Into the Light

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Every harlot was a virgin once."

William Blake

No alone time for Blake and Juli as the checkered mini-van cab is shared by four. The ride, a life-threatening series of dramatic stops and starts, jams through the evening's traffic and on to the club in Chelsea. Juli, Blake and Belladonna have their phones out and are trying to connect with their 4G networks but they pass through dead zones. In an act of generosity, the universe thins the downtown traffic and Blake tries to sit up straight only to get the pocket of his gravel gray coat caught on Cyn's silver bracelets. The cab pulls to the curb and they spill out to the sidewalk. Each person checks their phone and finds the email Cyn sent with the VIP code.

In front of the chic club, the velvet rope and bouncers in tight black keep watch over the queue as other doormen scan ID's. The sentries, all linked through a wireless network, watch each other's backs and quietly whisper to one another about how crazy the night will get. Blake and the women, three Valkyries dressed to kill, present their VIP emails to the head doorman, a bald guy in white with a neck as thick and round as a trash can. The brass doors to club Apocalypse open.

Blake watches Juli walk like liquid lightning in her tight fitting sleeveless red dress and Blake thinks Cyn and Belladonna are wearing the same black miniskirts and tube tops but Cyn is wearing blue but the night makes it hard for him to tell.

The bass beats punch the patrons through their hollow cavities and sign language is the only real form of communication. The virile scene pulses as the densely packed club is filled with a pageant of club kids, celebrities and weekend warriors with overflowing wallets who present themselves as perpetually posh. The brass door closes behind and the inside of the club is a sarcophagus. Blake begins to feel the vibrations pin him down as the group tries to find an open booth or place to stand near the bar. Prescription drug laden thralls hop and bob their heads to the Electronica pulse. They come to a tight space and slip in and Blake scans the scene.

Everything is silver except a few recessed unoccupied VIP booths in royal purple and fire engine red. The dance floor stretches along half of the west side wall of the club and groups gather to obstruct the pathways to tile bathrooms where people check their Blackberries and snort lines off their spare cell phones. Mirrored lights and lasers track the floor and walls. Shiny tight clothes are worn by most of the men and women as mild nudity occurs in the corners. Men and women dance in all combinations to the grind of beats and blasts of a klaxon over the P. A. Drug dealers with oversized Philip Patek watches and three-piece suits slink through the crowd as they stalk new high-end clients.

It takes time for the women to get drinks but Blake waits still as a stone cat standing guard over the claim. A chill runs up Blake's spin and he smells cigar smoke but knows there's no smoking in the club. He has the feeling that something bad is happening to someone he knows.

Across town, D.B. Verges staggers down the street after having one too many Jack and Cokes and slides into an alley. He leans against the brick wall and looks out to the cars whizzing by. He takes deep breaths hope it will sober him up. An arm reaches out of the darkness behind and snags D.B. verges. He is dragged back into the depths and puts up a valiant struggle. The blade of a box cutter flashes in the meager light. D.B. Verges ends his journey in this life and is left for the rats to feast upon. Squeak, squeak, nibble, nibble, dust to dust, as the vermin lap up the blood that leaves a stain of rust.

Now this is part is fucked up even by my standards. Yes, I said a bad word but I'm not the one who created it; however, to be fair, fuck is one of you human's better words.