The steady beat of the bass line thumped a satisfying rhythm into Robby's core. It a good thing, he had decided, when he realized that no matter what song or where or when it was playing, the beat of the bass always created that energizing thump in the air. It was almost like an old friend that was a constant in miserable excuse for a normal bachelor life.
Slender fingers ran through his gelled, black hair, making sure the front stuck up just the way he wanted it to. Robby pulled at the bottom of his expensive tux and fixed his collar, his dark eyes roaming lazily and alertly along the sidewalk. Reaching into his back pocket, he fished out his wallet that contained his ID card, the only proof - besides his driver's license - that he was Robby Braxford and that he was twenty-two. The only proof he had of himself.
With one final rundown, the part-goer breathed a quick but deep breath and strode confidently around the corner of the club building and to the narrow iron door. With each step, the thump of the music grew louder. When he opened the misleadingly heavy door, it was as if someone had pulled cotton out of his ears.
Lights swayed and blinked and made silhouettes of the tons of people that had spilled through the door group-by-group. The music, indistinguishable among the chatter of partiers and drunks and loud people of speakers, blared through the place from the back of the building. It was at least five degrees hotter inside, and the change wasn't entirely welcome in his circumstantial, but not-so-light attire.
Quickly flashing his ID, Robby surveyed his surroundings and decided that the bar would be a good place to start up a good conversation or maybe even score a dance partner. It was then he realized that a wingman wouldn't have been a bad thing to have around. He would have to rely on his own facade of outgoing charisma to score a one-night stand or even just a chick to make him look not-single.