* / on the stage in my heels

the glitter gulch, 30th of may

Matevos Hakobyan had ridden the bull four times already. He nursed a bruised shoulder, a split lip - very unfortunate altercation between his face and the bull’s head -, and more small bruises along his legs and arms. Didn’t matter though, he was hyped up and grinning. He’d lasted longer and longer every time he got on. He was planning on breaking his own record of a stellar fifteen seconds. After he had a drink to renew his energies.

“Really, you should try it. It gives you such an adrenaline rush! The falling is just part of the game, but as far as I know nobody has broken anything yet! Aside from some fingers and a toe. But hey, that’s part of what makes it funny, isn’t it? The danger of getting hurt doesn’t overshadow the sensation of being weightless for a moment when you crash on that bull!” Matevos assured his conversation partner. He gently touched his lip. Oh, was he getting a bruise on his jaw too?

“I look handsome even rugged up, right? I have a date later tonight with a pyromaniac.” Lie, this time it was a horse girl.

"Oh, I'll be the judge'a that one, honeypie," Bandit declared, hands on her hips and taking a step back to give the Cactus Cat a good once over, and then her eyes flirted around the inside of the Glitter Gulch, teasing, "Is it that fella over there?" A finger inclined toward the owner of Phantom of the Pyro. "What'shisname? He comes 'round the club an awful lot. Boris, I think?"

Looking back at him, the dirty citizen scrutinized the biker with pursed, tinted lips, and plucked the hat from her own head, plopping it atop Matevos's. "Ya might want this to cover that ugly split lip ya got on ya now that ya showed that bull what for. I got some lip balm in my purse if ya want it."

while the rest of the city had dressed itself in imitation—cowboys, rhinestones, and other borrowed mythologies the strip sold back to them at markup—the warehouse continued as it always did. unremarkable. untheatrical. functioning regardless. even if he had intended to take the night off, and had nearly been persuaded otherwise by one flower-named roller-skating variable of chaos, he could not ignore what the crowd became when half of the city was otherwise occupied by spectacle above ground. less restrained. less interested in pretending otherwise.

instead, he remained beneath flickering warehouse light that never fully committed to illumination. someone nearby coughed into a towel already too used to be called clean. the irony, at least, was consistent.

the third fight ends the way most of them do—loud enough to convince the room it mattered, abrupt enough to suggest it never did.

the ring is already dissolving into its aftermath. one fighter sits half-folded against the corner post while gauze is wound around skin that is too weak to hold itself closed. another is being guided off with an arm slung over shoulders, weight dragging behind them. someone wipes the canvas down with a towel, even more blood and grime within its fibers.

the crowd has already begun to forget it happened.

then, finally, toward the newest arrival. a pause. “if you were going to take anything tonight,” he adds flatly, “that would’ve been the one to bet on.”

Who said a drunk girl couldn't take her fun somewhere else? One too many spiked lemonades later, she had stumbled right into the Warehouse, and hadn't sobered up any since — betting on people slugging themselves bloody was another form of gambling, and honestly, the promise of turning money into more money came attached with a clause that said say no fucking more, I'm in!

The crumpled dollar bills that had been stuffed into her bra after her last shift at the Glitter Gulch before the rodeo were crisply smoothed out and she belched in front of the bookie with such ferocity that she thought she might throw up for a second, too.

A fist curled in front of her mouth. "Gosh, 'scuse me. Ya tellin' me that I already missed the good shit tonight? Jeez." Her eyes scrutinized the billing for the evening, although it was proving to be harder than usual with the double vision.

The loss of the territory didn't keep Dominic out of the club. Though the recent peace treaty left his old hangout back open without consequence. Even if it hadn't, he was unlikely to catch anyone's attention tonight.

Dim lights highlighted sweat-slick skin, smoke sticking to those places on contact, shoes sticking to the split liquor on the floor as it dried. He liked grittier places. Something about well put-together people caused an irrational irritation to rumble behind his ears. Nothing quite felt like home the way blood and stale smoke did. Even tonight, with the stupid country theme draping every dancer and drunk girl on the bull, it was more comfortable than most places.

Dom wouldn't be caught dead playing dress up, not that his lack of costume made him stick out. Faded blue jeans and a black t-shirt blended in anywhere.

"I bet the next round your dumb ass can't last two minutes on that fucking thing." He was drunk already, eyes beginning to glaze as he tried to escape the shit show that was his job here lately. He was starting to worry he wouldn't have one soon. At the rate the Vitelli's were going, he'd be out of employees.

With the gesture of his hand, he called over the bartender. It would take her probably another ten minutes to get to him, but that wasn't her fault, and he wasn't about to make his empty glass her problem.

"Shit, a shot just to see you try."

"Heya, sweet stuff." Bandit rotated the same greetings for anyone who hung around the club regularly. Including those that weren't her type, like this one. Hot pink cowboy boots thudded on the ground when she plopped down in a chair next to him — sure, she planned on being one of the volunteers of the workers at the lounge to serve up those lemon squares. Right now, a girl was looking for her fill of the thrill for the evening, and she laughed. "Ya really wanna challenge a girl? There's a reason we do all the ridin', if ya know what I mean. You're gonna have to bribe me with a lil' more than one silly drink if ya wanna see me up on that thing."

Hey, it didn't hurt to fish for tips, whether or not she was on the clock... right? This way, the house mom couldn't dip her sticky paws right into them.

Bandit wasn't too worn out after a night on the pole and a bump of the white stuff in the dressing rooms. Her penchant for dabbling came and went as much as other cheap thrills, the sole vice to stick to her like glue being the razzle-dazzle of the slot machines when they turned over and over and eventually squealed with the jackpot. Adrenaline was her friend, although she resembled a hot mess with makeup blotched from here to there to everywhere, and the gym clothes she threw on when she discarded her skimpy outfit that smelled like body odor were sticking to her glimmery arms and chest. She didn't have to looking through the menu before one of the night shift waitresses noted down her usual coffee and took off. The rush had been waning, exhilaration melting into the hot pavement outside the building. The sound of familiar voice struck her out of it, and she looked over to lock eyes with her ex-girlfriend.

"I DUNNO WHAT'S WORSE, the possibility of goin' home and having goddamn country stuck in my head for who knows how long or how many cowboy boots have almost stepped on my feet. Think maybe there shoulda been a bit more practicin' for some people before confidently joined a line dance." Quite the line coming from someone who had only recently recovered in the last few years from a bad case of lifelong two feet on a dance floor herself, but if there was one thing that hadn't changed since her last name did, it was her ability to boast hypocrisy when it supported her complaints. As if on cue, ironically considering her complaints implied she hadn't thought anyone on the floor was capable of hitting a cue with accuracy, she took a step back to narrowly avoid a couple left one half of the pair was dipped into her. Eyebrows rose as if in a silent see, an elbow jutting out in front of her holding the possibility of turning the jamboree into a brawl were someone to get too close again. Credit due where it was deserved, not a single yawn had left her mouth since being she was in the midst of the western-themed antics around her, a true success, even if there was no lack of complaints that did, as she wasn't exactly picturing her first evening truly out of the house and with a babysitter like this. "One more time and you better take this lemonade before it ends up on someone. Isn't there supposed to be a mechanical bull 'round here somewhere, or is that at one of the other places? 'Cause watchin' people getting thrown around sounds a lot more fun. Y'think they'd let me get my hands on the controls if I bribed 'em so I can really send 'em flying?"