Owner	Pose
Satana Hellstrom	Some "gentleman's clubs" feign being classy affairs. They have velvet seating, uniformed staff, discreetly-placed and lit tables, fancy stages with complicated production capabilities. They almost, but not quite, disguise to the casual viewer what they really are: a place for men (OK, it's the 21st century, so some women, and some of various other gender expressions) to leer at the nude human form. Chiefly (almost exclusively) female. The Happy Hetaerae Bar & Girl is not such a place. Other locales are bluntly honest about what they are. They're strip clubs, not something effete-sounding. They exist so that the saddest of the sad can spend their last money on watered-down booze to watched coked-up women writhe spasmodically in vague time to the music. (And nine nights out of ten it's Chris de Burgh's magnum opus that 'livens' the joint for a few minutes.) The socially dead flock to these places. The kinds of people who can't form lasting relations with human women. The kind who don't care if others see how pathetic they are because ... well ... only others equally pathetic could see it. This is the sort of place The Happy Hetaerae is. Tonight the clientel is a bit lower than usual. The girl--and she is that, a girl, not a woman--on the stage is writhing ineptly to some ancient '80s glam metal thing about hurricanes. Not that anybody cares. They're not looking at her body's motion. They're looking at her body. The tragically socially inept, staring with glassy, alcohol-infused eyes, looking not just at the body, but parts of the body. And that part isn't the face where they might see that poor Estelle (stage name, real name: Linda) is struggling to make ends meet while she does distance learning to get her GED in a bid to rise above herself. The place is so by-the-numbers for one of these joints it might actually take time to notice the one thing that doesn't fit in: the terribly attractive, saucily-clad woman, sitting in the middle of the place and yet somehow not being noticed. The woman that those with certain forms of second or third sight can see radiating in all directions with ... alarming, shall we call it? ... signs.
Constantine	It's five o'clock somewhere on the planet. And if people can be time pieces, John Constantine's facial hair is standing in for such. Finding himself on the threshold of The Happy Hetaerae felt like a natural progression for how his conscious day had taken him. The trickle down of efforts made on the behalf of himself, and some for others, felt like how socks feel after running a race. How the carpet might look of a well-trod seedy establishment catering to some base needs. John's well-worn shoes scrape their soles experimentally, not unlike a zombie reanimating and considering the turf of the graveyard before setting off in search of sustenance. John has to raise his gaze to avoid brushing up against patrons he passes on the way to secure some liquid sustenance. The cigarette threatening to singe his lip leaks out curls of smoke that seem reluctant to be snatched into the Bar, coiling up amongst his hair and trying to make his eyes tear up. A mumbled request for his poison of choice in a blurry glass and he's offering forth a crumple of bills he hopes are in the right denomination for the locale. A quick murmer and slight of hand to hopefully put a bit of glam to make them appear less...soiled. He didn't come out of the last dimension unscathed, dripping with Soggy Yoggoths, and the quick douse to try and rid himself of the worst contaminating filth made him suitable to cohabitate with mortals, but its hard to get it all out to more sensitive sniffers and snoofs. "Feeh." He gives himself a sniff beneath the overcoat and can't quite remove the eldritch whatthefeck. Now hang on. Another sniff and a rapid blinking of eyes. There's something here that's way more head-turning, pucker-clenching, hair-raising and goose-pimpling than unspeakable things that go boop in the night. The woman. Wait, not a woman. "Cor." John heads on over to that island of isolation and aura of the Other. There's more spring in his step, less so than a man named Jack, but nimble. Funny how some beings will be so magnet and provide some assistance with mobility. He gives his drink a small circular swirl and saunters on up. "Evening Luv."
Satana Hellstrom	Satana's finger goes up in a 'hold on' gesture, her eyes riveted in the direction of the stage. Leaning forward in her seat, she stares with intentness that would make a jaguar preparing for the final death leap take pause and back down. Linda's dance reaches its inevitable climax: the final piece of clothing is dropped and she gyrates her hips around, parading her Hollywood conscience for all to see. Satana's eyes drink in the spectacle at the stage. "Wonderful..." she murmurs, a cruel smile forming over her face. "All the usual. Infidelity. Wrathful excursions. But ... is that a bouquet of child abuse? Spousal abuse?" The grin widens, but it's not a grin of joy or amusement. It's a predator's baring of teeth. And it's increasingly clear her eyes aren't glued on the woman. They're glued on one of the customers. She takes in a deep breath, then releases it as a shuddering sigh as she appears ot experience the little death. "Sorry," she finally says, looking up at John. "I was picking out ..." Her eyes fill with malicious mischief. "... my next date." She looks John up and down, while gesturing him to a chair. "You saw past the ocular beguilement. Impressive." She tilts her head and, with eyes that have the visible signs of Hellfire deep in the pupils looks John up and down again. "Ah," she says, nodding. "The safe one. Your skills are as formidable as your reputation affords. I'm pleased to meet you. Just ... please stay approximately three metres from me. I don't want to get caught in the radius of a thunderbolt."
