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(no subject) [Oct. 11th, 2009|01:58 am]
Welcome to Berlin

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It's about five o'clock in the morning.

The Emcee had had a bout with insomnia, passed out for a few hours with some sleeping pills, then woke up with a raging headache for which the only cure he deemed suitable was gin. It irritated him to be up that early. He should have been out cold until at least noon.

So there he is, behind the bar looking for an open bottle of gin, when he spots the note propped up on the till. His irritation peaking, he snatches up the sheet of paper and unfolds it.

The note is in Fritzie's handwriting, the cheque is in a stranger's. Kurt Something-or-other. It looked like good money. But the only thing that truly registers in the Emcee's mind is:

She's gone again. She's fucking gone again.

He doesn't realize it immediately, but his fist has clenched around the cheque and crumpled it into a ball.

Looking over the letter again, as if to reassure himself that it was real, only certain words and phrases haphazardly jump out at him:

apologizes for the inconvenience

not worried that you'll miss me

adorable millionaire to the States

early spring!

keep a spot in the line warm

And then, slowly but surely, a seething rage begins to replace his seething irritation.

He finds that open bottle of gin he'd been looking for. It's about 1/6th full. He downs it all. And before he knows what he's doing, he hurls the empty bottle across the room.

It smashes against the upturned chairs on a nearby table, knocking them off. They tumble off with a raucous clatter on the bare wooden floor along with the tinkling of shattered glass. The noise is monstrous in the silence of the morning but it's music to the Emcee's ears.

He licks the taste of gin off his lips and stares at the note on the bartop, mocking him. The crumpled cheque is still in his other hand. He stares at this, too, as if it were some kind of strange artifact from a distant time. He doesn't know what to think. He has no rationale.

Only a nightclub, only a stage, only a staff that was once again one person short.

"Goddamn you, liebling," he hisses.
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I hear the whistle blowin' down the track/Can't say for sure when I'm comin' back [Oct. 10th, 2009|10:33 pm]
Welcome to Berlin

[Current Mood |blankblank]

After playing hooky for the night's performance, Fritzie returns to the Klub in the wee small hours, shortly after closing, dressed far better and more appropriately than usual. She slips her shoes off at the door so no one will hear her heels on the wood floor and tiptoes to the till, where she lives an envelope containing a letter and a very generous (and legit) check made out to the Klub and signed by a Kurt something-or-other in frighteningly bad penmanship.

Then she nips back to the door, steps into her shoes, and disappears into the gray dawn without looking back once.

Meine lieblings,

Accompanying an adorable millionaire to the States, to the delightfully balmy South he tells me, perhaps even to finish up in New York City in the early spring! He apologizes for the inconvenience of losing me and, after I explained that it wasn't me at all but the tidbits of extra money I brought in that you'd feel the loss of, has seen fit to compensate you handsomely with the enclosed check. I will do my best to squirrel away the allowance that is part of my "contract" to bring back with me.

I am not worried that you'll miss me overmuch, but if you could please just keep a spot in the line warm for

Your Fritzie
Linki'm so HOT now!

(no subject) [May. 22nd, 2009|04:41 pm]
Welcome to Berlin
Twenty minutes after her first number was supposed to be performed the stumbling whirlwind that is Sally Bowles blew her way into the Kit Kat Klub.

"Oh! DO watch where you're going, darling!" Her resonate voice sounded through the busy Klub as she pushed past the large-set man she had just fallen into, without giving him time to reply.

Her pace was faltering and despite her blurred vision Sally usually managed to remain steady on her feet, tonight however, her gait was affected by the mysterious disappearance of a shoe...

On her way through the crowd Sally noticed the formation of the girls on stage and recognised the number as a good few after own was to be performed. It was then that her wandering gaze caught the eye of Emcee, watching from the shadows at the side of the stage.

Well... Shit.. Sally muttered and made a U-turn for the bar.
Link15 lost garments|i'm so HOT now!

(no subject) [May. 14th, 2009|05:06 pm]
Welcome to Berlin

[Tags|, , ]
[Current Mood |flirtyflirty]

Fritzie sits at the foot of the stage, with her legs dangling over the edge, wearing a peach cocktail dress with short handkerchief sleeves and a square neckline that shows off the ostentatious costume necklace of gold-plated chain and glass diamonds draped around her throat. Her voice is deliberately wispy and throaty as she leans toward the men sitting at the front tables, crooning to each one in turn.

Peel me a grape, crush me some ice
Skin me a peach, save the fuzz for my pillow
Start me a smoke, talk to me nice
You've got to wine me and dine me
Don't try to fool me, bejewel me
Either amuse me or lose me
I'm gettin' hungry
Peel me a grape

Pop me a cork, French me a fry
Crack me a nut, bring a bowl full of bon-bons
Chill me some wine, keep standing by
Just entertain me, champagne me
Show me you love me, kid glove me
Best way to cheer me - cashmere me
I'm gettin' hungry
Peel me a grape

Here's how to be an agreeable chap
Love me and leave me in luxury's lap
Hop when I holler, skip when I snap
When I say "do it," jump to it

Send out for scotch, boil me a crab
Cut me a rose, make my tea with the petals
Just hang around, pick up the tab
Never out think me, just mink me
Polar bear rug me, don't bug me
New Thunderbird me, you heard me
I'm gettin' hungry
Peel me a grape

["Peel Me a Grape", written by David Frishberg]

As she stands and saunters leisurely from the stage, the lights go dim and the tinkling opening strains of "Money" can be heard...
Link30 lost garments|i'm so HOT now!

