Disco was not dead. Disco was eternal. Like a monster given life and form by Herr Doktor Frankenstein, it pulsed with a rhythm and life both unnatural and imperial. It commanded your ears' attention and demanded your hips' loyalty. So, of course, when you hear the pounding of a fist the size of a whole ham on your front door, you do not break the trance of the disco deities. The doorbell broke the spell momentarily, the three ring buzz mucking up the bass of Earth, Wind and Fire, and Parry had to roll his eyes, blow several wisps of blond hair out of his face, and sashay his way to the front door.
He didn't bother to shut off the stereo when he waltzed past it, and he let the disco ball spin and throw lights across the playroom because what the hell, he loved the way it made the walls shift like he was on a mild LSD trip.
The front door was locked and dead-bolted despite the fact it'd do nothing against a persistent intruder- and nothing at all against a werewolf in human form. That was what the Wards were for. Whoever was at the front door would be screaming in pain if they had murder on their mind, but that meant nothing if they were an IRS agent. Or worse, a Jehovah's Witness.
Either way, Parry was still mildly buzzed after a night of Vodka, primo Afghan Kush, and a quick tumble with a fairy- a literal one; Thomas was out of town in New York for the week and Milione was free for a couple hours- so he didn't bother to pretty himself up when he slid the door open and raised an eyebrow at the frantic Rusty.
Silk shirt/blouse, momma jeans, and a mess of blonde hair was all he let Rusty get a flash of before simply saying, "Yes, I have heard your 'Good News' before and I'm not interested. But I will take three boxes of thin mints, and one box of Tagalongs. I've got a mad case of the munchies. I'll have the cash for you at 8am."
Then he shut the door.
