This is a partner search thread. My introduction post is below. PM me if you're interested in playing. We'll come up with ideas. Era: Modern Day. Location: Chicago, Il. Primary Character: Jonas Quinn Once, it had all seemed so surreal, like life was a storybook. There was one part there, in my youth, I was truly afraid that I would wake up to some mediocre life in some broken home in the projects. I remember talking to my best friend at the time, James, about it. Its funny how when you’re young, the status of friendship holds more sway than the doctorial diploma sitting on someone else’s wall. We decided, between the two of us, that I was simply afraid of losing, a fear that we, in our infinite adolescent wisdom, had declared to be totally irrational and unfounded. It is truly amazing how age changes your perspective on things. Because here I am, nearly twenty years later, and I have finally awoken from the dream, into a broken home, and I dare say I am quite devastated by the realization that my dream has finally come to an end. I blame contentment, as much as I blame myself for my failure. I just couldn’t see why anyone in our situation would have wanted more. So take some advice, all our you out there with something, or someone to lose. Open your god-damned eyes, and take a look around you. You may notice the songbirds you thought were signing praises to your glorious life turn out to be Poe’s Raven in the end. Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” --Jonas Quinn. He sat in stillness for a moment, red, blood shot eyes staring at the laptop’s screen as he re-read his blog entry a final time, before tapping the thumb pad, submitting the submission into cyberspace. That piece of his soul bared, that open, festering wound placed on display for anyone knowledgeable of him or his blog could read, dissect, judge. It was the critics he welcomed the most, forcing him to protect himself from their assaults was an exercise in self-image that Jonas had found to be quite fruitful in the past. “And I’ll be damned if I don’t need some now,” he spoke, more to himself than to anyone else, as he pressed closed the laptop, before picking up his glass of whiskey from the pile of bar napkins it was resting on. He took a sip of the cool, watered liquid, still feeling the familiar and somewhat glorious burn of Crown Royal as it slide down his throat to light its fire, and fume up his nostrils. The warmth was almost as intoxicating as the alcohol would be if he had managed to finish more than one drink in the hour he had been sitting in the club. But he wasn’t there for the drinks. If he wanted to get smashed, he could do it at his apartment. Lord knows he had enough whiskey on hand. Tonight was because the walls had started to close in, the darkness became too permanent, and at midnight, when work had began to look too much like Egyptian hieroglyphs, and less like pearl-code, he had decided a change of venue was necessary. He came here looking for life, and excitement. Anew form of high. What he had found was loud music, rowdy jeers, and a bowel of stale pretzels, the last of which he popped into his mouth as he took another look around the smoke filled club. Here, the young and beautiful creatures of the night came to service those willing to pay a modest fee for their attention. A place of dreams, where men of all walks of life come to imagine themselves fortunate enough to have attracted the attention of one whose body is pristine, whose attitude is eager to please, and whose tongue is removed of all the venom and hatred a long, sustained relationship can bestow upon it. Like he, these fellows take part in a dream, and however kindly, these women limit exposure to just ten minutes a time. Admirable, given the circumstances. “Another drink,” the saint in charge of his night had offered, to which he simply smiled, passed the watered down remains of his double crown on the rocks to her, while allowing his amber eyes a complimentary pass over the bare skin offered in advertisement of the dream. In the end, she was quite beautiful, even if she does have a jagged scar lightly showing on the left side of her abdomen that ran at an unnatural slat for a few inches before terminating into pristine, soft looking skin. “Yes please,” Jonas spoke in a soft voice, amongst the loud music and rowdy calls of the men gathered around the characteristic silver pole center of the room. He was sure his voice wouldn’t carry, and he was sure she didn’t care what he had said at that moment, as long as it didn’t concern the words lap dance, or back room, she was paid only to smile and giggle in response. Jonas watched her go, sitting back to allow himself to enjoy each step she took as she set out after his drink, before exhaling a breath in a tired groan, and passing a wide, broad hand over the short, black hair on his head. His pocket vibrated, and from it he pulled out his phone, sliding his finger across the face to unlock the screen. The multi-tone blue and green background that came pre-equipped on the phone stared at him from beneath its lattice of apps, with a small icon up in the top left corner to alert him of the text he had just received. He scratched at the days’ worth of stubble on his chin as he debated reading the message, and finally giving in to curiosity, Jonas pulled it up. A ten digit phone number greeted him, with a single phrase below: “Call me - Heather”. With something of an amused grin on his face, Jonas stood from the table, leaving his laptop sitting hidden by his jacket, to let the waitress know that he’d be coming back, he stepped out to the parking lot. The light night’s weather bit at him as he stepped into the damp night. The falling dew making everything smell of dirty rain, collecting in the potholes in the paved, ill repaired parking lot. He dialed the phone, raised it up to his head, and before the first ring even finished, a man’s voice spoke out to him. “You know Jonas, I can’t believe you. Running off to a strip club in the middle of the night and not telling your boy here,” the voice spoke, a mock sense of betrayal about his tone. “It was late,” Jonas excused, “and you have to work in the morning and…” “And nothing,” the retort came, “you know I’m always down for tits and ass man. This is a major faux pa in our friendship.. Its against the code.” “How the hell did you even know,” Jonas asked. “Its wasn’t hard. Katie posted a picture of your car out front about an hour ago to facebook. Guess she was just driving by. Damn man, is she hot. I’d read you the comments she made, but I don’t think you’re old enough for the language,” Daniel’s tone changed, letting go of the joviality. “But don’t worry man, I got your back. I told her you were with me, and that it was my idea. And you’re welcome.” “Thanks Dan,” Jonas spoke after a moment, letting settle just how close that shit storm had come. Undoubtedly Katie wasn’t going to believe it, but with a alibi in Daniel, and his continued denial that he wasn’t alone, perhaps he could escape this mess pretty much unscathed. After all, he was just blowing some steam… it shouldn’t hurt anybody. “Hey listen, I gotta get out of here, and to bed. I’ll see you at work tomorrow man. And thanks.” The call died, and Jonas dropped his I-phone back into the pocket of his black trousers, rubbing his hands over his shirt sleeves to pass some warmth through to his arms, to fight off the cool night’s chill. He surveyed the parking lot a moment, taking in the few people who had, for one reason or another, come out of the club and into the chill night as he dug back in his pants pocket, pulling out a half smoked pack of Marlboro Reds. He took one out, hung it from his lips, and leaned into the lighter as he lit it up. He leaned back against the wall, the rough brick cold through the blue cotton of his shirt. He inhaled the smoke, enjoying the warmth in his lungs, feeling it pass through his blood in a moment of calm, before exhaling out through his nostrils, and into the night.