This is a work of fiction created for the Twilight 2000 Role Playing Game. Original material © Dave Ross

The Brothel

"So she lays down beside me again
My sweet painted lady, the one with no name
Many have used her and many still do
There's a place in the world for a woman like you


Oh, sweet painted lady
Seems it's always been the same
Getting paid for being laid
Guess that's the name of the game"


"Sweet Painted Lady", Bernie Taupin / Elton John


The Brothel lies on a small side street not far from the City centre. From the outside it is unremarkable, an ordinary five story apartment building, with a solid wooden door, the only thing distinguishing it is a solitary red light that shines from one ground floor window and marks the building's purpose.


Anyone knocking on the wooden door will find themselves studied through a spy hole set into it before they are granted admittance into a small reception area. Two or three men will always be found here, off duty members of the City's militia force who act as bouncers,  supplying the brothel with security in exchange for extra ration chits and other "fringe"  benefits. Each is armed with a melee weapon and a handgun, whilst a pump action shotgun and a submachine gun are both within easy reach. One of the bouncers also carries a personal radio, which can be used to call for help from their colleagues in the militia should the need arise.  Anyone entering armed will be asked to leave their weapons with the bouncers, to be collected on leaving. In practice this rule is only loosely enforced, and smuggling a handgun past them is relatively straight forward.


The reception leads into a lounge, where several girls will be sitting around. Most will be wearing lingerie of pre war origin (although given the increasing scarcity of such items, some girls may be wearing nothing but high heels).  The furnishings are quite plush by the standards of 2000 – the brothel attracts a relatively wealthy clientele, a fact borne out by the prices. Those who want quick relief for only a few dollars would be better looking elsewhere.


Also present will be the Madam, who will outline the services available and the cost of those services. Payment can be made in City ration chits, US Dollars, or goods that have barter value, e.g. jewellery, gold, etc. Once the customer has made his selection, the Madam will collect payment, following which the chosen girl - or girls - will lead the customer through to one of the brothel's several bedrooms,  where the  deal will be sealed.  Most of the bedrooms are relatively basic, consisting of little more than a bed and some random items of furniture, although several have been set up as so called "VIP" rooms, with more deluxe furnishings, such as four poster beds, or, perhaps the ultimate in luxury in the Year 2000, a bathtub. An additional charge applies for use of one of these rooms.


The top floor of the brothel also has a number of private rooms. These include a room which the pimp uses as his office. The office has a small safe, where the Madam deposits customers' payments. Both the pimp and the madam have keys to the office and the safe. Another room is used by the prostitutes to change from their street clothes in to their working ones. Access to the top floor is via a locked door.


The pimp visits the brothel on a regular basis, so there is always a random chance of encountering him (roll 1 d10 - pimp is present on 7+). He will greet any customers, offer handshakes, smile, be full of charm and good humour, although it will be evident that the girls in the room are scared of him, with good reason for he has a fearsome temper.  


The brothel's customers include senior members of the City's leadership and high ranking officers in the militia, ensuring that not only are the militia complicit in its security but they also help reduce competition by carrying out occasional raids on rivals.    



The Pimp


The pimp was born in a working class district of the City the day after John Kennedy was killed in 1963. He left school in 1979 without any formal qualifications. After spending several years moving from job to job he was accepted into the City's police force in 1981. He married in 1983. He and his wife had three children; the eldest, a daughter, was born in 1984; a second daughter was born in 1988; and, finally, a son was born in 1990, the same year he was promoted to detective.


Money was always short, and as a police officer he was often in contact with it, much of it illegally obtained.  The first time he helped himself was in 1987. His daughter's birthday was coming up; the family car had broken down, leaving him with a big repair bill; the credit cards were maxed out. He'd arrested a drug dealer, a low life, a piece of scum. The police searched his house, looking for evidence, looking for more drugs. The policeman found money hidden in the bedroom, more money than he earned in six months. He should have declared it of course, it should have been entered into evidence, should have been properly accounted for. But then what would happen to it? It would go into the public coffers. His need was greater.


