ClubLand

As patriotic as you are, dear friend, my world is far better than yours. My world is far the more colorful. My world has no gravity, poverty, or physics. In my world the only answer to any question is either "yes" or "more". Unfortunately, this world only exist between the hours of 11 at night and 2 a.m. Still, here you'll learn quick that "right now" is always the right moment. It may just Be the last moment you'll ever have.

Here, everyone can see the heavens, and that makes you immortal. in Valhalla, prisms of light flicker and bounce off everything, Mirrors, glasses, your retinas, and the glossy sheen of sweat makes everything perfectly iridescent. There are no windows here and it gets so hot, but this place is a creature that thrives on heat, and beats, and heroin.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, in the throng of pulsing limbs and drug-glazed eyes, there's me, and really this is the only world I've ever known. Its gone by a lot of names, this place which is really not a place, but for those that live here its the only perfect thing found on earth.

Welcome, dear friend, to ClubLand. I hope you enjoy your stay.

The history of this place is really the history of a people, a perfectly incapable group of invalids full of hope, dreams, and a few illegal drugs. I know this probably isn't your idea of the American dream, but I'm telling you comrade, one hit of Ketamine and you'll be humming the "Star Spangled Banner" in French, Latin, and Mandarin Chinese. All it took was a few like minded people and the ClubNation was born.

Like any sovereign autonomy, there were certain rules to life in Clubtopia,a few exalted commandments to keep the order so to speak. For your benefit friend, I've listen them below:

The Rules of Clubland

The first rule of clubland: you do not talk about clubland (tee hee)

Number two: Thou shalt never (ever!) stop the music

Nmber three: thou shalt not O.D on the dance floor (so messy)

Number four: If thou should O.D on said dance floor thoust will be on thy own

Number five: if thou ist on thy own, and thoust should perish, any worldly possessions will be removed from thy person

Number six: all said possessions become the property of the state

Number seven: thou shalt not, under any circumstances, notify authorities

Number eight: if there is reason to believe you have notified the authorities, or draw unnecessary attention from them, you will be banished from clubland

Number nine: Exile is for life

and now alas, fatal number ten

The tenth rule of ClubLand: There is no murder in ClubLand.

Now amigo, you may be thinking this the most sensible rule of the lot, but if there were an eleventh law it would surely read : sense does not exist in ClubLand. naturally, it was the tenth rule I broke.

Still, I must confess now that I am no killer, not at heart anyway, and surely by the end of this story you will not put me among the ranks on Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy. In any case, I'm certainly no jack the ripper, for I did not act with any singular obsession or personal accord. Really, and I don't mean to be crass, but I'm more of a Hitler or a Manson. Someone with big ideas. Someone with passion. I promise only that I had the best interests of club culture at heart, and he was the only thing standing in my way.

His name was Tyler Branson, and he is very, very, dead.

My relationship with Tyler had always been an interesting one, and we met one night on the dance floor of one of ClubLand's hottest hot spots. The club, appropriately dubbed BOOM!, smelled of sweat and vomit, but as the music began to throb you felt the energy running high. Just looking at him, you knew Tyler was in his element.

weaving through the sea of flailing arms and writhing bodies, arms raised and gyrating, Tyler was a god among men in a place where all men were gods. Even I, in the midst of a stupor, had to admire his intensity, the sweat dripping from his brow splashing onto the floor in time with angry bass of the music. He turned to me violently, his sweat splashing on my cheeks, and said

" wanna buy a bump?"

My God, this was the sweetest thing anyone said to me all night.

As you can imagine, Tyler and I became fast friends, our mutual love for ClubLand and ClubDrugs the most powerful form of nationalism you could ever know. Soon, both Tyler and I became fixtures on the ClubScene, the ones at every rave, acid house, and thrash dance in ClubCity. We were kinda like that kid in your high school yearbook who manages to be in EVERY picture. I guess ClubLand is a lot like high school really.

Certainly the element of drama is there, and in the complicated system of Clubocracy, the one with all the moves, and all the drugs, has absolute authority. Tyler had all of both. And you know what they say about absolute power...

Anyway, even if he was God incarnate, I did not envy Tyler, so I don't want you to think that it was mad jealous rage that drove me to sink that screw driver into his throat (it only made me piss in his coffee), but i think we can both agree that the boy got a little too big for his britches.

It all started simple enough, we rented out a cheap apartment together , where I could sleep off my stupor or indulge my insomnia, and Tyler could organize his drug deals. I suppose I never fancied Tyler to be a man who kept the books, and so I often, when he was out, helped myself to his personal stash. I mean, whats a bit of coke between friends?

Well confidante, I know now it's a hell of a lot, because one night Lord Tyler swooped down from heaven long enough to shake me from my sleep. Now, everyone in ClubLand knows you never wake a sleeping junkie, it just isn't polite, but there he was, our Messiah, with his hands clasped tightly around my neck. Much of what he said to me that night is lost now, you see the amphetamines have evaporated most of my frontal lobe, but i think it had something to do with "repaying my debt". Through rough calculations Tyler had surmised the sum total of my reparations to be in the ballpark of 25,000 dollars, and let's just say that here in ClubTown...those are fighting words.

