She had hair that had been bleached white, and it looked frail, limp, and wispy, as if it would soon start falling out. Her face might have been attractive, once, perhaps, but there was too much makeup, and a hollow expression that filled you at once with both pity and despair.
My eyes, the wandering little bastards that they are, followed her thin neck down to her substantial cleavage, and further down to her exposed midriff, and that's when I realized that she and the young man were wearing the same exact outfit. My eyes darted between the two of them, checking to see that the young man was even wearing the same knee-high boots, the same "why-did-you-even-bother-wearing-clothes," tight black spandex pants.
The friend of my friend introduced us immediately. "[My Name]," he said to me, "this is Plouton."
The man who called himself Plouton stood up, and extended a hand covered in rings and bracelets. "Mesmerizing," He said, and I took that as a form of greeting. I shook his hand, and his eyes widened the moment our flesh made contact, as if I had stung him. He held onto my hand though, and after an extremely uncomfortable four seconds, he said "You have a monumentous aura. I like you."
After letting go of my hand, he turned to my friend of a friend, and said "Sanguinatus, what shall we play today?"