05-01-2011, 02:10 AM
The Children of Anarchy live for one thing: Their own wants and needs. Selfishness? Non. How can one be selfish in an environment where the word has no meaning? The only foul word is "Control". Any one person who seeks to bring one another down merely because they can is sickening. In one such place, these words have no meaning. There is only the joys of the skin and the eyes.
A luscious club ruled by one man: The enigmatic Warren Molineux. Cheery, outgoing, and ultimately insane, this man has only one thought on his mind: The pursuit of happiness.
On Marne there are many red-light districts, but one of them reigns more promiscuous and sinister than the rest. Here you find a door with two broad men standing guard in front of it. They wear deep-violet overcoats and pitch black vests underneath. Atop each their heads is a top hat with an elaborately stenciled '3' prominently displayed on the front. The door they guard has four lines of lettering above it:
Inside, the club is abuzz with all sorts of undesirable Gallic people. Stuck-up members of the Union Corse, gold-toothed swashbucklers of the Gallic Brigands, the uniformed militia of the Council, but mostly the jittery pyromaniacs of the Maquis. All of these socially different individuals stare on at scantily clad go-go dancers, colorfully diverse water fountains, and their own shoes as they get piss-drunk from the booze they buy in copious amounts.
Towards the back are the more private rooms that can be rented for sessions with the employees or meetings that must even be hidden from peers. In the criminal underground, who's to say who will stab who in the back? In the midst of anarchy, anything is possible.
So come along and take a seat, grab a glass of our finest wine, and watch the show.
In here, there is only Anarchy.
A luscious club ruled by one man: The enigmatic Warren Molineux. Cheery, outgoing, and ultimately insane, this man has only one thought on his mind: The pursuit of happiness.
On Marne there are many red-light districts, but one of them reigns more promiscuous and sinister than the rest. Here you find a door with two broad men standing guard in front of it. They wear deep-violet overcoats and pitch black vests underneath. Atop each their heads is a top hat with an elaborately stenciled '3' prominently displayed on the front. The door they guard has four lines of lettering above it:
No shirt
No shoes
No sanity
No problem
No shoes
No sanity
No problem
Inside, the club is abuzz with all sorts of undesirable Gallic people. Stuck-up members of the Union Corse, gold-toothed swashbucklers of the Gallic Brigands, the uniformed militia of the Council, but mostly the jittery pyromaniacs of the Maquis. All of these socially different individuals stare on at scantily clad go-go dancers, colorfully diverse water fountains, and their own shoes as they get piss-drunk from the booze they buy in copious amounts.
Towards the back are the more private rooms that can be rented for sessions with the employees or meetings that must even be hidden from peers. In the criminal underground, who's to say who will stab who in the back? In the midst of anarchy, anything is possible.
So come along and take a seat, grab a glass of our finest wine, and watch the show.