#Assessment of how much they were paying cops in bribes to come

[divinekangaroo]

[bysombreseas]

The Dusk Patrol - Chapter One Excerpt

Authour’s Note: 

The first two thousand words or so of my WIP, a little scene where our protagonists are introduced and roles are established. Hope you all enjoy!

Taglist: @aurisadventure , @adayforducks , @danielleslayer , @wordsofpaintandsmoke , @smudged-glasses-writing

Episode 1 – Nightwalkers

It was only when the sun fell that Hope City lit up. Neon flames danced to the pounding chorus that spilled from club doorways and underground raves. The orderly suits of the business sector gave way to brightly dressed youths and drunken partygoers. Beer and blood and drugs beckoned from every doorway, while on the street a thousand honking taxis fought to push through endless gridlock.

There was a lot of crime in Hope City. Beyond the dazzling wealth of its tourist sector lay ramshackle neighborhoods and creeping decay. Hope was two cities, really; one was for the tourists, and the other, much poorer and far more violent, for its permanent residents.

It was in this second city that Dusk Patrol cadet Wren Nichang found herself, her police trainee badge flashing white every time she passed beneath a streetlight. The wind had started to pick up, ruffling her bob cut and sending a chill across her bare arms. It got cold quick at night, even in the summer.

Her mentor tonight was Brian Okave, six foot five and built like a steamroller. The Faith’s golden halo hung around his neck, though Wren couldn’t imagine him as the kind of man who prayed. Everything else about his uniform was standard Dusk Patrol; one Gaea L56 sidearm, one crackling walkie-talkie, a UV-capable flashlight and two clips of hollow-point bullets. Okave was one of the best mentors on the force and Wren was hoping she’d be assigned to shadow him for her training period. It was hard to tell if Okave reciprocated the feeling. There was a veneer of calm about him that rarely broke, even when he raised his voice.

“Nichang. Situational assessment.”

They were in a quieter part of town, the buildings ramshackle and the streetlights few and far between. It wasn’t a place that outsiders visited often, a hidden slum just blocks from one of the city’s biggest concert halls. “There are no cars in sight,” Wren said, squinting as she peered into the darkness. “Fence behind us isn’t short enough to jump. The houses across the street are too close together for there to be alleyways. There’s only one person in the immediate area, leaning against that streetlight. I assume that’s our contact.”

“Good eyes,” said Okave. “Professional assessment. Keep your guard up nonetheless. This is a bad part of town and some nightwalkers are very good at hiding.”

The wind picked up, a soft howling that competed with the distant city noises for attention. As they crossed the street, Wren folded her arms and wished she’d remembered to bring her jacket. “Sir?” she ventured. “Shouldn’t we be wearing plainclothes?”

“We should, yes.”

“Then why–”

“Department rules, Nichang. You’ll see when you meet her.”

“Oh.” Wren frowned. Suspense was never a good thing. “Have you known her for long?

“Several months. I met Anderson on a case. She was mugged on her way home, broke the poor bastard’s arm in three places. I brought up a murder I was working on and she gave me a name. Been my contact ever since.” There was a note of pride in Okave’s voice.

Wren nodded, unsure what to make of that. “With all due respect, sir, I didn’t realize the Dusk Patrol kept informants. None of my previous mentors had any.” Wren left out that her previous mentors hadn’t been too interested in casework. The mentors only got one night with each cadet before putting down names for permanent assignment, and most spent that time getting to know the trainees instead of doing actual policing. Wren–who couldn’t hold a conversation if it was glued to her hands–had spent the last two weeks red-faced and mumbling as each mentor’s initial enthusiasm faded into awkward silence.

“We don’t,” Okave replied to Wren’s query. “This is a special case.”

The figure waved at their approach. A girl, around a year younger than Wren, maybe eighteen. She wore an oversized sweater with the hood pulled up, torn jeans, and fingerless gloves. Her shoes were cheap knockoffs with a brand name like Noke or Jordens. Her face was drawn and pale, feral almost, her short brown hair so ragged and messy Wren was sure that she’d cut it herself with a dull knife and no mirror.

“Brian,” the girl said. Her voice was low. “Who’s the Asian chick?”

“Don’t call me that,” Wren scowled. She was an addict of some sort, that much was certain. Probably wearing the sweater to hide the marks in her arms–though from needles or teeth it was impossible to say. It wasn’t unheard of for people to give themselves up as blood banks, even if feeding was illegal outside of approved centres. Then again there’s the other possibility. She’s one of them.

“Sure thing cutie,” said the girl, with a smile. “I’m Anderson. Ann for short. Brian you didn’t answer my question.”

“Her name is Wren. She’s my shadow for the evening.”

“That’s cool, that’s cool. What am I here for? And I know you’re gonna say ‘the murder of course’ but which one? Cops gunned down three nightwalkers on Cinder Street–”

“Official statement is they drew first.”

“Cross that off. There’re some dead people in a hotel. I think it was a murder-suicide, but I don’t know much. Heard it was gruesome–blood and wax everywhere. Pretty spooky.”

“We want to know about this man.” Okave drew a rumpled photograph from his pants pocket and passed it to the girl. She looked it over, pursing her lips. “Try to remember, would you? I’m sure it can be worth your while.”

Wren watched the interaction from behind Okave. Dusk Patrol was weird in that way; for some things you had complete autonomy and others none. It was probably a rule somewhere you had to wear uniforms when talking to informants. Something about ‘maintaining a position of authority’. They were big on that stuff, pride before practicality.

The autonomy though. Only in the Dusk Patrol could you park your squad car two blocks away, walk to some crap-sack neighborhood and offer a lowlife a bribe without calling any of it in. Then again, when every case was an assault or murder, the criminals were monstrous nightwalkers and officer mortality rates were high enough that a sizeable part of the budget went to paying off life insurance, for most the perks weren’t worth the risk.

“I think I’ve seen him before.” The girl’s voice grew in confidence with each syllable. “Yeah, he was at Iris last Saturday. Bought a drink or two.”

“Iris?” Wren asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s a nightwalker club.” Anderson smiled, a big smile, large enough to show incisors. “I am a vampire.”

Wren stared and Okave sighed and Anderson’s wide smile grew wider.

“Let’s get back on topic here,” said Okave. “We know the guy was at Iris. I wouldn’t be here talking to you if we didn’t know that–”

“I work drinks,” Anderson explained to Wren.

“–so clearly I’m looking for more. Who was he? What did he do? Where did he go?”

“Why does it matter?”

Okave sighed again, running a dark hand over his forehead. “Because he’s been dead two days. We found his body in a dumpster on Queens. Throat slashed, drained dry. He had no wallet, no ID, and we’re waiting on forensics to match his prints. Autopsy came back yesterday; shows he wasn’t a nightwalker.”

“And then you started caring.” Anderson’s voice took on an edge. And that’s why we don’t have informants, Wren thought. To say the relationship between nightwalkers and the Dusk Patrol was poor would have been the understatement of the century. They hate us.

“I just do my job,” Okave said flatly. “The case came on my desk yesterday. A witness placed the guy somewhere in Iris’s vicinity, so I figured I’d talk to you.”

“Well I don’t know his name,” said Anderson. “But I know what he was.”

“That’s a start.”

Anderson scratched the back of her neck. If she felt threatened by the two officers she did not show it. My first vampire, Wren thought. Not entirely true, as she had seen other nightwalkers during training. Behind cells, though, or in interrogation rooms. Anderson was out in the wild. She was different than what Wren had expected. Cocky and rude, but not entirely unfriendly. How does it come so easily to her, that confidence? I wish I had that.

“He was a familiar,” Anderson was saying. “Your shadow know what I’m talking about?”

Okave looked to Wren, who was still staring. “Well?”

“Oh. Uh, they’re humans that want to be nightwalkers, right? Vampires usually.”

“It’s like a fetish,” Anderson chuckled. “He came up to the counter and asked for a beer. I think it was an excuse to make small talk; you should have seen his face when I told him my age. He asked my name, but I already knew where this was going. I told him I wasn’t interested in that sort of arrangement.”

“Blood for money?” Wren asked.

“Providence no, it’s blood for love. It’s blood so maybe a vampire might take you into their home, or even illegally turn you if you’re lucky.”

“I see.” Wren fought to keep her face blank. The thought of willingly letting a vampire drink her blood was a repulsive one, but she didn’t want to offend Anderson. “Does it happen often?”

