The night is young. John’s head is pounding. How many drinks was it? Not enough. A crumbled ball of cash in his pocket. It is there to be spent. John leaves the quiet place. A few pints on the edge of town to warm up, and to dodge the inner city tax. The rain is welcome. It is a light mist to keep him cool.
He picks up the pace, dodging past the tourists and hen parties clogging the street. Each step is a kick drum as the clubs draw near. The city never stops growing. Passages swallow people whole as they pour into the clubs. He would never visit them all, but what’s the harm in trying? The city takes him down a path. Muffled music crashes in from all sides. The buildings were here before John, and they will continue after he is gone.
John nestles himself between the heaving crowd of somewhere new. Fomori. The name dances in front of him from above the entrance. The place is a mix of purples and blues. The signs are weathered and cracking. As the crowd meanders closer, he sees swirling patterns on the outside wall. It is two colors of painting fighting against mixing. “Y’alright, buddy?” the bouncer says. When did he reach the front of the queue? John gives the man a nod, fighting the urge to sway. The bouncer cocks his head towards the door.
The air is heavy inside. John spots a line to the dancefloor among the crowd. At the far end, a stage. As the room opens up, familiar songs echo through the maw of the building. Speakers crush the notes into musical paste. The vocals are replaced with a choir of heathens. The crowd sways with the music. John stays in step, inching his way deeper toward the front. The stage is a tangle of cables bowing in the middle. They are connected to worn-out boxes named ‘Korg’ and ‘Alberton’. The speakers begin to fade out. A faint hiss is all that remains. The crowd snaps to a halt, waiting for their next note.
A white light lands on the stage. The crowd is frozen, fixated on the stage. The place goes cold. The crowd is miles away in the silence. The stage feels impossibly close. He could climb up and perform if he had the courage. A slow knocking comes from the stage. A woman comes into view atop the stage. Her head is just visible over the desk from John’s view below. The neon neck of her top gives her face a glow. It casts shadows along her face. Her cheeks come to a knife-edge. Her eyes are sparkling black with eyeliner, ending in a point. The beige boxes emit a faint glow as her hands sail across the table. The speakers hiss, not yet satisfied. Her hand comes down on the table. The speaker lets out a pulse of sound. It stiffles the sound, holding back a cough. The woman’s hand comes down again, beating sound out of the device. The speaker splutters to life. The speaker comes to life with a high pitched yelp, vomiting up low reverb to fill the room. It bounces through the room. It hangs in the air like a stench.
The spotlight grows the engulf the entire table. The full expanse of synthesizers and cables becomes clear. Thick ropes of cable clutching to the stage. The womans features become more clear. Her face is porceline dusted with gold. Her hair lands just beyond her ears at a clean cut edge. Her hands come into view in the new light. Her nails come to a syringe point. She hovers over a record spinning lazily on the table. Her index finger lands on the record. The speakers let out a screach, crackling and skipping but familiar. The dancefloor sways uncertainly.