Chainges in a nightclub in the Castro of San Francisco that caters to those defiantly out of the closet.

Overview Edit


The one constant in the ever-shifting Castro Glamour scene has been Chainges. The club stands almost alone as the rest of the Castro buttons down and attempts to become respectable. Run by the satyr Hector and his longtime partner, the redcap Sam the Clam, Chainges is a veritable geyser of wild Glamour, staying open until the disco ball in the center of the ceiling is a bleary eye staring at the new dawn. The dance floor dominates the club and is inlaid with blinking red, yellow, and blue lights. Hector claims they are the original lights from the disco in Saturday Night Fever, while Sam merely rolls his eyes when asked.

Off to one side is a bar that spans nearly the length of the dance floor, paneled in mahogany and offering a wider selection of alcoholic beverages than might be believed. Below the bar, in the famous Grey Box, Hector keeps his assorted stashes. He proudly boasts that he's sold to everyone, including his own grandmother, who told him that his stuff had fewer seeds than her other supplier. Several times, the police have tried to bust Hector on drug raps, but since he has his own information sources, the mysterious Grey Box (actually a Treasure which allows only the owner to actually see its contents) is always missing. Usually notes reading "Getting warmer, doc," are there instead and a great many police officers have spent a great many afternoons wild goose-chasing around the club for a stash of mushrooms that may simply be no longer there. At this point, since Hector only deals in pot and hallucinogens, as well as making sure no one ever ODs on his stuff, the cops tend to leave Chainges alone. This laissez-faire attitude extends to security as well, as Sam the Clam is generally capable of handling any problem that arises.

Along the other side of the dance floor is a row of tables with high black chairs. The row is deliberately situated across the dance floor form the bar. The floor is usually so crowded and so energetic that a great many drinks never make it across to a table. Either they're spilled or drunk along the way by those trapped in the milling, dancing throng.

References Edit

  1. CTD. Immortal Eyes: The Toybox, pp. 59-60.
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