<div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Calhar2.png)</div><hr/><strong>Name:</strong>W. Adam “Harry” Harris<br/><strong>Location:</strong>in line outside<br/><strong>With:</strong>everyone waiting to get in<br/><hr/><br/>Harry was trying. Trying hard. And by the standards of his recently departed hometown, he looked good. He would have gotten into the Lab’, rest its black soul, or City Club or Motor or Inferno or Luna, or gods help us the Neck on goth night, without a blink. But this was L.A., the real deal, and he felt a little intimidated by some of the other clubgoers.<br/><br/>He’d spent more than an hour getting ready. Hair dyed black with dashes of midnight blue, tousled in a wet look. Pale foundation but not chalk-white, dark gray mascara, a single curlicue twisting out from his black eyeliner and gray highlights. Cologne from BPAL: “a thin edge of copper cutting through scents of leather, musk and graveyard dirt.” Black cotton canvas shirt with glossy black PVC military-style strap details and oversized French cuffs, rolled back and closed with silver-and-onyx skull cufflinks. Black-and-white digicam cargo pants, not too baggy. Tall distressed steel-toed boots. Mil-goth never went out of style and he had the body shape for it. Some of these people, though, some of them had spent a thousand or more on their outfits. He’d gotten his shirt on sale for $55 and worked overtime to pay for it.<br/><br/>Would the bouncer laugh? Sneer? Make him wait an hour while more fashionable, beautiful or recognizable patrons strolled past? Or would he just check Harry’s ID and wave him inside?<br/><br/>Fuck him, anyway. Harry was here to see the DJs, not the club. DJ Solanum and DJ Swanmay, spinning as “Monochrome Twins,” were hotter than fire right now, hotter than plutonium, and he wanted to catch the sound. They wouldn’t start until midnight, but he’d be waiting in line forever if he came that late; better to come early, drop a bit more on drinks, dance some, chill some, and maybe get a chance to talk shop with one of the warm-ups. He had his business cards ready to show, should that opportunity arise, which it wouldn’t but if it did and he wasn’t prepared he’d look like an idiot.<br/><br/>Nervously he straightened his cuffs, watching the huge bouncer move down the line, tossing this one out, interrogating that one. The closer the big man came, though, the less nervous Harry got. He was in his element, right? He was DJ Adam Kadmon and one day he was going to headline at Treffen, so watch out L.A., your new Dark Lord is making the scene tonight.<br/><br/>Shit, was his fly zipped? He knew it was, did not let himself check, no OCD tics tonight. Instead he touched the jet-and-snakebone pin his little sister had made him as a going-away present, pinned above his left breast pocket. “Good luck charm,” she’d said, “or maybe a bad luck charm for anyone who stands in your way.” He smiled a little, thinking about it. So cute.<br/><br/>DJ Adam Kadmon. Making the scene. Yeah.