#Hatta: Closet

[bates--boy]

Well, at least it wasn’t performing in a mall, but the gap between doing a public performance at a mall and performing for the opening of a boutique wasn’t that wide, and it certainly wasn’t doing an opening for a bigger band that they can wiggle into the limelight with. (Peter couldn’t wait until a bigger label signed them on.)

          He finished helping their DJ set up the table and let Adel take over going through the setlist with her so he could scan the place. The boutique was urban, heavy on the hip-hop money aesthetic. The racks were few and bare, probably some of the cheaper stuff so that should anyone start feeling their fingers get sticky during the party, the boutique wouldn’t be at such a huge loss. Black velvet walls with velvet chairs like the VIP section of a club, with epoxy floor tiles through which rainbow neon LED lights glowed like a portal to a land of sin.

          (It made Peter miss the nightclub, and Van. And the Mad Hatta.)

          (It made Peter miss Wonderland.)

          (Shit, he was completely out of Wonderland at home.)

          He hurried to Naseem to help set up the huge speakers, and Tarsha to plug in and test the mics, and he scurried over to help set up the stacks of flyers when Mike looked him right in the eye and said, “Peter, sit your ass somewhere and calm down.”

          So Peter perched himself on one of the loudspeakers, watching the mingling in the crowd. Everyone appeared in black clothing or as dark as their closet had, and Peter, with his all black hoodie, jeans, and  Just a hint of a smile appeared on his face, as if it’s cautious to fully form until Peter decided with full conviction that the knot in his stomach that traveled as prickly static to his fingers and toes all came from either mind-blowing excitement or world-ending anxiety. He noticed movement from the corner of his eye, and the smile shone fully as Naseem ambled back up the lit platform, a flute of bubbling champagne in each hand.

          “Don’t drink too much,” Naseem said, holding a glass out to Peter. He shrugged, raising his own to his mouth. “Or do. This stuff’s pretty cheap.”

          Peter took the glass with a nod and took a sip, managing to stifle a disappointed sneer as he resigned to twirling the flute in his fingers. “Thanks.”

          “Whatcha doin’ up here, all Batman and shit?” Naseem said.

          “Scoping out how high our chances are of getting somewhere with this performance.” Peter angled a bit to give Naseem some room to sit, and he prayed the speakers were sturdy enough to hold their weight without caving in. 

          “Whattaya mean?”

          “You know, like...” Peter gestured to the air. “This is a first step to our dream, but it’s such a small step. This place isn’t even big enough to pack a hundred people. I’ve seen birthday parties bigger than this. And how are we gonna get these people to visit our website or listen to our music? No one’s taking the flyers! Would they even remember us once our show’s over? That guy’s on his fourth glass!”

          And when Naseem’s hand patted Peter’s back, Peter suddenly felt deflated. Silly. Embarrassed, even, his cheeks gaining something past their usual color as he rewound through his thoughts like a cringeworthy cassette. 

          Despite his soothing back rub, Naseem spoke with a scolding baritone as he said, “You know, most first-time artists would kill for even an opportunity like this. Have you ever thought about keeping a gratitude journal?”

          Peter only gave a low, throaty “Hmmm...” and Naseem went on, “Anyways, we’ll figure something out. Mike’s thinking of hitting up those writers of... what the hell was that podcast called? The one with the weird town and the music as weather?”

          “Welcome to Night Vale,” Peter replied.

          “Yeah, that weird shit Adel’s crazy about.” Naseem said. “We’re advertising and putting our music out there. Shit, maybe we’ll get lucky and one of our songs become TikTok-able.”

          Peter made a face, and turned partway to Naseem so Naseem would see that face. “That’s lucky to you?”

          “Yeah? Why wouldn’t it be?” Naseem snickered. “Don’t act like you don’t use it, TikTok user shuggaondarimm.” At the mortification that suddenly paled Peter’s face, Naseem threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, I know about your account, dude. By the way, nice twerk videos, but really stupid of you to hop on that nutmeg craze.”

          Naseem didn’t even seem to notice Peter’s lips pulled tight and his eyes boring into the floor when he asked, “So, about your scoping... what’s the verdict?”

          Peter passed his tongue over his lips and cast his gaze back over the crowd. “Well... everyone’s drunk, so they might be hyped up enough to like our music--”

          “Or be so brutally honest about hating our stuff that they’ll throw things at us.” Peter raised a brow at him. “What? Weren’t you trying to be realistic?”

         “And weren’t you trying to be uplifting?” Peter shook his head. “Anyways, we already have some hip-hop fans here, judging by their dress and their decision to show up for our show first thing instead of arriving fashionably late, so that could be to our advantage. Though the boutique’s closed off for a private opening, our music can maybe carry out to the other mall shoppers, and there has to be at least a handful of people who are into the obscure, underground hip hop scene who can then share this new collective with their friends--”

          Peter checked over his shoulder, finding that Naseem’s eyes were indeed burning into the back of his head, and sighed. “Basically, we have a 30% chance of getting anywhere with this.”

          “Wow, all those factors, and we still come up short?” Naseem snorted. He shook his head. “You’re too sprightly to be a pessimist.”

          “That’s not pessimism. Besides, it’s not exactly a bad thing.” He shrugged and raised his glass to his lips. “God likes underdogs.”

         “I thought you don’t believe in God?”

         Peter cleared his throat mid-sip. “Can’t you let me be fake deep for a moment, please? I’m nervous, you know!”

          Naseem started to reply (probably something witty, judging by the return of that smooth and disarming smile) when Tarsha came up behind them and tapped Naseem on the shoulder. “We’re set up. Let’s get this started!”

          Naseem and Peter got off the speaker and drained the rest of their drinks. “Well, Attrossity, looks like we get to gamble.”

          The background music, an unidentifiable trap-hop bass, died slowly, and the glow from the platform grew brighter. Mike stepped up front and center, the professional, the veteran, the man who carried this dream for years on his shoulders.

         “Ay yo yo, what is up, my peopleeeeee?!”

          “WHOOOOOOOO!” cried the half-drunk and fully-drunk crowd, sloshing alcohol as they raised  their cups in the air. 

          “We gotta little treat for ya tonight, hosted graciously by BoomBox Boutiques.” Mike turned halfway to the crew behind them, heads bowed and one hand clasped around the other wrist, a pose they all agreed on. “Nefertiti!”

         Tarsha raised her microphone.

         “Cassius!”

          Adel’s mic shot in the air.

          “Bet Chaker!”

          Naseem raised his mic.

          “Attrossity!”

          Peter, fighting the giggles bubbles up from his stomach (yes, it was excitement. It was definitely excitement) as his fist-clenched microphone shot in the air.

          Mike slapped his chest, an audible thump so close to his microphone. “And yours truly, Mickey V, just like the boxer. MizFists. Remember our name, because we are gonna tear the fucking! Roof! Dooooown!”

          Oh, shit, these people really liked the idea of the ceiling collasping on their heads, because they were already throwing their arms out and screaming before Mike even signaled with his chin for the DJ to start the music.

        A shift in the air. Bass in his blood. The house was gonna jump and they were gonna tell them how high. There should be a camera to document this moment, a slowmo pan-out of shots of Karlstad’s newest and greatest. Peter, even in this small space and this go-nowhere event, felt like a god among his people as Mike led them in with the first verse.

          Comin’ in like hawks, now, ta pick ya bones           Swoop ya up, send ya crashin’ to da stones           Get to the meat of the matter, but not with cherrypickers           Can’t live a life off their knees, these fucking bootlickers!           Try to copy what’s fly, think they can land on their feet           And endin’ their lives as outlines on the streets           Can’t even say it’s a shame            They heard the sirens, they knew about the game.

[inforumahkotapekanbaru]

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[septictankbiofresh]

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[bambangcaturnugroho-blog]

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[jandrada96]

After booking a budget ticket to Jakarta via Air Asia, I thought that the next best thing to do was to book a hotel that would be easy on the pocket as well. I was going to Jakarta to attend two meetings. The venue of the first meeting was located at the client’s office in South Jakarta. I opened Google maps and typed my client’s office address. After the location pin showed up, I typed “hotels nearby”. A number of hotels showed up in an instant with their corresponding room rates per night. I was easily intrigued by the room rates of ZEN Rooms SCBD at P 553.49 per night.

Wow! What a bargain! I clicked their icon and was directed to their website. At those budget-friendly rates, they offer the following amenities:

20 Sq m Room

24-hour Front Desk

Common Kitchen

Flat Screen TV

Non Smoking Room

Parking

Smoking Room

Study Desk

Their online customer service was also very helpful. I chatted with Dayne and she was accommodating with my inquiries. I did not book my stay immediately because I was a little bit wary quite frankly. How can a hotel charge so low and be able to provide the amenities that they claim? So, I gave it a thought for a week. Well, honestly, I did not really have time to think about it since I was too busy. A week before my date of departure, I finally decided to take the risk and booked my stay at ZEN Rooms SCBD anyway. I mean, what was there to lose? I am not picky. I just needed a place to sleep in.

Can you believe this? I only paid P 1,660.46 for a three-night stay in Jakarta, Indonesia!

Upon arrival at the CGK or Soekarno–Hatta International Airport in Jakarta, I grabbed my mobile, clicked the GRAB icon, inputted ZEN Rooms SCBD and requested for a GRAB driver. I paid IDR 128,000 or PHP 486 for GRAB and IDR 35,000 or PHP 133.00 for toll fees.

Here is ZEN Room’s SCBD on Google Maps:

Arriving at the hotel, it almost felt like I was coming home to my former apartment in Project 8, Quezon City. It was homey and I was welcomed by Echo, the receptionist aka caretaker. I received a ZEN Rooms Toiletries Bag containing a bottle of shampoo, bath gel, soap and a dental kit.

The room was tidy and smelled clean. Of course, it was not a five-star hotel accommodation but it was decent and just right for my budget. It had good air-conditioning, LCD TV with basic cable channels, personal refrigerator, safety deposit box, closet and two bottles of complimentary mineral water.

