Tonight... my name is PAIN.

[Jericho Jakoby]

[atrb=width,397,true][atrb=border,0,false][cs=0][bg=000000] The live band atop the stage screamed and banged, creating sounds that most would consider noise. The crashes of the drummers cymbals thrummed through the audience and the massive circle of pain danced while people bled. It was a glorious sight for Jericho. This was why she loved LA. It seemed that even in one of the most snob ridden areas in all of America you could still find a few low lives who likes to watch each other bleed. This is what she lived for. It was gorgeous, their absolute lack of caring. Their hunt for thrills and hopes to get so pulverized that they scar. She couldn't help but admire them. These were her people here at the Diamond Ballroom. From behind the bar she watched the masses thrust into the air with the woman on stage, grinning as she mouthed the words herself. She usually knew the bands that happened to come through this bar... After all she and the manager were old friends from way back when and they always chose the bookings together. She popped open a Budweiser and handed it to the man waiting in line. He handed her a few bills and she took them without a word. Thank god for this job, otherwise she might still be living in her old El Camino parked out back. She nodded to the next customer, a scrawny woman with a bleeding lip. "What'll you have?" She asked, looking at the assortments of liquor she had on the shelves behind her. The woman ordered a simple Rum&Coke and obviously Jericho poured her one quick and easy, sliding it in front of her. She took a seat on one of the open stools, staring at the stage in awe. Jericho frowned, moving to stand in front of her. "You forgot to pay." She said, not completely nicely. The scrawny woman had the gall to look at her as if she were insane. Jericho didn't quite like that; she slapped her backhand on the bar motioning for her to pay up. "Listen lady, I go on break in five. give me my damn money." The scrawny woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a credit card and Jericho very angry pointed at the sign. CASH ONLY "Then I guess I can't pay you." The woman snapped with a snobby smirk. Jericho frowned and yanked the glass out of her hand in the middle of her taking a drink. "Then I guess you don't get a fuckin' drink!" She snapped back, pouring it out in the small sink next to the soda hoses. The woman stood, out raged as usual, demanding to see the manager. Almost as if he'd heard it Johnny strolled down the steps from his upstairs apartment that they shared; looking bone stoned. Jericho glared at him, tossing him her over shirt. "She's your fuckin' problem now!" She cackled tapping her watch and hopping over the bar in ripped jeans and combat boots. Jericho waded through the crowd of jumping men and small group of women. She finally stood at the edge of the circle, licking her lip piercing with anticipation. She'd mosh a bit, and then shove her way to the front for her break. She counted to three and threw her small frame into the punch throwing group of men who circled and charged. One man thought she'd done it on accident and tried throwing her to the side telling her the pit wasn't for women, but he turned his back on her and Jericho was not a nice person. She lunged, kicking him in his lower back as she crawled up his large frame. He grunted and nearly fell over, the big lug. She grinned, circling with the boys, tossing punches here and there; bleeding from the nose. Jericho wiped at her face, and then tossed her clean fist into a mans face; busting his lip wide open. Finally she'd beaten as many as she could before she shoved people around to get to the front of the massive group. She stood at the bar that separated her and the lead singer. Screaming along she closed her eyes and just took in the chaos of it all. This is what her life was. This is what she was. Simply chaos. This was Jerichos' life. Fuck anyone who tried to change it! About 20 minutes later she flung herself out of the masses and jogged back to the bar. Johnny wiped down a mug, frowning at her. She grinned at him, knowing he had a rough time with the dissatisfied scrawny cunt. "Hey, she didn't pay, she didn't drink. You know how I am, John john." He sighed deeply nodding and setting the mug down in front of her. "Still on break, Jericho. What'll you have?" Johnny never ceased to amaze her. He'd just broken his number one rule, bartenders weren't allowed to drink unless a customer bought them a shot or something similar. She raised a blond, pierced, brow. "Just gimme some the bitches drink. I do love Rum and Coke." She cackled, tossing Johnny the bills. He slid them back across the bar. "This ones on me!" Damn she loved livin' in LA. The Count:863 Outfit:here Notes and Stuff:Dont bother useing the outfit thing, as I have yet to find a site with good images of what I want for her.. Thanks to Elyse for this coding.

