The Knight At The Lockdown

The walls of this place are like a prison... but that's fine. That's why they call this place "The Lockdown". Driftwood's never had a strip club in it before, and this one raised a hell of an

uproar. A lot of people didn't want it here, but it happened, the owner of this—creative— establishment managed to make it work. Maybe they greased a few hinges, or lined a few pockets in green.

Who knows? Outside this place is like a prison; the building is concrete; the perimeter walls are concrete. The guard towers are like spires on a modern castle. There is a gate, and a gate guard. He checks your ID before you're ever allowed on the premises.

No one under twenty-one allowed... and they don't even serve alcohol here. There's barbwire along the top of the smooth, plain, concrete walls between the guard turrets. It looks like a federal prison.

It's two stories tall, and it's huge. It looks like it could be the size of an apartment building block.

Whoever put it here had a lot of money.

Inside it's no different. No decor on the walls; they're concrete; smooth like they were outside. There are cells along the walls, with women in them, dancing exotically.

There's a heavy electro-trance track playing in the "Cafeteria". The "Cafeteria" is the main dance quarters. There are cells around it too, girls dancing, and then girls dressed like guards along side the cells.

Everyone here is pretty. Everything here seems almost genuine; almost like a prison. The walls have to be three feet thick of concrete. You'd think they were expecting an atom bomb to go off, but it's just part of the illusion of Driftwood.

Another near-real creation of a genius mind at work. An entrepreneur who knows that sex sells. The theme is perfect for anyone's fetish. Girls in near bondage, and little black and white striped bikinis, or hot pants.

The cafeteria is empty, when I hear a loud buzz... it sounds like a half time buzzer—or something you'd hear at the end of a quarter.

One of the cells open, and a girl—she has to be about twenty-two at least... but she looks like she could possibly be eighteen or nineteen—she climbs out of her cell and one of the cell guards, a woman dressed like a prison guard in a short tight skirt, escorts her to the main cafeteria table, where she climbs up onto it and begins the show.

I watch her dancing up there.

She's moving her body fluidly to the beat of some electro-trance type song, raunchy chords of harsh grinding music—music, if that's what you'd call it—the percussion and base so deep that I think my head might explode.

Her body says: "fuck me", but her face says she would rather be anywhere else in the world right now, then here. It doesn't say shame; it doesn't say sorrow.

She doesn't look unhappy with her position. The expression on her face is a distracted smirk; she's not here, because she doesn't want to be here. Her mind is elsewhere, because she's too arrogant to admit she's just a fucking common stripper in a creative—but classless strip club.

This isn't Vegas—this isn't a fucking real stage, and she's not a Vegas Showgirl. Her hips gyrate as if she's grating against something unseen in the air around her.

There's no elegance to her motions; there's no sensuality. She fucks the emptiness of the air, but her face still holds the same empty smirk; the same anywhere-but-here look that you'd have to be drunk, horny, and desperate to not see.

There's almost no one in the bar right now, but if there were, I think even the most libidinous dregs that come in here would be appalled.

I'm not here for this cheap show—she's not getting a dollar out of my pocket—oh she's gorgeous—but looks are only a little bit of a whole person.

I have no respect for someone who couldn't respect herself. It isn't even that she's a dancer—I've seen dancers—and then I've seen dancers. This girl—this woman—robs the dance of any sensual art. She's up whoring herself to no one, and to everyone who will look.

She looks like she wants to be some high-class courtesan, but she's an ordinary street whore in my eyes; she's a gutter harlot. She's the whore of Babylon and this is her empire.

Her kingdom's right here, in this cemented shell she calls her domain. She'll dance this way as easily for a dollar as she would for a hundred. I draw the conclusion that she would probably make more if she were actually a common street whore.

She's only one-step above it as it is. No one claps when her song is over; no one applauds her; no one cat calls or whistles when she leaves the stage and enters the floor to visit with what patrons there are.

She completely ignores me as if I were a plague.

That's fine.

Like I said.

I'm not here for her anyway.

O O O

"Ladies and gentleman," The D.J announced with a voice that sounded very much alive, and full of excitement.

