Spanish Entry to the European Union Anniversary Day
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14th August 2020 - Ibiza
The Spanish Entry to the European Union Anniversary Day (last year known as Spanish Anniversary Day) was the most known party last year in the whole European Union. Last year, the event was divided in 2: First of all, the public events, in which a military show took place, and secondly, the private party, where the old Derectan Prime Minister, Cayetana, was kidnapped by EL Trisha, a Red Croatian citizen, El Capitán fell in love with Mikaela Klienberg and Candance, an old woman, was killed by the private party guests in 'El Burro Marica' bar. This year, the event has been privately organized by the famous disco company, Pacha, and will be divided in 2 rooms: Exclusive - VIP Room, for the most important European Union guests and 'the others room', which is for the people that are not important. Lots of celebrities are expected to come. Pacha hopes you enjoy their most prestigious party (along with many of the others ones).
OCC: no confirmation is needed, just show up and enjoy! Roleplay starts the 14th August.
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The bodyguards were waiting at the doors of Pacha. Thousands of people were waiting to get a seat, a chance to enter the room and dance all the night, get drunk, enjoy the pure Ibizan experience, to enjoy the night and get back to their countries with a sad face, but remembering their parties in Ibiza. The mysterious organizers arrive with their faces covered, no one but the VIPs could now who were they. After that, the people was allowed to come in, hundreds entered the disco, while many others weren't allowed because they were not invited or they were drunk.
Froilán, who couldn't miss a party, arrived at the party. Many of the people waiting for the VIPs took photos, and Froilán didn't care about them taking photos. He even signed an autograph in a photo which said: "The prince that shoot himself on his foot". He entered the VIP room and met with the organizers. "I see you have done a great job guys, great job!" The organizers answered: "We are the owners of this, what did you expect?"
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A party. Not just a party, a party in a disco company. And the Council had decided to send him. At least there would be enough cigarettes and scotch to drown out the noise and the dancing. Dancing. Lord Christopher Strathclyde hated the word and the act. He was an Imperial Consul, one of the most important politicians in the Empire, and they sent him to this. And not just that, they sent him together with Marquis Maximillian de Barrington, his arch-rival, and someone Christopher couldn't stand one bit.
Max was more excited than he had been the last few months. Finally he could leave the Imperial Palace behind and focus on what he loved: charming his friends. Not that he had many friends left in Inimicus, and certainly not within the Palace or on the National Imperial Council. No, he had few friends remaining. And largely, this was down to the man who had been chosen to co-represent Inimicus at this event. Christopher Strathclyde. But perhaps, thought Max, this would be a chance for reconciliation between him and Christopher, and between the Barringtons and Strathclydes more generally. They had, after all, shared power in Inimicus for the last eight years, and it was high time this arrangement resumed as it had done for so long.
The motorcade journey to this elusive club in Ibiza progressed in complete silence. Christopher had just taken out his fifth cigarette of the journey when the cars stopped outside the Pacha club. "Right.... give me strength", thought Christopher. "Excellent, here at last", thought Max. The two disembarked their cars and discovered neither of them was dressed for the occasion, in their regular suits and shirts. Christopher was about to sit back down in the car when an attendant came to collect the two Inimicians and led them inside.
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Francisco Ferrer, Pacha disco director, was talking with Froilán, who wore a mask to not being recognised. Suddenly, when both men entered, he welcomed them to the party: "Lord Christopher, Max, welcome to Pacha, one of the best discos in Spain and to one of our best parties in the whole year. It's really nice to see you have come tonight, which pleases me. Would you like some champange or any other drink? Did you have a nice trip?"
Meanwhile, more and more people entered the non-VIP room, the rumours exanded all around the disco. "Will the girls on tour come?" Said one. Another one answered: "Myabe we get El Trisha and some commies here, woooooo."
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Christopher Strathclyde's thoughts about how the club owner's trousers didn't match his jacket, how he had his blazer sleeves rolled up, and how he had described the venue Christopher was now entering as the best "disco" in Spain were rudely interrupted by the mention of champagne. "The journey was most satisfactory, Sir, thank you. Now, as for this champagne...", Christopher began. He walked up to Mr Ferrer, put his hand on his shoulder, and led him to what he had immediately identified as the bar area, leaving Max Barrington to fend for himself. Perhaps tonight would finally be the night when the Strathclydes would present themselves as the superior Inimician diplomats.
Max Barrington had not said a word, and had watched with a raised eyebrow as Christopher seemed to immediately charm the establishment's director with talk of drinks. He watched the two men go off into the distance, presumably towards the bar, and for a moment he felt as alone as he had done in the preceding months, in the Imperial Palace corridors. No one to protect him, his closest ally Sir Augustus Barrington far away in Europolis. He was left to fend for himself. He looked around and discovered the Inimician delegation had presumably arrived immensely early, as apart from table attendants and security staff, the only other guest appeared to be a masked weirdo.
Awkwardness struck him. He shouldn't be here. He was out of place. What to do next? He wasn't made for this. He had looked forward to this opportunity so much, finally he would have a chance to redeem himself, the weaker of the two Imperial Consuls, someone now suspected of the worst crimes it is possible for an Inimician to imagine. And now this. He needed -- no, he thought. He would not admit he needed a drink. He was Marquis Maximillian de Barrington, Imperial Councillor, Imperial Consul. He did not need a drink. But he would very much appreciate one.
The Kingdom of Spain