Constantine	John eyes Satana, and that upraised finger makes him open his mouth to keep going, but he's held in check. It grates on his nerves some, because being on the receiving end is something he's not accustomed to. A muscle in his cheek twitches and he feels inclined to pay attention to the stage at first. Beneath his lowered brows, he takes stock of Linda and pays more attention to the way she wraps up her act. He's not immediately zeroed in on what Satana is taking stock of, and he really should have been quicker. Another irritable scritching at another nerve. It feels like running a fingernail over a rusty spoon. He grunts. Yeah, over there, that /meal/ that seems so squalid to him but what is succulent is in the eye of the beholder. Stupid John, slow John, catching up and straightening his spine as he takes a deep breath even as Satana is having her sigh. Sucking in oxygen while she's experiencing something he cannot. He takes a sip of whiskey, applying that questionable sanitizing liquid down his throat to burn away this and that. A swallow and he salutes the far off future soul-suck with an upraised glass, murmuring too low for the Mark to hear, "Better clear out before you're turned out, mate." He's settling himself down in the chair, glancing about him and trying to fit himself into the seat, letting it take the weight of more than his previous endeavours. The tension in his limbs is something he's trying to keep from Satana, trying to put on a very calm as a cucumber posture. Unflappable and unconcerned with the place and the people. It's a challenge. "It was good. It's better than that, but it don't do to fawn or boast does it?" He side-eyes to try and catch a glance of what's going on with those eyes. Trick of the light or hint of barely tapped powers, it's an arresting effect. John takes in a breath and lets out a sigh that's less contented than what he heard earlier. "No need to apologize by the way. When you swim in a shark tank, wouldn't be right if I make a fuss for what's on the menu, would it?" He offers a toothy smile, wriggling his toes.
Satana Hellstrom	"You're more civil than your reputation holds." Satana spins a finger in the air and begins a complicated process that starts with the barman abandoning whatever he is doing at the moment and culminates in two drinks' arrival in the near future. The nature of the drinks is being held back until the moment of the arrival as a source of mild tension in the reader. Why this should be a source of tension is itself part of the tension. Please do be patient. "You have a reputation, Mr. Constantine," Satana says, now that the show is over and her next meal has been selected from the smorgasbord. "And forgive me ... but ... that reputation includes ... How shall I put this? ... activities that would be a very unpleasant bit of inconvenience for me. So I must ask, if you don't mind answering, are you here by good fortune or are you here on business?" While she has been speaking her fingers have been twisting subtly under the table. John's third eye, such as it is, however, can clearly read eldritch forces ramping up, feeling like some kind of barrier being prepared. He probably even knows the spell; it's a fairly basic, albeit powerful in her case, countermagic shield. And her delivery of the final power words are due in approximately fifteen seconds. "Your drinks." The surly bartender slides a cognac glass in front of Satana. "Here you go, boss." The other drink comes in a classic martini glass. Dry gin. Maraschino liqueur. Creme de violette. Lemon juice. And in it floated a single drop of castor oil. "Your Ad Astra." Counting on John to be distracted for the key final syllables, Satana intones "Te Mura Tio", and should they land before John tries to interfere, he'll find a barrier between them. The kind of barrier that hurts to cross.
Constantine	Being recognized is another red flag, and John lifts his chin, his mouth stretching in a grimace. His head bows forward like he suddenly needed to check if his fly was undone. His free hand goes up to the back of his neck to rake nails along it. That kind of self-touch meant to hit the old reset switch on the way things are going. Akin to smacking the cheeks when trying to stay awake on a long-distance drive. All it seems to accomplish is feeling like a ferret is clambering up his back. The work of mystical forces at play have him raising his visible eyes to stare towards the beautiful woman with the hellfire capable eyes. It's well-played, the name-drop, drink-drop off, ladling a buffet of different points of interest to keep his wrong-footed on his ass to interfere with Satana's self-protection with DMZ in place. What a night. His stomach clenches at the name. He can't help it, practically pavlovian response, deep ingrained and sensitive as heck. "A reputation, luv? Oh don't believe everything you hear." He has to rummage in his jacket for a cigarette, making a play of really having to look. It's kinda trashy to sleight-of-hand in the face of real magic, but he does it anyways, producing a cigarette as if from behind his ear when there was none before. It's not even hedge magic, just flourish more fitting a Party. Though he does use a little something non-conventional to light it up. His newer cigarette is gestured towards the barrier but does not cross it. "You've got me all wrong, see? I'm a real gentleman. I even scrubbed the bottom of my feet and gave myself a quick tug at the door before coming in." He offers another smile and takes a deep drag at his cigarette. His exhale isn't full of complete relaxation but he makes a show of loving life. "Not business, but can I call it good fortune? I never was good at crystal balls. Sure as sure I've smashed a few, so I understand some...Aww, heck, no inconvenience meant. Nothing too unpleasant...if I can help myself." he offers with a mischievious glint. "So long as I'm allowed to leave with all my limbs later." He sucks through his teeth, using his sight to really take a good gander at that spell. He offers a low rising and falling whistle. "Hard to shake hands or tip my hat without limbs, or get about. I'm a bad penny but maybe I've turned up here due to dumb luck."
Satana Hellstrom	The redhead in leather that covers all the wrong places stares at John silently a while as she sips her cognac. **DANGER JOHN CONSTANTINE! DO NOT LOOK INTO HER EYES! DANGER! DANGER!** That's what the part of John's brain that fears predators screams once the part that recognizes the same identifies that overwhelming sense of psychic pressure the woman brings to bear. And then it's gone. The eldritch barrier vanishes into whence it came, though a scrap of it sears John's hand as it lightly touches it in part of its dissolution. "I'm going to be so disappointed if I've misjudged you," Satana says. She reaches out a hand for a shake. Or ... given how she's holding it ... she wants him to kiss it? There's no signet ring... "Satana Hellstrom. Of the Boston Hellstroms," she says half-truthfully. She pauses a heartbeat. "I own this establishment." She'll let him guess about the rest. He's probably guessed with reasonable certainty the 'succubus' angle ... but how much more does he know? "I'm positively going to adore finding out..." she murmurs to herself, letting John wonder what that is in response to.