"That was Chance, paroled for your viewing pleasure. Remember our girls work for tips, and tips only, so be sure to take care of our detainees because it's the only buck they'll make here at The Lockdown!"

The "cafeteria" was beginning to fill with more patrons now. On the second story, there were more cells. There were guards up there too, but something about the way they looked and the way they carried their selves cried

real

.

Authentic.

These were bouncers, The Lockdown's security team. These guys were no joke, dressed in black rip-stop cargo pants, heavy boots, and body armor. They looked like S.W.A.T, wearing gas masks as if they were about to raid a crack house or a take down a crime lord.

"Frightening aren't they?" A voice said suddenly.

"Hell yeah they are."

"'name's Laurence Braun."

"Gerald Dean." Gerald said, turning and extending his hand.

"So how do you like my establishment, Mr. Dean?" Braun said, shaking Gerald's hand firmly.

"Please, just call me Gerald. No need for formalities here," Gerald said, eyeballing the guards upstairs, who peered down at the "cafeteria" from above. The second floor was set much like a prison's, more of a walkway around the second floor, rails lining the inside. Every few feet there were "D" rings in the railing.

"Ever have to use them before?"

"You see those "D" rings?"

"Yeah," Gerald said, feeling the tension from the bouncers. "I was going to ask."

"We don't have trouble here too often, but every now and again an asshole may try to touch one of the girls, or

rape

one of the girls. I don't run a whorehouse here, so the first offense, one of our pretty guards own here will issue he—or she," Braun said smiling politely, "a warning."

They walked around the floor of the "cafeteria" a while more, before heading down another corridor. Here there were cells, but they were empty, and not pristine like the other cells.

"What if they don't get the hint? How do your bouncers get to them in time to stop a problem?"

"That's what the "D" rings on those rails up there are for, Gerald. If the patrons just can['t seem to get it through their thick skulls, then the guards upstairs latch a carabener to the ring, and then jump down, repelling into the lower floor.

It's fast, and it's a hell of a surprise for the patron in question. Theatrical works when you need it, you know?"

"Do your bouncers have a training course for all this?"

"Well, they're technically more than bouncers. I hired a few retired S.W.A.T, and a couple of retired mercenaries. The militia types, you know, local hard asses." Gerald looked briefly up at the catwalks. "They know what they're doing already."

"How much do you pay them?" Gerald asked, a little unnerved by the idea of Mercenaries and Militia working as local security.

"Price range is negotiable, but they're worth their penny—and—I bring in a pretty good revenue nightly here. Weekends are a blast."

"I see." Gerald said softly, stroking his fingers through his hair. His hands were sweating, and already he could feel it in his gut; there was more to this club than just strippers and money.

"Well you must get a lot in, I mean the quality of dancers here—your girls are incredibly beautiful, talented dancers."

"Yes," Braun said, appearing a little distracted. "Do you care to take a tour of the facility?"

"Since you're offering, absolutely."

O O O

Gerald followed Braun down the corridor of empty cells to a stairwell at the end, winding its way up. "I got this stairwell from an auction in Frisco. Supposedly it had belonged to an old prison, so I had it shipped here and we had duplicates made—sturdier, you know." He said, as if giving a grand tour. They began up the staircase, and Laurence went on.

"Now, I know about

your

society, I had to go through the Judge to get approval on this establishment, which is why I agreed to your tour," He said politely. "I am curious, honestly, what do you think of it?"

"Honestly?" Gerald replied, his voice and tone professional, a diplomatic trait of a representative of the Honorable Judge Grifford. "I think I'll need to see a few more dancers doing their jobs."

There was a moment of silence between the two men. Gerald's face appeared serious, for only a moment, and then he and Laurence Braun, the facilitator, laughed together as if Gerald had made an innuendo.

"I assure you, you will be most pleased." Braun said smiling with a dark, but sincere smile. "I have a feeling you'll be here often."

"As do I." Gerald said, stroking the stubble on his face. He was the type who would have to shave at least four times a day to keep his face stubble free.

He was a man who led an active life, and had pride in his health. His metabolism kept him energetic, and strong; he felt he could do anything, and as a servant of Grifford and their society, he did.

"This is the upper level. Many of our higher priced dancers are up here," Braun said, as they passed the cells.

