"Now, my dears" said the employed roommate one evening, "you may go into the record shops or down to the thrift store, but whatever you do, don't go into Mr. McEldritch's nightclub: your only goth pal from high-school had an accident there; he was picked up by a raver and went off to follow Hawkwind. Now run along and don't get into mischief; I am going out."
Then the employed roommate took an electronic data-manager, a Discman playing the new Mephisto Waltz CD and her vintage 1968 vinyl Batman umbrella, and went through the city to the beauty supply shop. She bought an institutional-size drum of Aqua-Net and five jars of Manic Panic.
Depressia, Mopesy, and White Fang, who were good little gothlings, went down the lane to look for black undergarments in the thrift store. But Peter, who thought he was much more goth and certainly cuter, ran straight away to Mr. McEldritch's nightclub and convinced the bouncer at the door he was on the guest-list! First he had two pints of Snakebite and a whole package of cloves; and then he tried a couple little blue pills offered by the very decadent-looking man in the corner. And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some double espresso with a dash of cinnamon. But round the end of the mixing board, who should he meet but Mr. McEldritch!
Mr. McEldritch was staring earnestly at the floor and twirling a mic cord between his fingers, but he had a sudden body-rush and ran after Peter, waving a Mission CD and calling out Stop Thief! Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the nightclub, for he had forgotten the way back to the bar.
He lost one of his pointy boots among the smoke-pots, and the other amongst the discarded bottles in a corner. After losing them, he was only in his old fishnets which were beginning to wear at the heel anyway, and went faster, so that I think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a disused stage set consisting largely of barbed wire and blacklights, and got caught by the extra buckles on his jacket. It was a black PVC jacket with zippers, snaps, and a pair of handcuffs attached at the shoulder, quite new.
Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed a few covert tears being careful not to spoil his eyeliner; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly perkygoffs, who bounced over to him in great excitement, and offered him a line of really pure coke if he'd just get a move on.
Mr. McEldritch came over with a rather large and brutish-looking skinhead bouncer which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him. And rushed into the ladies room, and burst unannounced into a stall. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not already had a black-clad transvestite with _very_ long sharp fingernails in it.
Mr. McEldritch was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the ladies room, perhaps hidden behind a freestanding ashtray. He began to turn them over carefully, looking all round each one. Presently Peter was gouged in an especially tender spot by the transvestite and cried out- "Not without tying me up first!". Mr. McEldritch was after him in no time. And tried to put his foot upon Peter, who rushed out of the exit door, upsetting three Elvira look-alikes who were still adjusting to their heels. The exit door wasn't too small for Mr. McEldritch, but the overturned vampiras claimed his attention, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his Merc, taking the drama queens, only one of whom was actually female, with him.
Peter sat down to rest; he was out of cloves and trembling with mixed excitement and self-loathing at having been so near to Mr. McEldritch and not asking for an autograph, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was bleeding slightly with the scratches he'd received in that stall and wanted to savor the blood a moment.
After a time he began to dance about, as if he were trying to change a rather warm lightbulb in an otherwise dimly-lit entry, not very fast, and covertly looking all around to see if anyone attractive might be watching.
He found a door behind several yards of black netting on a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for even the most wraith-like goth to squeeze underneath.
An old ex-punk waitress in a faded Pistols t-shirt was running in and out amongst the tables, carrying vodka-tonics and beers to the patrons in the shadows. Peter asked her the way to the bar, but she had the Exploited tape on her Walkman cranked up so loud that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry, not caring that he was beginning to resemble early Alice Cooper more than a little.
Then he tried to find his way straight across the nightclub, but he became more and more distracted. Presently, he came to a dressing-room where Mr. McEldritch polished his mirrored glasses. A frosty-looking road manager outside the door was staring at some jailbait groupies; she sat very, very, still, but now and then the tip of her cigarette glowed as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he had heard about road managers from his cousin, Belagin Devil-Bunny.
He went back towards the ladies room, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a microphone that had been tossed too close to an amplifier and was feeding back - scr-r-reee, squawk, squawk, scrreee. Peter scuttered underneath the pinball machines. But presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a speaker cabinet, which was blasting out Alien Sex Fiend's Bun-Ho! and vibrating most deliciously, and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McEldritch recovering from his encounter with the vampire chicks. His back was turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the bar!
Peter waited until the song was over and he had had his little thrill, then got down very quietly off the speaker cabinet, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind an Addams Family pinball machine. Mr. McEldritch caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped up to the bar, ordered another round of Snakebite, tipped the bartender who was a great friend of his when he was lonely, and was safe at last in the darkest part of the nightclub.
Mr. McEldritch kept the PVC jacket and the boots and no doubt put them to nefarious purposes that Peter preferred not to guess at.
Peter slipped past the doorman with an excuse about having left something in his car, and then never stopped running or looked behind him til he got home to the big warehouse. He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft black futon on the floor of the blood bank and shut his eyes. His employed roommate was busy searing some chops lightly, like in Rosemary's Baby; she wondered what he had done with his jacket and boots which he still owed her $150 for. It was the second little jacket and pair of boots that Peter had lost in a fortnight!
I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the remainder of the evening. His employed roommate put him to bed, and made some wormwood tea, and gave a dose of it to Peter! "One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time".
But Depressia, Mopesy, and White Fang had extra-rare chops, a small salad with crumbled bleu cheese and red onion, and a whole bottle of vintage Cabernet each for supper.
The End