Club Culture – Soundtracked by “Aerodynamic”

It took Alis and Verlaine long enough to find me. I woke up to the morning sun, having somehow survived the night without being submerged again; the moon must have been waning tonight. They went searching for me after they started assuming I was somewhere passed out on the beach, or dead on the beach, either would mean carrying my limp body to the water to wake me up or send me out to sea to be eaten by Jaws. I’ve always told them if they do find my dead body, bring it to the sea, or any area populated with wild animals; I’d prefer to have my body eaten by someone who needs food, and until they legalize cannibalism of the dead, I’ll have to make do with woodland animals gnawing on my carcass. Lucky for them they wouldn’t have to carry me at all, they’d only have to dig me out of the sand like dogs, with their bare hands. I get back on my legs, feeling blood rush back all across my body making my head swirl and eyes blind for a second. They kept me balanced, but there was no time for us to go through the process of helping me learn how to walk again, we needed to make a runner to Ratman’s nightclub and confront him once and for all. “Hold on, explain yourself.” Alister insisted. I didn’t want to waste time so what came out of my mouth sounded something like, “Dwarves kick ass so now we go kick Rat at club with baseball bats just like the little guys.” To them I was having a stroke, to me I was making a good argument. They both arched their heads forward looking for more of an explanation, ready to ask if that was it. I rolled my eyes shouting, “I know where Ratman is! Now let’s go fuck up his shit.” It’s the simple things that can serve as big motivators.

I got Verlaine to look up where ‘The Nest’ was located. Didn’t take us long to get an address with the help of our good friend Google. We knew that using our phones in public would get us kicked out of the Homeless Vagrant Union, but if it meant we’d get a chance at exchanging fisticuffs with that Rat bastard, we were willing to go against the will of the Union.

“They’ve got a little description for the place on Google,” Verlaine said, beginning to read it aloud for us, “The Nest is Miami’s hottest spot for if you’re just looking to lose all of your senses. This place has everything, clowns, mimes, convicted sex offenders, and if you’re lucky, you might see all 3 when Ronald McDonald in a beret walks through the door. You’ll finally have an answer to the question, “Why did she leave me?”. Come on down on any day of the week and you’ll have a chance at getting pepper sprayed by a nun. Make sure you don’t miss our monthly Sunday riot, cause that’s when we prank call Obama and tell him we don’t want to pay taxes anymore. We can guarantee you’ll be going home in a free private ride in a squad car, courtesy of the pigs. Oh look, who’s that over there? It looks like Dwayne Johnson, but no, it’s Rudolf Hess in a diaper who’s been hiding from the Israeli Mossad agents since 1949. If music is what you’re looking for then we have exactly that; no matter what genre you’re into, we’ve got it: Restroom Ambiance, Maternity Ward Echoes and my personal guilty pleasure, EBM (Electric Banshee Moans). Here just for a drink of something stronger than the rest? Johnny’s got your back. Our bartenders are well trained in the art of shaking cocks. Here’s some of our original alcoholic creations: Death Shot, tequila mixed with a spoonful of my mother’s ashes. Or if you like something more spicy, we’ve got Salt and Pepper, a glass of Dr Pepper and Gin that we flirted with for 5 hours before serving. And if you’re the designated driver, then we have you covered with a nice refreshing glass of Apple Juice, cider that was fermented in a meth addicts’ kidneys. It’s not all about party animals here though, we also care about family values. Our team has been working hard to make child friendly entertainment, and they couldn’t have done better in our opinion. Come in during our movie nights and watch The Lion King, two hours of kitten footage, with occasional crying children standing next to their parent’s grave. If you don’t want your heart strings to get pulled and prefer horror, then we’ve got Die Hard, the story of a man bitten by a Brazilian Wandering Spider. If saucy films are more you’re scene then we’ve got an original copy of Pamala Anderson’s sex tape on VHS.”

