As Kev approached Lanon and Fang, the large double doors Marybelle had snuck through opened. An overly pumped anaconda-man stepped out and yelled, "Yo! The show starts in ten! If you don't know where your seat is, come find it!"
"There you are," Fang growled as he put his arm over Kev's shoulder. The wolfman walked towards the double doors, but the anaconda-man stepped in front of them.
"Hey bro, what's the name?" the anaconda-man asked, pulling out a tablet.
"Mr. Fang," Fang growled.
After hitting a few things and scrolling for a few moments, the swole anaconda looked up before turning around and tapping away at the screen.
"Is... everything okay?" Kev asked. He could tell Fang was frustrated already.
"Hey bro, get over here!" they could hear the snake-man whisper. "We got a code 'not on the list'."
"The list is wrong," Gretchen said from the back.
Not even a moment later, they saw the python-man from the elevator jogging over to them. He had to slow down to bring his massive arms in so they wouldn't knock over some of the art pieces. "What's going on, bro?"
"They're not on the list, bro," the anaconda said. "How'd they get in, bro?"
"Oh, bro," the python-man slowed down as he finally made it to them. "These dudes are chill, bro."
"You sure?" the anaconda-man said, looking at the tablet again. "They're not on the list."
"I know, bro, it's crazy," the python said, "but Belle invited them in."
"Word," the anaconda nodded. "If Marybelle vouches, then we all good."
The python nodded. It was silent for a few moments before Kev coughed and said, "Alright, we good?" He felt kind of dumb as he pulled Fang along, past the double doors.
The room was a cavern of dramatic monochrome. A long, gleaming white runway cut a stark path down the center, flanked by towering black drapes that rose to a ceiling lost in shadow. On either side of the runway, rows of sleek, black armchairs were arranged in neat lines. A second, raised tier was constructed behind the first, allowing those sitting in the back to have a better view. Near the rear wall, an AV desk sat, a constellation of blinking lights and glowing screens, controlling the various spotlights that were currently casting a soft, expectant glow over the space.
As Kev looked around for their seats, he was a bit nervous. The room was filling up, and he hoped that he would at least be able to sit next to Fang. "Mr. Kev!" Gretchen waved from the end of the runway.
Their seats were facing directly down the runway, four together, sitting apart from the others, which were all on the sides. Kev hoped he wouldn't make uncomfortable eye contact with the models as they walked straight at him for the duration of the show.
Fang quickly claimed a seat. "Oh, this is nice," he said, sinking into it.
"Good eye, Gretchen," Kev said. "It looks like we really were a last-minute addition."
"Yes, but this is not bad. Less people in arm's reach," she replied, her eyes scanning the room.
As Kev went to sit next to Fang, Lanon walked over. "That is not your seat." The iguana crossed his arms.
"Right," Kev said, picking up the small, handwritten piece of paper that had been placed on the cushion. "Dr. Lanon." He waved the paper. "Did you become a pimp to pay off your medical school debts?"
"What?!" Lanon looked around, his head swiveling. "Be quiet! What has gotten into you?"
"Sorry," Kev said, not sounding sorry at all. "Did that make you uncomfortable?"
"Yes! Now stop it with your slander," Lanon hissed, glaring at the human. "Just because you are Fang's pet doesn't mean I won't sue you for defamation. I have acquaintances here."
"Acquaintances from becoming a doctor or from the pimp life?" Kev asked.
"From being a doctor!" Lanon hissed, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "Lower your voice."
"Well, what kind of doctor are you, then? It's news to me," Kev said. "I didn't know you needed post-grad to be a procurer."
"Shhh!" Lanon waved his arms a bit. "What are you talking about? How would the club run if I wasn't a doctor?"
"Do you need to give exams to naughty..." Kev's voice trailed off. "What? The club doesn't need a doctor."
"Of course it does," Lanon said, still trying to make sure no one had wandered too close and overheard the human's wild accusations.
"Vlad is nice, but he's not really vital to the club's operations," Kev said, still a bit thrown off by the iguana's claims.
"What do you mean, 'Vlad'?" Lanon paused for a moment, flicking out his forked tongue. "Do you... do you not know how Fang and I reincarnated the club?"
"Reincarnated?" Kev said, feeling a bit dumb. Up until today, he had tried very, very hard not to think about Lanon. From the first time they'd met, the iguana had made him feel uncomfortable, like he was being peeled apart. Even when the Manager of Personal Relations had voted in favor of the day-off policy, Kev had felt like his reasons were... questionable. It had never occurred to him that Lanon was truly a pivotal member of the Club Fang organization. "Are you a super pimp or something?"
"Super pimp?! What?!" a frantic voice said. "Never mind that!"
"Ms. Marybelle," Lanon squeaked. "It's n-not what it sounds like!"
Kev turned to see Marybelle. She looked quite frazzled now. Her fanny pack vest and windbreaker skirt were missing, leaving her in just the tight orange bodysuit, looking very slim and very orange. "You!" she pointed towards them.