[Ellie]

Lars wasn't completely sure why he was yet again in California - but here he was… If his short term memory served him right, it was all Giselle, his wife's idea. She wanted to come to the beaches for a vacation or something. They brought the baby - dog - with them, and the little French bulldog mongrel was off with her mother for the night get pampered and fuck knows what else before the trio was to meet up again to actually take in the sea air.

Naturally Lars wound his way into a bar. Honestly where else would this man go? Well, where else is here to go when you're short of company? He rarely traveled to bars with Giselle in tow - mostly because she was a. out of place in his favored environments and b. didn't enjoy the company of a surplus of inebriated humans. Lars didn't mind either, so he always managed his way into one.

They often varied, however, from your standard whole in the wall bar with Flogging Molly on the jukebox with some similarly irish name for the establishment itself - to your darkly lit dance club with strobe lights and heavy bass - to this. This, oh this. This brought back memories. However, he'd be the East coaster in the room to argue that the moshing and music was better and/or heavier in the New York underground. He was particular when it came to his hardcore, though, and what the masses were producing now just didn't cut it for Lars Trell. Lyrics had ceased to matter to these self proclaimed artists, as did any type of emotion. Their was no emotion in pig squealing - humans - nor vampires for that matter - made that kind of fucking noise. It was nothing, and it expressed nothing in Lars's eyes.

But aforementioned, he was picky with his hardcore, and not particularly fond of metal. He bore a Black Flag tattoo nestled among many others on his left arm as well as a Misfits insignia on his left leg - a new piece after his marriage resided on his neck bearing reference to Jawbreaker's "Jinx Removing". He was a musically affluent man, however had no musical talent of his own to speak of, just great taste.

In his younger years he'd leave his criticism at the club door, though, and just get into the cheap gig to release the violent tendencies of teenage angst. He was only twenty five now, perpetually twenty, at that, but figured he shouldn't risk the lives of… everyone in the pit just to slake some nostalgic thirst. Extended strength with being a vampire and all - could be detrimental when hardcore dancing. He kept his desires at bay and resided at the bar indulging in the splendor with his eyes alone.

He'd finished down his drink of scotch on the rocks some minutes ago, his elbows now leaning on the bar as one leg was bent behind the other, his back to the bar and posture slack as he surveyed the crowd. Compared to all the others around him, Lars's body was frigid and solidified into a place of unnatural grace. A cigarette hung idly in one hand that was hung with level at his chest while hazel eyes quietly shifted form the crowd to the new occurrence to his right.

The bartender that had previously served him his drink was having it out with some bloodied up chick that had decided to place herself right next to a vampire. Smart. I'll take a glass of that on ice… he thought idly, his eyes not blinking as the action ensued. Finally the melodramatic bar tender hopped herself over the bar to join the little contained riot and the bar went about as usual. His eyes followed her out of interest, getting her blonde hair lost in the fray of larger men before revisiting it near the front of the crowd.

He soon lost that interest though, and finally moved himself around to ask the new bartender for another, now his elbows were on the bar, his back slightly hunched. The mussy was loud, the drinks were good, the crowd was alright, he was content for the time being.

A few drags of his cigarette and sips of his drink later, the bar-chick showed back up in the empty space the bloodied girl had left after a short exchange with whom Lars guessed was the manager. The two of them exchanged words in which Lars was keen into listening in on - as one could guess, a crowded bar doesn't leave room for secrets, he was practically smashed shoulder to shoulder with his neighbors. Leaning forward a bit more and gripping his small glass in between delicate fingers, Lars smoothed out a few simple words of praise to the manager on his employee, obviously meant for both parties to hear, "I think she deserves a raise."

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THIS IS TAGGED TO JERICHO. ELLIE HAS BEEN LISTENING TO PLACEBO AS SHE WROTE THIS 891 WORD POST HERE WHERE LARS IS WEARING THIS, AND SHE'D ALSO LIKE YOU TO KNOW, oh heyyyy.

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