by Brian John Mitchell
Itís almost dusk & the zombies are already starting to come out as weíre parking the car. We walk over to the building where the raveís supposed to be & I take two hits of acid. The buildingís three stories tall & they have snipers in riot gear on the roof to peg zombies so they canít over take the place. We knock on the steel door & the tall skinny door man who has a bunch of piercings on an otherwise flawless face & quarter of an inch long black hair opens the door saying, "Youíre just in time, weíre about to bolt the door down til dawn." We give him our five dollars & walk up the stairs to the third floor where the rave is. Itís already packed & people are dancing (it really annoys me when Iím early & everybodyís staring at me, especially when Iím on acid & itís really kicking in now & I feel quite blurry & happy). They have cool lights, probably a thousand dollars worth. Iím already in the crowd & moving to the beat. Theyíre playing trance music & itís almost as spacey as my mind is starting to get. Iím dancing in a circle of strangers & this guy offers me a piece of ex-gum & I take it & itís making me even more fucked up than I was. Iím glad the other dancers are so close so I donít have room to fall & my dance is becoming more & more of an attempt to simply stay on my feet. I go to the bar & I realize I donít have any money, but this girl who likes my haircut buys me a drink. Iím about to go back into the crowd when I see it happen. A tall boy with a clean shaven head is biting into the forehead of an asian girl. He probably died of a drug overdose & now there are zombies right here inside & my back is starting to hurt, probably because of strychnine. I donít know what to do, so I tell the bartender & she hops over the bar with some huge hand gun bigger than her forearm & goes into the crowd & I hear four shots & no one really seems to have stopped dancing & the song "Who Carez Whoíz Dead?" fades in over the previous one.