Note: The name of the nightclub I borrowed from the novel Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

What was ‘Top of the Sixes?’ Well, from the implications hell but also, unknown to the mindless majority, a very elite nightclub. One which I have had a very-How do you say-difficult time getting into. And no, it’s not because of the age thing. Honey, by the time I was thirteen I could get my way into any bar. Hell, I can even sweet talk my own mother into thinking I was twenty-one. And it’s not because I’m just some nothing of a person. These people know me. I grew up with these people. I’ve probably even helped at least half of them get out of some ‘sticky’ situation. And, no, it’s not like I can’t find the club. The location is in the name. Just turn left on Oxford and it’s right there, staring right at you. Actually, the reason I can’t get in is quite simple. It’s because I have a race, an ethnicity, a breed, some way of identification – hell, you can call it whatever you want. It’s not like I give a damn. And don’t give me that look. I’m not crazy. I’m not some loon you find roaming the downtown streets. You see, to get into the club, you can not have a race. You simply cannot have one. And yeah, that’s how elite it is.

But I’m not the girl who’s just going to turn her back on a challenge. Give me more credit. Instead I decided to bide my time, collecting some tools. I got some friends who have connections and through them I managed to get the blueprints of the building and a set of skeleton keys. Then, come Saturday, I dressed in dark clothing and took the back way through the building. I was planning to enter through the back door. It was such a simple idea I didn’t except it to really work – hence the making of plan B and C. But the back door wasn’t even guarded, only locked. And since when does a basic piece of metal keep me out of a building? I finally found the right key to the door and unlocked it. Opening the door I realize, after pushing what seems to be some kind of shelves to the floor, that this wasn’t the club but only the storage room. I shut the door behind me and stand there for a moment, waiting to see if anyone heard my noisy entrance. Luckily only silence greeted me. But it was too silent. I didn’t hear any music or chatter. Suspicious. But before I let myself be bombarded with conspiracy theories I make my way to the other door of the room. It was unlocked which saved me the effort of searching through the keys. I turn the knob slowly and walk out into what seemed to be a little nook off of a larger room.

But I didn’t get to notice much more than that as a bright light suddenly blinded me. I clenched my eyes shut, slumping to the ground. And then the pain came, a pain even worse than my first hangover.

“Hello there,” I heard a masculine voice say to me. My initial thought was jackass; here I was writhing in pain and all he says is hello. Then he offered me a glass.

“Drink this.” He told me. I gripped the glass in my hand, hesitant.

“It’ll make you feel better.” Screw precautions. At this I chug down the icy liquid. I feel a cold tingling sensation throughout my veins. I groaned, hoping to god there wasn’t anything in that. Then soon, my vision started to clear but along with it I felt oddly… aware, of myself, of everything. I could feel every separate strand of my hair, every simple crease in my skin.

“Feel better?” he asked me. I nodded as I looked up at him. I gasped.

“Y-you…” I stutter attractively. He smiles the way one would at a naïve five-year old, before nodded towards myself. I look down at my hands. And gasp again. It seemed to be becoming a habit. But I had every right to be surprised. My hand was just… Let’s just say that I won’t have any more trouble getting into this club anymore.

“Welcome to Utopia,” he says, holding out his hand for me. “Care to dance?”