| Two Fillies in the 50s (Birthright X-Post) |
[25 Jun 2006|06:11pm] |
Las Vegas was a microcosm of not just America, but the entire world. Why go to New York or Paris, when you could see a scaled representation of their respective landmarks? In fact, why go anywhere, when there was bound to be somewhere which contained the very best of just about any chosen destination on Earth - including the beaches?
Oh, there was culture, sure, but that was like malaria. Why bother to go to some far away land, go through the trouble of negotiating it and then find out that there was a better, cheaper alternative, a lot closer to home?
Katherine, for all her well-traveled experience, would agree with that. At least, when it came to just having a fun time. Las Vegas was just about varied enough for her to have stayed on. Back in the old days, it was more exclusively about gambling, but had somehow redesigned itself into being a lot more about entertainment. Not just of the adult variety, either, since it was soon realized that family tourism was a whole niche market of its own. Las Vegas, again, adapted and reconfigured itself.
Now it was a kind of... Potpourri of just about everything one could imagine. What was your taste? Egypt? The Roman Empire? Hollywood? Venice, complete with canals? Everything was there, on tap.
Provided, of course, one possessed the funds to pay for it.
But even the vampiress sometimes retired to somewhere low key. Usually it was nostalgic, like this. Just a bar, situated downtown, in amongst the casinos, rather than on the Strip, but it was a nice enough retreat and themed on something which suggested the fifties as the main influence.
Even down to the jazz.
Not designed by anyone who had actually lived through the time, though. In its previous incarnation, this had been a disco. The decor was tacky and, with a look of distaste at her glass, Katherine decided that their drinks weren't much better. The whole place, evidently, relied more on its visual allure than its quality of service.
"Guess some things never change."
That was most assuredly the truth.
With many of the employees dressed in time-appropriate clothing, Rosalyn Voorhies looked like nothing more unusual than an overzealous guest. A quick perusal would reveal a brunette, petite in stature but not in curves, who had dressed in a tee-length skirt and a monogrammed sweater for the occasion. As the jazz ensemble played the old, familiar hits of her youth, she reclined her elbows against the bar and tapped the toe of her shoe. Now and again, she dropped that head of thick, wavy hair back and closed her eyes, with a smile of nostalgia pulling on her lips.
Upon closer inspection, one might notice that her chest never rose and fell with her breath. No pulse throbbed in the long, unblemished neck she exposed each time she fiddled with her necklace. And the clothing she wore was authentic; none of the poly-blend fabrics that the staff’s costuming was made of. Here and there, Rose’s seams had come apart and been hand-stitched together again. Here and there, age had altered the color just a bit.
“Isn’t it a gas?” She rocked her head in the other woman’s direction. The toe of her shoe still carried the beat.
( The Genuine Article )
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