While waiting for their friend to come out of the Starbucks, the three people huddled inside Leo’s gray Ford Taurus were getting slightly edgy. The dash clock was already pointing out some unsettling facts, namely an inescapable truth about being late to one of the year’s most notoriously raucous parties.
As the car idled by the curb, conversation quickly turned to complaining about how the evening might go horribly awry unless they all got moving soon.
"He’s been in there for over ten minutes now, how long can it possibly take to get an iced mocha or whatever it is he keeps sipping on?" said Timothy, a handsomely distanced young man who was now surprisingly emotive in his expressions, considering most who knew him seldom witnessed more than random talk about cars and his job on occasion.
Leo, sitting tensely behind his dilapidated car’s steering wheel, was fumbling with radio controls while at the same while peering out the window at passers by. The night became beautifully clear, with temperatures hovering pleasantly around the 75 mark. This, of course, brought out strip-mall gawkers in force, who were now strolling about the grounds stretching between the movieplex and a baby-supply discount store. "Maybe we ought to go in there and yank him the hell outta that joint before he does his usual thing and ruins another night for us". Leo was not even angry, but in his current state of mind, going with the flow seemed the better option. Besides, Darien, the coffee-house bound offender, was Carla’s friend. She kept bringing him with them whenever they went out weekends, and Leo suspected it was more than just trying to cheer the guy up.
"If he doesn’t come out in a couple of minutes I’ll go in there and check on him, ok? So just chill out, it’s not like the world’s gonna fucking end." Carla felt on the defense, suspecting that at least Leo already knew why she constantly invited Darien to go out with them despite the obvious predicament of having both Leo and Timothy dislike him to a large degree. "It’s probably packed in there, you know, it’s a Friday night and the weather’s nice so people will be in there like mad".
Leo was finished fiddling with the ancient Ford radio, having found an etherized compromise of a suitable nature. He couldn’t resist looking through the coffee shop’s windows. Although it was too dark, no noticeable movement was discernible, leading him to deduce that Carla’s assertion was somewhat overly forgiving. It was 9:47, the party was supposed to start at about 10:30, driving there taking approximately forty minutes. He did the math and sighed mentally, feeling disgruntled at having dressed up so nicely to an event he might not attend.
"You have any idea how insane the line at the gate will be? It’s supposed to be this secret, remember, and if you don’t make it there on time they might not let you in", Leo commented while three teenagers passed by his rolled down window on their way to the parking lot, mumbling incoherently. He was looking across at Carla, who leaned her elbow on the inside of the passenger side door, eyeing the Starbucks with some concern. Timothy slouched in the rear seat, touching his baseball cap and making frustrated, I-give-up faces that, had they noticed, would have made the other two wonder where all that pent up emotion was for so many years.
* * *
Blood was rushing noisily through Darien’s head, sounding like a muffled version of some headstrong urban underground train entering a station. He stood in front of the cashier, holding his tall iced mocha. Currently, he had no memory of who was waiting for him impatiently not even fifty feet away in an idling Ford POS. Darien was busy feeling empty. Empty, and sad. Not the sadness of a man who’s known greatness and lost it, but one more typical of people who have never risen above, a commoner. Darien was occupied- busy feeling small, insignificant and incompetent. He was staring at one of the most amazingly gorgeous girls he has ever seen, or imagined for that matter.
As if by magic, his extremities turned to rubber. He could feel stress working its dark wonders on his system. Darien knew he could spend the rest of his life with her, yet knew as well he could also while away just as much time standing here like a moron debating whether or not to approach her.
She was sitting with a girl friend in one of those cushy sectionals they put in their fancier stores, engaged in light conversation. To Darien, she was a goddess. Pure beauty, yet wildly sensual, not saccharine-Barbie-doll in any shape or form. Full lips, long, dark, shiny hair parted in the middle to give her that alluring, partially concealed look. From where he stood, her figure was also quite mind-blowing, thank you, well presented by a tight fitting blue sweater and a pair of similarly sticking bell-bottomed Gap denims.
The world around him vanished, save for the usual spoil sports: all those annoying people that somehow always manage to be in proximity when you’re worked up about hitting on somebody, providing you with a much unwelcome audience, the last thing you need when confidence levels are low.