This time it was Okave who answered. “Rarely, and rarer still the authorities don’t find out. There’s always the danger of ending up with an abusive vampire, or a pathological liar that just wants you for blood. That said, not that all vampires are manipulative, nor are nightwalkers in general–”

“Aw shut up,” Anderson interrupted. “Always with that PC bullshit. Anyways, I told the guy I wasn’t interested, and he left. To be honest I’m not too surprised he’s dead; dude was naïve, nervous. Probably his first time out.”

“Did you see him with anyone?” Okave asked, but the vampire just shrugged.

“Come on, Brian, it’s a busy place. It’s hard to make out faces in a crowd.”

Okave stuck a hand in his pants pocket and came out with a few bills. He let the glow from the streetlight catch on them. “How about these faces?”

Anderson snatched the money. She was almost a head smaller than Okave, her thin form dwarfed in his shadow. “Yeah, I recognize them. I remember your dead man too. Saw him leave with a woman, some ‘crat.”

“You have a name?”

Anderson shook her head. “No, she’s new, but I know the guy she was drinking with. His name is Tim Gossel.”

Gossel, she explained, had been turned legally at a government center when he was eighteen, one of the last before they got shut down. He was a college student and, Anderson added, a ‘hippy’. Wants to ban silver bullets and reopen turning centres. Thinks the Dusk Patrol and the Faith are evil. To Wren he sounded much worse than a hippy; he was a radical with dangerous views. No doubt he thought nightwalker criminals were all good people as well, victims of culture and circumstance and societal pressures.

At least she doesn’t think much of him either, Wren mused. The contempt in Anderson’s voice was palpable. “I didn’t think he was violent,” the vampire was saying. “Though I bet he’d take a swing at me if he knew I talk to you guys.”

It occurred to Wren just how risky Anderson’s actions were. People like Gossel were rife in Hope; no doubt they would consider speaking to the police some form of betrayal. “Does that worry you?” she asked, feeling a note of concern for the slouching girl.

“Fuck no I’d kick his scrawny ass,” Anderson laughed. “Kid’s three, I’m a hundred– Wren, are you alright? Your eyes just got real fuckin’ large again.”

“She’s fine,” Okave said. “If you don’t have anything else, I think we’re done here.”

“Fine by me.” Anderson straightened, adjusting her hood. “Nice to meet you, Wren. See you around sometime.”

Wren managed a quiet ‘bye’ as the girl walked past them, out of the streetlight and into the shadows. She closed her eyes, trying to clear her thoughts. She’s a vampire. The Dusk Patrol is supposed to kill her kind, and werewolves, and demons, and ghouls, and any kind of nightwalker that makes trouble. But she doesn’t care, no, she’s our friend. And she’s a hundred, plus what, the seventeen, eighteen years she was human? Did she call me cute?

Providence, she did. That’s so cool.

[nigeiadigitalmarketingcompany]

CalPERS in Bed With Jeffrey Epstein Client and Co-Investor, Apollo’s Leon Black Even After Apollo Pay-to-Play Scandal Led to Conviction and Jail Term for Former CalPERS CEO

Digital Elixir CalPERS in Bed With Jeffrey Epstein Client and Co-Investor, Apollo’s Leon Black Even After Apollo Pay-to-Play Scandal Led to Conviction and Jail Term for Former CalPERS CEO

CalPERS, which has endeavored to wrap itself in the mantle of ESG virtue-signalling, now finds itself embarrassed by its connection to Leon Black, the founder and long-standing head of private equity heavyweight Apollo, who in turn is more than trivially connected to sex offender Jeffrey Epstein, whose misdeeds are now coming under renewed scrutiny.

It’s telling that image-above-substance-sensitive CalPERS is bothered by being tainted by being one of many limited partners in Apollo funds, when it chose to look past lasting institutional damage done to CalPERS when a pay-to-play scandal that had Apollo providing the overwhelming majority of the dodgy money led to the conviction of former CEO Fred Buenrostro for bribery. Yet, as the letter embedded at the end of this post shows, CalPERS’ attorney Robert Khinda of Steptoe & Johnson, who headed the whitewash investigation of the pay-to-play affair, the giant fund took a fawning posture towards Apollo in accepting a settlement proposal from Apollo that may never have been properly papered up or accounted for.1 And more important, it looks likely that CalPERS got shortchanged on the fee reductions it was promised.

But back to the current scandal, which has a Master of the Universe looking like he’s been caught with his pants down. Not only is Leon Black’s name in Epstein’s infamous black book, but Epstein was an “original trustee” of the Leon Black Family Foundation, dating from 1997. Black has attempted to disavow state filings that reported Epstein as still on the board through 2012, years after Epstein pleaded guilty in 2008 to solicitation of prostitution. Black has tried claiming that the filings were in error and Epstein left the board in 2007.

Even less credible are Black’s claims about his relationship with Epstein. Bloomberg published a story earlier this week, Jeffrey Epstein Had a Door Into Apollo: His Deep Ties With Leon Black, which depicted Black as having permitted Epstein to solicit other Apollo executives for his “personal tax strategies”. The Bloomberg piece was clearly based on inside accounts. The article also had a section on CalPERS’ hand-wringing:

“Calpers takes this issue very seriously,” Wayne Davis, a spokesman for the Sacramento-based pension, said in an email last week. “The actions our general partners take, both in professional and private contexts, impact our assessment of which firms we desire as long-term partners. We consider any issue, including reputational risk, a serious matter if it impacts a firm’s ability to be successful.”

He said Tuesday that the pension fund is “in the process of contacting Apollo to discuss this.”

All CalPERS can do is make sanctimonious noises. The idea that Black would do anything other than repeat his official story is ludicrous. One wonders who CalPERS thinks will be impressed by its efforts to have a tea and cookies chat with Black about his poor taste in friends. Dumping its stakes in Apollo funds on the secondary market would come at a very high cost, particularly given how much CalPERS would need to unload.

But for CalPERS to act like some sort of naif about Black and Apollo and cop that had every reason to think Black was an upstanding guy is laughable. Not only is chicanery the default in private equity (see numerous articles about how the industry rips off investors, as well as SEC fines and disgorgements, including by Apollo) but Apollo was at the center of the bribery scandal from which CalPERS has yet to recover.

And there would be quite a lot to discuss if Black could be persuaded to be candid. Black claims that he turned to Epstein for professional advice on taxes, philanthropy, and estate planning. Why would someone like Black turn to Epstein, who has no training and no demonstrable basis for claiming expertise, when Black and Apollo have access to the top professionals, including tax attorneys who could treat discussions as attorney-client privileged?2

However, Black sent a letter to Apollo limited partners, which quickly made its way to journalists. Black also read it out loud on the Apollo earnings call earlier this week. It didn’t seem to do much to assuage doubts. For instance, the New York Times pointed out:

Mr. Black described his relationship with Mr. Epstein as one largely limited to tax strategy, estate planning and philanthropic advice.

“I want to emphasize that Apollo has never done any business with Mr. Epstein at any point in time,” Mr. Black said in his letter, a copy of which was reviewed by The New York Times.

Most important, he wrote, “I was completely unaware of, and am deeply troubled by, the conduct that is now the subject of the federal criminal charges brought against Mr. Epstein.”

But so far, Mr. Black has not discussed a company that he and his four children — as well as Mr. Epstein — invested in three years after Mr. Epstein pleaded guilty to a charge of soliciting prostitution from a minor in Florida. Mr. Epstein’s financial advisory firm took a roughly 6 percent equity stake in Environmental Solutions Worldwide in 2011. Two of Mr. Black’s sons serve on the board of the company, which makes emission control products, according to the company website.

Similarly, from Dan Primack at Axios:

Leon Black yesterday spoke publicly for the first time about his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein, in response to a question from JPMorgan analyst Ken Worthington.

He mostly just read, verbatim, the letter sent last week to Apollo employees (which is quite similar to a letter Apollo sent yesterday to its limited partners).

But he also said:

“There has been a virtual tsunami in the press on the subject. It’s seems to be the gift that never stops giving. For the press, it’s salacious. It involves elements of of politics of me too, of rich and powerful people and and my guess is it will continue for a while.”

I can’t speak for other media, but my interest in this story isn’t because it’s salacious or because Leon Black is rich. It’s because he continues to refuse to answer a central question about judgement ⁠— why he donated $10 million years after Epstein plead guilty ⁠— and Black’s judgement is a big part of what Apollo sells its shareholders and limited partners and portfolio companies. So, yeah, this will continue for a while.

