Dirty Dancer Won't Stop Talking About His Past (Veve-Punk Story)

This is the text version of a video series of original Veve-Punk characters. Click here to visit the Dom’s Sketch Cast Wiki and to learn more about the world I’m creating. Watch the video here.

You enter the chaotic VIP area of Club L’Étrange. The air is electric, neon lights streaking across the walls, and the bassline vibrates through your chest.

Before you can take another step, a hand grabs your shoulder.

"Oi, wozo! That was MAD what you did down on de dance floor! C’mere. Don’t be shy now!"

Jamaican Patrick pulls you toward the balcony and his equally loud entourage. His silver cane taps against the floor, and his grin is just as shiny.

"Y’see dem down dere? De daggerin’, the humpin’? I used to be de king of dis. The undisputed fiend of fake-fuckin’. Mi moves used to make de gyals dissintegrate."

He leans forward, the neon lights casting a sinister glow over his face. His tone shifts, and you have to lean in to hear him over the airhorns and incessant demands of the DJ.

"But then came De Incident. Mi was tryin’ me Duppy Eagle move—too ambitious—me was tryna’ land on de proverbial Pum-Pum but me MISSED, fam. CRACK! Mi knee mash up. Crumpled like paper. Mi career done. Now? Mi on CLIPBOARD duty. Judgin’ these youts while dey butcher mi legacy."

"But you? Yuh impressed mi. Dat move yuh pulled down dere? That took MAD skill. Anansi don’t scare yuh, huh? You know he de one FUCKED mi up, yeah?"

Patrick’s grin widens as he reaches into his jacket.

Patrick pulls out a small glowing cyberchip, radiating warmth and energy. He holds it out to you, the faint hum of its power vibrating in your hand as you take it.

"Dis a Daggerin’ Chip. Proof dat yuh earned mi respect. You can get 3% off drinks with it too."

He steps back, nodding toward the dancefloor.

"But don’t think mi done with yuh yet. Dis is just de first step. If yuh serious ‘bout takin’ down Anansi’s web, yuh gon need more dan just moves. Yuh gon need allies. Power. And a wozo bludclaat like mi."

He points his cane at you, his expression dead serious, fam.

"So, here’s de deal. Keep dat chip safe, yuh hear? Use it when de time comes. And when yuh ready to break de web? Yuh know where to find mi."

He turns, limping off into a crowd of bottle service cybermamans, his cane tapping a steady rhythm. You’re left with the sigil glowing faintly in your palm and the weight of his words echoing in your mind.