Darien felt he looked rather good himself tonight, having donned his best, coolest vintage chic before stepping out. But it didn’t matter. All the apparel in the universe couldn’t stop this insane confusion that took over his mind sometimes when confronted by such unequivocal wonder. It was a pre-determined chronology: he will leave without doing anything, and feel like shit after. "If you don’t try, you’ll never know" rang cries from various well-meaning friends in his skull. He looked at her one last uneasy time before leaving. She was still talking to her friend, not even knowing he existed. Darien could have sworn she looked up at him once or twice, but decided it must have been random.
Then he saw Leo’s crappy Ford through one of the windows, and realized the three were probably pissed silly from worrying about being late to that damn party, another place where he’ll do nothing about an entire cadre of attractive young women he’ll never get to meet. Great stuff. He was 27 but all he could think of while on his way back to the car was Rutger Hauer quipping, in Blade Runner, "time to die".
* * *
As the Taurus was making its way jerkily down the street toward the commercial area where the party was supposed to be held, the atmosphere outside its lightly smudged windows became increasingly weekend-ish. You could sense the urgency in the air, that push to go out, be seen, be with the crowds.
Darien despised that sensation, although he felt just as obliged to obey it as the next guy. He was now sitting beside Timothy in the back seat. The latter proceeded to fire up a Marlboro Light, puffing on it indolently.
"Can I bum one, man?" asked Darien.
"Sure."
Timothy passed a smoke to Darien, who accepted it gratefully "thanks, Tim. I need it".
Carla overheard and commented "you always say that right after claiming not to be a smoker".
"Fuck that, smoking’s fun" Leo was struggling to get at his lighter after pulling a cigarette from his pack. "Besides, it probably goes nicely with your coffee fix, doesn’t it Darien?"
"Maybe. I can’t help associate going out weekends with smoking". Darien was unconsciously trying to be sophisticated, gazing at the passing by world through the glass. Gradually suburban landscapes gave way to even more open spaces, interspersed with intersections, gas stations and random Walgreens stores. The demographic also changed with the hour, from average daily drivers to younger, "party" people flashing fancier cars and sprinting from red light to red light on a mad dash to make the trendiest clubs.
Darien couldn’t help but notice how many police cars were pulled over at all odd places, light bars projecting a lunatic glowing carnival of lights wherever one went. "What’s this? Something special going on? So many squad cars all over" mentioned Carla.
"It’s all about money. They’ll land some major fish on a night like this, especially DUI’s. Which is why the Taurus comes in so handy on weekends- they never notice me." Leo tried focusing on driving, but he couldn’t help feel annoyed by all the added law enforcement. "Whenever I used to drive my Chevy I’d get pulled over, usually for tints."
"You love that car so much, but you only drive it like once every other week. Dude, what’s the point? I mean you spent so much money on it, and now you never get to drive it" said Tim.
"Yeah I do, that’s totally not true. I just can’t take her out at night, especially on a weekend, those bastards notice me right away with the fronts tinted limo". Leo was thinking back to all those tickets he collected, and all the stuff he could have gotten instead of paying who knows how many fines.
Carla was snickering with semi-cynical proclamation "Leo only drives ‘her’ when its nuclear-dawn bright outside, it doesn’t rain, snow or mist, and there’s no traffic".
"Cute", retorted Leo.
The Taurus stopped at a red light. The intersection, which by all rights should have been completely deserted this time of night, was relatively packed with activity. The three tossed their spent smokes out the windows. Next to Leo’s car, a dropped Civic (with visibly darkly tinted windows all around…) was standing, its coffee-can sized exhaust making noises meant to be aggressive but occasionally more reminiscent of a supercharged piece of farming equipment.
Carla produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a sizeable joint. She grabbed Leo’s resting Cricket lighter and lit up.
"Oh great, I think Smokey the Bear over there by the Seven Eleven didn’t see you, better flash that thing again just to be safe", Leo was getting irritable now.
"Shut the fuck, don’t be so paranoid. You think they really care? Guy’s probably stoned shitless himself. Pass that, will you Carla?" Tim wanted a part of the action.
"Heh, getting in the party mood, ah?" was all Darien could think of saying. He tried to come off cool, even though weed and other "aids" made him very nervous.
"If you really must, we could get a couple of pills for you over there, I’m sure there’ll be plenty to go around."
"Leo, we can hardly afford this" replied Carla, squinting her eyes and sounding raspy due to the aromatic cloud of smoke presently engulfing her face. "Here", she bent her arm backwards, reaching for Tim, who, not only inconceivably talkative tonight, was also amazingly responsive and quick to react.