The room had a wall clock but no battery. LOL.

ZEN Rooms SCBD Jakarta offers budget accommodation with good air-conditioning, LCD TV with basic cable channels, personal refrigerator, safety deposit box, closet and two bottles of complimentary mineral water.

Unfortunately, there was no hot shower. But who needs one anyway when in tropical Jakarta? There was also no adapter available. Good thing I brought my Air Asia Travel Adapter.

ZEN Rooms SCBD Jakarta offers  20 sq meter rooms with a Queen size bed and toilet and bath.

So if you are a smart traveler, you might want to choose ZEN Rooms in Jakarta, Indonesia.

ZEN Rooms operates in Southeast Asia’s top destinations offering quality and affordable accommodation. They have 5,000 rooms across 50 cities in 7 countries.

With ZEN Rooms, I was able to spend less on accommodation and got enough more to go around Jakarta and spend on good food.

DISCOUNT COUPON CODE

By the way, I have a discount coupon code  that you can use valid until June 27, 2018. Just click here. Avail of $20 discount* at ZEN Rooms Hotels when you travel to Indonesia, Philippines, Thailand, Singapore, Malaysia, Sri Lanka and Hong Kong.

*$50 Minimum booking value. The number of invitations is limited! Join the best referral program until the code expires in 3 months. 27 June 2018

Signing out for now. Peace!

Me on board a kapal finisi or traditional inter-island cargo ship off the coast of Sunda Kelapa Harbour, Jakarta, Indonesia

SERIOUSLY? 3-NIGHT STAY IN JAKARTA AT ZENROOMS SCBD FOR LESS THAN P2000! After booking a budget ticket to Jakarta via Air Asia, I thought that the next best thing to do was to book a hotel that would be easy on the pocket as well.

[daisycantara3-blog]

Technologies In Learn How To Ski And Also Snowboard Programs.

Backwoods current distinct service concepts that are rare accessible in the area. The Dahlgren household weren't the only folks on South Mountain to come across sens. The Continental Separate is actually the water shed flow from water coming from mountain ranges all over the world. The quick-release system permits disassembly in order that the snowfall bike can be malfunctioned in to tiny adequate parts to enable simple auto boot transit or even closet storage. Past says that these coffee beans go to 1st offered the region by the past guv, Nicolas Lawes in at that point had actually decided to reside ascivilian life rather than coffee farming at the uneven location and also located Blue Hill as the excellent location. You will definitely be actually looking for a bike which is actually a lot lighter as well as manoeuvrable than an essential mtb as well as you may be actually wanting to custom-made construct it with particular components. Big Four Hill possesses an elevation of 6,135 feet as well as at its foundation is actually where the falls as well as caves lie. The recycled sintered WFO bottom sucks up wax and also maintains you hard-charging as well as fast as hell. Undergoing these measures and thoroughly opting will make certain that you are obtaining the best full revocation mountain bike for the money you desire to spend. Reputed Destination Monitoring Business provide excellent packages that use many possibilities like Hatta hill safari, Morning desert safari with Quad bicycling, Reddish Dune safari as well as a lot extra possibilities. Mountain dew includes Brominated Vegetable Oil (BVO), which is a harmful chemical that leads to hypothyroidism, autoimmune disorder, and even cancer. Another simple people track is Foggy Hill Leading which consists of all the factors of a fantastic individual tune - unrequited love, an unlawful act from interest as well as sorrow for a wasted lifestyle. The Pyramid Hill which is 3,000 feets provides a huge perspective on its own ridgeline trip toward a plane spotting terminal used throughout the The second world war. Situateded in the Himalayas( as are actually many of the globe's large optimals), this is probably the http://dietandfit-2017.info/titan-gel-%E0%B8%AA%E0%B8%A1%E0%B8%A3%E0%B8%A3%E0%B8%96%E0%B8%A0%E0%B8%B2%E0%B8%9E%E0%B8%97%E0%B8%B5%E0%B9%88%E0%B9%80%E0%B8%9B%E0%B9%87 absolute most renowned mountain range in the world. IDM's most recent set of practice outcomes indicates that there is actually substantial potential to boost the dimension from the Reddish Mountain range Job, thus very likely extending the mine lifestyle. One such folklore states that a planter from the low nation went up the mountain range to search and came to be lost. Undoubtedly, you remember handful of aspects of the geography, people you went with, certain hill going up routes and spectacular viewpoints.

[ahmetsera-blog]

Sizlere 2002 yılında lise de yaşadığım ufak bir olayı anlatacağım  ( tabi ki Eminem ile ilgili :) )

1999'yılıydı show tv haberde Hi My Name Is şarkısıyla Eminem'in Amerika'da müzik endüstrisini nasıl alt üst ettiğinden bahsediyordu. Bu eminemi ilk kez tv ekranında görüşümdü. Daha sonra eminemi dinlemeye başladığım ilk zamanlar insanların bana karşı söylemleri şöyle; Babam anlıyormusun da dinliyorsun hem bozuk çalıyor bu dese de (hatta birgün kasetçalarımız arızalandı ses öyle kötü çıkıyordu ki eminem değil başkası söylüyordu sanki bozuk bozuk dinlemeyi bile seviyordum) :) : ) :) :) annem sen ne yapacaksın seviyor çocuk bırak dinlesin diyordu. Canım Annem :) Evde sadece büyük kaset çalarımız vardı. Eminem çıksın diye bekler radyo'dan kasete kaydederdim şarkıları. Lise'ye daha başlamamıştım. Kaset alacak param da yoktu. Yengem bu adam annesine küfrediyor nefret söylemleri var niye dinliyorsun ki diyordu. Ama ilk orjinal eminem albümünü ona aldırmıştım.(The Eminem Show) Onun şapkasına benzer bir şapka da hediye etmişti hatta. (İstanbula ilk geldimiz zamanlar) Ne söylediğini anlamıyordum ama öyle değişik geliyordu ki bana üzgün olduğum zamanlar, birisine kızgın olduğum zamanlar, aile için de yaşadığım tartışmalar da kendimi şarkıların da buluyordum. Nasıl düşünmek istiyorsam söylediklerini öyle düşünüyordum dinlediğim şarkılarda. Aile içi problem demişken babam eve hep sarhoş gelirdi. Sonradan annemle boşandılar. Hakim velayeti anneme verdi ve ankara'dan istanbul'a taşındık. Taşındıktan 1 hafta sonra okullar açılmıştı. 2002 yıllarının ortalarıydı. Derslerle ilgim hiç yoktu. Bazen okula yürüyerek gidiyordum çünkü aldığım harçlıkları hatta dolmuş parasını biriktirip Eminem'in Slim Shady Lp. The Marshall Mathers Lp orjinal kasetlerini' de edindim. Bunun için taksim de D&R aramıştım. O zamanlar şimdi ki gibi her yerde avm ler yoktu. Kaset çalarda almıştım kulaklık ile orjinal bir şey değillerdi ama idare ediyorlardı işte. O zamanlar görüntülü cep telefonları da yoktu. MP3 çalar ipod (apple) diye birşey duymuştum çok pahalı bir şeydi. Ben de normal telefon da yoktu zaten 3310 gibi :) Bazen okula yanımda götürüp tenefüste falan veya eve dönüşte de dinlerdim. Birgün derste en arka sırada kulaklıkla dinlerken sızmışım hem de hoca ders anlatırken. Hoca kasetçalarımı aldı bir de disipline gittik iyimi. Öğretmen ailen sene sonunda gelsin kasetçalarını öyle veririm dedi. Dedim hocam bari içinde ki kaseti verin ama dinlemedi tabi ki :) Çok üzülmüştüm içinde Marshall Mathers Lp vardı.:) :) :) Sene sonuna kadar ondan mahrum kalmıştım. Cleaning out my closet klibinin döndüğü zamanlar öyle hasta olmuştum ki şarkıya beni bir odaya kapatıp sonsuza kadar kapalı bırksınlar bu şarkıyı hep dinlerim diyorumdum sınıftakilere o kadar manyaktım yani. 2003'te 8 mil filmi vizyona girdi ama sinemaya gidecek parayı bulamadım bende korsan alıp izlemeye karar vermiştim. Sinema çekimiydi film ama idare ediyorduk işte. Soundtrack albümünü almak için de para biriktirmek zorunda kalmıştım. her yer de efsane şarkısı Lose yourself çalıyordu çünkü. Sınıfta bazen eminem nabıyon nasılsın diye dalga geçiyorlardı hiç biriyle de samimi olamamıştım. Bazen okulu öğleden sonra asardık çoğu kişi ineternet cafe'ye counter strike half life oynamaya giderdi. Ben eve gidip eminem dinlemeyi tercih ederdim. Çoğu kişi o zaman hard rock tarzı korn metallica gibi grupları dinlerken ben sadece eminem dinliyordum. Sene sonu 8 tane zayıf dersim geldi 21 günü geçen de devamsızlığım lise 1 tekrar okumak zorunda kalmıştım. 

Not: (imla hatalarım varsa affola bol bol yeni eminem şarkıları dinleyeceğimiz günler diliyorum... :) Tüm okuyan STAN’lere teşekkürler.

[talesofflowersandknivesarch-blog]

The History of Hatta’s Silver Key

To know about the key, you have to trace back years before Leiella was ever born -- back before even Mad March was created using magic, science, and Wonderland technology.  

The key originally belonged to an oyster named Kit.  He had acquired the trinket to give to his love as a symbol of proposed marriage to his love, Clara Bell.  This woman looked nearly identical to Leiella in ever way, but this is a fact that wouldn’t be known for a very, very long time.

Events happened to cause Kit and Clara to become separated.  He made his way to Wonderland in search of her, only to find himself in the custody of the Suits.  It would be Kit’s brain that would become the key element in creating Mad March.  The Queen’s newly made assassin did have some of Kit’s memories, but they were tightly locked away within the depths of his mind.

