There’s only one road you can take to The End of the World. After the Twins, what used to be a through road and intersection became a dead end overlooking a twenty-five-meter cliff face.
You drive up the winding road into the Hollywood hills. Up here, the haze and light pollution blocks your view of the stars, but below, Los Angeles looks just as pretty as any galaxy. After ten minutes, you arrive on a stretch of road that ends in a cul-de-sac on a cliff. There are several other cars here; expensive looking cars, but not pimped out. The view is breathtaking, with an unobstructed look over L.A. A warm breeze takes the slight chill out of the night air. Off to the far right is the Hollywood sign.
The End of the World is a high-class, single-story building. The grounds are dark, except for subdued yellow lighting along the sidewalk and over the door. The building is perched partially over the edge with serious reinforcement. As you approach the club, two “walls” step out of the shadows. One of these burly troll security guards lights a cigarette, illuminating his face. Apparently even the guards go for a little cosmetic surgery. The lighting over the door brightens a little so you can now see both guards well enough.
“Invitations please,” asks the first guard. As you present the invitation, there’s a loud buzz in the distance followed by a pop and flash of light.
“Glitterati drone,” says the second guard in answer to your unspoken question.
“Go on in sir,…ladies.” says the first guard, opening the door and handing back the invitation.
Inside, you see that the place has a classy look with brown colors and faux-wood furniture. This contrasts with the placement of jagged black stripes and irregular black spots. The AR has two overlay channels. One replaces the black with a view of the aftermath of the quakes from the perspective inside the club. The other is a present-day view. Looks like the place was in fairly bad shape after the quake, and someone recorded the moment.
Many people wander around; waiters serve entrees and drinks while the guests circulate among dozens of sitting areas. You can see Alexi Summers, who just brought out a new line of urban tribal for Evo, and Anthony Pardes with an armful of women. The other guests acknowledge your existence with cool greetings and empty small talk. Apparently you aren’t high enough on the Pito scale for a full conversation. You overhear tidbits of conversations: producers throwing out ideas for the next blockbuster, an assortment of rumors, and a slightly heated argument over whether Teiko’s next album, Lollipop Dreams, will beat out Chrisy Daee’s Sunny Daee at this year’s awards.