Back to CalPERS. Let’s look at the key section of the deal that Black offered to CalPERS to make up for a pay-to-play fee that was so ginormous that it looked like a bribe, and some of that money did go to CalPERS CEO Fred Buenrostro in cash in paper bags.3

We’ll charitably assume this flimsy commitment was firmed up and properly commemorated.

Notice how this section twice refers to funds managed “solely for CalPERS”. That means a dedicated fund, not a “co-mingled” fund, meaning the common form of private equity fund. These dedicated funds are called “separately managed accounts”.

If you look at the list of CalPERS’ current Apollo investments, you’ll see only one that looks like a separately managed account, the 2007 “Apollo Special Opportunities Managed Account.”

In theory, there might have been other separately managed accounts in 2010 that were liquidated since then, but the fact that Apollo hans’t wound up 1998 and 2001 funds makes that seem unlikely.

The Apollo proposal says it agrees to reduce its “management and other fees on funds it manages solely for CalPERS by $125 million.” It also has verbiage about a new fund that appears never to have been consummates, since its “vintage year” would have been 2010 or later, and we see no fund like that (Apollo VIII in 2013 is a “flagship fund” with lots of investors).

But what are “fees on funds”? Aside from management fees, it’s hard to think of any. This clearly means (well, clearly if you’ve gotten down the curve a little bit on private equity sharp practices) means fees paid at the private equity fund level, not at the portfolio company level. Note also that fund expenses, like the cost of preparing books and records, are expenses, not fees, and aren’t eligible either

The Apollo VIII limited partnership agreement (and any CalPERS agreement is likely to closely parallel i) makes clears that

Similarly, the so-called “carry fee” is not a fee as defined in the limited partnership agreement. Pages 37 through 39 set forth “Portfolio Investment Distribution,” known in the trade the “waterfall.” And the 20% cut of the gains that goes to the general partner is repeatedly called a distribution, not a fee.

So CalPERS had $800 million of committed capital that was eligible to have its management fee waived until the $125 million was exhausted. Recall that management fees usually step down after the fifth year and are usually based on the amount of capital then deployed, and not the committed amount.

Some simplifying assumptions:

1. CalPERS was already a full three years into its 2007 fund by the time its fee reduction agreement with Apollo was effective. So it would have only two years of fee reductions at the full management fee rate

2. Due to the size of the commitment, the management fee was 1.75% (this if anything is conservative)

3. It effectively dropped to half that after the investment period of five years, meaning after the two years left at full rate on this fund.

2 x $800 million x 1.75% = $28 million

7 x $800 million x (.5 x 1.75%) = $ 49 million

Total = $77 million

So a reasonable guesstimate is that CalPERS got less than 2/3 of the face amount that CalPERS was supposed to receive from Apollo as compensation for the harm suffered by CalPERS, when CalPERS expected to get it all back in five years or so.4 And that’s before recognizing that letting Apollo and its fellow bad boys pay not a dime in cash was a ginormous concession. Black is worth nearly $7 billion. His worst take-home pay in recent year was $142 million and it’s been as high as in excess of $400 million. But CalPERS is too cowardly to demand that Apollo, which in this case would have been Apollo principals, to be personally responsible for their bad acts.

But the economics for CalPERS are even worse than the simple math suggests.

Remember those portfolio company fees we mentioned earlier? They are hidden from investors like CalPERS but really add up. Remember that the total cost of investing in private equity has been estimated at 7% a year. A bit over 60% of the total, meaning over 4% in total across the industry, are fees that don’t relate to performance, meaning not carry fees. That gives an idea how hefty those hidden charges are.

Some of those portfolio company fees are “offset” against the management fee. We say “some” because only fees that are specified in the limited partnership agreement are offset (and private equity firms have cleverly dreamed up other fees) and those specified fees may not be fully offset (the average in recent years across all funds is 85%, but CalPERS is generally able to get higher offsets, but the level of offset also depends on how hot the private equity market is).

The effect of getting rid of the management fee is that there would be no management fee against which to “offset” the portfolio company fees that would otherwise be offset against them. The effect is that Apollo could pocket all of the portfolio company fees, rather than have to reduce the amount of management fee to reflect the portfolio fee offset. That effect would reduce the economic value of the management fee reductions by at least 50%.

So I welcome seeing Leon Black squirm. And I wish the press were making CalPERS squirm for the right reason, for being such a dupe. But sadly, reporters and limited partners would rather play supplicant to private equity overlords, even when that amounts to becoming their victim. ____

1 As the post discusses and the letter below shows, Apollo was supposedly willing to provide $125 million in fee reductions. The so-called Steptoe Report touted that four funds, Apollo, Relational, Ares and CIM had “agreed” which means “offered on their terms” to provide $215 million in fee reductions. Yet of the total in pay-to-play fees, $48 million came from Apollo and another $10 million from Relational, Ares, CIM, and Aurora Capital. So we already have the head-scratcher that Apollo is on the hook for 58% of the givebacks when it supplied 83% of the dirty money.

2 The conventional view is that Epstein’s wealth came from extorting men who took advantage of the women and underaged girls he had in tow. I don’t find that credible since procuring and extortion both are crimes. Anyone Epstein tried to shake down on that basis could stare him down and tell him to try risking going public, it would be a sure-fire jail sentence for Epstein.

However, I am told that private jets get cursory to no checks when coming in from overseas if the jet owner is seen as being reputable and not coming in from a destination perceived as a risk for drug hauls. So I wonder if the real service Epstein was offering was indeed tax “planning” in the form tax evasion by transporting high-value assets to tax havens.

3 The Steptoe & Johnson report attempts to depict Apollo as a victim of the placement agent Al Villalobos. If you think Leon Black could be victimized, particularly to the tune of $48 million, I have a bridge I’d like to sell you.

4 Reading just the excerpted paragraph, it’s clear that the real intent of the fee waiver was to induce CalPERS to sign up for a new separately managed Apollo fund, which it appears never happened.

Calpers Apollo Fee Reduction Agreement

CalPERS in Bed With Jeffrey Epstein Client and Co-Investor, Apollo’s Leon Black Even After Apollo Pay-to-Play Scandal Led to Conviction and Jail Term for Former CalPERS CEO

from WordPress https://ift.tt/2GIQAVK via IFTTT

[joemuggs]

PERCEPTION OF DOORS

Was reminded by a conversation yesterday about the art of the club door person, and dug this out, which I wrote for the Amsterdam Dance Event annual back in 2014. 

---

If you want a clear view of how clubland operates, why not ask its guardians? The men and women who stand at the doors – whether to take money, pick and choose who gets in, or act as enforcers of rules – are the first and last people clubbers will see in their night out, and are uniquely placed to assess what makes the clubbers themselves tick. They are the interface between club, clubber and promoter, and able to provide a (more-or-less) sober overview of what goes on. But frequently, too, they are the filter: they are the one person more than anyone whom by their choices, defines the nature of the crowd on a given night. As such, they are not just list-tickers, cash-till operators or hired muscle, but are a vital cog in the club's cultural machine, a part of the club's personality. And plenty of them are as big a music lovers as the promoters or DJs too. So from London to New York, Glasgow to Pretoria to L.A., we present the past, present and future of these essential sentinels and unsung heroes of the night.

BIG FRANK

Big Frank, aka Faafaga Samuelu, is a true Los Angeles legend. The imposing Samoan-American was a school friend of underground hip hop DJ/producer Kevin “Daddy Kev” Moo, and they threw parties together from Junior High onwards (“I was the muscle, he was the brain,” laughs Frank; “a perfect combination”). But Frank was also a hardcore gangbanger in his late 1980s / early 90s adolescence: “I remember him showing me a sawed-off shotgun in 8th grade while we were riding the bus to school,” says Kev, nonchalantly. Frank served serious jail time in the late 90s, but when he came out, Kev was there, happy to team up again.

Kev founded the legendary Low End Theory – hub of the psychedelic, electronic “L.A. beat scene” that spawned artists like Flying Lotus, Gaslamp Killer and co – in 2006, but by 2011 it had become so popular, hosting the likes of Thom York and Erykah Badu, that their host venue's bouncers were shaking down clubbers for bribes to get in. This was the moment when Frank's demeanour, reputation and willingness to turn up with an AR-15 assault rifle came into their own, and perhaps unsurprisingly the previous security stepped aside without any trouble to make way for him to take over on LET's Wednesday nights.