The key would eventually be giving to the Court Gardener, Megan, as a gift from the Queen for all of her hard work to keep the Court beautiful.  She would hold on to it for years, and only give it as a thank you gift to Leiella on her birthday.  This was after Leiella had been basically disowned by her family.  Megan took the young girl in, teaching her about the gardens, and Leiella thrived under Megan’s guidance.

That day on her birthday, the Queen spotted the key hanging from Leiella’s neck.  She accused the young girl of stealing the key from Megan.  Leiella swore that she hadn’t stolen the key, but that it had been a gift.  When this came to light, the Queen also arrested Megan, sending both of them off to the dungeons for execution.  Megan was killed, while Leiella was questioned and tortured for longer.

When Mad March came into the room to question Leiella, he saw the key after he cut her back.  Between the sight of the key and the face that was very similar to the one buried deeply within Kit’s memories, something triggered within March that night.  Leiella would be the first person that Mad March could not will himself to kill, but it would be years until he truly understood why.  It would be even longer before Leiella would learn the true reason she was saved that night.

Leiella, even after she becomes known as Hatta, never takes her key off.  It’s a constant, and a security blanket in many ways for the hatter.  She will hold it tightly when he’s nervous, as well as running her fingers over the detail metalwork.  The key gains a new meaning for her after she realizes that the sight of it helped March to break free of some of the Queen’s magic, saving her life that fateful night.  March is probably the only person that could ever touch her key without asking her first.  Also, if Hatta takes her key off around you, that means she trusts you.  Do not take this lightly.

In her human verse, Leiella has a key as well.  It was given to her by her Grandmother, Megan, and it holds as important of a meaning to her as Hatta’s key does.  The Mad March mentioned here is madmarchh .  

[bates--boy]

In the moments when everything is still and silent, Peter’s skin still itches from the sensation of that man. It still crawls with the memory of that John's lips sucking at his neck, the graze of cheap fabric as the bastard ground his wanting bulge against Peter's bare thighs, and the moist palms as John groped and pawed with the grace of a fool who really thought he was doing something.

And the absolute fuckery of it all? Peter wants to go back.

Not because the moist groping and aimless dry humping elicited an arousal from Peter. Far from it (unless instinctual repulsion is another new, trending kink that he is unaware of). Success of any kind does something to a man, and a narrow success from a self-appointed dare that could have had many terrible outcomes? Shit, that's a drug. It's a mind-altering drug that makes Peter fantasize about sauntering to that same hotel bar, in something a little tighter with a higher hem, or maybe shoulder-less and back-less, with bolder makeup. In these fantasies, Peter lets these executives and socialites and wealthy pseudo-philanthropists pull him into their rooms, and they tend to have brand new shoes and high-end blazers that are just his size, or the new make-up palettes and jewelry that he'd otherwise have to wait for months to go on sale. They have bulking wads of cash in their wallets (as tourists do) or the new generation of tech that'll go for a high price. In these fantasies, these people have asses.

But there's always the come down, and for Peter, it's acknowledging that this new game isn't sustainable. There cannot possibly be that many married or committed cheaters to justify relieving them of their possessions, and the number would be even less after taking out ones who aren't aroused by an occasional cross-dresser. There is also recognizing that he may never be able to return to that hotel bar ever again, or at least until John dies.

Peter has yet to see his name, face, or description in the news, and he knows that there are cameras in that hall Peter and his first target stumbled around in; a couple of them must have recorded him taking selfies with his loot. He doesn't know why John hasn't reported him, but he can guess that admitting to his spouse and Sweden's authorities that he propositioned a supposed hooker during Sweden's sex-purchasing crackdown would not go over favorably. But how many of those clients in Peter's fantasy would be as scared of a broken relationship, an arrest, and a ruined reputation as John presumably was? What if things go south and they use their influence to make him suffer, or force his hand and drive him to use his strength--

No, he can't go back.

Which isn't a total loss, considering how watery and expensive the drinks were, and how his last killing wasn't something to write home to. A wedding band, sitting somewhere in a pawn shop, a couple thousand krona notes, half of it spent on better wine and half going to his saving accounts, and the watch.

Peter picks it up from the bedside table and dangles it. The cubic zirconia twinkles in the lamplight, crowning the black velvet face and drawing the eye to the golden hands. He turns it around and scowls at the designer brand etched in rose gold cursive.

Gacci.

"Stupid unpawnable piece of garbage," Peter grumbles, before he latches his trophy around his wrist.

Though he knows that he's made the right decision, Peter still thrums with loose cannon energy that he must exhaust through some channel, something that beats sitting in a semi-dark room at two in the morning. He turns his wrist back and forth to catch the light in the glass pieces and silver band. Then, his eyes wander to the orange light in the window, to the shadows that filled the frame, a silhouette backdrop of the district he lived in. The immediate neighborhood is artsy and quirky, a mix of contemporary and vintage; white and ultramodern apartments and townhomes, sitting alongside their older but renovated counterparts and shops. But an energy carries from beyond this square, from across the bridge.

Night life. Neon lights. High hemlines and low necklines. Fruity cocktails and smiley face tabs, all bathed in a type of music that stirs the blood and dirties the soul.

Downtown.

How long has it been since Peter got White Boy Wasted?

Peter turns back to his laptop sitting in front of him to finish his online Christmas shopping for the night, then hops off the bed to skip to his closet. He yanks the door open and paws through the clothing on the hangers.

--

Indian red off-shoulder blouse, high-waisted black cut-offs, black ankle-high leather boots. Otherwise known as Peter’s most regrettable decision that night, as snowy winds cut through his winter petticoat during his motorbike ride across the bridge. But Peter doesn’t feel the need to complain about the cold; this weather doesn’t remind him of a home he wants to forget, plus there is something delicious about it, the way the pelting flakes bite into his bare legs and neck that grounds him yet makes him feel like he’s flying. It helps that he can’t feel John’s fingers and lips, anymore.

Upon reaching the other end of the bridge, Peter weaves through the streets, eyeing the picturesque nightlife for action through the whipping curtain of his loose hair. Most of these clubs and bars and cabarets Peter has tried out, and even deemed a couple of them favorite places to frequent. Tonight, however, he wants some new excitement, so he takes a street that leads into the uncharted territory. The gradual contrast between the downtown epicenter and this but of fringe land is stark, almost jarring; here, the blocks are darker, and in that darkness, the more brazen move through the unlit areas like shadowy monsters, these stumbling drunks and partiers high out of their goddamn minds.

He's getting close, he can feel it.

He turns a corner, nodding a greeting at a bunch of leggy people standing around the street sign pole, and almost loses himself in trying to guess if they are hookers or not when something catches his eye.

Up ahead, another nightlife creature stumbled out into the open, but before the darkness swallows her as well, Peter catches the way her silver sequin dress flashes red from the lights blinking in the doorway -- his beacon.

He sweeps his bike into the alley a couple buildings down and hops off, hanging the helmet on a handlebar and briskly walking to the club. He can feel the thrum of the music through the soles of his boots with every step he takes. He stops for a moment in front of the woman, who now slides down against the wall. For someone who isn't wearing any form of winter gear and is sitting in an inch of snow, she is smiling a lot, dreamy and sweet as her gaze is fixed on the dark sky.

"Er..." Peter says, bending down slightly to meet her eye. "Hey, ma'am, are you okay?"

The woman blinks, snapping her attention to him, and her dreamy smile melts even more as she reaches to cup and smoosh his cheeks. "Awww, there's my wittle white wabbit!"

Peter's face scrunches as he tries to understand the slow and slurring Swedish accent, made nearly untranslatable by the cutesy baby talk. "Ha ha, right..." Peter takes her hands off his face and nods toward the door. "Do you want to head back inside where it's warm?"

The woman shakes her head. "'Sokay, rabbit, I'm waiting for my friend!"

Peter gives her a half-frown and shrugs. He unbuttons his coat and takes it off, helping the woman into it. She looks like she'd scream if Peter tries to push the chivalrous act and pressure her to get inside the building.

He makes his way to the door, resisting the need to hug himself and rub at his arms. Once there, he stops himself from yelping as a goddamn giant creeps from around the threshold, crossing his arms over his barreled chest. Peter presses his hand onto his own chest and exhales. "Shit, man, I almost pissed myself!"

"Sorry," says the giant whose deadpanned voice and unchanged expression denote his lack of remorse.

"Hmph." Peter juts his chin at the space behind the bouncer. "So, are you going to let me in, or...?"

"450 krona."

Peter pulls his wallet out from within his shorts. "Drinks covered?"

"Nah, you pay at the bar."

Well, shit, Peter snarks in his head, counting out the money. This place is more high-end than it looks!

"It's 800 even if you want to go to Wonderland."

Peter pauses counting out the bank notes, raising his brow at the giant basking in the red glow. "...What?"

The giant quirks an unkempt eyebrow right back at him, his lips twitching in just the slightest grin. The bouncer offers no explanation, and Peter is instantly sold.

Peter holds out the wad of money to the bouncer. The bouncer reaches for it, but when their hands meet, the bouncer grabs Peter's and turns it over, his thick wrist flashing a tuft of dark hair through his sleeve. Peter only has a split second to let out a shocked and protesting yelp as the bouncer pulls something out of his sports jacket's pocket and stabs it onto Peter's skin.

"What the hell, man?!" Peter screeches, snatching his arm away. He examines the back of his hand for signs of damage, afraid of what he may find. He's only somewhat relieved to find that, besides the pinkish ring marking his skin, there is no bruising, just a slightly smudged and shimmering holographic stamp: a top hat.

Peter's eyes wander back up to the bouncer, whose smile is in full stretch across his face, alight with baffled amusement, tight as he tries to stifle a giggle. Peter wonders if he can get away with knocking a couple of this chucklefuck's front teeth out.

