precipitation came down so hard and fast that one could barely see, it was like a steady faucet had been opened up above the City That Never Sleeps.

But that is what New York is. The entire metropolis has the most severe case of insomnia ever seen. It is never dormant. The restless youth of the city would not be stopped something as innocent as rain. They came out in droves, stronger than usual. The bars, pubs, nightclubs, and pool halls filled up, spilling over in to the streets on some occasions. Music filled the wet air, pulsing and beating like an answer to the thunder. Jazz, Rock, Hip Hop, all kinds of music played from all kinds of gathering places. The city was as alive as ever. How Ironic.
* * *

“I don’t know about this, man.” Tim groaned. “What if we get caught? My mom will be so pissed off! I won’t be able to do nothin’ for the rest of my life, man!”

“Shut up, dude! Jesus!” Craig almost yelled. He looks up at the front seat, eyeing the cab driver. They were both in the backseat, on their way to Club Dredge. Dredge was the ‘it’ place to go nowadays. It was the hottest, newest, best place in town at the moment. Unfortunately, most parents of high schoolers don’t want their young, impressionable, teenage sons and daughters going to places like that. Craig had no qualms with disobeying his parents, using his fake ID, and getting in to the club. Tim, on the other hand, was a ‘momma’s boy’ to the t. He had a fake ID, but it was given to him by Craig. He was on his way to Club Dredge, but had been almost dragged out of the house by Craig. And right now, he was feeling rather sick with the thought of getting caught.

“You keep blabbering, and we will get caught.” Craig hisses, gripping Tim’s arm like a vise. “We’re just going to get in there, see if it’s any good, and book after a while.”

“How long’s a ‘while’?” Tim asks, sitting low in the back of the cab. A large, green, neon sign was coming up on the right. DREDGE lit up the area in a lime-green glow, and seemed to be the gates of Hell to Tim.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? How long? As long as it takes! I can’t believe how much of a pussy you are.” Craig releases Tim and slides to the other side of the cab, looking out in to the flooded city streets. The other teenager slowly sits up in his seat, just as the cab pulls up in front of the club. The exterior of the building is fairly bland. The green sign hangs above a single, metal door. To either side stand two very muscular looking guards, dressed in black. It was early, so the line to get in was short; only about six people were waiting.

“That will be ten dollars and sixty five cents.” The cab driver says, looking at the boys in his rear-view mirror. Craig grunts as he pulls out a five and change, and looks at Tim. The other follows suit, and they hand the driver about eleven dollars.

“You want change?” The cabbie asks as Craig pushes the door open, stepping in to the rain.

“Keep it.” Tim replies, sliding across the backseat and exiting with his friend.

“Okay then. You have nice time.” The driver says with a smile. Tim almost laughs as he slams the door shut, and the taxi pulls away from the curb. He turns to Craig.

“You actually going to do this?” Craig asks, his blonde hair already soaked by the pouring rain. Water slid down his face, and his gray shirt was spotted with large drops of moisture. At first, Tim has no response. His blue-eyes give no indication of how he might answer. He cracks a grin, running a hand through his quickly dampening brown hair.

“Yea, let’s go.” He says, nodding towards the end of the line, which, thankfully, was under a canopy. “You only live once, right?”

“Excellent.” Craig smiles, breathing out as if a load was off his chest. They both move towards the canopy, out of the rain. “I thought you were going to leave me hanging, man.”

“No way! You know I’m down for this. I was from the start.” Tim laughs.

“Bullshit! You were scared out of your mind!” Craig replies, lightly jostling Tim with his shoulder.

“Pfft, whatever dude. Tim Brollins never gets scared.”

“And you’re saying Craig Horrace does?” Craig asks, continuing their fun. This was typical of them, joking around all the time. They continue to mock each other as the six people in front of them disappear in to the club one by one. A line forms behind them, extending down the block. The rain continues to pour, drenching the new arrivals as they wait beyond the reach of Club Dredge’s canopy. The driving winds blow several drops under the cover, spotting the ones standing closest to the street.

