John Doe
The Mad Madman
There were many places to hide and disappear in Nar Shaddaa. Hidden places, that only a few had the privilege (or misfortune) of knowing about. The kinds of places where you were welcomed in simply due to the fact that you knew of the existence of the location.
Warehouse 13 was one of those places.
Inside the abandoned building was nothing more than the wreckage of what was there before. Broken machinery there, rusting metal here, nothing special. However, upon reaching the service elevator...
Well, that's were things got more interesting.
Deep in the bowels of Warehouse 13 was a booming nightclub, reserved for only the few and elite of the Smuggler's Moon. The dance floor overflowed with some of Nar Shaddaa's most influential and connected sentients, dancing about to the bass of the music as if there was no tomorrow. Spice, death sticks, and other drugs flowed freely, only serving to amplify one's senses to a titillating point. Openly armed guards patrolled the area, making sure their patrons were not disturbed.
The VIP section only got more interesting.
It was a large room, accommodated by sofas and other furniture devices lying about. A mini-bar was perched against the wall, filled to the brim with every drink one could imagine. There was a tinted one-way window, ensuring the party inside had a great view of the party outside, but not vise-versa.
What was more interesting, though, was the man inside of the VIP room.
John Doe looked out at the dance floor through the viewport, glancing over the bodies squirming and writhing about. He was dressed in his usual purple suit, his green hair slicked back to a sheen, and his chalk-white face adorning the usual smile that bespoke insanity. With him were two guards, the minimum amount of security that the crime lord traveled with. They were seated, silent. They knew that their boss enjoyed these moments as periods of self reflection, as odd as it sounded.
"Look at them....I hate them, each and every one."
The henchmen knew better than to comment. This was one of the few moments where their employer was actually somewhat serious. To interrupt his meditations would provoke the wrath of John Doe, and anyone who had even heard of the man and what he did to people who angered him knew that was a bad idea.
Still, the crime lord wasn't above taking guests who peaked his interest in for a chat. More than a couple of his competent employees were found that way. He could almost smell it, the way they differentiated themselves from the herd, standing out like a sore thumb. So far, he had seen no one of that caliber around yet.
"When will these cattle learn..."
It didn't matter. John had come to Warehouse 13 for one real reason: to reflect on why he did what he did. Why he hated people so much. The pointlessness, the fruitless struggle that was their lives, desperately trying to amount all they could before they keeled over and died. He would show them all one day. One day, he would hear the pleas of the galaxy, begging for mercy, and then he'd drown out those cries with peals of laughter as he showed them how insignificant they really were.
"My, my...I think we have a taker. Tell one of the brainless triggermen this place calls guards to send the tall woman over to the VIP booth. Now."
"You got it, boss."
One of the bodyguards scrambled off. He stepped out of the VIP area and beckoned over a bouncer who wasn't too far away.
"See that tall dame over there? The boss wants her in the VIP booth now."
The bouncer nodded and proceeded through the mass of bodies to reach the woman that the mysterious man who basically owned the VIP section wanted to see...
[member="Farryn Loragwyn"]
Warehouse 13 was one of those places.
Inside the abandoned building was nothing more than the wreckage of what was there before. Broken machinery there, rusting metal here, nothing special. However, upon reaching the service elevator...
Well, that's were things got more interesting.
Deep in the bowels of Warehouse 13 was a booming nightclub, reserved for only the few and elite of the Smuggler's Moon. The dance floor overflowed with some of Nar Shaddaa's most influential and connected sentients, dancing about to the bass of the music as if there was no tomorrow. Spice, death sticks, and other drugs flowed freely, only serving to amplify one's senses to a titillating point. Openly armed guards patrolled the area, making sure their patrons were not disturbed.
The VIP section only got more interesting.
It was a large room, accommodated by sofas and other furniture devices lying about. A mini-bar was perched against the wall, filled to the brim with every drink one could imagine. There was a tinted one-way window, ensuring the party inside had a great view of the party outside, but not vise-versa.
What was more interesting, though, was the man inside of the VIP room.
John Doe looked out at the dance floor through the viewport, glancing over the bodies squirming and writhing about. He was dressed in his usual purple suit, his green hair slicked back to a sheen, and his chalk-white face adorning the usual smile that bespoke insanity. With him were two guards, the minimum amount of security that the crime lord traveled with. They were seated, silent. They knew that their boss enjoyed these moments as periods of self reflection, as odd as it sounded.
"Look at them....I hate them, each and every one."
The henchmen knew better than to comment. This was one of the few moments where their employer was actually somewhat serious. To interrupt his meditations would provoke the wrath of John Doe, and anyone who had even heard of the man and what he did to people who angered him knew that was a bad idea.
Still, the crime lord wasn't above taking guests who peaked his interest in for a chat. More than a couple of his competent employees were found that way. He could almost smell it, the way they differentiated themselves from the herd, standing out like a sore thumb. So far, he had seen no one of that caliber around yet.
"When will these cattle learn..."
It didn't matter. John had come to Warehouse 13 for one real reason: to reflect on why he did what he did. Why he hated people so much. The pointlessness, the fruitless struggle that was their lives, desperately trying to amount all they could before they keeled over and died. He would show them all one day. One day, he would hear the pleas of the galaxy, begging for mercy, and then he'd drown out those cries with peals of laughter as he showed them how insignificant they really were.
"My, my...I think we have a taker. Tell one of the brainless triggermen this place calls guards to send the tall woman over to the VIP booth. Now."
"You got it, boss."
One of the bodyguards scrambled off. He stepped out of the VIP area and beckoned over a bouncer who wasn't too far away.
"See that tall dame over there? The boss wants her in the VIP booth now."
The bouncer nodded and proceeded through the mass of bodies to reach the woman that the mysterious man who basically owned the VIP section wanted to see...
[member="Farryn Loragwyn"]