Up here, there were the darker clad guards. There were a few prospective clienteles, apparently of a higher class of scum, but otherwise it was nearly empty. "Up here we keep higher security—" He paused. "The people who pay for entertainment up here can have... strange—eccentric—ideas about what entertainment is."

"Such as?"

"Well we've had to eighty-six a patron permanently, because he kept asking one of our girls to go home with him for some 'shock treatment' as he called it. He seemed to have a fetish for girls and cattle prods."

"Who the hell was

that

?"

"Well, most of our clientele in the upper quarters are generally respected people—we're not really supposed to share identities.

Especially since this one didn't seem to want to draw attention. Confidentiality is extremely important in this industry—to our dancers—and sometimes to our guests."

Gerald stared at him silently for a moment. "You must understand, I know you're not running a whorehouse here. In fact I think that any of the patrons who've been given the boot here know you're not running a whorehouse."

"Fair enough."

Gerald nodded. "My boss however, the man who signed the papers, allowing your establishment to exist, see,

he

doesn't know that. I want to know the type of people who come in here, so we can help you keep them out. It's a symbiosis really:

You help us by letting us help you.

" The subtle tones of threat peered through the cracks of his diplomacy.

Braun was silent a moment. "His name was Doctor Simon Bellar."

"I've never heard of him."

"He only recently returned to Driftwood. He had been away for a while—something about an attack here when he was a child. They've got copies of the article at the library."

"I see."

"He came in wearing a bondage mask, but that really is it, as far as exceptionally strange details go. He was polite, soft spoken, and he wore an expensive suit. Seemed like a real gentleman."

"Both you and I know real gentlemen, if there's any left, don't frequent clubs like this, and they don't want to shock the shit out of pretty girls."

Braun was silent for a long while. Then: "Well, let's continue the tour."

"Of course."

"Further this way, you'll see another corridor. The cells in the upper corridors are generally empty because it's harder to access them for our security team, but it looks good for the effect, you know. We like to keep the fantasy alive here, at The Lockdown"

Gerald nodded silently, but said nothing.

"This entire facility on this side is topless and full nude. We neither serve, nor allow liquor inside of our facility here. The other side is a nightclub. You can drink, dance, karaoke, party, and just piss the night away."

Gerald raised an eyebrow. "...And if the drunks want to see a little nudity?"

"They're more than welcome to, if they're not shitfaced drunk. People know better by now than to aggravate our security team."

"I should think so." Gerald said briskly. "Well, if you don't mind... I would like to watch some of your better entertainers—you'll understand if I forgot my pocketbook of course. Bill it to a tab, Grifford will take care of everything."

"Unnecessary Gerald — Grifford's already taken care of us enough. I think that will do. Just have fun, and keep it in line with the ladies."

They laughed once more, together. Braun excused himself.

O O O

He knows damned well this wasn't a check in. He's probably got every camera, and guard here watching me to see if I'll do anything wrong—and even if I did, what could he do? He knows who I am, and he knows who I work for. He may not know what we do, but he knows that it's serious.

The girls up here, if it is at all possible, are

much

prettier than the girls downstairs.

Up here they go by names like Rose, Crimson, and Lust; but I'm neither interested in Crimson, or Lust—not today—today I am here for

Ammielle

.

A guard approaches me casually, though his shoulders are slumped and his head is a little bowed.

I know he's not that old—I know his body language—his standing like most men who know me would stand in my presence, a position of submission. He's armed with a glock and a baton; a stun gun, and chemical spray - mace, I think.

This guy would look as tough as a soldier if he weren't so slouched. He has come to direct me away from the cells, and into the "Warden's Office".

So that's what that was.

I thought it would have been Braun's office for sure, man, oh man: was I ever wrong. The Warden's Office: the upper level VIP room. A lush, private den for the rich ones.

Private dances to a more personal nature, without the distraction of other patrons watching you; without the sounds of cat calls, whistles,flushing toilets, or a combination of any or all of them.

One pole in the center and a circular stage surrounding it. The pole is polished brass it looks like, though it could be gold the way it shines under the lights.

There's two huge, lavish, half-circular couches set up around the stage, a space between them so that the higher-class scum here can get in and out.