The cash went into his pocket. Afterwards he told himself he would never do it again. But of course he did. When he was promoted to detective the opportunities increased. A blind eye turned here and there, a favour done in exchange for an envelope of cash. In 1995 he and his wife divorced. She took the children, left the City. He sought solace in hookers and whisky. Then the War came.


 For some the War brought death, destruction, untold misery. For others it brought opportunity, new beginnings. After the bombs had fallen he took his opportunity, forged a new beginning. He ceased to be a policeman, sought out a new career. He opened the brothel at the start of 1998. He called it being a businessman. Others called him a pimp, although not to his face.


From the start business was good. Men had needs and the War simply made those needs even greater. They wanted to spend half an hour talking with a pretty girl, wanted to fuck that pretty girl, wanted to forget about the War for as long as they could. He looks after his friends on the City Council and the Militia, who enjoy all the delights the brothel has to offer with his compliments. In return they help him out, making sure that business stays good by doing him the  occasional favour, with more than one would be rival finding their premises raided at dawn, closed down for some spurious reason, their girls arrested. More than one of those girls has found herself working for the pimp. From the outset he ensured that his girls knew who they were working for, with each one having his mark tattooed onto their body, usually on the thigh, occasionally on the breast.


He currently employs just over thirty girls. The tattoo is subtle, but it marks each one permanently.. More than one has tried to flee but been caught, betrayed by the tattoo, brought back to face justice. The punishment for a girl caught running and brought back is to have her face slashed with a knife in front of the other girls, scarring her permanently. It effectively ends her career as a prostitute, for no one wants to fuck a scarred girl, so those punished in such a way end up having to seek other work, which often entails working twelve hours a day in one of the City's factories for a handful of ration chits, far, far less than she would make on her back. He possesses a fearsome temper, and more serious infringements of his rules bring harsher penalties - he has killed two girls himself, strangling them with his bare hands.


The simplest way to meet the pimp is to visit the brothel, which he visits regularly. He will usually be dressed relatively smartly, in a dark suit and open necked shirt. He always carries a holstered 9mm automatic pistol and will sometimes also carry a submachine gun. He is generally accompanied by two bodyguards, one a former policeman and the other a former soldier, both of whom carry submachine guns. One acts as his driver (he has a private automobile, a rare thing in the City, a Mercedes saloon car that has been converted to run on alcohol fuels.  His drink of choice is scotch whisky, preferably Johnnie Walker.


His residence is a private house several kilometres away, but he will not welcome uninvited guests to his home (although he does host occasional "gatherings" at his home for his friends and his most important and influential customers, which includes former police colleagues who now hold high rank in the City militia. Several of his girls will also be in attendance at these gatherings (he will always ensure there is at least one girl for each guest), and anyone invited to such an event will find that a range of "pleasures" will be available, including sex, alcohol, and drugs that have been rare to come by since the nuclear exchanges). When not entertaining guests two or three girls will still generally be found at his home each evening, looking after his own needs.


He will, on occasion, wonder as to the fate of his family, or more accurately, his children, as he has no interest in what has happened to his ex wife, but he hopes his children are safe. He knows that his wife moved them to another town some seventy five kilometres from the City, but he hasn’t heard from any of the them since the start of the nuclear exchanges in 1997. Ideally he would like to find them, to bring them to the City, and would be prepared to pay a group of mercenaries to carry out this task.


The Pimp is a Veteran NPC. He speaks his own language fluently. If set in Europe he also has a skill level of 60% in English and 50% in Russian


NPC Motivations: Club King (Brutal); Diamond Queen (Lustful)



The Madam


The Madam was born in a small village several hundred kilometres from the City in November 1970. As a teenager she quickly grew bored with life in the village, and left as soon as she could, arriving in the City on a bus in 1989, aged nineteen, her head filled with dreams of fame and fortune.


Within a few weeks she had found a job in a lap dancing bar. From there it was a simple step to being an escort girl. By the age of twenty three she was working the lobbies of the City's Hotels, fucking visiting businessmen for cash. Ignoring the wedding rings and the family photos in their wallets as they paid her.


