The nexus of the crisis
And the origin of storms
Just the place to hopelessly
Encounter time, and then came me…
— Astronomy, Blue Oyster Cult
Club Apocalypse is a very fashionable and exclusive restaurant and lounge in New York City, beneath Teese Plaza on the Upper East Side. There is also a stage for musical acts. Most of the clientele are civilians trying to be hip, but the few that are in the know are among the most dangerous in the land. Club Apocalypse is home of the Fate.
It is run by Robert Hubert, who seems to know everyone who comes through the door, and knows if they're worth knowing.
Rumor has it that there are exclusive lower levels to the club, accessible only by VIPs and their guests. The rumors like to say these lower levels have all the sins of hell mixed with all the pleasures of heaven. What would you pay to find out the truth?
Be careful of rhetorical questions.
Marshall Gatten wrote (DGML message 16124):
I know it flies in the face of what everybody else does with it (thrash metal, etc.), but I think of Club Apocalypse as one of those super-chic retro swing bars.
Speakers twenty feet tall like a metal venue, but they're pumping live modern swing - Squirrel Nut Zippers, Brian Setzer, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Ingrid Lucia & the Flying Neutrinos to name a few. The bands always dress like something straight out of Dick Tracy, with primary color dramatic lighting though light stage fog, and people pulling moves on the dance floor that you never see outside a bad movie. The kind of place where the impeccably dressed Stephen Alzis doesn't just fit in perfectly, but defines. A place where every hat on the premises is perfectly cocked, and every shoe shines like a mirror. You could almost imagine a fight breaking out, but it would be a Westside Story dance rumble. Except there are no fights - just the occasional muffled pop of a Derringer in the hands of a stogie-totin' fatman followed by the efficient and seemingly choreographed removal of a body by the waitstaff - without even a beat lost in the music. Bouncers the size of the Governor of California keep a close eye over the place, but seem unneeded as the very idea of raising a ruckus is just anathema to the whole place.
And it always seems like the spot hits the drummer at the beginning of a wild solo just as Alzis walks in.
Of course, once you head downstairs, it's a completely different story.