Say the Right Thing


I really didn’t like today’s prompt… so I sort of cheated my way around it; sorry Daily Post *grin*

(Image can be found here)

Marcus slipped between the heavy drapes curtaining the entrance to Hideus and felt the tremor of excitement which shot through the waiting line of potential patrons. The usual motley crew and Marcus really wasn’t in the best of moods. He’d yet to eat and that always made him grouchy. He released the blood red cordon and held up a hand the size of a dinner plate, halting the eager advance of the crowd.
“If you don’t know the correct password, leave now.”
A few souls disappeared into the night, but the majority remained and Marcus knew it was going to be a long shift.

Half an hour later he’d turned away 30 out of forty waiting bodies, and reached the worst of them. These were the hangers on, the hopeful hopeless and the poseurs. A purple plaited, Gothic attired girl of about 19 stepped up.
‘Password.” Marcus barked, already hoarse and ready to eat a horse.
“Letstat” she announced with a confident smile.
“Go home, child.”
A momentary fury crossed her features but she stalked off, rejoining a group of similarly attired and aged peers who were lurking in the alley opposite. Marcus knew they’d be back. They’d keep coming until one of them hit the correct password, got by him and then texted it to the rest from inside; so they hoped, but Marcus hadn’t let one by in three years. He wished it discouraged them as the smell of them drove other genuine patrons crazy and made them hard to manage for the team inside.

A tall man stepped up and gave a password, Sang. Marcus accepted but cast a questioning glance at the girl on his arm.
“A gift for our host.”
Marcus wasn’t happy with such blatant flouting of the rules, but the boss did like such gifts so he waved the pair inside.
Next came a figure swathed in furs, accompanied by a potent scent of earth and leather. No trace of features were visible but the voice issued forth with depth and authority, ‘Jötunn’ and Marcus hurriedly held the drapes aside. The reek was a little much for his sensitive nostrils.

He was at the end of the line. The wannabes and hopeless, the would-be victims had all vanished into the night to cook up new ways to get by the infamous Marcus. He watched a cloaked woman drifted up, smiling pointedly, literally. Her teeth appeared to have been sharpened on a file and her skin had a deathly white pallor. ‘Sang’ she hissed, but Marcus hesitated; something wasn’t right. Hideus rules said guests had to say the right thing, but guarding the door for three years had made Marcus aware of the multitude of tricks people used to get in.
She stepped confidently toward the drapes. As she reached a hand to hold one aside Marcus whipped a crucifix from his jacket and pressed it hard against her flesh. She recoiled, sibilant breath escaping her snarling lips and Marcus shoved her back into the street.
“Real vampires aren’t scared of crucifixes, Miss. Don’t try my patience a second time.”

She fled in terror as Marcus allowed himself the relief of transformation. He revelled in his mane of black fur, flexing his claws, scanning the empty street with perfect night vision before slipping inside the club. Within the city’s supernatural population socialised freely, the swathed figure now revealed as a bulky troll with granite features and gravel voice. Vampire drank with werewolf, zombies chatted to ghosts and it was always best to avoid glancing in the direction of the succubae and sirens; it tended to be an x-rated booth.

Marcus felt a pull on his mind. The boss calling. Why now, when all he wanted was to find some food? He loped through the throng, greeting the occasional being with a toothy grin and climbed the steps to the special lounge inhabited by the elite. The boss rested deep in a love seat with a practically comatose blonde, his teeth reddened.
“Good catch tonight, Marcus. New password for the vamps then?”
Marcus nodded, hoping the boss couldn’t hear the growls and grumbles from his stomach, but vampire hearing was even more acute than a werewolf’s.
“I have a spare gift tonight, my friend.” He nodded to a spaced out red-head reclining in a wingback chair, shadowed in a recess, “Enjoy”
Suppertime at last. Marcus raced into the shadows eagerly.

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