020: Indecent Proposal

Dumb: 3 votes
Cool: 5 votes
Angry: 1 vote

---

Charleston sipped his Yoohoo, and wondered how he should handle things. He really wanted to just punch Aneric right in the face and demand some sort of information from him, or at least punch him some more. Perhaps kick him a few times, in his soft bits. Then again, he was in some sort of bizarre comedy club that was some sort of night club as well, with a bar that looked like it had been taken from the ship. Any sort of hostility might somehow upset the delicate balance, and the patrons may descend upon him like so many freak-fish. Charleston did not feel like getting the living daylights beaten out of him tonight, at least not so early in the night. There was also no way in hell he would play it dumb, especially not with Tim Aneric. Cool it was, then.

"What sort of drink does Aneric like?" said Charleston to the bartender.

"Aneric mainly likes his booze, my good man," said the bartender, wiping a glass, "Mainly likes his mix drinks. The ones with the funny names."

Charleston thought about this for a moment, and asked, "Actually funny names, or funny according to him?"

"He comes here with the straightest face you ever saw and orders Fuzzy Navels and Sexes on the Beach. Everyone else giggles, because who seriously orders those without a smile, but Aneric? He just drinks them like a man."

"Well, when you see him walking over, mix him up something. I'll pay."

"You'll pay for what?" said a voice from Charleston's shoulder. He turned, resisted the urge to punch, and looked up at Tim Aneric.

"Anything you like, Mister Aneric. I got your message."

Aneric sat down, ordered a Vulcan Mind Meld without cracking a smile, and said, "I gathered, because you didn't leave."

"So, why did you want to meet me?"

"I find you terribly attractive. You have that whole detective chic thing going on, and I just find that so damned hot. I'm willing to offer you five million dollars for one night."

Charleston had stopped with his drink halfway to his mouth, and was staring straight ahead at the mirror behind the bar. The trained part of his mind registered that he, the bartender, and Aneric all showed up, as did a good number of the patrons. A few didn't, but was acceptable, and encouraging. Perhaps the vampires still had their hands in this place, after all. Then he coughed, and said, "One night what?"

"What do you think?" said Aneric, trying to put his hand on Charleston's thigh.

Charleston turned, "Sorry, I can't do that."

"Two million for six hours?"

"No. I'm not a prostitute."

"One million for two?"

"No."

"Ah, you're a detective. How about fifteen minutes of making out for information?"

Charleston paused, and looked over at the bartender, who shrugged. He had no idea why he was looking at the bartender, but perhaps he could still make this work in such a way that he could get the information without actually having to touch Aneric.

"I get the information first," said Charleston.

"It's a deal, sailor. Your place or mine?"

There was no way Charleston wanted Aneric to know where he lived, nor did he want to go to Aneric's residence.

Aneric stood up and slapped Charleston on the back, and said, "Just joshing you. Wanted to see how far you'd go to get to the bottom of things. Now, what do you want to know?"

Charleston took a deep breath, counted to ten, and downed the rest of his Yoo-hoo. "Who runs this place?"

"No idea. I got hired by some blonde woman, she said she was the Mouth of the Prophet. Whatever that means."

"Means a lot, actually. Where did you meet her?"

"Contacted me by phone. She said she saw my act and thought it'd be perfect for this club. Weird club, though."

"I don't get out to many clubs, but yes, I did think it was pretty weird."

"They pay well, and the audience is usually appreciative, but really? No music? Just my jokes and the laughter of the audience? What's up with that?"

"I intend to get to the bottom of it."

Aneric stood up, and pointed his dart gun at Charleston.

"I won't let you ruin this for me."

Charleston kicked him in the shin, and hit him over the head with a stool. He turned, and saw the club patrons staring at him, mouths agape. Some of those mouths had fangs. The bartender had ducked behind his bar.

Charleston sighed. He could stand and fight, run, or make some sort of excuse. He had seconds to decide.