Are you tired of aging? Is the daily grind of humanity ruining your aesthetic? Do you feel obsolete in an ever-changing world? Is the constant fear of wasting your limited youth ruining your weekend binge?
Immortality is the solution you've been lo...
Late at night, strobe lights flash inside of a re-purposed warehouse building. Speakers stolen from radioshack blare music from burned CDs, and bodies of teenagers smack against each other. The air smells like weed, everclear and sweat. Half of the human beings in this room are on esctasy. Their blood is pounding through their veins, sweetened with the distinct umami of serotonin syndrome. It’s so hot in here. The air in this warehouse smells like a rave, like sweat, and blood. And it tears, tears like the devil, like a tsunami through the entire fucking crowd.
Raves are great places to committ acts of mass murder. Usually they take place in a remote location, and invites are only conducted through word of mouh, or through myspace bulletins obscured by leagues of survey posts. Nobody really knows who you are, and anyone who does is too high to care. The sound of the music blaring covers up the screaming.
The only downside is that you don’t know when the cops are going to show up. Will they show up after a few people got devoured in the parking lot? Will they be there because someone near by called the police on the sea of trespassers? Is there an officer already there, ready to do a drug bust and rack up a few possession tickets? Who knows. It’s the luck of the draw. It has all the glamour and risk of playing the blackjack table at Vegas, but with the added bonus of deliciousness.
It tears through the crowd with audacious acrylic nails, polished in UV paint, sharpened like needles, shaped like hooks. It’s nails tear under skin, it’s jaws wrap around arms and necks and bite through anything that it can. People, those people, they were dancing but now they’re pushing and yelling. They’re swarming like a hornet’s nest that had been hit with a stick. They don’t care who they have to trample to death just to get the fuck out of there.
And then the lights go dark.
Good night.
Dr. Kale is stumbling down the sidewalks of what could be any of the suburbs in northern New Jersey. He is wearing something that most doctors wouldn’t even wear if they lost a bet. Somebody ripped the ring out of one of his lip piercings. Which isn’t that bad of a cover story for the real reason as to why he’s covered in blood. It’s been a long night, and the street lights are starting to turn back off as the sun rises.
He peels the blood-soaked faux-leopard fur coat he was wearing and chucks into a garbage tin a few blocks from his house. When he finally gets home, people who work the morning shifts are just starting to get into their cars and drive to work. Nobody notices, nobody cares. The garbage men pick up the dumpster and the blood-soaked fur coat goes into the trash compactor because it is nothing.
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Aura was sitting in his bedroom listening to his favorite grindcore music. He really hated his name, it was stupid, though to his credit, it at least made him fit in with the other kids at his high school. They all had these scene names. There was Kaitlin Kamikaze, Veronica Velocity, Marissa Medusa, and Aura Atrophy. He rarely used the alliteration but he did need to keep up constantly with his myspace and his crew of girls that followed him around.
