[sub][b]A N D R E    B E R R Y[/b][/sub][hr][sup][b]                        M o j o    H o o k a h    L o u n g e[/b][/sup]


	It had started with a word. It was a small word, and it was a beautiful word. It was a word he could never quite hear. It was a word he could never quite know. Everyday, it was on the tip of his tongue. Everyday, he could never find it within himself to pronounce it. The word clung to him like his skin and wove itself into every fiber of his being. He felt bound to the word. He felt not just bound to the word, but to the silence of the word, and everyday, the silence of the word wore on him. The word was with him before his embrace; and the word was with him after his embrace. He knew it was only the word he would admire within himself. For it was the only word that he knew to never betray him.

	The word was still with him as he sat on the crimson couch and smoked hash in the Mojo Hookah Lounge, outside of Little Tokyo. The purple hazed atmosphere and gray ocean of dead trees and smoke reflected from his Cellulose Daictate sunglasses. He was also wearing a white Ermenegildo Zegna suit and tie. He was all for the impression. He had an arm resting on the back of the couch. A drink jingled in his large, tan hand. He had a leg partially crossed over the other, showing his steel toed shoes. The room was dark, but he was getting the attention that he needed, like a dark velvet glove pressing against his cleanly shaven face, over-and-over again. It was cheap, and it was by no means great. But, there was something about the transparent thrill of all the freaky frills and the white girls trying so desperately to fit into some niche subculture simply for the pure pain of staying in fashion.

	"Your outfit. I like it. Tell me all about it," his voice was low as he let himself take a backseat to the conversation. A smug grin was drawn all over his undead soul, and the word was still there, and he was pondering if his audience might be able to guess what that word was. He was waiting patiently. He wanted to hear every word she had to say as she tried desperately to please him intellectually. She seemed desperate. She was not the first woman to tell him about why she chose Gothic Lolita clothes. He had heard the story over a handful of times. Each story was the same but different. Women were like that. He could see right through them. Most men could. Men who could not, were obvious outcasts to the scene. But all men could agree, women were a fragile, quiet creature, even in their darkest hours. It sometimes seemed as if, the word was living within them, as well, and he was only meant to extract it from them. For this, he enjoyed listening them, as he did listening for the word.

	Her faux-golden curls flounced as she started her story for taking her fashionable journey right at the 1960's Second Wave Feminism. It was a fresh start to the story, and he enjoyed the introduction for this. A little bit of politics and history never hurt anyone. If anything, it kept people from repeating themselves. He took a sip from his glass, letting the liquid's warm fragrance trickle into his mouth. Other times, it helped people repeat themselves. And, for Andre, it was about repeating himself. The repetition, the constant beat, the repeated attack against the eardrum, the never-ending yearning for the quiet voice; the word was what he was chasing; and the chase was most certainly real.

	He understood that the word was lying buried somewhere within the voices that liked to jingle in front of him, but he just could not quite get the exact word to come from their mouths. He was always so close, and they were always trying so hard, just like now; just like the glitter in her eyes dancing like scared rabbits too afraid that she was losing his endearing attention; just like the fear that was beginning to believe his question had been just as fake as her hair. Oh, and God, it was a shame that it covered so much of her neck, because tonight, he could use a little bit more skin between his lips.

	Andre had only been in town for two nights, now. He had more business to take care of. The first was announcing to the Baron that Jeremy MacNeill would be coming back into town. The second was getting in touch with Los Angele's infamous Toreador Eva. The third was fulfilling Grecian Elder Thaddeus's orders. He felt purely as a messenger; earning merits for holding people's words for them; people yearned to hear what words he had for them; and yet none of these words were ever the word he truly desired and knew to be his destiny. None of the words held such secrecy, such quietness like the word he was trying to spin, again, again, and again.