If this place had even half of what that description described, then the moulin rouge could eat its heart out. We kept walking to the address, but instead of being lead to some rundown area outside of the city, we were going to the upper class zone, filled with penthouses, uninhabited beach house vacation homes and so many tourist kiosks selling ‘I heart Miami’ shirts; there wasn’t even an image of a heart, that would have been too much graphic design for these guys, they were just selling shirts with the word heart in red printed on it, for thirty dollars no less. “Hey, we can’t go into the club looking like this, Ratman might remember us. I mean, who could forget our style?” I strook a pose while Verlaine interjected with, “We look like every extra in Miami Vice, it’s a very forgettable style.” She might have excucted my joy, but I still had a valid point to be made. “If we look like tourists, then no-one will want to associate with us, unless we can give them our money that is.” They were seeing the benefits of this plan now, and we looked up and down the street at the abundance of kiosks selling fashion magazines and cheap tacky clothes that would fall apart if water touch it. We really were spoiled for choice, but one popped out at me like a diamond in a pile of coal. “Keith!” I shouted rushing to him. It was so good to see him, “Oh my god it’s so good to see you.” I had missed him so much, “We’ve missed you so much.” I wonder if he has anymore of those tobacco pipes, “Can I suck you off?” Alister slapped the back of my head taking over the conversation, “Hi Keith,” He said with a smile, “We’re on our way to a club and we need to look like tourists, it’s the dress code.” Keith was quick to give us a helping hand, “You’ve come to the right guy, I’ve got everything you need, just read the sign.” He pointed up at the roof of the small shack. I was so pre-occupied looking at good ol’ Keith that I didn’t even know what he was selling. The selling point of this place was ‘Everything for old couples on honeymoon’. I moved my lips as I read it, then looked to Keith asking, “Is that a big market here or something?” He looked at me like I asked if 2+2 equalled 3. “Big market? Bitch it’s the only market around here. Everything is guided tours of CSI: Miami filming locations or bumpy cars in a DeLorean.” Did he just call bumper cars, bumpy cars? Should I even ask him if he meant to say that? Maybe there’s such a thing as bumpy cars where you drive over an airstrip covered in speed bumps. I’ve never heard of such a thing, so I might have a lucrative business on my hand.

While I made plans to build a theme park for bumpy cars, Alister ordered the necessary disguises we needed, clicking his fingers in front of my face to snap me out of my daydreaming. “See you around guys.” Keith said to us, giving a wink towards me as the others walked off. This is my mortal enemy, flirtations from strangers. They always told me to pay attention more in school and now I’m wishing I went to more of those sex ed classes. What does a wink mean? Is he giving me signals that I should ask him out, or is he just from the South and was taught to wink at people as a greeting and farewell? I could ask for his number, but then he might have to plead the tried-and-true Gay Panic Defence argument in court after he murders me for asking him out. I’d hate to think Keith was homophobic, he seems like the surfer type, but there’s been too many cases of people using the legal defence of “Your honour, he was coming onto me and I’m not gay, I felt compelled to stab him 38 times until I could be sure the threat had been neutralized.” I don’t want anyone to ever describe killing me as ‘neutralizing’ me, makes me feel like Osama Bin Laden.

Don’t think about men winking at you, throw yourself into your work, occupy yourself. We got dressed in our new threads. A combination of Hawaiian shirt, disposable Kodak camera slung around our neck, shorts that went below the knees with socks and sandals on our feet, made it so anyone that caught a glimpse of us even in their peripheral vision, would know we were not from around these parts.

“Are you sure we’re going to the right place?” I was becoming suspicious of this address. This didn’t seem like the nightclub scene. The most fun you’d get here would probably be a game of hopscotch. “It’s telling me this is the place.” Verlaine would look up from her phone every so often, knowing we were close to our destination, and after following her like baby animals that had attached our emotional bond to her, she finally stopped. “Verlaine, this is a geriatric’s home.” I stated the obvious, but maybe it wasn’t as obvious as we first thought, it could be a front; we already knew his house was an inflatable phoney, why wouldn’t his nightclub be? The building we stood outside was clearly a brink and mortar home for the elderly, by the signs and wrinkled residents standing by the windows, sneaking puffs of cigarettes before the nurses came back to dope them up. “Did it say anything about the elderly in that description?” I asked looking at the address for myself now. “No, but it did mention ashes, would that count?” Verlaine and Alister now joined me in the thought of whether we could trust what Google was telling us. “Guys, just ask, and if it’s not here, warn them that their old people’s home is being marketed as a gay nightclub online.” Alister was right, we might be able to do a good deed out of this.