Since then, LET's reputation as a friendly spot has only grown. “Being the familiar face of the club,” says Frank, “is great fun and oftentimes just lots of funny. And if you're coming to us, you'll be more comfortable if you feel like you know the guy at the door – and a cool farewell at the end of the night helps as well!” Now in his 40s, he is happy to be a cool head, mainly in the background: “I have different reasons for being in the scene still,” he says; “What's still there is the love for music, but now my desire to be in the crowd is gone. The times of getting fucked up and bumping rap at a back yard party is long gone. What makes me happy, though, is the presence of the forty-somethings and even older folks that attend our club. It helps me feel like our push to progress the music is appreciated. As if all this time in the scene produced something that my generation can be proud of – not just slangin' and gang bangin'.”

JR

In South Africa, house music means more to people than almost anywhere else on earth. And Tebogo “JR” Modiba knows this more than most – his laid-back House 22 parties in Pretoria are an oasis of sophistication and unity in a society still riven with violence and harsh divisions. He ended up working the door there by default: “House 22 started an purely by-invite-only underground deep house joint,” he explains; “so as the founder, I had to work the door in order to overlook the invitations myself. Over time, we have opened up to the general public, but we still keep a close eye on disruptive elements who might not understand and appreciate the underground deep house culture.”

Like all the best doormen, though, he's not just there to filter people out. “The door is the most important part of the business,” he insists. “That's where punters, especially first timers, should start experiencing what the atmosphere of the club is like. All of that depends on how the doorman welcomes them and treat them.” In fact, his biggest problems are cops (“those fellas have serious anger issues, especially when they see people having fun while they are working – and they're the biggest tax collectors too, [taking money] to allow you to operate without interrupting your business with constant inspections, or to protect your patrons from being harassed”) and the weather. One time the mainly-outdoor House 22 venue was hit by tennis ball-sized hailstones, causing a near stampede for cover, which JR was able to only just keep from becoming mass panic.

All his efforts lead to a club where passion for music rules – and so it should, when JR's own love for house still drives everything. At the drop of a hat, he will reel off favourite DJs' names– Vinny Da Vinci, Christos, Glen Lewis, Jimpster, Atjazz, Ralf Gum, Andre Lodemann, Andy Compton & The Rurals, Lars Behrenroth, and Louie Vega – and those of beloved festivals that inspire him like Sónar, ADE and Southport Weekender. And you just know there's no bullshit when he says: “I don't think I am ready to live without my house music, the club life and the people I have met and we became one house music family. Not any time soon.”

JAY CLOTH

London gay scene institution Duckie is more than just a club – as “Purveyors of Progressive Working Class Entertainment”, its team have created a multi-headed beast with art events, talks and exhibitions worldwide. But Duckie's soul resides in its bacchanals every Saturday night at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, still presided over by the same team that founded it 19 years ago: producer Simon Casson, radically eclectic DJ duo The London Readers Wifes, compere Amy Lamé and “box office artistes” Father Cloth and Jay Cloth. Jay is extraordinarily proud to be on the door - “Duckie is unlike any other London Club and IS gay culture to me,” he says, though cites inspiration from a motley lineage of misfit clubs past like The Bell, Marvellous, Daisy Chain, Lippy and anything involving cabaret monster David Hoyle (née The Divine David).

“I am very proud that Duckie is a very friendly club,” says Jay, “and the team of 'Cloths' that work the door set the tone by being as welcoming as possible to all.” As anyone who's been to the club knows, though, they may be welcoming, but you have to step up to the mark and contribute to the wild energy. Jay will turn away “stag and hen parties, anyone too obviously drunk, too obviously high, anyone rude, anyone wearing fur” and only welcome celebrity guests “as long as they are willing to pay the same as everyone else – we are very egalitarian.” “What makes me really happy,” he says, “is when the mix of people is so extreme I wouldn't want to be anywhere else on earth.” His only fear is that “around 1am some nights when the Wifes announce they are about to play their favourite record of all time, I worry the floor might give in!”

ANGELO FABARA

Anyone who thinks that garish clubwear and superstar DJ culture started with EDM should look back to early 90s New York – which truly was the best of times, and the worst of times. Clubbing was a performance then, with the self-proclaimed Club Kids creating atmospheres so decadent and sights so eye-popping that it could feel like the last days of Rome. The Limelight was the heart of all of this, and bringing some kind of order to the chaos was Angelo Fabara. Angelo was an out-of-towner, drawn as a teenager to NYC's clubs like moth to flame by the “idea of community foremost, but then the escapism it offers to young people to safely experiment with.”

He was soon part of that community. In high school he went to the Limelight every weekend, but after getting into NYU, this quickly switched to going nightly. As a face on the scene, he says, “eventually was asked to promote some nights which led to my being hired as a junior door / guestlist person under the guidance of the more veteran door people at the Limelight. I worked there for about a year and a half after which I worked at Twilo for another year at the height of rave / club music coming to NYC.” New York can be a scary city, and Angelo had to learn fast how to turn away the crazies who might later follow or lay in wait for someone who had offended them: “I worked out I needed to give them a bigger reason they couldn't come in,” he says, “like 'the venue's at capacity', rather than quipping slights at their character which I may have done when I first started.”

As a doorman, though, he didn't just have to keep the badasses out: he had to help create atmosphere. “I let in anyone I knew was a great dancer,” he says, “or had a great look: people who made the dancefloor flourish or were nice eye candy. You also had to educate people who came to the clubs to make an effort because everyone else was taking the time to look impeccably chic or coming up with a look that just added to the design and visual language of the scene at that time. If you were a suit, I wouldn't let you in, if you came as a group of guys I wouldn't let you in, if you didn't look the part you would have a harder time at the door. Much later in life, I compare it to Walt Disney who always started his stories off by making his characters literally step through a door into a fantasy world, transported to another place. I wanted to be that person that showed you through that door.”

The scene famously turned bad. “A lot of people died from drugs,” recalls Angelo sadly. “Heroin became big in the 90s, and Michael Alig murdered his club kid friend Angel, which ended the reign of Peter Gatien's clubs like USA, Palladium, Limelight, Tunnel which were the best clubs in NYC history, places with a creativity you just don't see nowadays.” Angelo stepped away from the scene, moving into culture reporting with Microsoft's 'Sidewalk' site – but he never lost his love for what had first inspired him as a kid. “I still think about how easily I made friends on the dancefloor and how so many of us are still friends today 22 years later.”

BOB WONG

Glasgow is one of the most beloved, yet notorious, clubbing centres of the world, known for the utter lunacy, in both the good and bad senses, of its crowds. So it's nice to know that its scene has a calm centre in the affable and unflappable Bob Wong, the head of security (“I prefer 'doorman' or 'steward' but that confuses people, so I usually end up saying 'bouncer',” he laughs) at the Glasgow School Of Art – a venue that has hosted everything from the most manaical techno to the heaviest dub to avant garde noise events.

Bob is a true lover of and participant in Glasgow's underground scene – indeed, in researching this article, his was the first name mentioned by every Glaswegian we spoke to. “Scots know how to party!” he says simply as explanation of why he loves the scene. “You can't beat seeing likeminded people – people of all ages, race, colour, sexuality, social background etc etc etc – switch off from their daily grind of the working week and completely lose themselves, intoxicated with their poison of choice, in the music they love and really go for it on the dancefloor.”

This no-nonsense attitude and affection for the crowds runs through everything he does. “I, and the rest of my team are there to ensure the punters have a great night, and more importantly a safe one: safe from themselves and each other when they inevitably get carried away.” And to do this he insists on a friendly culture: “I hated working with macho 'bouncers',” he continues, “who could only brag about how many fights they'd won or how many girls they've slept with – so when I finally became head steward, I made a point of having only people with a similar mindset to mine on the team, and it makes a difference to everyone.”

Has he ever been scared, surrounded by punters when they “inevitably get carried away”? “You're probably expecting a mad story here,” he smiles, “about some kinda riot or a scenario where I've been stabbed or shot at – but no... if I ever get into a situation where I'm in a fight where my life is being seriously threatened then I can honestly say I'll have failed at my job. My scariest moments have to be the occasions where drunken punters have thought it was a great idea to slide down the banister of the stairs from the cloakroom on the top floor of the Artschool – a 4 level building – and have fallen over the edge and down between the flights of stairs... Thankfully no-one ever fell past the next floor but, all the same, hearing the thud and seeing them hit the floor you automatically assume the worst when they go limp and unresponsive! Thankfully and surprisingly there have never been any fatalities in my time (don't jinx it Bob haha!), just a few fractured vertebrae...”