They were traveling again, the Civic remaining alongside them in the right lane, its windows too darkened to make out whoever was in it. Presently, the anonymous driver manning the bright green, phosphorous Weapon R Honda made up their minds to punch it. Crackling backfire sounds drifted vehemently into the Taurus’s cabin. Leo, always on cue whenever car fanaticism was relevant, belched out a lively "yee-hah!" to the chagrin of his fellow passengers.
"ride it, baby, show the fuckers what you got" , filled to bursting with frustrations at being afraid to drive his own baby whenever he wanted, Leo was eager to vent. "Gee, wouldn’t it be better to get this geared up over your own ride, instead of pushing this junker around till it falls off the wheels?" Carla was enjoying her buzz all right.
Tim, who was getting so much more out of Carla’s humongous spliff than from Philip Morris’ finest, was also entranced by hearing the Honda’s exhaust sound- off, although he completely missed on the car’s ensuing burst of velocity. As Leo, Carla and Darien (who was struggling not to choke amidst the vapors) stared, the heavily modified vehicle sped away. "They must be doing a hundred and thirty, nuts. Cops will have a field day", commented Leo.
"Enough with your police fixation. Remind me never to order a BLT when we go out. Ha ha ha!" Carla’s enhanced situation allowed her to freely spout humor of the kind she would normally believe to be the realm of people she insisted on terming, so many years after the 1980’s ended, as "dweebs".
Leo’s Taurus was lonely again, a stretch of road in front, slowly vanishing commercial lights behind. Darien rolled down his window, hoping to get some fresh air. He bent forward between Carla and Leo, noticing how quickly the Honda’s taillights were fading.
"Shit, its after eleven", Leo was still on edge. "Bet that guy is rushing to get there, too. He must have at least one coffee crazed buddy in his car pool list".
Carla had to chime in, "How do you know it’s a he? Chicks dig imports more than guys, you know".
"I hate it when girls call other girls chicks", added Darien.
"Oh, I’m so sorry, Hillary, I’ll be more affirmatively active next time", again, Carla’s acerbity rose in direct correlation to her stoned factor.
"Whatever. Shut up already". Leo wanted so bad to have this night behind him.
* * *
The parking lot was almost entirely awash with cars. If it wasn’t for its immense size, they’d have nowhere to rest Leo’s beater. Fortunately, whoever organized this rave had the good sense to put it way out here in the sticks. No way an event of this proportions would fit downtown.
Even so, they had to park far from the imposing warehouse’s front gate. Actually, Darien, while gawking at the structure from such a distance, couldn’t make out a front door, if the thing even had one.
The air was simply stunning, an archetypal summer night all around them. Crickets chirping, stars blinking, clear skies and aggressive trance music blaring hypnotically. As they marched onwards, several groups of fellow revelers walked among aisles of automobiles in their vicinity, drawn to that same locus from which emanated the vibrating, machine gun BPM’ed sound. Occasionally, guys walking on their own went by. Darien identified so much with them, thinking Carla and the others must regard them as total losers, the way he views himself.
When the posse came upon the building’s enormous side, Leo turned around at hearing, just barely, a hollow rasping sound easily identifiable as a nine inch exhaust exit. None of his friends paid heed, but he knew it was out there somewhere in the lot, probably looking for a good spot. What he couldn’t understand was, assuming the Civic kept going as fast as when he last saw it, how they arrived and parked before the Honda did. A split second later his brain resolved this particular conundrum: cops pulled it over. But where? Between falling behind it and getting here there was nothing but straight highway, and he certainly would have noticed if indeed the hapless import had gotten stopped.
To his amazement, Leo realized he had kept on walking with the group while contemplating this. They turned a corner, arriving at a small ramp leading to an open metal doorway. Four heavyset security people in neatly pressed suits and a skinny executive type checked for ID’s from a short queue of young individuals, mostly guys.
"Where’s this alleged line you spoke of?" Carla was squinting humorously at Leo. With her high wearing out, she returned to slightly more avante garde sarcasm.
"Looks like a sausage fest to me", Tim was repositioning his cap for the millionth time.
The exec gave Darien a bizarre, knowing yet condescending look he simply couldn’t fathom.
Immediately following this, they were held up inside by two alluring young ladies whom handed out drink coupons in exchange for fifty dollars per person. Carla quickly did the math and told Tim exactly how many beers they could have bought had the cover been a typical one, say fifteen bucks. Tim, being himself, was earnestly ticked off over that.