Said chucklefuck then instructs him, "Go to the set of doors at the other end of the club, right behind the platform. Middle door. Down the hall, make a right, and ask for the Mad Hatta at the curtain."

Peter nods and rubs his stamped hand, careful so he doesn’t smudge it further. The bouncer steps to the side and beckons him in.

The entryway feels like a tunnel to an underground bunker, the lights flashing a warning of an attack above ground. If it weren’t for the electropop beating against his skin, or the air of sweat and ecstasy and carelessness so thick that Peter can taste it, he might have succumbed to the images of swooping Luftwaffe aircraft that still haunts the back of his mind.

But, no, tonight, he is not the split and damaged identity of Fort Roughs and the Principality of Sealand; hell, he is not even half-year soldier Peter Kirkland. Tonight, he’s a dumb kid looking for Wonderland.

He descends the gentle slope into the wide, square opening, and he is swallowed whole.

No matter which they dance, everyone seems to move as one, arms waving and jerking high above their heads, bodies drawing to each other even if some of them may be dancing alone, bouncing and swaying and swishing. The sickeningly alluring stench that fills the entrance is now strong with so many different types of alcohol that Peter already feels drunk. The red lights bathes the bumping stereos and the people in a nightmare, and the rare streaks of black and white lights makes everything a euphoric horror movie still frame.

Peter grins as a pleasant tingle of adrenaline zips up his back.

He slips through the crowd, twisting and dodging and ducking. He wants to jump into the fun immediately, especially with a few dancers passing him dreamy smiles and curling their fingers at him when he meets their far-away gazes. But the stamp itches on his hand, and he’s going to take that as a sign from the universe that destiny awaits with this “Mad Hatta” (which is far better than the panic that his body is having an adverse reaction to the ink). He makes his way around the platform centered in the dance floor and notices movement high above him. He glances up and tilts his head curiously at the pairs of heavy duty chains hanging between spotlights on the girder frame.

“Huh...” he mumbles as he continues on. He takes the middle door as instructed, and finds a bit of relief that the hallway has normal, if a bit dimmed, lighting. He wishes something can be done about the sounds cutting through the walls and echoing around the hall, that the party music was loud in here and can cover the sounds of puking, crying, laughing, and moaning that Peter convinces himself was from pain (and blushes something fierce when he hears how breathy it is, and picks up the pace when the woman whimpers deeper. Fuck, deeper.) 

For all this nonsense, Peter’s a tad disappointed that the curtain isn’t some grand thing of red velvet, or a sheer, sexy black thing with gems woven in like the night sky, but a plain white shower curtain. He glances at the stamp. You better be worth it, he scolds internally as he tugs the curtain to the side enough to poke his head in.

“Hello?”

“Your hair wants cutting!”

Peter jumps, his eyes darting around what is nothing more than a walk-in closet filled with mirrors and plants. “Mad Hatta?”

A hand slowly comes from behind one of the antique standing mirrors, holding out a black suede top hat with a long pearl feather. The Mad Hatta twirls into view after, plopping the hat on his head of auburn curls and throwing his arms out in one motion. The silver glitter of his tuxedo sparkle in all the mirrors and on all the plants; Peter gasps at the visual effect.

“The one and only! Oh, come in, come in! Don’t be shy!”

Peter enters and approaches the sparkly man. The Mad Hatta claps and reaches a hand out. “Do you come looking for Wonderland?” Peter places his hand in the other’s outstretched one. The Mad Hatta takes one look at the shimmering stamp on Peter’s skin and claps again, even bouncing on his toes. “Yes! Yes! Oh, my dear, you are in for quite a trip! A magical world awaits you!”

The Mad Hatta reaches into his inner breast pocket and flicks out a white piece of cardstock. He holds it out to Peter with a wink. “Have fun, my wonderful little Alice.”

Peter takes the card and is immediately ushered back out into the hallway. As he walks, he flips the tiny cardstock over. On its other side is a pale pink snowflake, about half the size of the blank business card its adhered to. There’s a black, fancy script printed on the top, in a font that’s made to look like whimsical vines and leaves:

TAKE ONE ONLY!

Peter rubs a thumb over the snowflake, nibbling his bottom lip in so deep a thought that he, blessedly, misses the woman’s climatic cry. He thinks about going back to the Mad Hatta and demand to know what type of drug this is and what it’s made of; he thinks about the two steps forward and five steps back he’s taken recently; he thinks about the recent danger he’d put himself and that man in in that hotel room. He thinks about Penelope’s recent confession to being an addict and wonders if, like Peter once upon a time, she’s picked up a bad habit of self-medicating her trauma from the only adult figures she’s ever known. (Shit, does Peter share in that guilt, and not just as an unwitting supplier and victim of theft?)

He pushes out into the dance floor and eyes the platform that stands like the altar in England, and Peter thinks back to the confession. He remembers the gut-grinding terror of his tantrum blowing up in his face, and how he couldn’t even face Ollie without ten walls of intoxication barricading him. 

Peter is suddenly tired. He wants to go home.

He also remembers that this shit had cost three hundred fifty krona.

He peels the pink snowflake off and lays it on his tongue.

It all hits his palette at once from so many directions. The snowflake turns into fluff, and it tastes like powdered sugar. The strong, cool minty taste makes him shiver, and for a minute, Peter’s mouth goes numb and tingly. It travels up to his nostrils, so that when he inhales, he’s taking in a whiff of winter air.

He waits until the powder dissolves and licks his lips. Spearmint cotton candy.

With a quick shake of his arms and shoulders, Peter hops right into the fray and invites the music to draw him in. The meld of industrial techno metal makes the harsh red lights even more jarring, but at least this combo makes more sense than with the bubbly electropop. Plus, somehow, this mix is easier to take in. The guttural scream bites into his bones; the synths make his blood boil; the bass pounds against his chest and makes it hard to breath or slow the stammer of his heart. He’s suffocating, drowning in the heavy sensual air all over again. He’s not Fort Roughs, he’s not Sealand.

Hell, he’s not even Peter Kirkland. 

He’s not human (though, was he ever human?). He’s an unidentifiable mass within this large pool of energy, an entity feeling like he’s going to melt every time someone brushes against his bare legs and shoulders. He leans into that melting sensation, swishing and swaying up and down, throwing up his arms and flicking his wrist, tossing his already-damp hair. He doesn’t fight whoever rubs their hand along his hips and guides him close. He grinds and bumps against them, even if their body heat against his back and ass makes him want to collapse. He’s taking in so much heat from all around him, but when he breathes, he breathes pleasantly cold air. He breaks apart from his dance partner to throw his head back and breathe. He opens his eyes.

“...Holy shit,” he gasps, because everything is fucking beautiful. 

Nothing changes -- Peter is aware of that, yet everything feels... pastel. Odd, but in a fairytale way. The flashing lights lose some of their harshness, and look like they were cast down from heaven itself. Everything has a softness to their edges; Peter squints, and he sees a gentle, golden aura around everyone. White spots flicker in his vision like falling snow, kissing the cheeks of the dancers around him; is that why everyone’s cheeks are so rosy? He reaches to catch one of the dots, but it sinks into his palm. He lets his hand fall to his side, lets the music hug him like a wool blanket. No one pays attention to the new Alice with his neck craned back and the familiar dazed look in his eyes, or the chuckle that’s drowned out by the music. But they welcome him back into their bubble when he resumes slithering like a cat in heat.

Someone grabs his wrist and whips him around, yanking Peter against them. Happily skipping through Wonderland, Peter has lost some of his quick reflexes, and fights back too late when the person grabs the back of his head and smashes their mouths together. He jolts when the person stabs their tongue into his mouth, and hell no! Wonderland may be loosening everything in him, but Peter is not going to do the tongue-battling-for-dominance thing with some crazed freak.

He gets his hands between their torsos to push this person away, but then the minty cotton candy coats his tongue, and he presses further into this person. His hands roam up and down their chest, and he’s surprised to feel soft bumps through the tank top. He’s further surprised that this person letting him squeeze. They pull apart for Peter to find a dark rivulet running from their nostril. He should feel revulsion, but he takes out his handkerchief to wipe it off, spins this person -- this person with around twenty pounds of muscle and five inches of height on him -- and pulls them in, snaking his hand from their hip to underneath their shirt, feeling their abs tighten under his touch the higher up he went.

Peter pauses, thinking of going down, of undoing their belt and sliding his fingers, inexperienced and eager as they are, in their waistband, and forget his stupid rule to protect the last bit of self-worth he has and coax this person to the back room. Then the lights blink faster, the music goes slower. The crowd turns and cheers, converge to the center. The person turns and pushes Peter along, forcing him into the tide that crash around the platform. The rainbow spotlights -- actual rainbow spotlights, not supposedly white ones seen through the eyes of an Alice -- sweep around. Four people stand like sentries by the chains, arms crossed, smiling as people clamor around them.

The crowd hoists a petite woman in sharp stilettoes onto the platform. She’s rocking and nearly tilts over, but the stagehand steadies her, lifts her arms, and fixes her wrists into the chains’ loops. Next, the epitome of gay bears  climbs right on, serving everyone his double scoops of ass in soft leather pants and nothing else that Peter can see. His thick wrists goes into the chain loops, too. The crowd is screaming and pumping their fists. Peter cups his hands around his mouth and howls as the third tribute, another Amazonian in a skintight leopard jumpsuit, gets chained. 

He’s bouncing on his toes, watching with wide eyes as he awaits the fourth person. He doesn’t care that burning hands are grabbing his legs and his ass. In fact, he’s bouncing so much that he’s somehow flying up to the stage, carried on the vibrating cheer of the crowd. He trips on his feet, but the man catches him and turns him so he’s facing the same way as the others. The man takes Peter’s wrists and yanks them up above Peter’s head. The chains have an odd coolness to them, and their chill runs through Peter’s body. The man slides his palms down Peter’s arms, stopping at Peter’s waist. The man brings his mouth to Peter’s ear. The music is just about to pick back up.

“Dance, queen.”

