Log:Merc for Money 2: The Dug Show
Merc for Money 2: The Dug Show
OOC Date: November 6, 2015 (Optional)
Location: Nar Shaddaa, Twi'Lick Club
Participants: Carlyll, Frexl, The Twirling Twins
"Alright... let's give it up for The Twirling Twins! Remember to tip your servers and, as always, be generous with our lovely dancers!"
There's scattered applause throughout the club as a pair of gorgeous Twi'leks descend from the main stage. Almost perfectly identical, and very talented, they're having a hard time carrying all of the credit chits that have been showered on them during their performance.
The drunks up near the stage give the most enthusiastic applause, while those back toward the bar can barely be bothered to clap or whistle. Typical club patrons, eh?
Somewhere out of easy sight, the Master of Ceremonies keeps the electronic music pumping, and announcing new acts as they come and go. He sounds fairly enthusiastic about his line of work, but actually his wife left him years ago and he's been a hollow shell ever since. Also, he's got more debt than assets. Stupid divorce lawyer.
"And... coming up to the stage, for the first time ever, we've got a new dancer for you, so make sure to show her some love! Let's all give a warm Twi'Lick welcome to..." The announcer's voice trails off for a second, and when it comes back, he sounds very confused.
"The... Malastare Mauler? The phukk is this...?"
Some people are here to work, not party! Or work and also party. Or work and then party. Whatever. Ignoring the flawless dance of the Twirling Twins, near the back of the club a shadowy transaction is taking place: It's a Zygerrian of unremarkable height and tall shoes and a good hat, with a half dressed human man in tow. The man is upsettingly attractive, for all that his face is blank and perhaps unhappy, and he is bound, a collar around his neck designed to look like fetching jewelry but blinking with ominous lights now and again. Negotiations seem to be underway with a big Gran, and it's hard to tell if that one is or isn't a business associate of Twi'lick of some kind. There's a tense moment or three in which it seems like the feline alien is going to leave with his himbo, but eventually the Gran makes an unhappy relent -- credits are exchanged, and the human -- plus some sort of little remote -- exit in the company of the bigger alien.
This leaves the Zygerrian to happily pocket some COLD HARD CASH, and in celebration of his favorite thing, himself, he snags a drink and a spot to watch...
To watch..
The Malastare Mauler. Hmmm.
"BOOOOOOO," Carl shouts pre-emptively.
There are more boos than cheers at the announcement, and more than a little bit of head shaking. One old man near the bar orders six shots of whiskey, and complains to the bartender about "...these stupid art shows they keep tryin' to shove down our throats. What's wrong with just wantin' to get drunk and watch some ladies jiggle?"
But then the lights fade, and the music changes to something much more aggressive. So fast and aggressive is the electronic music, and so deep and booming is the bass, that it really doesn't seem danceable at all.
When the lights on the stage kick back on, they paint a purple glow across the body of...
A middle-aged Dug in a swoop biker outfit, sweating profusely and shivering with nervousness.
Resting back on those weird armlegs, with his smaller legarms extended in front of him, the Dug starts lifting one 'foot', then the other. And he just kind of keeps doing that, rocking side to side, while he rolls his smaller handfeet in front of him as if he were trying to operate two fishing reels at once.
Carlyll's ears pin back at the change in the music. Their mobility is somewhat limited by his hat, very important hat, but he makes the best of it with what seems like long experience. "Ghastly," the Zygerrian pronounces when the MAD (middle aged Dug) appears on stage, and then he gets up with his little space Cosmopolitan or whatever it is for a seat closer to the stage. That's easy to do anyway because so many people have deadass left.
"BOOOO," he repeats, and adds, "I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS," while starting to throw credits on the stage. jingle jangle!
It started off bad, but it just gets worse. Still just sort of rocking side to side, the Dug starts adding in some head movement. A little of the look to the left, nod, then a little of the look to the right, nod.
One of the drunk guys up near the front seems to like it. He's about the only one though.
As his head nods get more and more aggressive, the Dug starts hopping around the stage on his back armlegs, and spitting t'bacc juice on the stage from the giant wad tucked away in his lip.
"Alright... let's hear it for the Malastare Mauler... up next we've got..."
"HEY! PHUKK YOUZE! I AIN'T DONE WITH MY DANCE YET!"
Staring angrily at the MC, the Dug makes a rude gesture, and then returns to hopping around the stage.
Carlyll is here for the heckling, man. He tips his head back and cackles, delighted, then joins in the gentlemanly conduct happening between the 'dancer' and the MC. "You were done before you started, darling!" He is still tossing credits up there though, one eye closed for the toss as though studying the accuracy and seeing how close he can get it to the target. Fun AND games around here. "You were done before you broke atmo on this moon! You were done before you ever hatched into this life from your leathery little --" Pause, uncertainty. "Egg?" Carl has no idea and inquires of a neighbor who ignores him, "Have they got eggs?"
Unfortunately for Frexl's artistic vision, the Malastare Mauler doesn't have any control over the music. Or the lighting. Or the reactions from the crowd. As the stage lights are turned off, the music also fades out, leaving the Dug little more than a gloomy silhouette.
Which makes it tough for him to greedily scramble to collect his meager credits. Still, a couple handfuls of credits ain't bad for a few minutes of work.
But even after the Dug has noisily left the stage, the music and lights still haven't come back on. Instead, there's the sound of Great Shouting, as the Dug debates the finer points of his creative vision with the hollow shell of a man that controls the music and lights.
Carlyll's ears go back a smidge further against the (however distant) Great Shout, but it's not directed /at/ him, which is very helpful. From the depths of his theatrically nautical coat, a datapad is produced, and he starts using one golden nail to tip tap a review of the show for the holonet. "I came to the Twi'lick and there was neither Twi nor Licking," Carl begins the draft, outloud as he types. "Instead there was an old-ass Dug up on the stage, handily -- no, footily -- commanding the attention of the entire crowd, like a black hole, horrifying and inescapable to the eventual and ultimate detriment of everyone who came too close. As he gyrated upon the stage, one was willfully reminded of out-of-fashion entrees made of gelatins and suspended pieces of sausage and nightmare. People began to scream and cry. A woman slipped in her own vomit and was knocked unconscious. The DJ tried to control the situation via lights and music, a task to which he was profoundly unequal. Nothing stopped the Dug Show except the only thing more horrible, the inevitable onward progress of time and universal decay. This performance is not appropriate for children or for adults and should not be thought of alone at night. Ten out of ten, would return."
