Marcas was dressed in a full black suit, fitted with a wine red waistcoat and matching tie. His hands were covered in two black gloves and his shoes were the finest pitch black Italian leather. He wore a dark wine red beret, not his idea but he liked the touch of French class.
The stadium looked nothing short of jaw dropping. Not the only thing that looks dashing tonight. With that, Marcas straightened his jacket and walked towards the security gate. He readied his identification. One of his pet hates was people having to fumble around for their ID whilst making everyone else wait.
All the entrances seemed to be guarded with top level security. Glad I am one of the good guys... Marcas was next in the que to get in. The first guard brought a scanner against Marcas and moved it around. It beeped at his belt buckle and the guard nodded. The Irishman walked forward.
The guard was eye level with Marcas, but he was built like a tank. His shoulders were huge. "Identification sir." The mans chest heaved up and down, pressing tightly against the white shirt.
Marcas handed over the small plastic card. "Nice evening isn't it?" The man walked over to a machine on a table and grunted in response to the Irishman. Marcas folded his arms and brought his right leg around his left, so that he was balancing primarily on one foot. He looked down at his legs. Why do I stand like this?
The man walked back over and handed Marcas the card. "Enjoy your night sir". Marcas thanked him and walked inside. The cold air of the night getting left behind as he passed the boundary into what felt like a new dimension.
Marcas wandered around the complex, not really taking an interest in anything. It all seemed basic, but he was here for the main event, not the appetizers. As he walked from display to display, whilst getting blasted by loud music from the many live bands, he couldn't help but think to himself how organised it all was. This is done down to the smallest atom.
"Champagne sir?" An elderly man was beside Marcas holding a tray with several glasses on it, each filled precariously close to the brim. He smiled when Marcas caught his eye.
"Catching me off my guard there. I will take one please." The Irishman reached out and took the nearest glass. "Could you tell me when the main showpiece starts?" Marcas questioned.
The man began to respond when the intercom system went live. "Attention Showroom floor, showcase will begin in five minutes, I repeat five minutes, please begin making your way to the stands..."
The elderly man shrugged his shoulders. "I do hope that answers your question." He walked away and left Marcas standing there holding the champagne. Better get yourself moving. Otherwise you will have a terrible seat.
The Irishman began to walk towards the Showroom. The sound of music had just died, swiftly followed by the lights.
What the hell? That cannot be right.