The Roxy.
Nightclub.
Saloon.
Concert venue.
Two thousand club-goers every weekend. Live bands every two weeks, ranging from future superstars to has-been burnouts.
Two-drink minimum. Everything can be ordered "on the Roxy."
Come inside.
The
bartender can sling bottles behind his back and slide beer mugs around the corners of the bar. He knows what you drink and can have it ready for you before you even ask.
Everyone in the club comes to see him. Everyone wants to talk to him. Everyone wants to be his friend.
He is the King of the Roxy.
The
bouncer lifts weights daily. He knows his way around a
Mag-Lite. He knows how to spot a
concealed weapon, and he knows exactly how hard he's allowed to hit you.
Everyone in the club fears him. Everyone knows not to mess with him. Everyone wants to stay on his good side.
He is the King of the Roxy.
The
dealer hangs out by the restrooms. "Hey, man. Need anything?" He's got
coke,
weed, a little
heroin, a little
crack. He can get more if you need it. If you look suspicious, he won't talk to you, no matter what.
Everyone in the club knows him. Everyone wants his stuff. Everyone gives him money.
He is the King of the Roxy.
The
lead singer bellows from the stage, hair styled, clothes perfect,
charm burning like a 500-watt bulb. The rest of the band doesn't exist -- everyone watches the vocalist. He is a
shaman preaching to a thousand worshipers.
Everyone in the club listens to him. Everyone sings along with him. Every eye is upon him.
He is the King of the Roxy.
Roxanne watches everything from the window of her office overlooking the club.
This is her place.
She is
the Queen.
(originally noded as part of the Prosenoder's Cup 2007)