Show time
TITLE: Show Time
AUTHOR: Fyre
EMAIL: Fyredansa@hotmail.com
SUMMARY: Darla goes for a relaxing night out...
FEEDBACK: I won't beg...alright already! I will! PLEEEEEEEASE tell me what you think! Please! PLEASE!!!
DISTRIBUTION: Just here at the mo...but anyone can have it :-) Just ask nicely ;-)
SPOILERS: None really.
COUPLE: Not exactly a couple
RATING: PG
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. *POUT*
CLASSIFICATION: Could this series possibly get anymore ridiculous?
NOTES: This was actually another improv from Having a Thought - Improv: Sepia, wish, memory, revenge - Written : 12/12/2000
DEDICATED: Blessings to the improv group and Richard O'Brian for being a genius!
_________________________________________
Swirling the wine around her glass, she admired the deep red of the liquid, so close to the colour and shade of her drink of choice.
Unfortunately, that drink wasn’t available on the wine list.
Not in this club, anyway, although there was a certain call for blood from the members of the audience, which – she mused – was almost as amusing as the fighting spirit the mortals showed when shopping after the Christmas celebrations.
Still, if she had to drink wine to enjoy the privilege of this particular club and if she had to refrain from killing to take in the entertainment, she would do so in order to see what she had paid for. Despite a desperate wish to drain the manager dry. No, she had paid for this, like a mortal.
Paid for. A vampire didn’t have to pay for anything, and yet, here she was – one of the Scourge of Europe – willingly paying for entertainment she could have gotten from any of the vampires back in the lair.
It wasn’t the same though.
Not by a long shot.
Plus, this club was somewhere none of the vampires would think of visiting. She liked to get away from them all sometimes, especially a certain bleached-blonde, sepia-dye-loving grandchilde of hers who she would prefer to wipe from her memory.
Settling back in her seat, she grinned. Once again, she had been given the best seats in the house, having the table right next to the stage. Daintily crossing her legs, she took a sip of the wine and smiled as the lights went down.
Show Time.
“Give a big hand to new boy, Frankie Furter!” Rolling her eyes, the blonde vampiress sighed. The new craze with a new musical – The Rocky Horror Show – was beyond ridiculous.
The man strutted onto the stage on heels so high even she wouldn’t risk them, his face bizarrely made up and his body clad in some kind of surgeon’s green operating uniform, a dark mat of hair hanging over his ears.
Strains of one of the songs from the musical rang out and Darla was ashamed to feel her foot tapping to the beat, as he strutted, twirled and wiggled his sexy little tush to high heaven.
“I’m just a Sweet Transvestite!” He crowed, gyrating his hips like a cobra swaying its head, the smoothness of his motions in time with the music making the petite, blonde vampiress shudder subconsciously. “From Transexual, Transylvania.”
She HATED that song!
Not just mild dislike, but complete and utter loathing and despisal. It had gotten to the stage that she decided that if she ever got anywhere near the composer, she would show him what revenge really meant. Revenge for her and all her tortured hours listening to that one bloody song!
One of the vampires in the gang had taken a liking to it and insisted on playing it at full volume at all hours of the day and night, usually on constant replay, leaving it playing non-stop for as long as it could be gotten away with.
No one would admit if it was them or point the finger at whoever it was, but she had a sneaking suspicion that it was none other than one of only two British vampires in their ranks. And the supposedly sane one of the two at that.
Despite his vehement denial and hurt expression when she had confronted him about it, he was still her prime sneaking-suspicion.
Turning her attentions back to the sexy dancer on the stage, she tapped her fingernails impatiently on the tabletop until he finally began his strip, ripping away the surgeon’s outfit to reveal...
~~~~~
The management was in uproar as the tiny, blonde woman in the front row jumped onto the stage and charged at the dancer.
“Bloody hell!” The dancer exclaimed, rooted to the spot in apparent terror, as she tackled him to the ground and tore his wig off his head, revealing a cropped, bleached-blonde mass of mussed hair.
“SPIKE!”
The dancer gave her a sheepish grin. “ ’Ello mam...what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Cut the crap, childe.” The little woman growled, her eyes almost seeming to glow gold, as she jerked him to his feet. “You stole my underwear!”
The bleached man looked down at the red silk-and-lace undies he was wearing, then back at her, a look of complete innocence on his face. “Are you sure, mam?” He asked, eyes wide. “They look a lot like mine.”
Grabbing the front of the panties and garter-belt, she snatched them off him in one swift jerk and had disappeared off the stage before the security could stop her, leaving one buck-naked dancer standing in the middle of the stage, as if he was oblivious to the hoards of women ogling his...spike?
Frowning, his hands on his hips, he stared after the woman who had stolen the remainder of his props...and costume with an outraged exclamation :
“Now that was not bloody fair!”
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