Death, In All Her Glory

Club 666. A place with a name so cliche that only real locals know that it's actually good--which keeps the posers out. A thoroughly goth-punk joint, as the name implies, where the drinks are cheap, the music is loud, and not wearing at least some black is reason enough to be turned away at the door.

It's just past one in the morning, and the dance floor is thick with goths of every stripe. Vampire goths in pasty makeup and lace, pastel goths gleefully mixing pinks with their blacks, industrial goths sweating heavily under their gas masks. These are your people, and life is good.

As you hang out near the bar, nursing a vodka red bull, the tallest woman you've ever seen cuts through the crowd just in front of you. You're not sure how tall she really is, but considering she's head and shoulders above the dudes...damn. She's got a refreshingly simple style to her, too. Ripped jeans, a black band tee with the jagged logo of some metal group you've never heard of emblazoned on the front, and a mane of wavy, blacker-than-black hair that covers one eye. Her other eye, an arresting shade of silvery gray, scans the crowd--and locks eyes with you.

Before you know it, she's striding towards you, the crowd seeming to part without a single clipped shoulder or spilled drink. As she approaches, you get a good eyeful of her frankly incredible figure. Her tits visibly strain the front of her tee, making the band logo even more illegible than usual for a metal band, and you can practically hear the seams of her jeans groaning with every flex of those wide hips and thick thighs. As she brushes past a gaggle of vamp goths, the hem of her t-shirt flaps up for a moment, revealing just a sliver of tight, pale abs. God. Damn. There's no way she's actually approaching you, right?

Wrong. Suddenly, she's there, towering over you with a smile that says she knew you wouldn't expect this. "Awesome place, huh?" she half-shouts over the music. "First time!" Then she's leaning forward, bringing her face closer, closer, closer to yours until everything around her seems to blur and stop mattering. "The name's Delilah," she says, the smoky husk of her voice coming out full force as she speaks, perfectly audible despite the noise. She extends one big hand towards you. "Care to dance, killer?"

For a split second, you could swear a flash of orange light dances across her steely gray eye. Just a trick of the light.