We'll always have Paris. [Apr. 4th, 2009|01:59 am]
Welcome to Berlin


Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome...
Fremde, etranger, stranger...

I knew a woman in London once. She was tall, blonde, a stage actress. She was also a star, but she didn't know it yet, and denied it when I told her that she was indeed something bright and beautiful.

I met her after a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. She played an exquisite Helena, owning the stage with skill and riveting preciseness that I have rarely seen in performers of such youth. But she was natural, so very natural. As natural as if she were naked and completely oblivious to the fact.

Gluklich zu sehen, je suis enchante,
Happy to see you, bleibe, reste, stay...

She had an extraordinary gift of perception. Perhaps that was what drew me to her -- she could see right through to my core quite better than I could see through to hers, but she never exploited the advantage she had over me. Well, unless I did something foolish.

...What? I had my moments. For instance, tucking a pack of cigarettes in a bouquet of flowers that I left at her dressing room door. Twice. She accused me of being in love with her. I didn't speak to her for a week.

But the sex that week was fantastic.

Where are your troubles now?
I told you so!

She was as gracious as a princess, and had a laugh like a peasant. People stared at us wherever we went because I'm sure they could hardly believe a creature like myself was keeping company with such a regal being. Until she laughed. And until she strung certain words together that even sailors hadn't thought about stringing together. And then I knew that we were two of a kind. She knew this, too. She didn't deny that.

We took a trip to Paris, where we got drunk and high and forgot about the rest of the world.

I wanted to bring her back to Berlin with me, but London was calling her home. I suppose our time together had run its course. Neither of us regretted it, though -- we knew it was bound to end sooner or later, so we might as well get it over with.

So we parted ways. Occasionally I would receive a postcard from her, saying what play she was in now, or somesuch thing like that. Never once did she claim she was a star. She only ever said that she was lucky.

...Stars are lucky, are they not?

We have no - troubles - here!
Here, life is beautiful...

The postcards stopped coming a long time ago. But today I received a note from an anonymous sender in London. It read, simply, that she had passed away. No whys or wherefores. Just that she was gone.

I know that stars burn out in time...but I could not have expected this one to vanish so suddenly. And the world that we once tried to forget about together is just a bit dimmer for it.

Oh well.

Auf Wiedersehen...

À bientôt...

Good-bye, Natasha.


fanboying since 1933 [Jan. 25th, 2009|03:40 am]
Welcome to Berlin


The young man catches Herman by surprise after he steps offstage, grabbing his wrist and pulling him into the dim passageway that leads to the dressing rooms. He finds himself with his back to the wall, the man's hands parting his tuxedo waistcoat to press against his bare chest. He's a bit shorter than Herman, slim and dark-haired, with startlingly green eyes and a rather overzealous smile.

"I've been watching you over the past several nights," the man whispers fervently, his voice quivering with excitement. "I think-- I think you're absolutely beautiful. My friends said I didn't have the balls to do this, but I need to do it now or else-- or else I don't know what!"

And he reaches up to clutch Herman's face in his hands and pull him into a kiss. Herman doesn't resist, and in fact gives the fellow something to work with. It lasts for maybe ten seconds before their mouths part, the both of them looking a little surprised at themselves.

The man exhales a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. His eyes are wide, his moist lips still parted in some kind of awe. It's in this moment of electric stillness that Herman notices a splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

"Thank you," the man finally whispers, and he turns and dashes away, leaving Herman still standing with his back to the wall, leaning heavily against it as if if he shifted, it would come tumbling down on top of him.

A bit of movement out of the corner of his eye gets his attention, and he turns his head. It's the Emcee. No surprise there.

"Can I have your autograph, darling?" he coos, before kicking up a heel and flitting away into the shadows.

Wryly bemused, Herman sighs and shakes his head, licking the man's kiss off his lips, and wondering who else had seen this little exchange.
Link27 lost garments|i'm so HOT now!

I like my bass down low... [Dec. 19th, 2008|11:32 am]
Welcome to Berlin
[Tags|, ]

Her letter brought me here.

Didn't have to ask me twice. I was waitin for the opportunity to find her...

But what the hell I get myself into? They don't give a damn 'round here-- you don't speak their language, they ain't tryna help you. But I guess it's fair. Just like the streets, the underworld back in Harlem: you don't know the rules, don't know the roads, you don't belong there. We can't help you. That's the world, leave you to sink or swim. I guess I kinda like it. it makes you grow up on your own quicker.

...but still. They need to have a least one English speakin motherfucker at the station or somethin'. Maybe they do, but not to waste their time translating for a nigger. Oh well. I'll find my way.