Darien and Leo were still discussing the cost of admission among themselves (using mostly expletives), when all four entered the main hall. For all the hype bestowed on this social venture, none of them could instantly see what was supposed to be so unique here to set it apart from hundreds of club outings they’ve attended in weekends passed.
Those clubbing lights that made everybody look softer and creamier than in normal illumination flickered repeatedly, exposing a large crowd in stop motion footage. Overall, it looked like your typically massive, high tech night club on steroids.
"There have to be a few thousand people in here!" Darien was yelling at the top of every internal organ he possessed. To the warehouse’s credit, its unseen DJ’s were fielding truly hard hitting tracks, radically different than what he was accustomed to from going to places boasting the city’s most cutting edge music and instead supplying drab top 40 dance.
"What?!" Carla couldn’t hear. "What did you say?"
"He said there have to be thousands of people in here", Tim said, gazing vacantly into the dancing legions, baseball cap sticking to his head like a glove. Darien envied him for that. On his own skull, caps invariably just plonked, never sitting tight, making him look like a complete retread.
Once more, if it weren’t for the hostile environment, the other three would be amazed at Tim’s newly discovered abilities. He definitely learned to listen, ear drum-eradicating decibels or not.
Leo pointed at the nearest bar. "Let’s head over there, we’re standing at a bad spot", indeed, others were constantly pushing against them, trying to cut in from the entrance behind.
Evidently, the warehouse had only one bar. Having said that, it was about the length of a commuter train. Tim led their assault, overtaking Leo in his eagerness to absorb alcohol. He gallantly pushed aside two (smaller) males who were patiently trying to get some attention. Tim had a way with bartenders. He liked to think this gift was applicable mostly to female barkeeps, alas, a guy answered his pleas for intoxication. This angered Tim to no end, since ten feet down the bar some punk was being served by a five ten brunette who had no qualms revealing her tanned, flat belly above which two enormously crested breasts in a minimal Delicious top emerged, complemented with a behind challenging all accepted rules of human anatomy in its smooth tightness and utterly unhidden by shorts so miniscule they probably didn’t even have a "Made In" label. Once his mental salivating ceased, Tim turned to order four Heinekens and four Lemon Drops from a guy so normal- looking no one would ever have him pegged as part of the nightlife industry. Despite wearing an elegantly green button shirt untucked over business-like brown pants, and a pair of Lennon eyeglasses, the long-haired blond bartender exhibited outstanding efficiency. While Carla bickered with Darien over some details as Leo listened disjointedly, Tim was torn between admiring the blond dude’s professional demeanor and the brunette’s heavenly body. He reluctantly coughed up an outrageous dollar amount for the drinks, forgetting about the coupons given to them earlier.
"There you go", he said, turning to provide his friends with their beverages.
"Hey, why didn’t we use those coupons they gave us before?" Carla asked.
"Good question", said Darien.
"Fuck! I forgot about them!" Tim was kicking himself.
"Never mind, at least the next round won’t cost you anything" responded Leo.
"I paid for this one!" cried Tim with sincere anguish.
Leo laughed.
"Really, I won’t drink too much, don’t worry about me, Tim", Darien was trying to be nice.
"Shut up, why are you telling me this? Who put me in charge of getting all the booze?", answered Tim.
Carla looked around them. It was dark and crowded, but over the throng she could see just how huge the warehouse was. People were packed like sardines, cavorting all over, to the driving beats and flowing soundscapes of Alien Project and Chakra. Stacks of speakers were piled at four corners of the floor, which was basically the entire space other than this single, stretched bar. The ceiling appeared vaguely through a mist attributable more to cigarette smoke than anything else. It was at least sixty feet above their heads.
"Cheers!"
Down went the Lemon Drops. Carla and Tim started work on their Heinekens, while Leo handed a smoke to Darien, the world’s first non-smoking, alcohol-free Heineken consumer.
* * *
Minutes turned vaguely into a good couple of hours. Close on the heels of a few more rounds, one bought by himself, one by Carla, but mostly paid for with Tim’s money, Darien finally got into the rave mood. He lost his friends in the writhing façade of partying people, taking up residence centrally in the monolithic dance floor. Without even noticing it, he was having a bit of a good time, somewhat forgetting how depressed he’s been in recent months. To his credit, Darien did approach one girl with the intention of asking her for a dance or a drink, but even though he didn’t come across as a complete nimrod, the setting took care of that for him. This place was far too loud and crowded to accommodate attempts at locating prospective brides. As far as he could tell, there were hundreds of young ladies he would gladly take home to meet mom around him, but none where readily accessible. This tormented him to no end, although right now he was fending it off quite effectively.