She knew the pimp of course. Only he wasn't the pimp then of course, he was a policeman. She knew the rules. Look after him and he would look the other way. And so she looked after him. An envelope of cash every now and then, a fuck in an anonymous Hotel room.


She threw a party for her twenty sixth birthday, a private affair for a few of her closest friends. There was drink, there was drugs. And of course there was sex. She slept late the following day, woke around noon, switched on her TV. To discover the West German Army had crossed the border, had entered East Germany. The World was at War.


The War brought men in uniform to the City. Men far away from their wives, men with money. Business was good. And then the bombs fell. The chaos came. Soldiers came, soldiers went, different soldiers, different uniforms. She stayed in the City. She had nowhere else to go. Stayed, and survived the chaos, survived the dark nights, survived to see the dawn. But it was a new dawn. The City had changed, was a more dangerous place, especially for a woman on her own. She needed protection. She sought out the policeman. But he wasn't the policeman any more, he was the pimp now. Agreement was reached; he would protect her; in return she would work for him, as one of his girls.


With his mark tattooed into her skin she started working in the brothel. She wasn't the Madam then. The Madam was an older woman, in her forties. That woman died in December 1999. Murdered in her private apartment on the brothel's top floor. The murderer was never found. The City militia had more important things to concern themselves with. The pimp needed to find someone to run the brothel. So just after her twenty ninth birthday the woman from the small village became the new Madam.  


A striking blonde, the Madam is five feet eight inches tall. Whilst working she habitually wears a long evening dress, of which she has quite a few. She usually carries a small clutch bag with her. As well as the usual plethora of items found in a woman's handbag, this also contains a small .22 pistol. She now lives in the apartment on the brothel's top floor. Hidden in the apartment is a lockbox that contains a significant amount of valuables (watches, jewellery, etc) and approximately 10,000USD in various currencies.


Whilst she supervises the brothel, she still retains some clients of her own, men of wealth, men of influence within the City, men who are prepared to pay handsomely to fuck her in one of the VIP rooms. The pimp is well aware of this and is quite happy with it, knowing that it is in his best interests to keep these men happy. Of late though she has begun to wonder whether she could do better than the pimp, whether she could find herself another benefactor, another patron who would look after her, protect her. But she knows that the pimp is well connected, has his own powerful friends, so for the moment she is content to wait for the right opportunity.


The Madam is an Experienced NPC. She speaks her own language fluently. If set in Europe she also has a skill level of 70% in English and 20% in two other languages besides her own (acquired conversing with customers)


NPC Motivation: Spade Queen (Ruthless); Diamond Eight (Very Greedy)



The Prostitute


Born in 1978, the prostitute grew up in a small town thirty kilometres from the City. She had a settled home life - her father held a senior position in a bank in the City, her mother was a homemaker; she had one sibling, a brother three years younger than her. The family had a comfortable lifestyle. Leaving school in the summer of 1996 aged eighteen, she wanted to be a Doctor and she was overjoyed when she was accepted to study medicine at the University in the City. Even the war clouds gathering over Europe that summer couldn't dampen her enthusiasm.


Bright, vibrant, and attractive, she settled quickly into university life, and was a popular student. The War was something that she watched on TV, something that the 24 hour news channels brought into her dorm room, but not something that directly affected her. That would change in the summer of 1997 when nuclear weapons were first used in Europe. Like many people she was caught up in the initial wave of panic and tried to get out of the City as quickly as she could, fearing that it would be the target of a nuclear attack. So she went to what seemed to be the safest place she could, her parents' house in the town thirty kilometres away.  


They stayed there during the dark autumn of 1997 as the exchanges grew ever more intense, as City after City, Capital after Capital disappeared from the map in a wave of nuclear fire. By Year's end it seemed that the warring Powers had stopped one step short of mutual assured destruction. Somehow, it seemed that some semblance of sanity had prevailed. The family had survived Armageddon. They were the lucky ones.