The stagehands hop off the platform, the music eats into Peter’s flesh, and he dances. He twists the chains around for a better grip, and the links bite into him. He feels the chains clink as he throws himself around, as he jerks and thrusts and twists and drops and jumps. Even with his eyes closed and his head hanging, Peter can see the red and black lights. The couple times he cracks his eyes opens, he spots phones lifted high in the air, horizontal and aimed at them. A spike of panic shoots up in him, but then things start to blur and brighten. He tastes the minty spun sugar in the back of his throat, feels it take on a second wave. 

His skin is on fire. His skin is a layer of burning ice that he wants to claw off, but he wants more of it. He wants more until he can’t feel John’s fingers anymore. He wants to be blazing until the shame and belittlement of the other representations don’t even matter, anymore. He wants to be set on fire until he can forget that he's been promised forever, that that promise was broken, and his fort will fall apart and he’s going to become a slowly dying human. He wants to become a pile of ash before this cheering crowd, before circumstance claims him first. He wants to forget about dead stars eating his soul once his time is up. Shit, let him be a dying star!

Peter stiffens his arms and swings up his legs until he’s upside down. The moves he pulls are just as familiar on the chains as they are on the aerial silks, though they are harder to achieve because the damn things don't swivel on ball bearings. But he angles his body and locks his feet and legs and arms when they need to, contorting his body into art. He doesn't even see the crowd, anymore. Not the spotlights nor the chains. It's all lost in the burning cold fuzz of golden white.

It's over too soon, and the stagehand works to undo the locked mess of Peter's chains. He frees Peter and wraps an arm around the dancer to catch him from collapsing. "You did great, sweetheart," he cooed, getting ready to help Peter off the stage. But there's a hesitance in his voice that Peter catches; he feels a hand through the blizzard around him cup his face and tilts it up. The man's eyes appears through the blizzard, hardens, and disappears as he swears.

"Fuck. Hey! Hey! This one's blitzed out!"

He's swept into the snowstorm. His vision winks in and out: the stagehand carrying him bridal-style -- Mad Hatta clicking his tongue and shaking his head -- another of the stagehands shooing half-dressed club-goers out the restroom. In the white, Peter hears snapping rubber. He feels the rubber curling into his mouth and tastes latex in the back of his throat.

"Why do I always have to do this?" Groans a faceless voice.

The latex shoves in deeper, and it burns -- oh shit, it burns! -- coming back up. Peter's body jerks and his lungs heave, his throat contracting around the fingers and his stomach getting sicker from the bitter taste.

"Okay, buddy," the voice says. "There we go. Let it all out."

How much does Peter have to let out? He's sure that it isn't much considering he had skipped dinner, but it takes forever for it to end. But it does ends, with the blinding snowstorm disappearing. Peter's greeted by a disgusting toilet coated with his Pepto Bismo pink puke, and cool tiles under his knees. He's twitching and shivering, his teeth chattering despite still feeling like there's a fire in his core.

"You okay?" Someone asks over his shoulder. Peter tries to nod or say yes, but his jaw is locked tight, his voice is frozen in his chest. Peter can hear the man snapping the glove off and unzipping something. Peter has no energy to protest being pulled into a body for the third time that night, but he's relieved when he's taken into the man's jacket and sheltered in the body heat instead. So they sit like that, Peter tremoring against this man's chest, his body fighting to keep the freezing magic in him.

"Gail should be back soon with your blanket and water," the man says. Peter misses his guy's smoother, more fun and enticing tone on the platform. Dance, queen. This voice is too different and too serious, too clinical, when he asks, "How many snowflakes did you take?"

Peter sighs and slumps against him. "Only two."

"You're supposed to have only one at a time," the man scolds. He gently taps Peter's cheek. "Stay up. You need to get some water first. Do you have any friends who can drive you home?"

Peter, try as he might, only manages a head shake, before his head lolls back on the man's shoulder.

The man lifts Peter's head and lightly slaps his cheeks once more. "Okay, you'll need a cot, too, then."

Thank goodness Gail returns, wrapping the wool blanket around Peter and forcing him to suck down half a bottle of water. The two club workers half-carry Peter out of the middle door and into the rightmost one, into a stretch of whitewashed tunnel lined with cots on both sides. Here, they lay him down on the cot under the watching eye of guards.

Peter curls up on his side and tucks his hands under his head. With a gentle smile on his face, Peter falls asleep in the world blanketed in soft white.

[bates--boy]

As risque and brazen Peter was feeling, he ended up wearing tucking underwear and a pair of leather leggings with his costume instead of going commando, even digging out his wedge high top sneakers from the recessed of his closet to complete the look. He learned his lesson the last time he rode to downtown through air cold enough to freeze burn the flesh off his bones.

          Van sent him the confirmation that she got the money he sent her, and photos of the feast of Wonderland flakes, weed, and top-shelf booze she had ready for him. 

          [Queen of Hearts] We’re good to go! 👌🏽

          [Peter] omw

          Donning his new denim jacket with a stripper silhouette cut on the back, Peter rode out, making the trip quicker with hidden shortcuts through alleys. He parked his bike and dismounted, and waved at the bouncer as he strutted over. to the entrance. Hand stamped, Peter was let in with barely more than an exchange of nods and a curious, unreadable once-over from the bouncer. Peter wanted to make a joke -- “Don’t act like you never seen a crossdressing cheerleader before. I know your internet search history.” -- but the promise of a good time was calling to him, drawing him through the long stretch of the hall like the DJ’s voice booming through the speakers,

        “Okay, y’all, we’re gonna do a little throwback here! Get out your iPod nanos and put some glitter on your eyes, baby!”

          Peter slowed for just a bit, tilting his head and furrowing his brow. Why did the DJ sound so familiar? Instead of contemplating it further, Peter took out his phone.

         [Peter] im in!

         [Queen of Hearts] Come in the back! 

        Peter took the path that still felt familiar despite the occasional trips he took here. The back hall never failed to be the den of debauchery: a used condom here, discarded Wonderland and acid tabs there, a wriggling shadow deep in the dark corner that Peter’s mind refused to register as someone pounding another, smaller person against the wall. He pretended the musk coming from them was a weird mix of cologne. It stopped mattering once Peter strutted into the room of The Mad Hatta. 

          The Mad Hatta lounged on the bed of silks with a hookah above him, and sitting on a couch that Peter had never seen before in the other times he had come here, was The Queen herself, commanding the room in her black dress shirt and deep red trousers, her muscled arm draped around the shoulder of a pretty little brunette who had her manicured nails sliding up Van’s inner thigh. Van’s head turned to the door, the bedroom smile she had for her lover going bright and chummy. She gave her girl a kiss and hopped from the couch, a surprise chuckle bubbling from her as she drew Peter into a one-arm hug and took his hand to make him spin.

          “Wooow, look at you!” Van said. “If I knew you were gonna dress up for me, I would have gotten my recording equipment. Make you do a little dance for me.”

         “Don’t see why you can’t!” Peter arched his back a little. “Get your phone out, take me to somewhere private, and pump me full of the good stuff and we’ll see where things go.”

        Van gave him a half-smirk and wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist. “I think I’d be down for that.” She beckoned to her girl with a nod and wrapped her other arm around her waist, leading the two to the stairs leading up to her theatre. 

        Piled high on Van’s table was the treasure that had Peter nearly drooling on sight. Van walked over, picked up a pink card, and peeled the snowflake off as she walked back over to Peter. She held the treat up between her fingers.

      “Say ‘ah’,” Van said. 

       Peter’s eyes rose from the snowflake to meet her eyes, gaze locked, as his jaw dropped open and his tongue stuck out. When she pressed Wonderland onto it, he closed his mouth around her fingers, slowly sucking on them until she drew them out.

       The world drowned in a snowy whiteness much quicker than he expected.

[bates--boy]

          The bouncer obviously didn’t recognize the partier who came sniffing for more action for the second time that week. At least from afar; going from off-shoulder blouses and high shorts to a dress shirt and trousers made quite a difference. It was only when the bouncer saw the blue and bruised eyes, through the holes in the black leather bunny mask, that a glimmer of recognition shone in his own.

          “...Bad week?” The bouncer chuckled.

         “Decade,” Peter grumbled through busted lips as he pulled out a wad of cash to shove in the bouncer’s hands. 

          The bouncer counted out the notes and pressed the stamp onto Peter’s hand, going about it a little slower and more cautious, remembering the last time Peter freaked out when he did it so suddenly (so slow, in fact -- and with a smile to boot -- that Peter wondered if he was just being an unfunny ass). With the holographic ink to guide him, Peter flounced to The Mad Hatta’s quarters to retrieve his treat. He carried it back out with perhaps a little too much reverence, a faithless worshipper carrying his Communion cracker.

          He returned to the dance floor, gazing at the altar with the suspended chains flickering in the flashing lights of purple and green and blue. The hymn filling the club wove into Peter’s veins, his blood stirring with the heavy bass of trap music.

          Down the rabbit hole I go, Peter thought. He laid Wonderland on his tongue.

          The span between the first familiar hit of mint cotton candy and when he broke from the crashing wave of the dancing crowd could not have been more than thirty seconds, but as he tugged on his rabbit ears to yank the mask off, he found his forehead drenched with enough sweat to cascade down his face and into the front of his shirt. He flipped his bangs, seeing drops fly away from his locks as he stumbled to the bar. In his haze, Peter slumped against the structure, slouching on the counter and crossing his arms on the black glass. The drinkers in the snowy filter of his vision jumped from the force of his body. 

        “Hey! Be careful, motherfucker!” A voice from behind the bar cried. Peter blinked, the dream-like grin on his face stretching wider as the bartender wandered into his view. He wondered if this is a place that muscular women frequented, because this is the second one that he’d crossed, dressed in a sharp white suit with a red tie, sleeves rolled up to expose toned forearms, a beautiful physique just on this side of total bodybuilder.

