Proprietor of the Prometheus Club
The second you walk in your eyes are pulled front and center, on a clown. A Harlequin whose suit and makeup are louder than the music thrashing around you. He smiles. A grin that hits you before the falsetto’d, “Hey, baby,” as rows of white teeth are stretched amicably wide; painted between a frame of red lipstick and pale cheeks. Delight that’s carried between those reds and whites of his face and form. A body that bends in greeting. His arms wide, exaggerated.
“Welcome to Prometheus. What dream can Papa J make true for you, baby?”
Papa J is the owner and manager of the Prometheus Club, that caters to the city’s more prominent members. Whether it’s a drink or a companion, there are few itches he and his club are incapable of scratching. Even when it comes to information.
Despite appearances, Papa J is a gifted consultant of data. And for the right price, anything can be pulled from the unknown and laid bare.