"Uh..." Kev looked at Lanon and then back at Gretchen, who was behind him. "...me?"
"I don't have time for this!" Marybelle hissed. She strode up and said, "Lanon, bring them along. This is a fashion emergency."
"You heard her," Lanon smiled down at Kev. "This sounds exciting."
Kev could already feel himself being swept along by the reptiles. He looked back to see Fang who was now snoring, fast asleep in the chair. They were hustled past the chairs that were filling in, up the small steps on the side of the runway, and back behind the curtains.
Marybelle was immediately flanked by two assistants once they made it backstage. Kev looked around as one of the assistants opened a door.
The room was bright and noisy. Kev felt a blush creep up his face as a half-naked cottontail rabbit woman power-walked up to Marybelle. She wasn't topless or bottomless; she was literally half-naked, her left side completely exposed to the world, a study in scandalous asymmetry. Kev looked up and away.
"I don't have time for you!" Marybelle put her hand out in front of the eager rabbit's face as she strode right past her. Kev followed hesitantly, hearing one of the assistants apologizing to the now-upset model as they passed.
The dressing room was a whirlwind of controlled chaos. Models of a diverse and exotic range moved through the space: a tall, impossibly elegant stork woman, a frilled lizard whose colorful ruff was being carefully arranged by a harried-looking assistant, a serene panda bear calmly meditating in a corner, and a tiny hummingbird woman hovering nervously by a rack of shimmering, iridescent outfits. There was even a gila monster, her beaded skin a striking contrast to the silky garment she was being fitted into. And there, sitting in a director's chair in front of a large, brightly lit mirror, was Marsha, the zebra woman, her makeup being meticulously applied.
Marybelle strode right towards Marsha. "You. Out."
"I'm... nearly finished. Just two minutes," Marsha said, not moving her face as the makeup artist, a colorful chameleon-woman with too many scarves wrapped around her neck, focused on the last touches of her makeup masterpiece.
Kev looked around, a few of the models glancing and smiling at him. He tried to play it cool, but many of them were half-dressed, and he didn't want to stare. And he very much didn't want them to think he was staring while they were dressing.
"Our model did not show," Marybelle turned to face Kev, her bright, reptilian eyes narrowed with a predatory focus. "Hurry up and get in the chair."
"What?!" Kev panicked. "Are you kidding me?! No!"
"You're the perfect size, and I don't have time to find a replacement," Marybelle said, her attention already flitting around the room, making sure the other models were on pace to go in five.
"No, no, no, no, no!" Kev said, backing away.
"Shut up." Marybelle shoved Kev aside. He stumbled, losing his footing, and landed on the floor with a soft thud. She stood before Gretchen who was standing directly behind him. "Will you do it?"
Gretchen looked from the panicked Kev on the floor to the grinning Lanon, a moment passing before she replied, her voice a low, even rumble, "Is it okay with you two?"
Kev picked himself up from the floor and fixed his suit. He was glad it wasn't him who had been asked to walk down the runway. That would have been awful. And it sounded like Gretchen wanted to help out Marybelle, so why not? However, when Kev turned, Gretchen was already in the chair.
Rubbing his arm, still bruised and sore from his dash through the basement earlier, he walked over to Lanon, who was waving off Marsha, who was, thankfully, in a bra and panties.
"Please do not embarrass me here," Lanon whispered.
"Why?" Kev whispered back, watching the chameleon makeup artist listen to Marybelle's rapid-fire demands and complaints about how Gretchen's coloring was "all wrong." "Does it feel bad when you are embarrassed?"
"Stop," Lanon said. "You are asking the wrong questions." Lanon turned his head and gazed down at him. "What do you know of the club's operations?"
"It's a nightclub," Kev said. "Food, drinks, cover fees, some money for events."
"And...?" Lanon said, raising an eyebrow.
Kev sighed. "There are probably no bands that play who don't bow down to Asmodeus, so it's not a music venue. But there are fights. There are even bets on the fights, so the house takes a cut. I think that's the only gambling in the club."
"And...?" Lanon pressed.
"Vlad probably performs some procedures that are paid for. I'm sure it is not inexpensive to book a private surgeon who isn't on the books."
"Vlad is on the books," Lanon stated. "Why do you think Vlad isn't on the books?"
"They let someone do procedures without modern equipment," Kev said. "That's crazy."
"Equipment is changing all the time," Lanon said. "The fundamentals never do."
They watched as Gretchen was clapped with way too much foundation, the white powder sticking to the panther's black fur, giving her a ghostly, almost confectionary look.
"Okay, so Vlad is on the books. Who cares," Kev said.
"But what else makes the club money?"
"The west wing," Kev said, his voice resigned. "Apparently, the private rooms make a lot of money."
"Indeed. The services we provide are quite extensive."
"So," Kev said, his eyes narrowing, "when you say you reincarnated the club... does that mean you convinced Fang to turn the club into a brothel?"