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Olle may have been, in a sense, accustom to the nightlife, but it went without saying that to everything there was an unexplored, somewhat mystical ‘side’ that in most cases had a knack for intimidating those that shied away from it. And for Olle, that ‘side’ consisted mainly of being a part of the party rather than providing it. As long as he’d been living in Vegas, he’d been working in bars and clubs, and whether that meant he spent his time slaving away to intoxicate people or patrolling the club’s innards for suspicious activity, he’d never really taken the time to go clubbing himself. And even if he had, it wouldn’t have been at Caesar’s Palace…
It wasn’t often that he found himself lurking in these parts—unless his bimonthly (and typically prearranged) visits counted as ‘lurking’—but in the event that he happened to show his face, he couldn’t help but feel that he was terribly out of place. Not only did he fail miserably at presenting himself as a professional in any sense of the word, but when he actually made an attempt, the outcome most often resembled some of the fashion seen among Swedish synthpop acts. More often than not, he opted to leave out the possibility of including a tie in his outfit altogether.
On this particular night, he’d been aware of the goings-on during the time of his arrival, though if asked, he’d have admitted that sticking around hadn’t initially been part of his plan (which had been to pop in and drop off a rather discreet-looking envelope, and maybe even pick up a few things before he was needed back at the club). But considering Olle wasn’t even scheduled to be at the club—it’d been a pretty big deal when they originally discussed the idea of bringing in a few guest DJs two or three times a month, if only to give him a bit of a break, but now it felt more like an excuse to chase him away—he figured it wouldn’t be too big a deal if he lollygagged. It’d always be an excellent opportunity to people-watch, if nothing else (though it was likely that more people would be watching him, because where there was free liquor, there was bound to be twice as much obnoxious conversation on his part).
Just because he’d been raised to believe that he was ‘as Norwegian as they got’ didn’t mean that he wasn’t capable of deciding to think otherwise—he’d learned English considerably late in his life, and had been taught to understand most Scandinavian languages in school. He knew enough Russian to get by, but by no means would he ever boast fluency (it wasn’t that he couldn’t handle making an ass of himself, really, because he didn’t care whose country he insulted in the process), but it was rare that he used what he knew of the language. When he did, it was fair to say he was probably drunk… or getting there.
Currently, he was happily lost in a dog pile of women, engaged in a half-hearted, but sadly stereotypical “Chyem vy zanimaetyes?” conversation. They (being the women, of course) each took turns making up the most ridiculous stories for responses—he knew they couldn’t possibly be true, but he was too relaxed to care… but when they lost interest in the discussion and decided to start questioning him about his tattoos, or at least the ones they could see (because it wasn’t as though he’d shown up in a t-shirt and jeans like some kind of slob), he obliged and told them the story that went along with the letters on his knuckles. Naturally, the letters were made to spell ‘FUCK YEAH’.
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