[powertobehandsome]

The Way I See It || Matt and Seth

Part one of many. I love this game; everything is so happy in the beginning. || @blindlyburning 

“I think I chipped a tooth,” Seth looked at the weary and battered Ryan to his left as Ryan leaned against the filthy jail cell wall. The party, whatever party they’d been dragged to, had ended roughly four hours ago, and they were both on the steep decline intoxication. And this night? Sobriety was more of a bitch than that asshole’s girlfriend. Or had it been his sister? Seth couldn’t remember now. All he knew was as he ran his tongue along the upper teeth on the right side of his face, one felt a little more jagged than he ever remembered it being.

“Excuse me, sir? Look, I’m sure you have more important guys to deal with. My father is a public defender. And I have a spotless record. So, if you’d be so kind as to just let us go home. I need to go to a dentist. I’m tired. And, honestly, this place smells a little too much like urine for me to be interested in lingering within this cage.”

As the police officer stalked forward, Seth couldn’t believe his luck. It was actually working.

“You, blondie, come with me.”

Ryan stood, frowning, and moved hesitantly toward the police officer.

“I’m tired of listening to your friend talk, so I’m separating you.”

“If you think being alone will get him to be quiet…” Ryan started, but was cut off soon after.

“You don’t understand who it is you two messed with. You’ll be here for a while. And we have all the charges to lock you up. Drunk and disorderly. Public intoxication. Assault. And your friend? Well, let’s just say assaulting a police officer is certainly not going to work in his favor. Now. Both of you need to just shut your mouths.”

“Excuse me!” Seth called out, his face resting between the bars before he realized how much that might be a bad idea. “Hi. But when do I get a phone call to a lawyer?”

"Kid, you got any idea where you are?" Another cop asked, walking up. "What do you think this is, California? Shut it."

“No. No, but listen. I at least know I have the right to an attorney. And sure, my dad isn’t here to come to my rescue and bail me out today, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pay.”

“Seth. Shut up,” Ryan called from his own cell, begging his brother to please, please stop talking before these cops thought he was trying to bribe them.

Seth moved back to the far wall, slid down until he sat roughly on the bench, and then in one movement, laid across the cold, unsterile metal. “I hate New York.”

It wasn't until about five in the morning that a couple of lawyers showed up. Both men were young and in unfortunately cheap suits, but they wore them well, without any shame. They talked with the cops for a while before coming down to the cells.

"Pretty sure these guys won't be able to pay," Foggy murmured, leading Matt down. "They never can."

"And one of the guys they got in a fight with has connections that can get them killed in here."

"You actually hate me, don't you?"

"Only sometimes." Matt smiled and shook his head.

"Okay. We're looking for uh. Ryan... Seacrest? Reynolds? Whatever. And Seth Cohen. Any takers?" Foggy looked around at the sleepy, irritable cell occupants on the hall, feeling a certain kinship.

 "Atwood," Ryan's called in a too unamused voice. "Seth, wake up. Our layers are here."

"Huh? Dad? That was a quick..." when his blurry vision cleared enough that he could see that these men definitely weren't his father, and he definitely wasn't in California, Seth groaned, cursing the headache gods. But this felt worse than typical hangovers. He hurt in his ribs. Every time he looked to the left, his head throbbed in that temple. And the memories of what had landed him in this cell were a blur.

"Yes, hello. I... I am Ryan At... no. He is Ryan Atwood. I'm Seth Cohen. How can we help you gentlemen?"

Ryan's face was buried in his palms, and he shook his head. "What he means is, can you at least get us out of here tonight?"

"You mean this morning?" Foggy asked, going over to Ryan's cell. "Probably. We're awesome like that. As long as you consent to hire us? By the way, anyone ever tell you that you look a heck of a lot like a really young Jim Gordon?"

As for Matt, he stepped closer to Seth's cell, expression turning to one of concern. "You okay, Seth?" He asked softly.

"Yeah. I haven't been in a fight since I first met him," he nodded in the direction of the other cell and then groaned at the movement. "And the cops in this city are dicks who have to hate their jobs. Can you get us out of here? The smell is making me nauseous."

Not that they had anywhere to go. They hadn't gotten a hotel. And the guys who'd kicked their asses had also been swell enough to loot their wallets while they were on the ground, throwing them back at them with nothing but their IDs and for Seth, a membership card to his local (i.e. his) comic book store. 

Ryan looked up at Foggy with a certain amount of distrust. "A young who?"

Seth rolled his eyes. "He's been told that. I've told him that. He refuses to even look up who I'm talking about."

"Right. So. Can you get us out? Will you? So we can find a hotel or something?"

"Just hang tight," Foggy said. "I'll go get someone." He wandered away to find a cop.

Meanwhile, Matt was still focused on Seth. "How badly are you hurt?" He asked. "And where are your injuries? You'll have to forgive me, I can't see them." Although he had his dark red sunglasses on, he didn't have his cane with him and knew that his blindness might not be abundantly clear.

Ryan nodded in response, never having been one for a lot of words. This was typical, but they'd get through this. Seth was pretty beat up, he'd taken the brunt of the abuse, the rest thinking it hilarious to hold Ryan off and make him watch, calling them "Cali Queers". Which. Whatever. They were. But they also weren't together anymore. So what did that matter?

"Wh-- oh. Oh. Yeah. It's really..." Seth sat up and suppressed a grunt. He didn't think any ribs were cracked. But there would be some definite bruising there. He lifted an arm over his head and made a face. Nope. One was definitely cracked. It must have been those last few kicks. "It's really nothing," he said on an exhale. He looked like shit. Cheekbone was cut, as well as the brow just at the end. His eye was trying to close from swelling. And his lip was busted. There was a deep bruise across his forearm. But that last one had been thanks to a cop and her baton. "So why are you helping us?"

"Because we're a fairly new firm with next to no clients is what Foggy would tell you -- and because you need help is what I'd say." Foggy came back with a cop then and they took the two men to a private room. Once there, they were left alone.

"Okay, we need to know what happened..." Foggy hesitated at glanced over at Matt. "But my partner wants to know about your injuries first, Mr. Cohen."

"Do you feel nauseated or dizzy?" Matt asked. "And can I have permission to touch your abdomen? I want to make sure you don't have any internal bleeding."

"Don't creep him out, Matt. But he has good hands, Seth. He's not a doctor or anything, but he's freaky accurate."

“That’s… a little much? Don’t you think? For an attorney? To be like… assessing my injuries? I told you I was okay.” Though even as he said it, he spoke like a man who had a fat lip.

“It’s no stranger than your dad bringing me home.”

“Please, Ryan. That was in California. This is New York. It’s a whole new ball game out here.”

“Sports reference? I’m kind of proud.”

“Yeah, well. Some part of you had to rub off on me over the years. And since I look terrible in a wife beater…”

“Seth, just let the man examine your injuries so we can get out of here and then go back home.”

“Fine. He can take a look.”

“SETH.”

“You know what I mean. Sorry. He can examine them.”

"In the meantime..." Foggy looked at Ryan. "Tell us what happened?"

Matt quietly and carefully started running his fingers over Seth's abdomen, seeking the signs of internal bleeding -- heat where there shouldn’t be any, bunching muscles, the feeling of something hard inside, like pebbles or rocks or even eggs. He'd have to check his head out after that, although heads were a little trickier.. either way, he thought, this kid might well need to go to the hospital. 

Seth winced as he was touched, but otherwise tried not to make a sound. The man’s fingers were chilly and though he was gentle, every little movement hurt, let alone any touch from prodding fingers. But at least he seemed to be conscious of the need to be careful. For the most part, it felt more like he was just brushing fingertips over his skin — touches which gave Seth a brief wash of goosebumps.

“There was a girl. And her boyfriend.”

“Dude, I think it was just her brother.”