There are guards in each of the corners of the room, which is dark, other than the spotlight on center stage.

The first out to dance: Her name is Marisal. She looked to be someone born into an exotic culture, dressed like a gypsy. She may have been Turkish.

She may have been Mexican...

I couldn't tell you, and I'm damned good at calling roots. I'm looking at her, and she's looking back at me, and she is gorgeous, that's what she is. When she dances, her hips move, and the entire world seems to sway with them, the seductive swivel of her body, her belly, her legs and her hips.

She is amazing

.

Through the entire dance, she never once removes an article of clothing; she doesn't even allude to it, and I find myself wishing that I had my pocket book.

Her dance, so full of the mystery of a woman, is like the perfect antidote for the empty-girl I saw when I first came in here. Her dance is Nirvana; it's Paradise—it's the Garden of Eden—and before I know it, her song is over, and she's standing there with a smile.

It could have been a smirk, a grin, or a simple gracious smile—the mystery in that puzzle alone makes me understand why this one makes the big bucks, while the girls downstairs are whoring their hips off to cheap trance and air.

She graces off of the center stage, brushing past me. She smells of everything good that I have ever known in my life, with her skin like shimmering iridescence.

I feel captivated by the spell of her mysterious dance. As she steps down, I see her heading for the corridor that would lead down the stairs.

I wonder if she'll dance again, downstairs, with the cheap girls, cheap crowd, and the cheap trance and techno that I almost forgot had been a part of this establishment.

The sound over the speakers is a soft, woman's voice.

She announces the previous dancer simply a Gypsy.

I have to hold back from clapping for the dancer named for what she was. Not too much creativity, but you know what?

I don't care.

It's a silver light to the dark cloud of my presence here. I'm supposed to be here on business, and not the kind Braun thinks it is.

It's so much darker.

Crimson glides out next, her eyes - silver — almost glowing - not quite. She has a feral nature to her, the tender looking lips on her face betraying her to something possibly more sinister.

Her lipstick makes her lips dark, crimson, like her name. Man, oh, man. They don't hold back on the creativity here, do they? What's in a name though? Sorry. Getting philosophical again.

Her skin is unnaturally pallid, as if she's powdered it white, but you can tell she hasn't.

You can see just the faintest of blue veins spider-web beneath her skin. It makes her look delicate, like a newborn, but that's where the common ground ends.

There's no innocence in her, not that anyone is innocent, but a step up—or down, depending on how you look at it—she's the thief of innocence.

She moves with a grace, so inhuman. Her beauty is preternatural, and she terrifies me without so much as a glance in my direction as she steps onto the stage.

When she begins dancing, time suddenly slows to a halt. Every single sense of warning and panic in me cries out at once, and I have to fight myself from bolting down the stairs, and out the doors right now—it isn't a Hunter's instinct—it isn't a human's instinct: this feeling is primal, and instinctual; it is a feeling that dates back to prehistory, imbued into my genes like the fear of falling, or the unknown.

Fears that do not need to be trained into a person, when they are born into them. This fear I have is the fear of a prey.

I can feel my palms sweating while she dances, as she smoothly begins to shimmy out of her clothes. I'm not even certain when it happens, but the next thing I know, she's nude, and dancing fluidly like prairie waves blowing in a gentle breeze or swaying with a spring storm.

She smiles at me and I feel my stomach drop.

You know the feeling.

It's like the release of steam that moment just before the roller coaster drops. The fear and anticipation of what's coming next—and then that drop—but on a roller coaster, at least you're safe.

Here I feel about as safe as a bleeding fish in a school of fucking Hammer-head Sharks, and then it occurs to me.

I

am

swimming with the sharks here.

It must have happened while I was thinking, or maybe when I blinked, but it was the last thing I saw coming.

She's on my lap, and she's gyrating like the girl I saw when I first came in.

I should be appalled.

I should be disgusted.

Instead, I find myself entirely enthralled by her dance, so much that it's hard to think clearly, even right now.

I move my arms a bit, just to shake it off — to shake her off — but she's still on me. I sense movement out of the guards around me, but she subtly — ever subtly — shakes her head to assure them things are fine.