being there, and it was a sign of Mr. Motel Chain’s oddness that he didn’t even bother to give you a proper tour. Never mind, you’ll see the whole thing soon enough. As you glance into your rearview mirror at the looming mansion, you notice how much the facade looks like a face. You almost swerve off the road when you catch the house winking at you. You figure it was probably a window being shut or the curtains being drawn. How bizarre. You feel an odd sense of relief as you drive away from the Mansion. There is something off with that building. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but something felt strange. Well, you’re being paid a million bucks to kill a whole slew of kids, that should be enough to weird anyone out. But maybe not you, though.
Your mind wanders back to your ex-girlfriend. Well, she’s not really an ex-girlfriend because you two never broke up, really. You killed her, but it was an accident. And you haven’t been with anyone since, so who knows what that makes you. Probably nothing. A murderer. That is why you don’t do drugs anymore, because you were fucked up the night your girlfriend died, and she died because you suffocated her with love.
You remember what a nice time you two were having on ecstasy: hugging and talking. You both decided to go for a walk to the park down the street from your house and somewhere in there you two started hugging again, and you were holding her so tight, so tight, and then, you don’t even really know when she died but when you broke from the hug she just tumbled to the ground. You don’t know how you could hug someone to death, it’s just way too Othello for real life, but it happened and there you were. Rolling on ecstasy in a park with your dead girlfriend at your feet.
You didn’t know what to do so you dragged her body and threw it into a manhole that you pried open with difficulty. You walked home. There was a big stink about her going missing. Her parents, the police, everyone knew about her, and everyone was keeping an eye out. She never turned up, and her parents still haven’t had a funeral for her. They will not let go of the chance that she is still alive. You haven’t told them because who are you, really, to burst their bubble?
You did decide that you would never do drugs again. You have made it part of your purpose as a DJ to advocate abstinence from drugs, an attempt to take the rave back to its roots. The people that attend parties now aren’t even real party kids, they are just going because everything is commoditized and fetishized to the point where all meaning is lost. You remember the days when parties were about hearing and appreciating great music, meeting loads of people and as an enhancement of these two key points, getting fucked up. Now, it’s all gone to shit. Nobody has anything to do with the scene except for the drugs. The peace, love, friendship and respect that used to exist within the party scene has been commercialized. You used to be able to pay five bucks for a great party. Now, you can’t even find a party whose cover charge is less than thirty dollars.
You had actually planned to give up the whole DJ thing, but when Mr. Motel Chain offered you the job, you took it as a last public statement. It’s time to get a real job and stop being so concerned with the bullshit politics of party kids. You’re over that, or at least will be once you’ve helped teach a lesson to the trendy flocks of sheep that will wait, like lemmings, to jump to their deaths. Yes, the metaphors are mixed, but you know what you are talking about. This scene is dead. It should start acting that way. After you’re done with it, it will be like your girlfriend’s body in the sewer, rotting away to nothing. Who will even care enough to remember?
―EXHIBIT NO. 18―
CONSOLE
You are in a wet, dripping, dark place. The walls are soft and squishy and warm. There are two other people with you, somehow you’ve been sucked inside
Your mind wanders back to your ex-girlfriend. Well, she’s not really an ex-girlfriend because you two never broke up, really. You killed her, but it was an accident. And you haven’t been with anyone since, so who knows what that makes you. Probably nothing. A murderer. That is why you don’t do drugs anymore, because you were fucked up the night your girlfriend died, and she died because you suffocated her with love.
You remember what a nice time you two were having on ecstasy: hugging and talking. You both decided to go for a walk to the park down the street from your house and somewhere in there you two started hugging again, and you were holding her so tight, so tight, and then, you don’t even really know when she died but when you broke from the hug she just tumbled to the ground. You don’t know how you could hug someone to death, it’s just way too Othello for real life, but it happened and there you were. Rolling on ecstasy in a park with your dead girlfriend at your feet.
You didn’t know what to do so you dragged her body and threw it into a manhole that you pried open with difficulty. You walked home. There was a big stink about her going missing. Her parents, the police, everyone knew about her, and everyone was keeping an eye out. She never turned up, and her parents still haven’t had a funeral for her. They will not let go of the chance that she is still alive. You haven’t told them because who are you, really, to burst their bubble?
You did decide that you would never do drugs again. You have made it part of your purpose as a DJ to advocate abstinence from drugs, an attempt to take the rave back to its roots. The people that attend parties now aren’t even real party kids, they are just going because everything is commoditized and fetishized to the point where all meaning is lost. You remember the days when parties were about hearing and appreciating great music, meeting loads of people and as an enhancement of these two key points, getting fucked up. Now, it’s all gone to shit. Nobody has anything to do with the scene except for the drugs. The peace, love, friendship and respect that used to exist within the party scene has been commercialized. You used to be able to pay five bucks for a great party. Now, you can’t even find a party whose cover charge is less than thirty dollars.
You had actually planned to give up the whole DJ thing, but when Mr. Motel Chain offered you the job, you took it as a last public statement. It’s time to get a real job and stop being so concerned with the bullshit politics of party kids. You’re over that, or at least will be once you’ve helped teach a lesson to the trendy flocks of sheep that will wait, like lemmings, to jump to their deaths. Yes, the metaphors are mixed, but you know what you are talking about. This scene is dead. It should start acting that way. After you’re done with it, it will be like your girlfriend’s body in the sewer, rotting away to nothing. Who will even care enough to remember?
―EXHIBIT NO. 18―
CONSOLE
You are in a wet, dripping, dark place. The walls are soft and squishy and warm. There are two other people with you, somehow you’ve been sucked inside
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