I walked to the door, readying my knuckle to knock upon it, only it opened before I had the chance to feel the satisfaction of listening to bone against wood. On the other side of the doorway, we were greeted with a pure specimen of muscle, jacked to the brim, absolutely hench, a cautionary tale of what steroids can lead to. The only real thing that was confusing me about this man’s anatomy, was what was covering it. His body was covered by the skimpiest nurses uniform they could find for him. His balls dangled to and fro, like a pendulum in the wind, just hanging below the uniform. In this get up, he could be in the running for Miss America. I felt a strong slap on my cheek from Verlaine, followed by a scolding, “Don’t stare.” I looked up now, giving him eye contact, accompanied by a reluctant gulp. Intimidation was an understatement standing before this man, is he allowed to be around the elderly? He’d snap their brittle bones if he got them in his clutches. “Do you know that there’s a nightclub addressed here?” Alister asked him, giving a glance down to his scrotum every now and then, just to make sure it was still there. “Yeah, I’m the bouncer.” Oh! Now that is a relief. “Wait, so this is a nightclub?” I asked, stepping back to look into one the rooms to still see elderly residents sitting around, waiting for death. “It’s a cover, the Obama administration shut down the last one for too many prank calls.” Add that to the list of things half the country will hate and love Obama for at the same time. “So there’s no prank call? Cause on the business description…” Verlaine was got cut off before she could say her last two words, like this bouncer has had to explain this to a lot of tourists like ourselves. “That description has been outdated since 1987, no-one has been bothered enough to change it. You might find the place to be a little different than what you may have expected.” I hope they still have that nun at least.

We walked inside with the bouncer’s approval. The place was a real geriatric’s home, but they of course had a seedy downstairs for those like us. I wondered if any of these old folks get so bored and go exploring downstairs to inject a little bit of life back in their sad lives; all they’d need to do is strip down to the diaper and they’d blend right into the wallpaper down there. Okay, meet Ratman, tell him to get off our back, have one drink, then come upstairs and have a real party with the elderly.

We descended down into Ratman’s domain once again, similar sensations taking over our body, air getting thinner, not enough oxygen down here, it was replaced with something else: aggressive scents. The point of no return was passed, and as soon as it was, Alister was pulled into the crowd by two retired Playboy Bunnies. Myself and Verlaine held onto each other’s arms tightly, trying to find our feet on the ground since every sense was being violated by this place. It smelt of must and skin contact in here, lights flashing like lightening to only give us a partial idea of where we were walking at any given time. The worst offence though, was the choice of music for this place; they were playing Blondie, specifically the track Rapture. I could feel myself getting sick in my mouth, having to listen to this audible diarrhoea. Debbie Harry can just barely sing, she can absolutely not rap. It wasn’t even close to the end of the song, so I’d have to tolerate this shit for at least six entire fucking minutes. Oh god it’s so bad, you have no idea. Someone had to sit down and write the lyrics for this song, and sign off on it, the fact that this was put to tape, means nobody stopped the production halfway through and said “Debbie, that was just, how can I say this in a nice way, about as enjoyable as the watching a car crash.”

“Where’d Alister go?” Verlaine shouted over Debbie’s attempt at rapping. I looked around, he’ll be fine, I’m sure he can resist the seduction of nightclub hookers. That’s a complete lie, I’m bullshitting myself, if Alister had a cardboard cut-out of Meryl Streep talk to him, he’d get down on a knee. “We’ll find him after, don’t worry, the important thing is that we stick together.” I did a 360 turn, trying to find my place. The 360 degrees turned into 720 degrees, and then double that until I made myself dizzy and fell to the ground. I was quick to get back on my feet, only I lost my place, and Verlaine. Well fuck me pink, now I’m in Ratman’s lair of smut and celebration, with the possibility of being shot in the face by another one of his hired dwarves. When I pursued this line of work, I never expected to be fearing my life, from a short hitman. I was going to explore the world, meet interesting people, who would propel me to fame. I was going to have respect, and maybe even adoring fans who would ask me questions, “What is the most interesting story you ever had to cover?” and I’d have anecdote about my favourite journalistic venture, where I learned about the human condition, society, but most importantly, myself, and then everyone would stroke their chin sensually and say to themselves, “Wow, he is the perfect man, move over Louis Theroux.” Maybe if I was lucky, I’d get my own TV show where I’d be allowed to flaunt how I smart I am, and basically just make all my guests feel like cavemen when sat next to me, the wisest, sexiest, funniest shithead in show business, and it wouldn’t even matter that I was an unlikeable jackass, I’d still have groupies in my makeup room, ready to suck me off at a moments notice, cause I am the greatest journalist alive, and journalists are well known for their sex appeal more than anything else, cause when you’re watching a documentary about the horrible crimes of the South American drug cartels, you don’t want some ugly guy talking to convicted murderers, otherwise you’d just rather tune off and watch porn more than anything else.