“Okay, there was a guy and a girl. And Seth and I were both… pretty drunk. And Seth has a tendency of thinking he’s invincible when he’s drinking. He hit on the girl. The guy told her to back off. Seth tried to casually imply that the guy was a moron and that he needed to back off. The man took him by the shoulder. Seth tried to shove the hand off, then pushed when the guy got in his face. The girl egged it on. I tried to get between them. Three of his friends held me off while he and another kicked the shit out of Seth. Apparently the man was in well with the bartender, probably someone important, considering our luck, because the bartender called the cops on us. Which, of course Seth tried to argue with them. And then when he reached out for one of the cops, trying to be charming or something. I don’t know. She struck his arms with her baton. Right across the backs of his forearms. The other cop claimed he assaulted her, said we both were drunk and disorderly, public intoxication, which… is what happens when you go to a bar, I’ve never understood that charge. And somehow we got charged with assaulting both the woman and her… whoever he was. I don’t know. As we walked by, the guy spit on me, called us Cali Queers, and here we are. Sober. Miserable. And the cops had no interest in taking him in to be checked on.”

“Ryan, I’m fine. It’s just a black eye. Being your friend has given me plenty of those.”

Ryan looked at Foggy with a you-see-what-I-have-to-deal-with glance, rolling his eyes and shrugging. “Any chance we can just get out of here with a minimal fine to pay?”

"If there was a chance, it went out the window when he reached for a cop," Foggy sighed, and rubbed a hand against his face. He'd been warm and happy in bed not all that long ago, but then Matt just had to wake him up with this shit. "Not to mention, one of the guys is an enforcer for a guy named Ramirez. Real upstanding guy on the outside, pretty rotten mob boss on the inside. He's trying to be the new Fisk."

Matt made a quiet sound of derision, then smoothed Seth's shirt down and ran his fingertips even more gently over his skull. "Cop aside," he said, "it sounds more like you were victims than perpetrators." It wasn't their job to judge the way these two conducted themselves; just because they were entitled jackasses was no reason for them to be assaulted. "And you need to be checked over by a professional." He helped Seth sit down, then stepped away and folded his arms. "If we can get you released, they're probably not going to want to drop it right away. They'll want you to stay in the city. Are you prepared to do that?" 

"Matt, try being reassuring." Foggy shook his head and turned to them. "It'll be fine. As long as you guys are willing to cooperate, Nelson and Murdock will have your backs. Right, Matt? This is the part where you agree with me and reassure the clients."

Matt nodded once.

Seth shrugged. “We can stay, sure. And I wasn’t trying to… I wasn’t…” His shoulders slumped, and he stayed standing. One of the kicks had landed to the back of his thigh and the pressure of sitting was uncomfortable. Head dropped, Seth moved to pinch the bridge of his nose, remembered why that was a bad idea, and just sighed. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was just going to reach out to touch her shoulder or something. Try to reason with her, to give her the full story. It’s… how I connect with people, I guess. It was dumb. New Yorkers don’t like to be touched. I got it now.”

“We’ll stick around as much as we need to. We just want this to go away. And you… I know we’re probably not ideal clients. But we’ll make sure you get paid. Even if we… I mean, if we end up serving some kind of time.

“No. Ryan. We can’t serve time. I’m not prepared to face harden criminals just because I tried to…”

“Because you got drunk and forgot oh hey, you’re not actually that charming.”

“I’m pretty charming. Don’t lie to these nice gentlemen.”

Neither one of them wanted to admit to their attorneys that they didn’t technically know how they were going to find a hotel to stay in. Without credit cards or cash, the chances of any of these places letting them stay with the reassurance of ‘I’ll have the money in the morning. It just has to be wired.’ Was slim. So they bickered and they distracted.

“Right. The charming guy is the one beat to hell. Meanwhile, will you just go to the hospital and at least get your face glued back together?”

“Sure, and show them what insurance card? Or pay with which of my credit cards? Oh that’s right, Ryan. All that has been taken to prove some kind of point.”

Ryan hung his head. “Thank you, guys, for your help. We will follow whatever council you offer. Seth will stop being a pain in the ass sometime after he’s slept a little and given a pain pill. Then he’ll want to be your best friend and tell you stories of his favorite superheroes. He’s a bit of a fanboy.”

"Worst case scenario, you can stay with me," Matt started. 

Before he could go any farther though, Foggy held his hand up and dragged Matt aside. "Matt, no. You're not letting strangers in."

"They're not strangers. They're clients. And you heard them. Their things were taken. They're tourists. He was bashed. Where are they supposed to go?"

Foggy could sense the rage just under the surface, under Matt's calm voice. "Maybe they have friends here."

"If they don't, I'm not putting them on the goddamn street."

"Matt, what if they rob you? Or worse?"

Matt shook his head at Foggy and came back over. "If you have nowhere else to go, you'll stay with me. We're taking you to the hospital first. You'll receive emergency assessments without being charged right away. This kind of thing happens. Right now, I'm going to go get you out. In the meantime, go over the details with Foggy again. Every detail. Everything."

"You good to get back out, man?"

Matt snorted at the gentle teasing, which helped knock his anger down a bit, then turned and left.

It took almost two hours before anything happened after that. An officer drove them to the hospital and their assessments were done. Matt stayed near, protective, and let Foggy handle the administrative details this time.

After that? They were turned loose, once the boys received the all-clear, and Matt took them home, against Foggy's better judgment. Foggy was too tired to argue by that point though, and by the time they got there it was almost noon. He left them and went to the office, but warned Matt to be careful.

"You guys can take the bed if you need to sleep," Matt said, going into the kitchen. He poured them both some water and set the glasses out. "Or if you're hungry... I can make something. Just -- try not to be too stressed. You'll be okay."

Ryan, for the most part, kept quiet through the whole ordeal. He spoke when he had to, but mostly his comments were a series of shrugs and glances that spoke more than any string of sentences could do for him. He followed along as Seth was ushered between doctors. He made a call to Sandy to let him know what had happened, and to ask for some money transferred to them to at least be able to pay for these attorneys. He’d assured Sandy that there was no need to come down himself. That he was certain these guys would do just fine. They seemed competent enough.

When they got back to Matt’s place, Ryan nodded and instead of taking a bed, he stretched out across the couch and he was asleep in less than fifteen minutes. 

Seth, meanwhile, was high on pain killers, and while they should have made him sleepy, he was instead a little hyper and starving. But he’d imposed enough on Matt, or so Ryan had informed him… he thought. Did they actually have that conversation?

“You don’t have to cook for us.” Seth looked back at Ryan. “For me. Do you have crackers? I can snack on a box of them.” His face itched where the glue had been applied. A tube had been stuck in his chest to drain some of the blood, and that spot had stitches now, which were bandaged. And the oxycodone was the strongest they could prescribe. Sandy had had to come to the rescue by paying over the phone. Thank god Seth had a license, or he would have never been allowed to pick them up.

“So… I’m sure I’ll ask you this again. Or maybe I already have. But are you Murdock or Nelson. And what is it about attorneys that make them give up too much for their clients?”

"Murdock," he said. "Matt Murdock. My partner is Foggy Nelson. And I guess... it's just the right thing to do. A lot of the time, when someone needs an advocate, they need more than -- just someone to fight their legal battles. You've been through something that... for most people, it can be pretty traumatic. It's just.. not human, not decent, to -- ignore the person behind the victim."

Matt made up a bowl of crackers and some sliced cheese for him, then brought it over and handed it to Seth. He listened to Ryan for a moment, then walked into the bedroom and came back out with a blanket, which he draped over the sleeping guy before he came back over to join Seth. 

Seth ate happily, smiling, the expression scrunching his face just enough that he could not see at all out of his right eye.

“How did you… Your touches were nice… I mean they were soft, careful. And you… How did you know how bad off I was just by brushing your fingertips over…” Seth stuffed his mouth with crackers and cheese just to keep quiet for a while. He smiled awkwardly, and then realized that his smile wasn’t seen. “I’m really sorry in advance if I get awkward or weird or if I talk so much I find a way to make you uncomfortable. I know I’ll crash before long. Potentially right in my food, which is why I didn’t ask for a bowl of cereal. But I do appreciate your help. You have a good heart. And, I appreciate you deeming your partner’s concerns about us as unfounded. We’re not… I’m… I’ve never been in trouble before.”

Matt smiled and shook his head, then went and took his jacket off. Coming back over, he said, "My dad was a boxer. He got hurt -- all the time. I guess my hands just.. got used to feeling injuries from a pretty early age. A little extra tension, rigidity, heat.. it's -- sort of like reading braille, just a lot more important, because people are important."

