Rick/Rick, Mystery, Speakeasy, Power Dynamics
There was something indescribably exquisite about creating the lush liquor that glowed with the same emerald richness of the portals that were mostly banned from use within the Citadel. Subversively selling the rebellious ideal, and keeping its image alive – elevating a Rick's own iconic addiction to a timeless form of art.
Club 322 had earned a certain reputation as the hidden treasure of the entertainment district, covetously tucked away in the shadows of the Citadel underground.
While Club 322 served as a front hidden in plain sight for moving the highly unstable bootleg portal fluid, its backend functioned as a distillery, and Proof 322, the club's namesake liquor, had always been one of the more entirely self-indulgent business ventures that Rico had pursued.
There was something indescribably exquisite about creating the lush liquor that glowed with the same emerald richness of the portals that were forever banned from use within the Citadel. Subversively selling the rebellious ideal, and keeping its image alive – elevating a Rick's own iconic addiction to a timeless form of art – was shamelessly one of his proudest passion pets.
Over time, Club 322’s unwavering commitment to the atmosphere and utmost attention to detail had earned it a certain reputation as the hidden treasure of the entertainment district, covetously tucked away in the shadows of the Citadel underground.
Unfortunately, like the few of his favorite things, Rico could only ever enjoy them on a select few, exceptional occasions. He supposed, their rarity made such indulgences even more precious and valuable to him. Unlike most Ricks living in wealth, keeping his came at a premium. He settled into his seat, nervously tapping the arm with his ringed fingers in anticipation. Proof 322 wasn't the indulgence that he had come here to enjoy. Rico wanted something with even more class than perfectly distilled bioluminescent spirits.
He wanted to enjoy his evening in the presence of a Morti whose radiance had carved out 322 as the crown jewel of the entertainment district. Her sharp inteligence, charismatic talent for subtle manipulation, and most of all, her uncompromising passion was simply and effervescently... intoxicating.
Even among the inner-circle playgrounds for the rich, Rico had always found the entertainment spaces lacking a certain demeanor of timeless class. He’d established the intimate speakeasy-style cocktail bar to satisfy his own taste, really, and because it was something held close to his heart, he not only hoarded his secret formula like liquid gold, but charged extravagantly to offer anyone a taste of the romantic illusions he had created. 322 exclusively served the alcohol inspired by the green faerie of their collective mad fantasies.
Her voice, the main instrument of the jazz ensemble, slipped from sultry lips, dripping like silver tendrils of smoke, laced with arsenic sexuality.
Too high, Can't come down Losin' my head, Spinnin' 'round and 'round Do you feel me now?
Oh, The taste of your lips – I'm on a ride You're toxic I'm slippin' under With a taste of a poison paradise
I'm addicted to you Don't you know that you're toxic?