I felt like a child abandoned in the supermarket aisle, feeling eyes of predators on my ass more than anything. Safety is never the goal of a nightclub, this is the opposite of a safe space, this was a danger zone; there are few other places you have the chances of being drugged and fucked by strange men with aubergine shaped penises and chronic mommy issues. Make sure you don’t drink anything Bernard, you know what happened last time. They might not be so kind as to give me LSD this time, they could just slip me cyanide and watch my mouth foam like a baking soda volcano, for fun of course.

I felt something brush against my shins, only to see another dwarf trying to get through the crowd, poor guy, all he wants to do is have a good time, and he can’t walk 5 steps without having someone push their ass in his face, wait, I take that back, he’s one lucky son of a bitch. I’d have to get comfy eventually. Can’t show them any weakness, they’ll ravage me faster than vultures on a carcass. Just act like you’re supposed to be here, which is very hard to do, cause I’m dressed like the biggest dickhead, come to experience the night life of Miami. While I tried to look confident in my stride, a question asked itself in my head, if it’s daytime upstairs, then why is this place even open? Then I looked around to see if I could find a clock. They were using the old casino method of keeping customers, by blocking all the windows to the outside world and confiscating any time-telling devices. Good thing they didn’t get Evelyn, right Evelyn? Oh sweet Jesus Christ, someone grabbed Evelyn right off my exposed wrist? He’s gone, my wristwatch is gone. I’m losing everything, I’m falling down, if they don’t stop I swear I will go postal on this club. Think Bernie, it was probably one of those stealthy henchmen of The Rat himself. If this is that bastard’s doing, then I don’t know if I will be able to hold myself back from destroying him, until he no longer exists in this plain of existence. Breath Bernie, find Ratman, and you’ll find Evelyn. Don’t panic, he’s a waterproof wristwatch, he can withstand any amount of waterboarding Ratman puts him through.

The objective was now to find an office in this maze of sweaty, coked up bodies gyrating furiously to Blondie, makes me sick to my stomach having to just saying that sentence, but thankfully I didn’t eat before coming here, one because I planned it like that as part of my ingenious strategy, and two, because I’m fucking homeless and have no food; it helps to tell yourself that you wanted bad things to happen, that way you can feel like everything is going to plan, even though there was never one to begin with.

How can you describe a nightclub? It’s one of those things that attracts people only because it’s from another world, not supposed to be seen by human eyes. Behaviours of normality are thrown clear at the front door, never to be seen again so long as their feet are touching this sacred ground, I mean for Christ’s sake, they were dancing to Blondie, tell me that isn’t a sign that these circumstances are far from normal. My brain can’t comprehend what people are doing, but maybe it can somehow wrap itself around the choice of decor. I push my way to the bar, only you would struggle to recognize it as such; there’s no stools, instead they have exercise bicycles bolted to the floor, so you can burn off the calories from all the cheap vodka that could really be God knows what. A waiter walked past me with a tray of drinks, and when I say the fumes were that of a cocktail of nail varnish, paint thinner and glue sticks instead of ice cubes, I would be doing a horrible job of describing whatever volatile solvent they put in that glass to kill my braincells from one whiff of the concoction. The sides of my forehead seared with sensations of knives being pressed to them, then my eyes watered with the same pain. It would have been a regular migraine if it wasn’t for all the cheap drug fumes filling the room; the description made this club sound classy, but this was quickly revealing itself to be a place that specialised in cheap highs; just when I thought cough syrup was low, these people are using nitrous oxide like inhalers. And what are the waiters wearing? A cow onesie? It’s purpose became apparent when someone bent down and milked the udder around the crotch of the outfit, producing real milk into their glass. I would grab myself a glass and do the same, but I’m paranoid that they’ve mixed the milk with morphine and ashes of the residents upstairs. Something just splattered on my shoulders. I don’t want to look, it could be pigs blood, I don’t want this to turn into Carrie. I rub my finger over it to see it’s colour, and it’s white, did someone throw an egg at me? No, that would have been too innocent; it’s really because there’s a nest of pigeons sat above in the rafters above the dancefloor, happily taking dumps on anyone unlucky enough to be below them. On one hand, they deserve it for dancing to Blondie, and on the other, I have no regrets eating these rats of the sky. Just as I thought the worst was over, it can only go up from here, the Blondie track slowly faded out, giving me a slight bit of relief that something good happened, and then it looped back to the start. How can one man mindfuck me this hard? Maybe club culture wasn’t for me.