...she instantly began brushing off the criticism of her "urban jungle" look (after all, they've alway's laughed at trend-setters, at first). She shrugged off the lears and jeers of the animal-rights activists who tried to splash blood on her leopard skin attire to shouts of "murderer" (where did they get the blood, by the way?), stepping this way and that to avoid them, keeping always just out of reach of the buckets of blood being hurled at her. When she finally reached the end of the gauntlet, she remained as spotless as ever. She threw a glance over her shoulder at the crowd behind her. They were now covered with the sticky red bodily fluid that had been intended to make some political point about her attire. The point had been obviously lost in the screams and sobs of the businessmen and women who now found their cotton/poly business suits hopelessly discoloured by the blood-slinging politicos. The activists quietly put down their buckets and tried to slip away, unnoticed. They weren't very successful at this, either.
Jane placed her hand on her hip, and glanced sideways at the nearest pearl fisher, who siezed the opportunity to place his arm in hers and escort her up the marble staircase. He cast a glance at Tarzan as the ascended, as if to bid a fond adieu to the the tempered ape.
Tarzan searched his loinclout for his admission ticket, but could not find it. He must have left in it his other loinclout, and that was back at the office. No time to change now, he jumped up, seizing on of the banners which streamed down the side of the building, and climbed to the balcony high above the boulevard. With a great heave he threw himself over the stone railing, and entered the gala through the double doors, arriving just as the elevator opened, and the Maitre' de Hotel announced the arrival of...
<small>[ 11-07-2005, 05:23 PM: Message edited by: Shapley ]</small>
Quod scripsi, scripsi.