         She tossed her towel on one of her broad shoulders, and Peter could taste a bitter, honeyed mix of muscle envy and craving.

         She raised an immaculate, filled-in brow at the soaked and flushed individual. “Are you blitzed out? You gonna just sit there and drool, or do you want something?”

          “Right...” Peter gulped and filled his chest with the heavy air heated with sweat, booze, a hint of coitus happening in some far-off closets and stairwells, and no small amount of sudden inner pride. “Yeah, that’s what you usually do at a bar, right? Order drinks, eat peanuts, maybe bribe the barmaid with your tongue and fingers for a night of unlimited cocktails...”

         And Peter’s own brows slowly rose high on his forehead as he felt the buzz of the words left over on his lips. The silence between them as they locked a steady, tense gaze was thick enough to even drown out the musical switch from in-your-face trap to glitzy dance pop. The tiny remainder of common sense that wasn’t eroded by the chilly dreamscape of Wonderland dictated that Peter apologize immediately, chock his brazenness up to coy stupidity and being literally high (what was it she called it? “Blitzed”?) 

          Peter laid his chin on his crossed arms, widened his eyes and gazed up at her from under his long, coated lashes. His tongue slowly pass across his upper lip.

         Nothing about the smooth slate of the woman’s face changed as she stared at this slumped, baby-faced man, or when she turned to grab a bottle of water to set in front of him. She then bent to reach under the counter, pulling out a plastic bucket and setting it to Peter’s side. “Yeah, you’re blitzed.”

          Over the stench that suffocated Peter, he could smell a faint waft of vomit from the bucket. He recoiled, almost tripping backward on his unsteady feet, and clapped a hand over his nose and mouth. “Eugh!” He groaned, but the odd thing was that it came out as a giggle. “Is that bucket full of puke?!”

          “Nope, clean as a whistle.” The bartender tipped the mouth to show Peter its deceptively squeaky clean appearance. “See? Now, d’ya need help inducing vomit? If so, I’ll have to call someone over.”

        “Nm-mh!” Peter shook his head. ‘I only had one.”

        “Ah, so you always sound like a virgin’s idea of a lady’s man and a hooker?”

          Peter blinked, slightly lifting his head from his arms as if the sting of the bartender’s words jolted him. He felt his face start to twist, but because the high of the Wonderland softened the edges of everything, even the indignation, the grimace morphed into a lazy, self-deprecating grin. “It would seem so.”

          The bartender returned the bucket to its hidden space. “Whatever you were trying to do wouldn’t have worked, anyway. I’m a lesbian.”

          “Oh...” Peter sat up fully and picked up the bottle, twisting the cap off and lifting it halfway to his mouth. “Well, I was only trying to get some free drinks. So, whatever...”

           The bartender still kept a blank face as she watched her patron down half the bottle of water. Then she snorted, covering her mouth with her fist as she gently shook with laughter. She turned to the shelf and freezer behind her and, with some clinking, gathered a glass and a few bottles of brightly colored liquor, syrup, and jars of cherries and pineapple dices. “Hey, don’t pout at me just because you took your shot and ended up going full Shaq.”

          She laughed louder, almost spilling the thick peach starter as Peter started coughing on his water. She stopped when other clubbers made their way towards the bar, composing herself to the closest sense of professionalism she could manage while Peter glowered through his coughing fit. She hurried through her mixing, swirling a reddish brown syrup along the inside of the glass and filling the rest with a yellow, cold foamy layer that she dotted with the cherries and pineapples. She stuck a straw in it and placed the glass in front of Peter.

          “House special,” she said. She went to take the orders of the other patrons, filling up a mug of beer for one and mixing a gin and lime seltzer for the other. Coming back to Peter, she jolted at how Peter had the glass up, straw tossed aside, throat working as he sucked down the beverage and somehow managing to keep the fruit bits in. 

          “...Okay,” she said as Peter sat the glass down with a gasp for air. “You good?”

          “Heugh!” Peter patted his chest and blinked at the chill ballooning within the cavity. “Yeah, yep! I’m -- koff--  good. Hey, can I get another of that?”

           “Nah, not a good idea.” The bartender shook her head. To Peter’s returned and confused glower, she added, “You’re still in Wonderland. By now, your body temperature’s almost swinging low, so you definitely don’t need another ice popper. And you’re already so high that you don’t need another strong drink.”

          Peter pinched his brows together and picked up his straw. He stabbed the straw into a pineapple piece to fish out of the glass and put into his mouth. “What are you, my doctor? Why give me a drink at all, then?”

          The bartender shrugged. “You looked like you could use one. But like I said, one’s enough for you.”

          “Huh.” Peter fished a cherry out and popped that into his mouth as well, wincing for just a second at the tangy and bitter juice. “I can’t be that obvious.”

          “Oh, trust me, you are.” The bartender nodded. “Even if I hadn’t seen types like you stumbling in for as long as I ran this place, I would still tell.” She tapped at her bottom lip, in the same place that Peter could feel his wound stinging from the alcohol.

          He touched his fingers to the split in his lip. “Ha, I guess that -- Wait.” He tilted his head slightly. “You run this club?”

            Relief softened her face when the music changed into a playlist with a lower bass, one that offered them a break from practically yelling over the noise. “Yep. Seven years next month.”

          Peter’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. “But you’re behind the bar...”

          “I’m just filling in for my usual girl.” She looked off to the side. “My little worker bee. She’s going into labor -- twins, I still can’t believe it! -- and after she recovers, she’s going to take her exam for her LLM.”

          “Oh, shit!” Peter stabbed into the glass multiple times and raised the kebab of cherries and pineapple pieces in the air. “Fuck! Good for her!”

          “Yeah. I’m so proud of her.” The bartender went to pick up the drained beer bottles left behind by the departing couple and dumped them into a recycling bin. She turned to find Peter with a quirked brow and a dry half-grin, and mirrored that look on her heart-shaped face with sharp cheekbones. “You don’t believe me?”

          “I mean...” Peter shrugged and ripped the fruit off the straw with his teeth. “Not really...” 

          The bartender crossed her arms. “Why would I make up the fact that I own this place?”

          “I’m trying to figure that out right now.” Peter ran his tongue over his lips once more, savoring the leftover taste of the ice popper. “Even if I was just a bartender, it would still be a cool gig in a club like this. Then again...”

          He dropped the straw into his empty glass and folded his arms on the bar once more. “Maybe you want more, want to be more, like the rest of us. So what would it hurt you to spin this wild tale of filling in for a woman who suspiciously sounds like that American who took her own bar exam while in labor? Especially to a total stranger who you probably won’t see ever again?”

          The bartender started to slowly shake her head. “American woman? Who...” She raised her palms. “Anyway... I like that you came here only a couple times and you think you already have everything figured out.”

          “Oh, like how you have me figured out just from a busted lip? One that I could have easily gotten from a falling book or a skateboard accident?”

          The bartender's face twitched. She opened her mouth, her lips working to protest, to retort, to joke, to explain, but remaining silent through her indecision. Finally, after a long deliberation and her tongue pressed into her cheek, she uncrossed her arms. She unlatched the bracelet from her wrist and gestured for Peter to hold his arm out. Confused, Peter did so, and the woman clipped the accessory, with it's jute cord and red and white glass beads, on his wrist.

          "Head back to the Mad Hatta in an hour. Show him this and tell him you want to be let into the Looking Glass."

          Peter held his wrist up and studied the dangling beads, surprised by their heavy weight. "You guys sure do like your Alice in Wonderland, huh?"

          "I loved that masterpiece since I was little. Always will be one of my faves." She shrugged, nudging the plastic bottle with what was left of the water closer to Peter. "One hour. In the meantime..."

          She turned back to the refrigerator behind her and scooped and scraped. She came back to Peter with a couple baggies full of ice. "Try to avoid falling books and skateboards."

          “Roger that!” With a wink, Peter spun and skipped his merry little way back to the dance floor, melding back into the throng with ease and instantly floating in its cloud of sweaty arousal and electropop buzz. At first, Peter wanted to chuck the ice bags into the nearest bin; besides how much harder their chill added to Peter’s sinking body temperature and made him shiver, he knew he looked silly holding them to his face while he swayed and swirled and dropped and popped. 

          Then went the gaiety of Wonderland, fading away and abandoning him on the real dance floor. Without the softer, snowier edge of the cotton candy tab, Peter felt the full force of his still swollen eye and busted lip and pressed the ice packs harder onto his face. He tried to remember how many songs he’d danced to, trying to keep track of time that had passed, and decided to go on through a couple more songs. He might be a little early if his sense of time was off, but he hoped for late. In a place like this, and for a party that the bartender invited him to, one must be fashionably late -- a metaphorical cock tease to a literal lesbian.

         The final song neared its end, a cue for Peter to swim through the crowd and search for the back door. Once there and taking the hall behind it, Peter sucked the warmed water from the baggies and dropped the baggies on the floor. He reached the Mad Hatta’s lair, stopped to wipe his face on his arm and pull the mask back into place, and stepped through.

          And froze, eyes bulging out at the bodies on the twisted layers of silk. He felt snaps going off in his skull, pops and pulls, an urge to run, a burning shame, a renewed desire at the sight born from envy and anger. With the end of Wonderland came the withdrawal, a sense of everything being worse, and how easily any little thing can paralyze him.

          The Mad Hatta lifted his face from the moaning woman’s thighs, wiping his lips and propping his elbows on either side of his twitching lover’s legs to hold himself up. “Hey! The fuck d’ya want?” he called out, his stretching grin betraying the impatience in his voice. 

           Peter felt his mouth opening and closing, felt his brain hurt trying to find words through the storm in his head. He tried to draw on the bravado he was full of barely a few minutes ago on the dance floor; getting desperate, he tried to cling to that last, nonexistent bit of Wonderland still in his system, to mollify his inner, crippling disaster. Desperate still, he tried to put himself back into the body of Peter that was there the first night, the one who had his fingers through a stranger’s waistband and wanted to be fouled up in a far-off and dark corner. He tried to go back to the Peter at that hotel, to when he shoved his underwear into John’s mouth and made off with his money. He needed the brazenness of the first, the audacity of the second, to even look the girl in the eye.