“A boxer? That’s really interesting, actually. Ryan dabbled in the caged, bare knuckle illegal kind of boxing just after our last year of high school. An old girlfriend of his died in a car accident. So… Anyway. My point was me saying that I’ve never met a boxer before. OR a professional fighter of any kind. I’m kind of… I read more than anything, I suppose. Which is why I got my ass handed to me last night. I’m going to pull the cliche criminal line and say we’re really not bad guys. I don’t drink that much. And, if it’s any consolation, I likely won’t drink again for a very very long time.” He sighed heavily. “Right. So. Gritty details. You’re an attorney who had a boxer dad. You went into business with your best friend. I’m Seth Cohen. I am a bit of a nerd with no athletic ability. And, it seems, I owe you more than just money. You’re a nice man, Matt Nelson.” Seth smiled at himself for remembering the right name. Wait. No. “Murdock. I’m a dick. God, these pills are the worst. You wanna just… hit me over the head so I pass out. Or turn on the… Right… You wouldn’t have a television. I’m gonna stop talking now. Hopefully.”

"How about," Matt suggested, "I help you over to bed and you get some sleep somewhere that you can't hurt yourself?"

“I shouldn’t take your bed from you. You’ve been up all night like we have. And you didn’t even get the really good numbing shit like I did while they stuck a tube in my chest. You sleep. I’ll stretch on the floor. It’ll be fine.”

"Right. Come on." He helped Seth to the bed anyway, tucked him in, then went and picked Ryan up and carried him over. He tucked Ryan in as well, then slid the panel door most of the way shut before going and taking up Ryan's still-warm place on the couch. In just a few minutes, Matt was out.

Seth had sat up when Matt brought Ryan in, impressed with how easily he’d managed it. Ryan wasn’t that light. Seth knew. But he collapsed back, groaned, and then stared at the ceiling until he crashed. 

When Seth woke again, his bladder was full. He struggled to sit up, leaving himself breathless when he’d finally managed. Ryan was still sleeping, snoring lightly, and completely oblivious as Seth moved from the bed, shuffling in socked feet until he found the bathroom. When he made it back out, Ryan had stretched an arm and a leg across the bed. It would be easy for Seth to push him back over, but it was easier to grab the top blanket and move to go back to sleep in the living room floor.

Matt was already awake again, exercising. He was shirtless, in sweatpants, shadowboxing and framed by the light coming in from a light-up billboard across the street. Matt had been making an effort to be quiet, but when Seth came out, he turned towards him.

"Sorry if I woke you... how are you doing?" Quickly, hoping to cover up his scars, Matt pulled his t-shirt on.

Seth’s gaze drifted over the moving form, but he didn’t comment on the scars. It seemed inappropriate. “You didn’t wake me, my bladder did. And Ryan… has never been good about sharing a bed. Do we… I mean…” He reached for the bottle of pills sitting on the counter. “How do we start working on this? What do you need me to do?”

"Foggy and I have been working on it over the phone. For now, we just need to wait. He's taken down the photographs of your injuries and treatments that we got at the hospital, using them to argue that you were the victim. If they won't throw it out -- which they probably won't, but there's still a shot -- we'll go from there. Tonight, all you need to do is rest. Tomorrow... we'll have more information and go from there.

"How do you feel?" 

"Like I've been hit by a truck. My side hurts. My face hurts. And it's probably a good thing you're. I mean. I'm usually much prettier to look at. Not that... you would be looking. Of course." Seth groaned and poured water from the faucet into a glass. He tossed his head back to take the pills, and groaned again. He stuttered a step, and balanced himself against the counter. "Fuck. I'm not sure I like New York."

Matt smiled and shook his head. "Sometimes, I feel the same way. But Hell's Kitchen is home." He folded his arms and walked over to lean opposite Seth, on the island. 

"How long were you originally planning to stay here?"

"A week or so." The palms of his hands were pressed against the counter while his hips pushed away, his head hanging between his arms. The room was spinning and Seth felt a little nauseous. But he'd handle it.

"I'll have to call my bank at some point and tell them my card was taken. And my singular credit card. My cash... whatever. So tell me about this guy? And who the hell is Fisk? Some crime lord?"

"He was. Not anymore -- as far as I know. But people have been...rushing to take his place." Matt shrugged, then listened to Seth's body for a moment. "Maybe you should sit down. Here, let me help you over?" He offered Seth his arm.

Maybe he took it at first because it made him feel taken care of. Maybe because he liked the irony of the literal blind leading the half blind.

"You're more observant than I would have given you credit for. And that's a compliment. Because my dad never misses a damn thing." Seth watched Matt for a long minute. Then decided to let it go as he held his breath to prepare for his shift down to the couch. "And I hit on the sister-girlfriend of one of the wannabes?"

"I think so." He helped him get comfortable. "Which is why I've got to warn you that -- things might get ugly. Violent, ugly. This.. isn't the most forgiving place. But we'll get you through it, no matter what. Running away isn't an option."

"Well, if you aren't mister sunshine..." Seth stayed at the end in case Matt wanted to sit, and then his eyes rested on the bare windows. "She wasn't even that pretty. And I'm not... I mean I haven't tried to hook up with a girl since high school. Or early college, I suppose." Seth sighed. "IDK."

"IDK?" Matt sounded confused. 

"Yeah. IDK. It stands for I don't know. It's... well, it's text talk, but so is BFF and ILY. I'm just shy of being a millennial. Using full sentences can cost you valuable seconds."

"Oh.. huh. Alright then. Um. Tee why." Matt settled in on the other end of the couch.

Seth laughed, groaned, held his side, and looked over. His gaze was only diverted when Ryan sucked in a deep, gurgling, almost choking snore, before audibly rolling over.

"Charming, isn't he?

It seemed Matt wasn't overly ready to share details about the enemy in all this, so maybe Seth could get to know him. "How long have you and Foggy been friends?"

"Just since college. We were dorm-mates.. but we hit it off.. pretty well. He was just so -- normal and charming and good. Becoming best friends just sort of... felt so natural."

"It's good to have that person. Are you..." he continued on in a single breath, looking to Matt again. "Are you sure we're not cramping any plans?"

"Plans?" Matt raised an eyebrow. 

"Yeah. Like other clients. Or going out to the gym. Crime fighting, that kinda thing?"

Matt's jaw dropped and for a moment, everything in his world went silent. 

When he took another breath, he managed to find his voice again. "Uh.. crime... crime fighting? Why did you... why... mention that?"

"It... I... was just rattling off things. Did Ryan not mention my fondness for superheroes? Did I dream that? Why? Are you an undercover cop? Is the blindness a ruse? I already believe you could kick my ass after seeing you box that little bit. It's kinda hot. But that's just me. You're a ninja, aren't you? Man, I always wanted to be one. The slimming black and the stealth. That would be the best."

Oh fuck. Okay. Okay. Seth didn't know. It took Matt another moment to remember what words were.

"No. I. Um. I'm not. A ninja. Or a cop. I'm blind. For real. Ninja are...usually not. I mean. So far as I -- not that I know a lot of them. Uh. So." He cleared his throat. "I guess I should... um. Call... and check in with Foggy."

Seth moved suddenly, gasped at the way such a movement took his breath away with pain. And gripped Matt carefully by the hand. "First off, god save you from ever having to be put on the stand in a trial. Second, your secret is safe with me." He winked, didn't care that it wasn't seen, and then moved back to his spot on the couch. "Is there a grocery store nearby? Or something. I... have no money to get a book. Shit."

"I'll... go get you one... but how... how did you... you know? You -- how -- how?" Seth might be feeling conversational already, but Matt was still flatlining. 

Seth smiled. "Don't spend more money on me. I get less chatty when I'm reading, is all. And I figured you wanted me to be quiet. And just... I don't know.

“It was a joke. And you panicked. 

"But I figure one of two things are true. The first is that you've kept your secret bottled up for too long and you are dying to be able to talk to someone about the truth. Or someone knowing makes you nauseous. In which case I'll totally forget everything. I'm probably just high on pills anyway."

But yesterday his high had been more morphine and a light sedative mixed with the oxycodone which gave him the buzz.

"Either way, you're safe." 

Matt's heart was racing and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "How did you... even... no. Sorry. I um. This.. is part of why I wanted you two here.. because if things get bad, I can probably, uh, protect you."

"You are blind. But you're hearing is... fuck are you... no. Batman isn't in New York." He pursed his lips. Thinking. "There are more deserving people to be saved, I'm sure." But Seth wasn't sure that they would have been safe in jail. Or in a hospital. And he imagined there would be a hit out for his or Ryan's names around the city. If this guy was as dangerous as Matt believed.

"Do you wanna talk about it? Do you have a patio, though? Because Ryan has a tendency to sneak up on people like a ninja. You get it."