I cant say the struggle was long, nor terribly hard, for as I felt his big druggie hands poised to squeeze all the life out of me, I grabbed a small screwdriver from the nightstand and plunged it full force into his pulsing aorta. I had been using the tool to jimmy open a bottle of pills earlier that night (those child safety caps get me every time), and as it sunk deep into the vein I turned away.

Rich scarlet was seeping into the carpet.

Had I been a little more careful, or maybe a little more lucky, this would have been the end of the story.

But you, friend, must remember all those big dreams I had. You must realize that as I stood there, watching those smooth red stains creep out onto the carpet, a new tide of opportunity was approaching, a whole new and glorious horizon was appearing before my eyes. It would have been foolish, reckless even, to pass it by.

So, with a new resolve, I dragged Tyler's limp corpse into the bathroom and dumped him in the tub, and removed from him any articles of clothing, cash, uppers, or snortables. Hopelessly unoriginal by nature I decided to slice his body into pieces and stash it in the freezer, and since I had long ago given up ingesting solid food this solution worked wonderfully for a while. His clothes, always nicer than mine, I took to the cleaners (save the bloodstained ensemble), and began to dress myself in his attire, picking up essentially right where he left off. To my surprise I found I had a knack for the business, and while I lacked both Tyler's originality and pizazz the truth remains that there is only one drug dealer in ClubLand, and there always MUST be one.

That said, I was never short on business, and would have been perfectly happy living my own peaceful existence if she hadn't come along and fucked it up so terribly.

You see, Tyler had this girlfriend.She was a twiggy little bitch named Mara with big knobby knees and heroin boated veins. Her dusty blond hair came out in fist fulls when she was stressed, and with all the amphetamines in her diet she was half bald when she came to me that night.

" Have you seen Tyler?" she said.

"No."

" Why are you wearing his blazer?"

"My clothes are in the wash."

"Can I come in?"

"No."

"Can you step out?"

"No."

She paused, scraping bitten nails across her scabbed scalp.

"Do you have any coke?"

I smile

"Yes..."

Now friend, I'll spare you the visceral truth and say only that she met the same fate as her our dear Tyler, and though they were no Romeo and Juliet in real life they fit perfectly snug together between my coffee and sorbet. Too bad little crack whore Mara would cause me more problems dead than alive.

It's always hard to tell where people really come from once they enter ClubLand. Whatever accent they may have had quickly disappears, and their voice becomes only the ClubVoice, the raging BOOM BOOM BOOM of the music. Their names too quickly evaporate, for in a place where life is both lived and forgotten, often simultaneously, names would be little more than a burden. This said, how was I supposed to know that Mara came from a rich family, a family that might actually LOVE and MISS her, AND have the MEANS to seek her out?? Really friend, how was I supposed to know she was daddy's little girl or "most likely to succeed" in high school??

And really, REALLY, buddy, how was I supposed to react when two uniformed officers came to my apartment, asking if I had seen THIS woman??

Refer back to Rule number eight, and you'll know exactly what I was feeling.

Well, as you can imagine, it didn't take them long to put together some pieces, and while they never quite got the evidence for a warrant, there was always a car parked down the street or around the corner. Surely then you cannot blame me for being a wee bit paranoid? perhaps a teensy weensy bit anxious, or unnerved? I mean, I haven't left this apartment for fucking weeks, and even now that sick red stain wont come out of the carpet. Worse, the freezer is broken, and all those bags of arms and legs are starting to thaw...

It smells like death here...it smells like Auschwitz, hunger, and a massive shortage of drugs! All Tyler's stash is gone, and my nose hasn't stopped bleeding for days.

Funny... every time i get a nosebleed, I sneeze.

Oh god friend...I know you're thinking I deserve all this, know you're thinking this is all my fault and I shouldn't have been so greedy. But can't you at least remember my good intentions? How noble I was in the beginning? No? well they say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, but I suppose the rode to ClubHell is paved with opiates, music, and dead drug dealers.

Good thing Tyler left me his handgun, and always kept it loaded. There's only one bullet left in it now, I've been using them to shoot open cans of food since I lost the opener, but I guess one bullet is all that one ever needs.

Hey pal, if you can, please remember to tell them I was really a good person, just maybe a little confused is all. Tell them I had a good heart and was just lead astray. Tell them Brad Pitt should play me in the movie of my life, or Matt Damon if he's unavailable.

Lastly, now that the cold muzzle of Tyler's gun is resting on my temple, I want to thank you, dear friend, for listening to my story, and if you'd like to walk out now, just be a dear and close the door behind you.

Goodbye now, sweet friend

I hope you enjoyed your stay.