And I do. And I did. No hardship-- just one step atta time from the station and eventually it smacks me in the face. The Kit Kat Klub. Nice. I hear music and that's all I need: in a strange country, you only need to hear music to know there's still some common ground. I step inside...

Ahh, Shit! *Bo can't help the broad grin that flashes across his face, just for a moment, as he steps inside, through the smoke and smell of liquor and women. He quickly reassembles his face, though, hardening it and making hsi eyes alert to the surroundings. Can't smile too broadly in a foreign land: one must always be on the watch... Stepping aside of the door, he leans against a wall and observes, taking note of the bar he supposes he'll slide on over to after he's taken in every person, every corner, every possible exit, the streets having made his mind quick to memorize the dimensions of a place to ensure the quickest escape, or possible secret entrances...*
Link34 lost garments|i'm so HOT now!

Next! [Sep. 26th, 2008|01:12 am]
Welcome to Berlin

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The Emcee steps out onstage wearing a frayed old military jacket over his spangled bow tie and tuxedo trousers. With a nearly microscopic smirk, he casts his darkly shaded eyes over the audience. Nobody in uniform. Good.

The band starts up. And he begins to sing -- in French.

Tout nu dans ma serviette qui me servait de pagne
J'avais le rouge au front et le savon à la main
Au suivant, au suivant
J'avais juste vingt ans et nous étions cent vingt
A être le suivant de celui qu`on suivait
Au suivant, au suivant
J'avais juste vingt ans et je me déniaisais
Au bordel ambulant d'une armée en campagne
Au suivant, au suivant!

His gestures are elegantly impudent, his tones are stabbingly satirical. His features contort into disgruntled madness, soften with femininity and feigned idiocy. He purrs and coos before he barks, hisses, and crows.

He risks his thin, pale neck for a moment in the spotlight and the sake of a few laughs. And he does it gladly, with a defiant stomp of his boots that shake the stage and rattle the lightbulbs and the unhinged nerves of those who either understand French or simply the gist behind his foreign-tongued rant.

approximate English translation belowCollapse )

There is applause at the end, but guarded applause, uncertain applause. For some reason that fear sends a rush to the Emcee's head, already swimming with adrenaline, having just metaphorically and gleefully spit on his country's glorious military. Then out of the corner of his eye, he sees a man rise from his seat, and he braces himself for either a diatribe or a walk-out, but...

No, this man...he's clapping. Hard and heartily. There is defiance in his eyes as well. There is anger.

The Emcee snorts a soft laugh under his breath, relieved. He clicks his heels and rigidly throws his right arm out -- then turns his hand and gives a good old two-fingered British salute.

The man in the audience, still clapping, bursts out with a "Ha!"

The Emcee bows and ducks offstage, his work done.
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(no subject) [Sep. 5th, 2008|10:46 pm]
Welcome to Berlin

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At precisely 10pm the doors of the Kit Kat Klub crashed open to reveal the rain-soaked, bejewelled, ball of fury that was Lydia Blythe.

Caught mid-flow, the woman swiped her sopping wet, deep mahogany hair from her mouth and aimed the rest of her tirade at the main doors, swinging closed rapidly. “..some horrible disease and it drops off!! Bastard!! ”

Catching her breath, Lydia spun to survey the throng of hedonists dancing and drinking in the dark smokey room and clenching her fists she let out an almighty scream of frustration.

((OOC: No idea where this is going but I'm in the mood to play pissed off. Anyone welcome. Obviously I still want to continue the Leona/Kost/Fritzie/whoever thread but I figure we can multi-task. Lets say this is later that night.))
Link20 lost garments|i'm so HOT now!

(no subject) [Aug. 30th, 2008|09:22 pm]
Welcome to Berlin

[Tags|, , , ]
[Current Mood |happyhappy]

Kost made her way through the streets to the Kit Kat Klub. It was still early in the evening, so it was obvious to anyone who knew her and saw her on the street that she wasn't heading there for business. The chairs and bar didn't start filling up with possible clients until much, much later. Of course, t might be said that she was heading there to have a little pick-me-up in order to prepare for the approaching night's business. And that might turn out to be true, though Kost had other reasons.

It wasn't so late that she worried about Leona getting home. After all, the sun had only set one or two hours ago, and people still milled about in the cool evening. But it was the thought that Leona's arms would be full with work from the Klub and Ivy, herself. Kost wanted to make sure that her mind wasn't too distracted or preoccupied when it didn't need o be. Yes, Kost worried too much, and it was almost certain that Leona would say just that when Kost would explain why she was at the Klub at such an early hour, but honestly, she didn't care.

The door to the klub was unlocked, always providing an open welcome to those few barflies that needed a drink after their work shift was over. Unbuttoning her coat, Kost smiled upon seeing that familiar figure of her lover cradling her young daughter close, while looking over her work.

Walking over, Kost gently kisses Leona's cheek, slipping an arm about her waist.

"I'm here to escort you home, Fraulein Kiel."

((apologies for not being here, really bad last few months, I'll try to be more consistant with Kost and Magda.))

((Open to anybody to wants to be there))
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