Categories > TV > Angel
He found the place again completely by accident.
He was running from a group of punk kids that had chased him all the way from Tower Records for what seemed like hours to him. His lungs burned, his legs ached, his eyes were watering. He wasn't a fighter. He was a singer. But it was another lesson learned since he came to this strange world. Demons did not just walk into any Tower Records in Los Angeles unless their disguises were really really good. Unfortunately, he would have to stick to the dingy independent place in West Hollywood, where the albums were covered in filth and the roaches were as big as the 45s.
He didn't have time to think about that place, though the very thought made him want to run to take a shower. He could hear the heavy booted footsteps of the pierced and tattooed gang behind him. He went from one place where he was an outcast and shunned to another. What an improvement!
He slammed against a door only to find it locked. He moved down the line. He had to find refuge someplace. Someplace safe. He finally found an open door. He yanked it open and threw himself inside. He slammed the door shut. He looked around for something to brace the door with. Finding an old piece of two by four, he jammed it up under the handle and against the top of the concrete steps.
He stood there, trying to catch his breath. The door should hold. He laid himself back against the wall. He wished he was back in the small, cramped apartment he had managed to rent, listening to some Cole Porter. He could be singing along to "Love For Sale" instead of running for his life.
He figured that he had a while until those punks just gave up and went to go beat on someone else who didn't deserve it. He looked down the steps.
"Down the Grisnak hole, pumpkin." He said to no one in particular. He took the steps down slowly, just in case another mob was ready with chains and bats.
He paused at the bottom at the room before him. He knew this place. This was the place he found himself spit out at when he first went through the portal. He didn't have a chance to look at it then. He was too disoriented to do much more than stumble out into the brave new world that he found himself thrust into. But now he was back. And she was giving him sanctuary.
It used to be a bar. Using the term bar very loosely. Most of the old tables were cracked down the center, chairs were missing legs, and he could see a pair of rats getting very friendly in the corner. The bar counter itself was warped. The wood was bulging in some places, sinking in others. The mirrored wall behind the bar had splintered into hundreds of spider webs.
Then his eyes saw the most beautiful sight. There it was. Untouched. He moved through the debris of discarded bottles, broken chairs and tables, until his toes were touching it. A stage. He stepped up onto the apron, drinking it in. Sure, the curtains were moth ridden and reeked of urine. Yes, the wood paneling was worn down in places. But it was a stage.
He looked around from that vantage point and he no longer saw a derelict bar. He saw a club. A thriving place of refuge for demon and human alike. Where everyone would be accepted. They could order exotic drinks, sing bad songs, and just have fun.
Finally, after all these months in Los Angeles, he had found a home.
He was running from a group of punk kids that had chased him all the way from Tower Records for what seemed like hours to him. His lungs burned, his legs ached, his eyes were watering. He wasn't a fighter. He was a singer. But it was another lesson learned since he came to this strange world. Demons did not just walk into any Tower Records in Los Angeles unless their disguises were really really good. Unfortunately, he would have to stick to the dingy independent place in West Hollywood, where the albums were covered in filth and the roaches were as big as the 45s.
He didn't have time to think about that place, though the very thought made him want to run to take a shower. He could hear the heavy booted footsteps of the pierced and tattooed gang behind him. He went from one place where he was an outcast and shunned to another. What an improvement!
He slammed against a door only to find it locked. He moved down the line. He had to find refuge someplace. Someplace safe. He finally found an open door. He yanked it open and threw himself inside. He slammed the door shut. He looked around for something to brace the door with. Finding an old piece of two by four, he jammed it up under the handle and against the top of the concrete steps.
He stood there, trying to catch his breath. The door should hold. He laid himself back against the wall. He wished he was back in the small, cramped apartment he had managed to rent, listening to some Cole Porter. He could be singing along to "Love For Sale" instead of running for his life.
He figured that he had a while until those punks just gave up and went to go beat on someone else who didn't deserve it. He looked down the steps.
"Down the Grisnak hole, pumpkin." He said to no one in particular. He took the steps down slowly, just in case another mob was ready with chains and bats.
He paused at the bottom at the room before him. He knew this place. This was the place he found himself spit out at when he first went through the portal. He didn't have a chance to look at it then. He was too disoriented to do much more than stumble out into the brave new world that he found himself thrust into. But now he was back. And she was giving him sanctuary.
It used to be a bar. Using the term bar very loosely. Most of the old tables were cracked down the center, chairs were missing legs, and he could see a pair of rats getting very friendly in the corner. The bar counter itself was warped. The wood was bulging in some places, sinking in others. The mirrored wall behind the bar had splintered into hundreds of spider webs.
Then his eyes saw the most beautiful sight. There it was. Untouched. He moved through the debris of discarded bottles, broken chairs and tables, until his toes were touching it. A stage. He stepped up onto the apron, drinking it in. Sure, the curtains were moth ridden and reeked of urine. Yes, the wood paneling was worn down in places. But it was a stage.
He looked around from that vantage point and he no longer saw a derelict bar. He saw a club. A thriving place of refuge for demon and human alike. Where everyone would be accepted. They could order exotic drinks, sing bad songs, and just have fun.
Finally, after all these months in Los Angeles, he had found a home.
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