You Need To Get Drunk

Tyrell held up three dark fingers. Within moments, a waitress appeared and left three grey-white cocktails on the table. He stared hard at the reporter.

"The guys who do this, they know the type that goes in for this thing, okay? If you come at them sober, they're gonna think you're a cop—and it's both our asses. So you need to get white girl wasted. Suck these down, and then we'll go downstairs and see about getting you some ink."

Lois Lane licked her lips. She normally didn't like to drink heavily...but she could see the sense in what Tyrell said. Three more cocktails on top of what she'd already had would make her pretty tipsy...but she hadn't become the Daily Planet's greatest reporter by not taking a few chances.

"Okay," she said as she held up the first glass and smiled. "Cheers!"

Instead of just slamming the drinks back like shots, Lois sipped them slowly. A part of her wished she had a bottle of water, to flatten out the mix. As it was the strangely-flavored cocktails...very dry, with almost a hint of ammonia...slid down her throat a runny, slimy slurries, and she was feeling the effects of the first one before she finished the second. By the third, Lois could definitely feel the liquid weight in her stomach, and a comfortable warmth suffused her. The lights in the club were brighter, and the room almost seemed to spin gently.

Tyrell stared into her eyes, and nodded.

"Okay. You're ready."

He stood, and helped her up—one hand around her waist, which was more support than Lois needed, but she put a hand on his neck and leaned into it. Better to act more drunk than she was than to risk breaking character.

Tyrell guided them through the crowd, back toward the freight elevator that had once serviced this place when it had been a warehouse...and the two big black dudes that stood guard at the door.

"'Sup, T," one of the men said. He was built like a linebacker, in a black t-shirt Lois could have used as a nightgown. He was sunglasses, despite being indoors at night, had a shaved head beaded with sweat. She favored him with her best drunken smile.

"Lady here wants a little ink. Virgin skin," Tyrell said.

"Little old," the guard said, with a frown.

"Why don't we let Miss Blaze decide that?" Tyrell said.

"Your ass," the guard said gruffly...but he opened the door, and Tyrell, half-walked, half-carried Lois into the elevator. As soon as the door shut, it began to move downwards. Lois noticed Tyrell didn't even have to press a button...and then she noticed that there were no buttons. Someone had fixed a solid metal plate over the control panel.

"Who's Blaze?" Lois whispered.

Tyrell's face was carefully neutral. "The tattooist. What you need to think about right now is where you're going to get inked...and don't think about any cutesy shit like a little butterfly on your ankle."

Lois Lane did think about it. All the way down until the elevator hit bottom.