"No, uh, no patio, but we can go to the roof if you're -- sure you're up for it. But... we probably shouldn't move you too much. When he wakes, I'll know. Trust me. I can uh. I can hear his heart. And breathing. From here." 

Seth was beaming with the little truths. "What else."

"What... um. I. What do you... want to know?" 

"Dude, as much as you'll share. I'm sorry. I know I'm geeking out on you a little, but I'm also kind of just in awe. I didn't know... I mean. You're great."

"I'm not great. I'm just... they call me the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. But I'm just a vigilante, just -- I want people safe. That's... that's it." Matt sounded embarrassed. 

Seth reeled his comments in, but his eyes were wide. He'd heard of the Devil. Argued with his Dad for an hour about why he was, in fact, a hero, just a couple months ago. Fuck. 

Fuck.

"Does your partner know?"

"Yeah. He... it wasn't pretty. When he found out. We fought.. but he's accepting it. Slowly, but... it means a lot that he's, you know, he's trying."

"Sure. Listen, do you want me to stop asking? Because I will." Or he'd at least try. "But man. If you're going to be a... a hero. You've gotta get better at lying."

Matt hesitated, then shook his head. "No, you uh, you don't have to stop. And... you're... probably right. I.. I'll find a way to..work on that.."

"Start with your assertiveness. I know you can do it. I think I heard you be that way with Foggy last night. Or I dreamed it. Who knows. But if someone says 'crime fighter' or 'super hero' or 'vigilante' or even 'ninja' your immediate reaction should be to scoff. Always assume people are joking. And even if they aren't joking, they'll think that you think what they said is so preposterous, that it can't be true."

Matt nodded, but he stayed quiet. Thank God Seth understood, and thank God he was willing to keep his secret -- and to help him keep it, for that matter. 

"Thank you. I know you're a vigilante, and you keep to the shadows and keep anonymous for a reason. But you took us in. And you save people's lives. And whether you like it or not, you deserve to be thanked. At fucking least once."

Matt still couldn't talk. He hunched over a little, arms wrapped over his chest. He didn't even know what he was thinking or feeling, he didn't know how to react. On some level he was grateful that this had happened with Seth. He had to learn to scoff it all away, Seth was right, but still...

Fuck.

"I'm... Maybe I should go get me more water." He could sense the tension, and didn’t want to make it worse. But a trip up to a balcony? There was no way Seth could manage stairs today. He already had a limp, and the slightest extension on his left side left his ribs screaming. So, water and apparently freaking this guy out by accidentally guessing right -- that was today's game plan. 

"Stay. I'll get it." He took Seth's glass and patted his knee once, extremely gently, then got up. "Is Ryan... would you trust him with -- this?" 

"I could trust him with it. He's incredibly loyal. But. It is not my secret to tell."

Okay, honestly, Seth was shit at keeping secrets. But he would. He would do this. After all, how often did he get the chance to know a secret identity? 

"Speaking of. I'm impressed he's still asleep. He must have not slept on the flight over."

Matt didn't like the idea of asking someone to lie to their best friend, but for now he kept quiet on it. After getting Seth more water, he went back to the kitchen to start making some breakfast for all of them.

"It sounds like he's coming out of it... slowly. Do you guys eat pancakes in California?"

"Do we ever. Pancakes are a life source." Though he hurt, he didn't know how to stay still when he was this excited. So he carefully worked to stand up -- the couch kinda swallowed you -- and then walked over to the kitchen island, carefully sitting on a stool.

"Can I help?"

"The company is nice," Matt replied as he got started. "Just... talking, it's nice. I like your voice."

Seth blushed and looked down. "This old thing?" He chuckled and smiled wide enough that his dimples showed. 

I like your arms...

"So what do you do when you're not being an attorney or sleeping or being a ninja?"

"Eat. Shower. Exercise. Sometimes go drinking with Foggy. And... that's... about it. Which... pretty boring, I know. What about you? Tell me about yourself?"

And so Seth did. He told Matt a little about his parents and what they did. He talked about his hometown and the jocks who beat him up and peed in his shoes. He talked about Ryan's arrival, about Marissa and Summer. And then talked about where he was now. No solid job -- just doing art concepts of.... super heroes, and selling them. He wrote stories, offered commissions where he could turn people into super heroes and give them their own, single issue, story with graphics included. Seth talked about sailing, and how he'd sailed to Oregon once when Ryan had left to go back home for a summer because of a baby scare. And how he still wanted to sail to Tahiti on his little boat. He talked about life in general. How Ryan had just parted ways with his off-again girlfriend Taylor who talked too much and was a bit obsessed with being the center of attention. And his parents again, their move to Berkeley. Seth talked until breakfast was ready. 

Ryan, lead by his nose, dragged out of the bedroom, rubbing an eye. "I thought I heard the endless white noise of Seth's life story. Did I sleep walk?"

"Do you usually?" Matt asked. He served up breakfast for all of them. "And I don't know what you mean, Seth hasn't said a word all night..." he smiled, and for a moment, it was the warmest and the happiest Matt had ever looked. 

Seth's returned smile was full of adoration and Ryan rolled his eyes as he caught sight of it. "No... N-Not that I know of. But I thought I fell asleep on the couch."

Seth beamed, pointed to Matt, and half-whispered "He's strong," as if that explained everything.

It didn't. 

"You did," Matt said. "But I'm a secret ninja and I carried you to the bed. It's more comfortable."

Ryan laughed, scoffed, almost, as if the idea of a secret ninja was a bit absurd. It wasn't an insulting sound, just as if he were responding to a joke Matt was telling. 

It was the exact sound Seth had been trying to explain to Matt earlier. 

"So," Seth said, looking back at Matt, allowing himself to look for a moment with a soft, appreciative gaze. "Thank you for breakfast. You've been a very gracious host. Let alone a defense attorney.”

"You're welcome for breakfast," Matt answered, although he also blushed a little and, now that Ryan was up, went to get his glasses. "So how are you feeling, Ryan?" He sat on the couch, giving them the kitchen space to themselves, and thinking about the lesson Seth had just given him and that Ryan had unknowingly finished.

 Seth ate in near silence while Ryan shrugged, clearly not thinking twice about the joke Matt had delivered, figuring the man had just already spent too much time with Seth.

"Well enough. I'm a little sore from the few punches they delivered. But it's nothing." He gestured at Seth. "I look a hell of a lot better than this kid with his black and busted up eye and cheek. It's a shame. You used to be so handsome. Now who's gonna love you."

"My mother will always love me. Dick. But you're right. I look like Quasimodo."

"Here's hoping you fare better than he did." Matt smiled again.

"Ha!" Seth pointed again at Matt and looked at Ryan, and the latter knew that there was some kind of infatuation on Seth's part. Which could only stand to complicate things. Especially because this guy didn't exactly read as being one who was open to dating males.

"Any word on the case?"

"No." Matt shook his head and told him what he'd told Seth. After, he said, "I'll have to abandon you two tomorrow during the day to go work on it, unless you want to come to the office. We won't hear anything until after ten -- but from there, we'll know the next step."

"Take your clients to work day. Your office sounds swell."

"I'm gonna stick around here and make some calls. All the banks are closed today, obviously. So I'll make calls about canceling cards and having money transferred and hopefully getting us a hotel tomorrow. That way, maybe, we can get out of your hair." Ryan wiped syrup from his lip as he finally looked at Seth. "How are you feeling?"

Seth pouted. He didn't want to go. But he told Ryan what he wanted to know. It was easier to humor him. 

Ryan casually ignored the look of pleading.  They couldn't stay.

"You know, you're safer here than at a hotel," Matt said quietly. "I know that may sound... tough to believe, but it's true."

"It's true, Ryan. What if they come looking for us. They have our names."

"Seth, this isn't one of your graphic novels. There aren't evil crime lords who look to destroy people for hitting on a girl."

Seth's brow raised and Ryan faltered.

"Wh-- No. Seth. No. You did not get us mixed up with an evil crime lord."

Seth pursed his lips and shrugged, taking a bite of pancake.

"Damnit, Seth."

"Listen, I know your mad now. But think of how exciting this is."

"We're hiding out in our attorney's apartment. Of course you're excited."

"Adventure, Ryan. We'll be safe here. And we can just pay them a little extra when it comes time to pay our bill. That way we make up for the inconvenience."

Ryan finally looked back at Matt. "You're sure this is okay? We're not putting you in danger, are we?"