The gun clicked. The green lights climbed against the side of the shaft, almost invisible between the sweat of the dancers an my own consciousness. Pay attention I thought to myself, getting lost in the music. The beats would break, falling apart and in barely make it back together for the next measure.

Each enunciation of the singer sent me into a panic. Did the gun just fire? Rocketed through my mind, each higher interval crept into my brain reassuring that the steel in my hand, with my fingers wrapped around it safely. That is, until the song ended.

A siren picked up before the silence could start. I removed the helmet on my head, moving aside the wires draped over my hands. I hadn't realize the moisture around my collar and wrists. I'll have to dry clean these later was my worry until I saw the other four patronizers around me. Stuck in their liquid delight, I grabbed the first man's wrist. He wore only a mesh shirt, letting his toned body receive glares. Putting the gun on the inside of his hand, it fired and I instantly gained momentum. Straight to the girl next to him, wearing only a black beaded bikini. She almost swirled in ecstasy until I fired the shot. No sound, even her moaning stopped.

The third man, dressed in a style almost copying me, went just as fast. The women next to him had caught my eye. Her naturally long red hair was the most extroverted part of her appearance. The moment I grabbed her hand, her right hand lifted up the headset.

Her eyes, intelligent as they were, kept contact, even as I shot her left hand and placed the gun in hers. Quietly, she slipped back in her chair.

The job was done. Two couples. A double date with an over dose on a designer drug, along with the finest injection around. I walked up to the controls and put them a level hire. It was as almost they planned out a group suicide, ended it with televised, disgusting, pure elation. She was the last.

I can see now, the police would think may have done even a triple murder suicide. Not like they're worried about deaths anymore. They hired me to do this, only so they'd have a reason to bring the drug lord down. I left traces of the drug, abyquil 87, in the living room in a drawer in the corner. The rest, mostly empty containers and a few used syringes, were to be found in the living room.

I let the stereo pound out its tunes as I closed the door. Later tonight I'd head to the real club, drink a few vodkas and let myself relax. I had to walk through the alleyways out of the Shurram district anyway. Only they maids will see me there, and a few good pills will teeter them away from telling.