          Yet he had neither, and when their eyes did meet, he was embarrassed to find the gently panting woman watching him, her glassy hazel eyes asking When the fuck are you leaving? The slow curve of her lips wondering Are you going to join or not?

         “Aaaah,” the Mad Hatta said with a slow nod. “You’re waking up, aren’tcha?”

          Peter hesitantly reached behind his head to scratch. “I-I... I guess...” Is that what they call this impending sense of a world-ending doom?

          The Mad Hatta shook his head and clicked his tongue. The woman beneath him gave a whimper as he ran his thumb along her slick cunt; she melted into the silk as that thumb slowly circled the swollen clit. “Ooooh, oh oh, that is no fun, no fun, indeed!”

          Run, some voice commanded through the violent storm of shock in Peter’s head. But he stared, swallowing against the dry lump in his throat. Take notes, another broke through the crashing noise. What a fucking perv, yet another groaned, and Peter couldn’t tell if it meant the Mad Hatta or himself.

          The Mad Hatta paused his hand job to sit fully upright, his hand reaching into a pocket of his robe. His open robe. “Did you buy another stamp upfront? Let me see it.”

            “I thought--” Peter’s voice died as a quick glance downward completely wrecked the last dying shred of his coherency. He tore his eyes away, but it was too late. Like the woman, Peter’s mind was penetrated by that bit of flesh, stiff and unashamed.

          The Mad Hatta snickered, and Peter could see movement from the corner of his eye, a side-to-side sway of the hips, and a slow swing of red, throbbing flesh. “What? You have the same equipment as I do, don’tcha? Never been to a boys’ locker room before?”

         “I...” Peter put his hand up to block his vision. Then, swallowing, he tried for indignation. “How would you even know? Maybe I’m trans!”

           Peter could hear the shrug in The Mad Hatta’s voice, over the choking moans of his pet. “Born with it or not, looks like it’s starting to tick up--”

          “I’m here to see the bartender!” Peter screeched.

          There was a pause, in which Peter silently willed his body into submission, tried to curb the arousal that made his pants squeeze too tight. Even the woman stopped whimpering and shifting in the pile of silks, probably staring quizzically and comically at the poor bastard with the blushing and bruised face. Peter didn’t want to check. He didn’t want to look at all. In fact, spinning on his heels and fleeing this crime scene grew ever more appealing. 

          “Oooh!” The Mad Hatta’s voice cooed out of Peter’s field of vision. “I knew that trinket looks familiar!” There was a lot of fabric shuffling, and The Mad Hatta grunting. “Why didn’t you say so? Could’ve saved us all a whole lotta embarrassment! Put your hand down, I’m decent!”

          Peter yelped as The Mad Hatta grabbed his wrist and tugged at it, pulling him past the bed of silks and to a set of golden curtains on a far wall. The Mad Hatta pulled one of them aside and opened a flight of stairs. “Well, hop to it, little Alice! The Queen awaits!”

          Peter took a breath to still the shakes and swept into the stairwell, the upward tunnel going dark as The Mad Hatta let the curtain drop back into place. Halfway up, the voices of the fuck bunnies carried up to him. 

          “Awww, why didn’t you let him join us?” The woman pouted. “I would’ve loved to have some fun with him.”

          “Don’t tease the poor lad, he looks like he already had a bad enough week!” The Mad Hatta chuckled.

          The tip of Peter’s ears burned, no matter how much he huffed and grumbled.

          He stomped his way up to the landing. Immediately, he was hit. Though his eyes usually adjusted quickly from near total darkness to light, his sight took a hard slam with chopping, flashing series of colors. Red, blue, green, pink, yellow, going from neon to LED and back. It was the same lights display as the ones on the dance floor, but this felt different. This filled the room like lasers in a pool of water, or having a flare right in front of his eyes. Peter hissed and blocked his face once more.

           “Well, well, well, it’s about time you showed up!”

          Blinking, Peter partly uncovered his eyes to squint into the space in front of him. A figure, warped by the intense illumination all around them, sauntered up to him, arms held open and head cocked sideways. 

          “I thought you were going to take off with my bracelet.” 

          "And miss out on the invitation from The Queen, herself?" Peter said over the music bouncing against the walls, trying to put some ease and charm back into his voice. As he stepped forward to meet the bartender halfway, Peter rolled his shoulders, beginning the long and arduous work of shedding whatever the hell that was downstairs. He looked around. "What is this, anyway? A secret lair? Your throne room?"

          “Something like that!” The Queen took Peter’s wrist and undid the latch of the bracelet. Removing it from his arm, she shoved her white tuxedo sleeve up and fastened the accessory back on its rightful place. “More like a watch tower. Or theater. Basically, where I get to watch my subjects and domain.”

          “Your ‘subjects’, huh?” Peter snorted, though less in derision and more in genuine amusement. “You’re having a lot of fun with this theme, aren’t you?”

          “Most fun of my entire life.” The Queen sauntered to the wall where a table of miniature bottles and chrome tumblers sat on a tray. 

          Peter jumped as a figure bent from the wall in front of her, then, narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized the figure’s movement and shapes. Oh. His eyes trailed to the spot in the wall next to him, to the person across the way that raised his hand and waved in perfect synchronization with Peter. Mirror walls. Peter then realized that he may need to slow down on the vices for tonight before his brain completely fries.

          But then The Queen came back with a pair of bubbly, soft green drinks in twinkling crystal glasses, lime rinds curling out of the tip and half cucumbers floating in the concoction. She held one of the glasses out to Peter, who took it with caution screwed. The first sip was strong yet mellow, a French 75 with a refreshing twist and a hint of mint.

          “Like I want to jump off a bridge,” Peter replied, opting for the more appropriate answer. He fished the cucumber out of the glass and popped it into his mouth, to fill his stomach and stave off the worse of the alcohol.

          The Queen took a sip as she went over to stand in front of the theater window, in the space between the glass and the crescent leather couch set on a dais. With a hand shoved in her trouser pocket and her shoulders straight back and proud, she looked every bit as regal as her play title commanded, with her bush of curly red hair parted at the side and combed back. Looking like she took notes from The Great Gatsby, too.

          Despite the episode he had in The Mad Hatta’s quarters and the sting of rejection from earlier, Peter was still very not opposed to dropping to his knees and shoving his face into her thighs until she ripped his hair out in a climatic hysteria.

          “It looks like you’re waking up. How are you feeling?”

          “Yeah, I figured. It’ll wear off soon, sweetheart, don’t worry.” 

          The Queen jerked her head, nodding Peter over. He obeyed and placed himself next to her, taking an awkward stance of crossing one leg over the other, knee slightly bent and thigh slightly raised, wishing he’d had opted for his special concealment underwear tonight. At least The Queen’s focus was on her subjects, the mass of drunkards and addicts.

          “They’re so beautiful,” The Queen said. There was a change in the music and the light show. Most of the dancers turned to the stage, where lights beamed down on the line of straps hanging from the grids. In the glass’s reflection, Peter could see the half-smile on The Queen’s full lips. “It’s almost the Grand Hour.”

          Peter stepped closer to the window, pressing his hand to it to keep balance as he watched the club workers stepping onto the stage and next to their chains. He couldn’t see their faces from this high up and with the lights nearly blinding him, but their arms were crossed, their stance wide and strong, so he could imagine their expressions, all cool and blank except for maybe a cocked brow as they eyed this crowd reaching up to be selected for the first round of dancing. Then, they stepped forward, helping ones brave enough to just climb onto the damn thing. And hoisting up ones that were being lifted bodily. His breath hitched watching them, watching the people’s hands grab a dancer and offer them up to The Queen’s chosen like lambs.

        He started to feel warm all over, especially in the small of his back and his thighs and calves, the places where hands grabbed him and lifted him to the stage all those days ago. And the cool of the chain links around his wrists, nipping his skin as he swung his body and jerked the chains. His breaths came shallow and dry, his head going dizzy. 

          “What’s up?” The Queen’s voice said, closer to his ear. “You want to head back down and join the Grand Hour again?”

          Again. He imagined The Queen in this very spot once more, standing in the exact same way in front of the window. He imagined what he may have looked like from up here, a sweaty and drunk thing in barely-anything shorts and a half-blouse chained up and dancing for her amusement. The way his skin prickled was not from shame.

          His tongue passed over his sugary, minty lips a couple times before Peter realized that she was serious and shook his head. “Nah, I want to enjoy the show from up here.”

          The Queen freed her hand from her pocket to slip her arm around Peter’s shoulder. Turning him around, she suggested, “Let’s get comfortable. We might get a hell of a show!"

          They stepped up to the platform and settled onto the crescent sofa, side by side, like crowns of different kingdoms coming together for a night of camaraderie and a jolly good show. The cool French 75 cocktail laid in Peter’s stomach better than the ice popper, though he did miss the fruitier taste. Taking slow sips and swirling the glass, Peter watched as the last of the chosen was fitted into the chain links, a cute little chick with a skin-tight skirt so mini that half her ass bared as she jutted it out and rubbed it against the woman putting her wrists in place. 

          The cheer of the crowd thrummed through the window, weaving through Peter’s skin and fueling the electricity already crackling within him. The pop music is filthier and more sultry, an anthem to strippers who aren’t afraid to wring sad and lonely old men dry of their money. Everyone on the stage is shaking their asses like they have something to prove, with legs spread wide and clothes disheveled like they snuck out of the back bathrooms after a good fucking. Peter wondered which of them are in Wonderland. Which of them is feeling the exaggerated heat of the crowd’s hands touching at their feet and legs? Which of them is dancing in a gentle flurry of snow, in a world softened around the edge in a hazy ring of white and pink?