Or so they thought.


Life was hard during the opening months of 1998. Everyday conveniences like electricity, fresh food, even running water were a mere memory. Her brother, by now sixteen, joined the town's fledgling self defence force, was given a World War 2 era rifle and half an hour's instruction on how to use it. In February her father got sick. She tried to tend him as best as she could. After all, she was a medical student. She wanted to be a Doctor. But her knowledge was limited - she had had barely nine months of study before the bombs fell. And the only medicines that she had were a few antibiotics.


Her father died in March.


In May the soldiers came to the town in their trucks and armoured vehicles. They couldn't tell whose side they were on - one uniform looked much like another by then. And they had guns. The gunfire started half an hour after the soldiers arrived. Her brother picked up his rifle, rushed to try and defend his town. She saw him die, shot by a soldier. The soldier laughed. When the shooting stopped the soldiers went from house to house, looking for loot. Looking for women. When the soldiers came to their house her mother told her to hide. She cowered in a wardrobe, hidden under piles of clothes, listened as her mother told the soldiers that there was no one else in the house, listened as the soldiers took her mother away. She had no idea how long she stayed hidden. When she finally emerged it was daylight. The soldiers had gone. There was no sign of her mother. No sign of any living souls. The streets were filled with corpses.  


She ran, ran as far away as she could from the town she had grown up in. A town she would never got back to. She spent several weeks wandering, scavenging to survive, until, in early June, they stumbled across a merchant convoy heading for the City. She sobbed, pleaded with the merchant to take her with him, to the relative safety of the City. The merchant shrugged. He could take her, but she would have to pay a fee. Gold, jewellery, watches, goods that could be bartered, that was the currency now. She had none of these things. But she did have one thing of value, one thing that that she could sell.


Herself.


She took off her clothes. Closed her eyes and opened her legs. And bought passage into the City


Arriving in the City, she found a bed in a flophouse. With no means to support herself, she sought work. She went from factory to factory, even tried the hospital, but the skills she had were not what they needed. She was desperate. She needed work to earn the ration chits she needed to eat. She didn't want to do it. But she had to eat, had to live. And so one night she slipped out of the flophouse, headed for the part of town where a man could forget the War for ten minutes, half an hour, a night. For a price. And sold her body again. Her first customer was an old man, grey haired, with bad teeth and foul smelling breath. The price was three potatoes, a handful of ration chits, and an apple. She devoured the apple, went back to the flophouse and scrubbed herself as best she could before crying herself to sleep.


She spent several weeks freelancing, but it was dangerous work. Twice she was attacked by other girls not keen on the competition. Customers refused to pay. One threatened her with a knife, held it at her throat. She thought he was going to kill her. Then she met the pimp. He said he would look after her, protect her. For a share of her earnings of course. It seemed like a good idea, so she agreed, and now she works for him, in the brothel. He has had her tattooed with his mark, will carry it on her body for the rest of her life, on her thigh. But it is still safer than being on the streets. She lives in a flat with four other girls. They all work in the brothel. Ironically the flat is close to the University where she used to study.


Twenty two years old and five feet six inches tall, the prostitute is slim, dark haired, and attractive. She hates herself, hates what she has become, She wanted to be a Doctor and now she is a whore, but what else can she do? She is desperate to escape but is terrified of the pimp – she has see what happens to those who run - and is completely and utterly alone in the World and she has to survive somehow, has to eat. When she is with her customers she closes her eyes, imagines that she is somewhere else, somewhere far away from the City, remembers the happy times with her family before the war, imagines their faces. That is all that she can do for she doesn't have any photos of them. She still clings to one hope, the hope that her mother is still alive somewhere and that one day they will be reunited, but slowly, surely, that hope is dying within her.


The Prostitute is a novice NPC except for Medical, where she has an Experienced skill level on account of her University studies. She speaks her own language fluently. If set in Europe she also has a skill level of 60% in English and 20% in one other language besides her own.


NPC Motivations: Spade Ace (Charismatic); Heart Queen (Loving)