Another night at C-Street. The place is packed, the music is loud, and the frat boys are terribly confused.
Zuki sits at a small table near the dance floor. A pile of coats -- hers, Missy's, and Trista's -- sits in the chair opposite her.
The pile of coats is probably having more fun.
With her chin resting firmly in the palm of her left hand, Zuki is concentrating all of her attention on the half-empty / half-full glass of beer sitting on the table before her.
Like a player in one of those silly old vibrating football games, the beer glass is moving around the table, in a highly erratic fashion. Every pounding beat from the club's huge sound system rattles the table and endows the hapless drink container with the power of movement.
Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be possessed of the power of steering. The cup moves around the tabletop in random arcs and spirals, sometimes doubling back on itself, sometimes heading, lemming-like, for the edge.
It is at those moments, when the cup flirts with doom, that Zuki's eyes light up, just a little bit. When the cup veers away from certain death, and heads back towards the safer ground of the center of the table, she returns to her previous state of bored indifference.
The floor around Zuki's table is already littered with plastic cups, and a considerable amount of spilled beer.
Out on the dance floor, Missy has her aspect partially raised. This gives her certain advantages, the most important of which is that she doesn't have to worry about having enough room to dance. The floor is littered with the crushed and mangled remains of people who were foolish enough to have intruded on Jingaro's elbow room.
Missy is decked out in her mail-order finery. She has on********************************************* with a gorgeo**** CENSORED ****bbon tied to her**** BY ORDER OF THE ****k leather halter**** FASHION POLICE. ****th a small *********************************************belt.
The overall effect is pretty stunning.
Blissfully unconcerned, Missy romps around the floor having a ball, while the rest of the dancers seem to spend the majority of their time trying not to be stomped into the ground.
When viewed from the second floor, this weird ballet resembles a cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows being vigorously stirred with a big, nasty swizzle stick. Wherever Missy's dancing takes her, everybody else is sure to flee.
Upstairs, the back exit rattles, quietly. A moment later, it slowly eases open. A dark shape slips in, closing the door behind him/her/it. The soundtrack turns ominous, but nobody can tell, since the music is still blasting.
The slasher stands in the shadows near the door, holding a large black leather bag. He/she/it checks out the situation, cautiously. There are only a few people hanging around that part of the balcony, and they're all heavily pre-occupied. The coast is clear.
After a few moments, the slasher moves to the railing. He/she/it climbs up on one of the stools, and crouches, observing the dance floor below. Missy has apparently decided that it would be funny to see how many people she can trap up on the speakers in front of the DJ booth. There are about 50 people perched up there, cringing as Missy dances around in front of them, raking huge gouges out of the floor with her claws.
Satisfied that nobody is likely to be watching him/her/it, the slasher leaps from the stool up to the lighting grid. Scrambling like a monkey, the slasher starts moving around the grid, using tools from the black bag to make some kind of nefarious adjustments to all the lights.
Zuki redoubles her concentration. This one's taking FOREVER! If it doesn't take the plunge soon, she might have to switch hands EARLY! She glares furiously at the dancing beer glass, trying to sweep it off the tabletop by sheer force of will.
Unconcerned, the offending cup continues to muddle around in the center of the table.
Trista magically filters out of the crowd and sits down on one of the two vacant chairs at the table. She stares at Zuki for a while. Then she stares at the gyrating beer glass. Finally, she says, "Whatcha doin'?"
Resigned, Zuki peels her face away from her hand. Her left cheek is bright red, as is her left palm.
With her right, she angrily swats the glass of beer off the table. She shrugs her shoulders, and says, "Oh, nothing."
Trista asks, "Where's Missy?"
A terrible, blood-curdling scream from the dance floor answers that question.
"Do you think she's about ready to take off?"
"I dunno. The rate of casualties has been going down lately, maybe she's getting tired."
Trista shakes her head. "No. More likely, all the dumb ones have already been crushed."
With a sigh, Zuki gets up and walks over to the bar. The densely packed crowd parts before her like the Red Sea. She is marginally delighted that she doesn't have to summon up her aspect, again. The displaced patrons watch her, fearfully.
After a few moments, she returns with a full glass of beer. She sits back down, and proceeds to gulp half of the contents. She then takes the half-full/empty glass and sets it down in the spot she has already identified as the exact center of the table top. She props her head up on her right hand, and settles in, as the cup starts to bounce around.
Trista observes this little ceremony with rapt attention.
Upstairs, the slasher has completed the required modifications. Carefully, he/she/it lowers the black bag down to the balcony. After a quick moment of furtive glancing around, the slasher jumps down. Nobody notices.
Sitting in the high stool, watching Missy stomp around on the now heavily damaged floor, the slasher pulls a small remote control unit from the bag.
Thumb resting on a large, red button, the slasher watches Missy dance, waiting for just the right moment.
On the dance floor, Missy tires of tormenting the people trapped in the corner. She moves to the center of the dance floor, taking a certain sadistic pleasure in watching people scatter out of her way.
Upstairs, the button is pressed. The slasher waits only just long enough to be sure that the plan is working, and then beats feet out the back exit.
Deep inside the fabric of Missy's clothes, something is happening. Microscopic dye capsules, acting by radio command, are breaking open in precise patterns. The heat and the motion of Missy's dancing assures that the process proceeds smoothly.
All Missy knows at this point is that all the lights seem to be centered on her. This doesn't bother her, since she knows she owns the dance floor anyway. After a few moments, she notices that the music has stopped, and she seems to be the only one dancing. She slows down and stares back at the crowd.
Back at the table, Zuki and Trista stand up and look around, trying to figure out what the heck is going on.
"What the heck is going on?" Trista asks of nobody in particular.
Zuki hops up on her chair, trying to get a better look onto the dance floor. Suddenly, her face pales. She jumps down from the chair and hollers at Trista, "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!" She starts frantically shoving her way through the immobile crowd, towards the doors.
Confused, Trista says, "WHAT?" She climbs up on the chair, trying to see for herself.
Zuki summons up her aspect, and begins desperately forcing a path to the doors. "RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!" she bellows. Nobody pays her much attention. She begins reluctantly blasting people out of her way.
Missy plants her hands on her hips and says, "All right. Just what the FUCK are you clowns looking at? Haven't you ever seen a monster dance before?"
One suicidal git in the crowd says, "Never seen one dance in a seat-cover before."
Missy makes the fatal mistake. She glances at her clothes. Indeed, she is wearing a neon-blue and electric pink plaid outfit. The hat has become lime green, and the shoes now sport bright yellow tassels. She goes into shock. She feels pressure begin to build inside her head.
Zuki has just crashed through the glass front doors, when she clearly hears Trista say, "Missy, WHAT are you WEARING?"
A moment later, Missy explodes with embarassment, obliterating Chester Street in a huge fireball!