          The contemplation drew Peter back to that stage, to being chained up like a dog for a Dominatrix’s amusement. Someone had slipped him a second snowflake on his tongue before he was tossed up there on the stage, and the world was disappearing into pure white. Or, at least it tried to, for he still remembered the taste of salty latex fingers shoved down his throat to induce vomiting and save his life. But damn, the way the music took him away that night, the way his skin braised under someone’s touch, the wild abandon as he flew and twisted himself on the chains, bringing his profession into this playground. 

          The way he shimmied and bounced on the couch now -- was that Peter dancing to the music, or was it needy squirming from built up arousal? He downed the rest of his cocktail and blinked against his twirling vision and hte flashing lights. Fanning himself, Peter crossed his leg over the other and bounced and rolled his shoulders to the beat. He looked over to The Queen, raising a brow as she peeled off a snowflake from a car and stuck it to her tongue. 

          Her eyes met his, and her head shook. You had enough.

          He tilted his head and smiled his pearly whites grin. Aw, come on!

          She frowned, eyeing the empty crystal in his hand and the brightness on his cheeks. I don't know...

          Peter laid his head on her lap, jutting his bottom lip out as he looked up at her. Pretty Pleeeease!

          She gently pressed her fingers to her breast pocket, where a corner of pink cardstock poked out. She worried a corner of her lip with her teeth. Perfect, straight white teeth, and plump, umber lip that Peter allowed himself the fantasy of brushing his tongue along in a fevered kiss.

          Let it go, dude, it ain’t gonna happen, yet one more voice in his head helpfully pointed out.

          Then The Queen sighed and shrugged. “I guess it’s safe for you to get a second hit.”

          Peter sat up from The Queen’s lap, bouncing in his seat and clapping his hands -- careful to not break the glass -- as The Queen pulled the snowflake out of her pocket. She held it out to him, but when Peter reached for it, The Queen snatched it back. 

           “But first, you’ll need to do some things for me.”

          The color of Peter’s face changed under his bunny mask as his imagination swung into crime-movie extremes, from a chilling pale as he wondered if she’d request him to kill someone, to a fiery red as he wondered if maybe, just maybe, she wanted to switched teams for tonight, just tonight, for a fun night of kinks (Not. Gonna. Happen, again the voice helpfully reminded him). “And that would be...?” he prompted in a soft, awed voice.

          The Queen smirked. “First off: I want you to dance for me.”

          “...Really?”

          “Yup.” The Queen nodded her head forward, to the space in front of the sofa. She and Peter locked eyes, hers glinting with mischief and mirth and yet total, complete seriousness. 

         Peter smiled.

         Rising from the sofa and setting the glass on the floor, Peter stepped off the dais and tugged on his mask to secure it to his face. The Queen leaned back in the sofa cushion, stretched out an arm along the curved back of the sofa, tapping the snowflake on the leather to remind him what he’s working for.

         The club was still in the middle of the current song. He wanted to explode into movement right then, to lose himself in the music and the gin and champagne, but it’s common knowledge that the best performances start slow. Everything, from dance to secrets to orgasm to the end of the world, needs a build-up.

          So he hooked an arm behind his head, running his opposite hand up and down his thigh as he swirled up and down. A little stir of his hips, a little pout of his lips, a swing of his arm -- he did this so many times in front of his computer camera it came naturally, like muscle memory. Then the song hit its second chorus and he amped it up. The room moved around him as he bounced and spun and thrust, throwing his head back and his ass out. He kept the momentum going, slowing down in the transition to the next song for the second explosion, finding The Queen doing her own little dance in her seat and spilling drops of her cocktail on the leather cushion. 

          The third song came on, a smoother pop mix. Blue-balled as he was at that point, Peter still did a hop spin back onto the dais. He tossed his hair, bent in front of The Queen, and jiggled his ass, sticking his tongue out over his shoulder. 

          “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout!” The Queen sang, waving the Wonderland snowflake in the air with a laugh. 

           By the fourth song, every part of Peter’s body was on fire. Sweat dripped from underneath his mask, making the leather accessory slippery on his face; dark circles formed in his shirt’s armpits; his collar was drenched and strands of his hair clung to his cheeks and lips. Turning to The Queen during interludes, Peter could see the heat affecting her, too, with tiny beads of moisture cropping up on her laughing and flushed face. And maybe she was enjoying being on fire, when she pulled at Peter until he was straddling her thighs. And maybe he was addicted to the heat, too, when he started grinding and bobbing against her.

          The Queen cupped his chin and gently coaxed his mouth open. She pressed her fingers on his tongue. The burst of cotton candy mint had Peter’s eyes rolling back. He closed his lips and sucked, giving a soft moan around her fingers. She eased her fingers out of his mouth and giggled at the low pop. Peter felt his own saliva smear on his face when she patted his cheek. 

          “You’re such a hot mess,” she cooed.

          She shifted Peter around on his lap until he faced the window and kept her arms wrapped around his waist. He leaned back into her, feeling her rest her chin on his shoulder, and feeling her cool breath on his neck. The stage workers were busy switching out dancers. On the outer rings of the crowd, Peter could see couples or groups branching off from the main tides, scurrying into dark places to have their own parties. He wondered if this is what The Queen felt every night, to be a deity of good times, the source of the best comfort and escape from a harsh world.

         He patted The Queen’s hand laying on his stomach. “Thanks.”

          “My pleasure, love,” The Queen murmured with Wonderland dreaminess. 

          A moment of silence passed as they watched the next round of dancers move with their restraints. Peter rubbed The Queen’s hand. “You know, you didn’t have to bring me up here. You didn’t have to prove anything to me”

          “Yeah, that’s true,” The Queen replied. Then, to answer the question that was coming up, she added, “But I like bragging, I guess. Or maybe I like taking in broken and kicked puppies and nursing them back to health.”

         “Oooooh! Oh, so now I’m a kicked puppy?!” Peter leaned to the side to see The Queen’s face, a beautifully masculine face glowing in a ring of soft white, and give her a sour, playful scowl. 

          “Don’t get your panties twisted,” The Queen snorted. “That could be a compliment. Puppies are cute and everyone loves them.”

          “You find me cute?” Peter settled back into place, looking off into the distance. “Huh. Okay, I will take that as a compliment, especially coming from a lesbian.”

          The Queen huffed. “What does my clit eating have to do with it? You know gays can appreciate a different gender’s looks aesthetically, right? But yes, I find you cute. You’re probably attractive to the right people. You know...” She touched a finger to the fading bruise on Peter’s eye. “Once you start talking less.”

          Again, Peter leaned back, gaping at this woman who knew him for a grand total of less than two hours. She gazed back at him, her eyes glinting with did I stutter?

          “Wow, thank you for your valuable input.” Peter rolled his eyes and moved about on The Queen’s lap to curl up on her, keeping his feet off the couch and resting his head on her shoulder. He slid his arm behind her neck and started combing her hair with his fingers. “Oh! What about that other thing you wanted me to do?”

          “Right.” The Queen reached into her pocket and dug out another piece of cardstock. But instead of the snowflake adhered to its face, there was a red heart stamped in its center, surrounded by formal, regal script.

          Would You Like To Come To Wonderland With Me?

          In the center of the heart was even tinier, swooping script

           Van J, Queen of Hearts

          “Van...” Peter murmured. He scratched the stamp ink with the edge of his thumbnail and peeked at The Queen from beneath his lashes.

          “The one and only!” Van replied with a crooked grin and a pat on her chest.

           Peter chuckled softly. “My name’s Pete.” He looked back down to the card in his hand. “What’s this for?”

          “That, my wandering friend, is a ticket down the rabbit hole.”

          Oh, enough with the Alice in Wonderland, a long-suffering voice said in his head, one that Peter was relieved to find was his own.

          Van continued, “I think you’ve proven yourself worthy enough to join my kingdom. You certainly have the energy and charm for it. But I’ll have to start you off small, maybe my little White Rabbit.” She tugged at the leather ears on Peter’s head. 

          “White Rabbit...?”

           “A guide for newcomers to come to this new, magical place. More people are getting curious about Wonderland, so I need help spreading the keys.”

          Peter frowned. “So... less rabbit, more mule?” 

          Van started to shake her head, but paused, then shrugged. She rubbed Peter’s knee. “Eventually, if I ever need you to make runs outside the city. But you’ll mostly stick to people coming into this club, and maybe a few of my contacts in this neighborhood and the next one if you’re good enough.”

          “Wow. This is... Wow...” Peter stared at the card in his hand and bit into his bottom lip. Anxiety started to consume him from within, sinking its teeth into the mellow high of Wonderland. All those years of being bombarded with scared-straight messages to dissuade kids from drugs, thus far having been dormant and absolutely useless, reared its head and came roaring. Yet something sparked in that same place the anxiety occupied, snapping at the childhood fears of drugs that pearl clutchers tried to plant in him. It tingled, almost in the same way that sitting in Van’s lap and nestled against her chest did. He exhaled and shivered all over.

          Exhilaration.

          “Don’t give me an answer just yet,” Van said, possibly misreading Peter. “Think it over for a while, so you’d absolutely know what you’d be getting into.”

          “Right, right...” Peter pursed his lips to hide the excitement and turned the card over in his hand. He furrowed his brow. “So, how do I contact you if I make up my mind?”

          “With the card. Show Quinn, the bouncer up front, this, and he and The Mad Hatta will take you out back and get you set up.”

          Nodding, Peter still frowned at the card. “Why is everything done through backdoors around here?”

          Van giggled, sliding a hand down Peter’s back. “Don’t you know, Pete? The backdoor is much more fun?”

           Peter narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Wha --Omygod!” He clapped a hand over his mouth, the other flying out to steady himself from falling over. His eyes popped open as his mind processed that that was indeed Van’s finger jabbing him through his pants. 

          They stared at each other. 

          Peter felt a twitch in his chest, something bubbling from within his ribcage. “...Pfffft!”

           And their laughing selves fell into each other.