VampiretwilightDorian pulled his sleek 1967 Jaguar E-Type Series 1 Roadster into one of Delta City’s more secluded parking garages. Once parked he fiddled with the dial of the radio, after haphazardly flipping through the stations Dorian eventually settled on a song he recognized being played on what seemed to be one of the last remaining so-called new-wave stations that was still attempting to resist the onslaught of guitar-driven rock. He doubted that David Sylvian’s melancholic crooning would get much airplay elsewhere. Which was a shame because Japan’s cool detachment and sense of poise were always a welcome respite to the bloated sound of now that populated the airwaves. With the longevity of this particular station in question, he chided himself on never investing in a tape deck for his Jaguar; with the advent of portable mediums of music the commuter was no longer forced to suffer the fickle whims of the plebeians who demanded their radio DJ’s play the latest tripe.
Ensuring that he was completely alone Dorian produced a nondescript plastic bag from behind the dashboard. He assembled his best dashboard bump by using his American Express Platinum Card to configure the powder into a few manageable white lines. As he snorted the cocaine he felt a tinge of guilt as it did not take an acute amount of self-awareness to realize that his vices were on the verge of becoming unmanageable once again and he did not need to remind himself of the consequences as he carried an eternal reminder of the last time he let his passions overwhelm him. He could not help wincing as his gaze fell upon his eyepatch as he adjusted the rearview mirror to check his nostrils for any excess powder that remained. The sudden onset of guilt gave way to anger as he was livid that he was forced to take on the guise of an errand boy for this shadowy organization. Painting for them as that was a mutually beneficial low risk enterprise that played to his strengths. However, enforcing their will through threats of violence like a common hoodlum was frankly beneath him as he was not one of their goons that they could push around, to the contrary he was a gentleman artist of fame and renown. Despite his posturing Dorian knew better than to cross the Silverback Syndicate as that was a fast-track to end up in one of the plethora of unmarked mass graves that are rumored to be hidden amongst the dense foliage of the Florida Wilderness Reserve, many of the groups enemies or critics have been swallowed up by the city throughout the years never to be seen again. Dorian would just have to grit his teeth and do what they willed of him for the time being, exude false reverence until the time was right.
Returning the plastic bag to it’s hiding spot, Dorian exited his car and made his way out of the imposing structure. Once outside he was not exactly conspicuous as he sauntered across the sidewalk like he was untouchable, he certainly left an impression on those he passed and the majority of bystanders were left feeling as if the one-eyed man was familiar in the sense that he must be a person of some importance. Dorian had learned to tune out the hushed whispers when he passed and while normally he would bask in the attention given to him by others; he was preoccupied with getting this foolishness done as quickly as possible. Perhaps if he wrapped this nonsense up in a timely manner he could still be able to visit the local art museum downtown before it became overwhelmed by the mindless throngs of tourists, it had some of his favorite 19th century artists’ works on loan and he would rather view them without the added annoyance of tour groups and the idiots that comprised them.
Eventually Dorian made it to Shogun Sushi, which was apparently where all the jetsetter types loved to congregate nowadays; Japanese cuisine seemed to be the latest fixation for the yuppie generation and everyone whom wanted to be in the in-crowd was just expected to expand their pallet accommodate raw seafood. Despite his upbringing consisting of traditional southern cuisine, Dorian had to admit that the idea of sushi had grown on him in the intervening years since he left the LaValle estate as it was a rather satisfying dish. He entered the establishment with a disposition that suggested that he expected to be waited on; letting his gaze drift to a clock on the wall he noted that he was a good thirty minutes ahead of the meetup outlined in the letter.
