Gallows Humour

The lights pulsate, the floor rumbles.

A man with headphones bobs his head, his DJ booth a shrine atop the mountain of mangling bodies, swapping droplets of sweat and vodka into each other’s cankered mouths. The sound emanating from the speakers resembles chainsaws against granite and with the rhythm of an accentuating bass drum following. At the bar, men stumble, grasping four-hundred dollar vodka bottles and vehemently pour it down the throats of young women. They often miss the target of the women’s mouths, resulting in spilt vodka between their blatant cleavage, adding a glistening flash of the fruits of temptation.

As the night progresses, the room whirls more and more, as everyone begins to look like an animal. Outside, the smell of stale weed and vomit floats in the air, as gargantuan men dressed in black suck on cigarettes, smoke floating into the neon glow of the cloudless night. Chunky brown stains blot the floor, creating a still-life to by dried up by the morning sun. The artist lies unconscious, face-down on the sidewalk. An Indian cab driver yells at the artist’s friends, for spewing in his cab. The friends of the artist, unstable themselves, yell back as the sounds meld into a Caucasian-foreign accented tongue. A man walks by, blood trickling down his forehead into his eyes as a group of yelling men follow him.

They yell things like,
“We’re gonna’ fucking kill that bastard.”
and,
“I’m gonna’ call up my cousins friends and this guy is fucking finished.”
The night continues to swirl, and the more the animals drink, the more vicious they become.

Back inside, the beats and lights guide the rhythm of hip thrusting and cock-against-ass dance moves. The carpeted floor is viscous from spilt alcohol and the bottom of his shoes stick. Tongues are sucking on tongues and the man atop the shrine continues to bob his head.

The music suddenly cuts, a deafening silence. The lights blare. A group of what seems like a hundred police officers invade the silent room, which seconds ago was not a room at all, but a fantasy. A booming crack is shot through the ears, and the crowd scurries and disperses, all attempting to squeeze through the exit. A herd of animals sprinting out of the barn.