Track after track, Darien’s moves were improving. He was soaked to the gills, but felt no fatigue. The enormously charged trance music carried him along.
Out of nowhere, amidst chaotic conditions, emerged a cool-looking fellow who seemed utterly unaffected by his surroundings. He was one of those club people that have mastered the art of walking across dense dancing crowds without even touching anyone, let alone spilling his drink. The guy was also rather unassuming, not standing out by being yet another tall, well-built suburban kid with a muscle-hugging black T and spiked hair. He went straight for Darien.
"You look like this is really working for you. Wanna make it work harder?"
Darien made a perplexed face at the guy, even though he already knew what was going on. "Man, what are you? A cop?" he asked.
"Quite not" Spikes was yelling in Darien’s left ear, bent slightly to be on eye level with the shorter man.
"I know how you feel right now, but you can make that undertow of sadness go away completely, so you won’t have to keep fighting it".
Darien didn’t catch most of this, he only heard something about sadness and fighting it. "Sad, me? Do I look sad? Anyway, you’re getting in my space", he thought it over, and realized that this dude just said "undertow" in a rave. Who the hell uses language like that at a place like this?
Spikes wouldn’t let up. "I saw you with that girl, what a shame. Didn’t know what to say, ha? Felt like a dumbass, I’m sure".
This made Darien stop dancing. Half of him wanted to duke it out with this bastard, half knew exactly how right he was. "What do you want from me, man?", he asked with some degree of apprehension.
"It’s more what you want from me, my friend. What I sell will allow you to let go, an enabler. As they say, open your mind. Quite a lot of these people here are excellent customers." Spikes was now grinning toothily. He gestured around them, and pulled a little zipper bag from an unseen pocket. He was quick with his hands. Darien saw pink and light blue pills inside the clear plastic.
"Ecstasy?" without giving it further thought, he added "how much?"
"One free coz I like you, additional ones are fifty each."
"Fifty? What do you think I am, I didn’t just win the lottery".
"Take a couple of these and you won’t have to", Spikes kept smirking.
Darien glanced around him and reached for his wallet. He gave Spikes two twenties and a ten. In exchange, the dealer took out two pills from his baggie and handed them over.
"Smart move. Better get some water to go with that". He then started walking without giving Darien a chance to say anything else, maneuvering among herds of dancers with sheer aplomb. He soon vanished into the masses in a mysteriously smooth fade. Darien never saw him again.
At the bar, Tim was schmoozing with a nice looking girl as Darien waited at the counter’s other end to be served. After a couple of minutes, the hot female bartender who previously had ignored Timothy’s pushiness asked Darien what he wanted. He bought a bottle of mineral water for an outrageous seven dollars. With less than twenty bucks left in his wallet, Darien gulped one of the pills, a light blue one, downing half a bottle for good measure.
Expecting it to take some time before he felt anything, Darien just stood there at the floor’s bar-side edge. Even though hours have passed since this rave ensued, it appeared to be picking up steam rather than the other way. Also in contrast to popular belief, the pill started working in less than five minutes, much to Darien’s surprise. He experienced a surge of energy the likes of which he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. In more ways than one, he simply lost control of his motions, and soon found himself hugging the dance floor’s teeming epicenter again. The music sounded livelier than before, and Darien’s ability to match the DJ with intensifying moves grew exponentially.
Following a salvo of classic Goa trance which really gripped the masses here like nobody’s business, Mr. DJ shifted gears for a little while and went with some hard house progressive. By this point, Darien was so charged he virtually forgot who, what or where he was, and had become oblivious to whomever brought him here.
"Do you mind?" some cookie-cutter blonde yelled at him, pushing him out of her perceived comfort zone while he was dancing with a severely warped perception of reality. This happened several times, less because Darien was infringing upon others’ space, more due to a surplus of cookie-cutter blonde females present.
Suddenly, things freaked out further. Everyone around him seemed to dance in blurred slow motion. Only he was picking up tempo with the music. Before he knew it, Darien was dancing up in the air, fifteen feet over people’s heads, looking down. Walking while elevated so, possibly on strands of cigarette smoke, Darien looked over at the bar area. He motioned his body towards there, and surely enough, went flying closer to Tim, now suspended along with his female bar-side cohort. Darien tapped Tim’s shoulder briefly with his left foot, pushing back to gain momentum to allow for a spectacular gyrating roll frenzy around his own axis, which he accomplished without falling to the ground, thus defying every physical norm on record. A second later he was half-running, half-flying on the bar’s outer edge at an angle, with blinding speed.
