Getting In

Deadman helped Black Alice to her feet.

"So, um," the young witch mumbled, staring at Lois. "Can I get your digits?"

"Maybe later. Look alive, ladies." Deadman herded both of the women toward the door. "It's showtime."

Confidently, the possessed goth knocked on the door. A panel slid aside, just big enough to reveal a pair of red eyes. Definitely nothing human. It surveyed each of them in turn, eyes resting on Lois' and her goat-like horns the longest.

"Password?" The door guard grumbled.

"Mazahs." Deadman replied.

The panel slid shut. There was a grating of metal on metal, and then the door slid open to reveal a smoky, red-litten interior. The sound of black metal spilled out, all thrashing guitars and cookie monster voices.

Alice gave Lois a pat on the as, and the reporter sauntered through first, wiggling her hips. The barely-legal witch was close behind, following Lois' every gyration with her eyes. Deadman brought up the rear, and was careful not to look back as the door clanged shut behind them.

The club itself was a typical underground venue—a makeshift bar at one end, toilets at the other, with tables scattered in between. There was no decor, unless you counted the half-pornographic, half-occult graffiti on the walls and every other available surface. A stack of amplifiers, speakers, instruments, and microphones defined the space for pace, without even the pretense of a stage; so that the somewhat violent crowd sometime crashed into the lead singer. Aromas hit of cheap booze, tobacco, marijuana, and a few stranger spices.

The clientele, though...Lois could pick out others who, like herself, were partially transformed by the XXX or DMN, the **** that Deadman had told them about. Strange eyes, horns, patches of scaly skin, the occasional tail...and the hollow cheeks, string-thin bodies, and bad hair that marked substance abusers far gone into their addictions. She could almost smell it in the air, as people were using.

That's not all they were doing.

Scattered throughout the club, couples engaged in their own little unions. There, a thin brunette in a cowboy hat with her feet propped up on the table, legs wide as a punky-looking blonde ate her out. In one corner, a redhead appeared to be giving a personal dick-sucking contest, her frame so thin that it made her slightly swollen stomach stick out grotesquely. A few couples around the edge of the dance space were simply fucking, the women bent over, skirts hitched up or pants pulled down to allow access to whomever was humping them. No condoms anywhere, Lois noticed.

"This place is some kind of shithole, eh MILF?" Alice remarked, leaning up against Lois. The reporter didn't even bother moving her. Truth be told, part of her liked the attention.

"We need to find a dealer. Act like you're here to buy." Deadman said, as quietly as he could while still being understood over the music. "You're here to score, right?"

"Right," Lois let an inhumanly long tongue loll out of her mouth, the pointed tip extending past her tongue. Even knowing what it had done to her already...and what more it could do, looking around at the addicts that smoke and drank, danced and thrashed to the music...Lois couldn't deny that she would really like another of those cocktails.