“Hey, we’re next.” Craig says between laughs. Their chuckles are cut short as they look up at the muscle-bound bouncer standing in front of them. His eyes are hidden behind pitch black Ray Ban’s, and his fit form is displayed by a tight black t-shirt and dress pants. Tim can see each vein running down the side of his neck.

“ID’s please.” He grunts, his voice deep as a bassoon. His tone indicates that no joking around will be permitted while speaking with him. You either did what he said, or found your ass on the curb.

“Sure.” Craig gives him a smile, showing off the teeth his parents had paid thousands to straighten. He fishes his wallet out of his back pant’s pocket, and flips it open. Tim almost has a heart attack when, for a split second, Craig’s school ID was visible. Luckily, the bouncer, whose nametag claimed him as ‘Bruce’, didn’t see. Craig pulls out the fake ID and hands it over to Bruce. Tim pulls his eyes away from Bruce’s unreadable face in order to find his own wallet, which was in his front pocket. He pulls out his own ID. Craig’s had the name Craig Howard, age 22. Tim’s declared him Tim Brutenburg, age 21. Tim gives his over, hoping Bruce didn’t have a good eye for forgery.

“Humph.” The guard grunts, holding one ID in each hand. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes go from the pictures, to the boys, to the birth dates. “Birth dates?”

“May 27th, 1981.” Craig replies without hesitating.

“April 3rd, 1982.” Tim says after him.

“Humph.” Bruce grunts again. They got the dates right, but he was still wary of how young they looked. One, ‘Mr. Howard’, looked like he hadn’t shaved yet. A smile spread across his face as he thought of a trick. “Last names?”

“Bro-“

“Howard.” Craig interrupts Tim, trying to remind him of the surname change on their fakes.

“Brutenburg.” Tim coughs, bringing a hand to his mouth and turning away from Bruce. He may have just blown their cover, and he knew it. There is a pause in the conversation. It is no more than twenty seconds, but it felt like five minutes to the pair of would-be partygoers. Finally, Bruce turns the IDs around and hands them back.

“Okay, go on in.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” Craig snatches his ID and grins again. Tim does the same, sans the witty comment. They both duck in to the club’s front door and take the first steps at a near run.

“Oh. My. God.” Tim pants as they slow to a stop halfway down the dimly lit hallway. The walls and ceiling are painted dark maroon, and the floor is covered in black tile. Muffled music wafts through the air, coming from the black door at the other end of the corridor.

“No shit.” Craig begins to chuckle. “Jesus, I thought he had us, man. I thought we were busted hard!”

“That Bruce guy is a sneaky SOB. He ‘bout got me on that last name bit.” Tim shakes his head in disbelief. They had made it past the door, now it was time to have some fun.

“Come on, man. Let’s go get our covert groove on!” Craig laughs, heading towards the door. “Let’s show these older folks how we do it!”

[DragnFire22]

* * *

The main room of Club Dredge was very intense. Instead of fluorescent lighting, the ceiling was covered with black lights. This gave the entire room a dark atmosphere, where certain colors were extraordinarily highlighted. The room itself was two stories tall with a ceiling that was easily twenty-five feet high. In the center, the ceiling went even high, nearly 40 feet. This was because of a second floor above the main room, which had balconies to look down at the ill-lighted dance floor. Most of the main floor was cleared as a dance floor, but booths and tables lined the outside of it like seats at the Coliseum. All of the upholstery was the same dark maroon as the first hallway.

A single bar lined the far side of the room. It was long enough for thirty people to sit at, and attended by over five bartenders at once. The back of the bar was lit by bright bulbs, which counteracted with the black lights, and made the bar itself seem like the Pearly Gates. The lights beckoned the club-hoppers to it, calling out for them to taste the assortment of sinful pleasures it always kept in stock. And as of right now, every seat at the bar was occupied, and still more stood behind the chairs, calling out their drink orders.

