SpeakEasy, somewhere in exploded Euro City.
Biotech and Minimalist impression; a nouveau, and nouveau riche, tangent impression of some college Nietzsche ideal of Brecht. It bleeds light like a stuck pig, but all in reds, whites and blacks.
The drink glasses clink and crash. The speakers pump a rib-cage rattling thump.
Mackie reclines, lanky and proportionate, at a tiny drink table in deep club shadow, presented in a perfect, utterly immaculate black tux tasting of the early 1900s. His faded blond hair greased just enough to give his thin skull its perfect shape. His pale blue eyes, easy and seemingly dependent on the pleasurable thrill of a living archaic tribute to an era lost in the annals of history, give smoldering and skeptical impressions. A diminutive smile on crooked lips, he sweeps the club crowd panorama with leisure. Decorative, delicate hands in stuck artist's poses, angled just right in the silhouettes of painfully bright strobes of artificial light.
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