The Manhattan Dream

[qwertypp7]

In a dark corner of the club, a man in a black flight suit sat alone, nursing a glass of brightly coloured drink. He pushed a button on a wrist mounted console and the time flashed green, illuminating his features in an eerie glow. The man's face was worn and haggard in a way that contrasted starkly with the youthful clientel of the club around him.
Looking up, he spotted his purpose for being in the club as a particuarly large club bouncer led a very familiar man into the roped off VIP area, chatting animatedly.
As the bouncer retreated towards a corner table in the VIP area, the man rose, leaving his drink where it sat.

Weaving his way across the dancefloor and around the various revellers, he reached the bouncer guarding the VIP area.

"Pass?" asked the bouncer flattly, looking at the man up and down with disdain at his plain flight suit and aged features.

Taking out a wad of credit chips from his breast pocket, the man pushed them into the bouncers hand, nodded to him curtly and unhooked the rope blocking his path, leaving the bouncer to count the credits happily.

Walking up behind the man he had recognised earlier, he tapped him on the shoulder.

"Tharog Frostheath?" He inquired...

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Dublin Miner: I am Gallic admiral earning money in Bretonia.

True story...