The club-goers themselves were just as intense as the atmosphere. They danced, partied, yelled, laughed, and drank like the barrel would never run dry. In fact, it wouldn’t ever run dry, because the Club owners knew their customers. They knew what people came to Dredge to do. And they sure as hell knew that alcohol was the best way to open people’s pockets. But the partiers didn’t care. No one cared that the drinks were expensive, so long as the drinks were there. The music beat in to their bodies, flooding them with as much feeling as the hot liquor that flowed down their throats. Dredge was intoxicating, in more than one way. It was popular for a reason: once you got in to Dredge, you never wanted to leave.

All this was coming very true for Tim and Craig. They entered through the black door, and found it hard not to stare in awe. Everywhere they looked; there was something they wanted to do. Beautiful women - not girls, women – grinded and jived on the dance floor. It was like a clothed orgy, and both boys wanted to jump right in. People laughed and shouted at the tables surrounding the dance floor, and the boys were drawn to join them. But what caught their attention the most was the bar. The bar was the center of the entire party, and both teenagers found themselves unable to concentrate on anything but it.

“Come on, let’s go get a drink.” Craig says almost absently, his eyes locked on the bright white lights of the bar’s back wall. His mouth hung just slightly open in what Tim could only assume was amazement.

“I’m not thirsty.” Tim answers, moving in the opposite direction. He was indeed thirsty, but he was not willing to succumb to alcohol. Craig was the drinker and Tim was the straight arrow. Young Mr.Brollins knew he would be the one that has to drag Craig in to the taxi later tonight. Instead, Tim moves towards a table on the right side of the dance floor. There were four chairs, but he didn’t see any places for two people. He shrugs his shoulders as he sits, not caring if people thought he was hogging room.

Meanwhile, Craig Horrace moved deftly towards the bar. He shoulders past a couple of drunken college students, accidentally bumping one in the arm. The slight jostle is exaggerated by the older man’s loss of body control from being drunk. His bottle of imported beer slips from his grasp and tumbles to the floor. It shatters, sending its contents splashing across the hard floor.

“What the fuck?!” cries the collegiate.

“Oh shit, man, I’m sorry.” Craig yelps, his eyes locking on to the football jersey the older man was wearing. His large biceps didn’t exactly give off the ‘I’m a nice guy’ vibe.

“You better be sorry!” the drunken man yells over the club music, looking down in to Craig’s face.

“I’ll get you another, don’t worry.” The teenager tries to move towards the bar, but is stopped. The jock’s hand wraps around Craig’s arm like a vice, cutting off blood circulation.

“You ditch on me, I’ll break your fucking legs.” He growls, filling Horrace’s face with the stench of beer. The younger boy almost gags, the color draining from his face. The thought of running away was instantly scratched out, fear made escape seem impossible.

“I won’t, I swear.” Craig’s voice raised several octaves, but he was too scared to be embarrassed. This athlete was way too drunk, and Horrace knew it. Pushing him too far in any direction would most likely result in pain, or worse.

Meanwhile, Tim found a table and sat. He leaned back in the chair, lifting it off its front legs. The chairs themselves were en vogue, rod iron with varying kinds of cloth-patterns on the cushions. All the tables were wood with black tablecloths. Neon lights entwined themselves around the bases of the tables, illuminating the floorboards with a soft green glow. Tim found himself actually relaxing, unwinding the ball of tension that had wound itself tight in his stomach during the ride over. He sighed, admiring a pair of college-age girls as they strutted by. That is when he noticed the scuffle near the bar. The front legs of the chair slammed down, and he jumped out of the seat.

“Great, Craig, just great.” Brollins whispered harshly. He ran across the dance floor, dodging around dancers and partiers. Tim nearly collided with a waitress as he bounded towards the bar. He was in earshot when the drunken jock threatened his friend. Tim’s hands clenched into fists. He dove at the football player, ready to hit him as hard as possible. But, in mid-leap, something slammed in to his torso, and he was picked up off his feet.


To be Continued (Sometime :p)

[V1P3Rt3Ch]

Good stuff DF :up:

[Capt. Obvious]

yes, it is a good read so far :cool: