Whitechapel Intro

   It stands on the intersection of two streets almost lost at the edge of the city. What was once the old Faris Volunteer Firehouse. The exterior of the 4 story edifice has been stripped to the bricks and now sport a black airbrushed look steeped with silver cracks running through it. Where once windows stood now only reflective silver mirrors, oval shaped and barred with blackened steel. Over the roof the great sign drapes, Whitechapel, spelled out in erratic and jagged letters dipped the deepest purple, inset behind the sign is a great silver skull gothic styled form and eyes that glow with a haunting distant blue light. The lot containing the building is a barren wasteland of asphalt dimly lit to accommodate the building code but little more with a great parking area in the second lot behind the club which is entered by driving down a dark vine covered alley beside the building itself.

 

 The front doors of Whitechapel are modeled after the great wood and iron barred door of a castle keep and through the wide cast doors of fine oak the red carpet begins the steep stair rise to the main floor. The walls here are a strange and textured crimson and walkers in are given the impression of passing through an artery on the way to some great heart at the center. The terminus of the walk is a 50’s style Marquee ticket booth inhabited by a young woman in her late teens with pale skin and raven black hair. The young girl is heavily pierced but wears a white work shirt and red tie above dark slacks…unusual and proper. To either side of her are great opaque revolving doors which she operates from inside, guests are greeted, the 5 dollar cover charge is collected, drinkers are given black wrist bands ringed with fanged skulls and all are stamped with the symbol of the club, a fanged skull tangled with a rose growing from a vial and dripping blood. The stamps are red ink. Each guest is handed a small card which informs that the club has in house performance artists who enact various spectacles to heighten the atmosphere but that at no time are even the most graphic of displays of monstrosity and depravity anything more then entertainment.

 

 Once through the great spinning turnstiles of frosted glass the club opens wide to receive its guests spreading out like a lotus in all directions. The ceiling is two stories up through a cut away section of floor and is dominated by a huge black widow spider made of black metal which supports the D.J.’s cage in its legs. From between its metal threads he commands a view of the entire floor. The room itself is a vast expanse of dark walls shot through with silver cracks and fissures, all across them odd patterns and script grace the walls and amid the flashing strobes of red green and blue the occasional infrared light flicker illuminates hidden script in the wall that glows when struck, driving words “Do It, Let Go, Be Free, Break Your Chains, Crack Reality, Save Your own Soul” and many, many others flicker into life in the blink of an eye along with etches and pictures from Dante’s Inferno, Elizabeth Bathory’s History and the bloody works of Vlad Tepesh. The images flicker in and out of reality as smoke machines vomit forth their burden from Gargoyles clinging to the side of the 4 great marble pillars that reach from they grey and black tiled floor to the ceiling. The ceiling itself is a great expanse of stars, a mirror of the infinite depth of the stars at night and so clear are they that if one stares too long it can hurt the mind. It is an endless depth that never ends.

 

 To the far right against the wall sits the bar, a great black slab of obsidian coated to preserve it and laid across the black velvet covered hardwood base. Black leather covered barstools line it and their support rods are curled about with skeletal forms, 

locked in the mutual act of murder. Behind the bar the tender stands, a great hulk of a Northman with a smile that could brighten a starless night.  Jobe is kind and courteous to all who speak with him and is never to busy to lend a word of advice though he seems a bit out of place amid all this he performs his duties with alacrity. Behind him is the great mirror that cover the wall the entire length of the bar, it is not clear, rather it is a warped and distorted funhouse mirror and those who look into it invariably come away uneasy as their shapes are muddled into Lovecraftian likeness. Nearby to the bar a series of black cushioned and shaded restaurant booths sit where dances can enjoy a little privacy or just a rest from the display.  Across the walls red banners with odd designs and shapes ripple in the darkness. On several of the banners the kill scenes from horror films are spliced and projected over and over from the balcony ledge that runs the ring just below the D.J.’s cage.

 

 The forward wall of the club is dominated by the great stage set. The rear wall is set back a bit and from the floor large piled sheets of dark rock painted with disturbing glyphs sit atop one another at disjointed angles, their weight forming a tall and stable stage rising from the floor like a defiled alter. Before the stage a criss cross of World War II beach barriers stand as demarcation between the stage and the writhing crowd beyond. Great red tapestries flank the stage on either side embroidered with the club’s emblem like the hand stamps, the area around the stage between it and the iron barriers is littered with rose petals and red stained helmets both American and German, some bearing bullet holes and deep scars. This stark display rings the entire stage and club security wanders this no-man’s land in dark outfits bearing white badges.

 

  To the far right of the stage the great metal spiral staircase rises to the catwalk that reaches to the D.J. ‘s cage. A guard stands there but is not above letting the occasional fan up to see him. The D.J. himself is an eclectic mix, dark leather pants and a red Cat in The Hat T-shirt, face painted with tribal tattoos and yellow hair spiked out in a mass of thin braids. He moves between his machines with practiced grace and with an intensity born of love. The area around him is a mass of catwalks and platforms that crisscross the ceiling of the club and sport camera, video and light mounts. As well as docking ports for the gilded cages that hang down over the heads of the club goers. Within each of the four cages a dancer in various stages of undress save the final revelations move and twist to the wild melodies that resound through the club, two young men and two young women in Vinyl and lace are the feature of these hanging bronze colored attractions.

 

  Beyond and to the right of the spiral staircase lay the small alcove that handles the bathrooms, payphones and a small storage room that is locked. The hall is the same as the opening passage, that off arterial red and dotted with artwork and drawings beneath Plexiglas encasements. It is a lounge of sorts, a few mismatched couches line the walls and ashtray stands abound, the music still reaches here but it muted enough to provide respite. There is a door here to the outside but it stays locked until closing time and at that point may be used as an exit.

 

 The bathroom is simple, black tiled with proper mirrors, the lights are black light and they bring out the glowing eyes of the wristbands issued at the door. The toilets are the auto sensor kind.