Once bored with the bar routine, Darien torpedoed himself yet again across the huge warehouse, ending up on top of one impressive speaker setup.
There he settled in for a prolonged mother-of-all-dance-bits.
While all this transpired, Darien wasn’t exactly conscious. He operated on pure energy, not minding his actions, let alone giving thought to his real life.
Sadly, all good things cease at some stage. Darien’s little private nirvana was abruptly terminated by a loud metallic noise unique to warehouse doors forced open by impact. He snapped back to a reality in which not only wasn’t there any flying left to do, but also there was sweating like a pig and staring, frightened-idiot style, together with everyone else in the direction from which all the commotion emanated.
* * *
Screams began to fill the cavernous warehouse in tandem with a sight so surreal, Darien simply couldn’t comprehend it fully in time: in through the violently opened doors came a steady stream of what his brain had to categorize as storm troopers, for they were so sci-fi looking he had no other term fitting.
These guys wore char-black, full body armor, apparently were totally faceless and all totted shiny MP5 silenced rifles. In the split second since their discordant entrance, Darien was quick enough to identify numerous details evident from inspecting the first wave to drop in. He noted some of the invaders’ machine guns had under-slung grenade launchers. This couldn’t be good.
Also, upon further observation, Darien’s intuition proved correct: something was wrong. This became irrefutable after he made out, via a brief clearing in the black mass of (presumed) law enforcement, several bodies lying quite dead- looking in the main entrance lobby behind where the cops came pouncing from. He couldn’t help but identify them as the security they ran into a few hours before.
People went flying in a crazy dash to get out of harm’s way, running in all directions other than toward the doors. This made life a lot easier for the police, who had a convenient path cleared for them even though they haven’t demanded one. This also struck Darien as very odd. You’d expect cops to yell "freeze" and "this is the police" or something to that effect, yet these characters seemed utterly bored by the presence of so many potential detainees. Instead, they converged on a certain part of the dance floor, maybe fifty paces from Darien’s location. That segment still had several dozen "customers" within, all who failed to flee with sufficient haste, although, if the truth be told, very few managed this feat, as these cops (if that’s what they were) worked quite fast.
Roughly thirty of them formed a tight enclosure around the area in question, while more continued to pour in from the main entry point.
Amid untold chaos, one could easily discern precisely where the intruders wanted zero movement, namely inside the enclosure, where their highly captivated audience stood surrounded and wide-eyed like so much cattle being herded into submission.
Two especially towering SWAT members broke formation and went inside the circle maintained by their comrades. They seemed to know who to go for, and sure enough, almost instantly came upon a hapless guy whom Darien would never suspect of ANYTHING. The two party-poopers grabbed this poor person with extreme prejudice and proceeded to retreat towards the front doors, which were now heavily secured by additional members of the force Darien already decided to christen "Them".
The apprehended fellow was peculiarly silent, and didn’t put up much of a struggle. Darien figured there was a cozy black Suburban waiting for this chump outside somewhere, license plates an option.
He suddenly realized that, what with being drunk and stoned for most of the night, he had entirely forgotten about his friends. Frantically looking around, he couldn’t spot them anywhere. At this stage, there was still a lot going on inside the warehouse, with effectively no way to get out, as the cops still had the doors and there were no usable emergency exists. This led to a funny situation, in which a hundred or so cops were on one side, while the other hosted some two thousand party people who, by the way, where in no mood to party anymore. Darien feared the place would tip over without warning.
There was yet to be uttered a single sound from the uninvited guests, making for a very tensely psychedelic stand-off.
When a coherent voice did come, it caught Darien by surprise, chilling his being to the bone.
* * *
With surreal melodrama, Leo emerged from the wall of tantalized people facing the cops. "Let him go you fucking pigs!". He was quickly walking towards the area were the gate crashers stood. Victim-guy and his two captors were, at the same time, moving through the encirclement towards the main door. Darien understood Leo was on the alleged prisoner’s side for a reason he could not yet comprehend. But this was nothing compared to the shock of watching Leo, Clara’s typically mild mannered and cynical friend, pulling a 9MM from his waist. The gun reminded Darien of the one used by Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. It even had that tiny red dot. So much for effective door security.
Time was slowing down once more. Cops moved quickly to close the opening made for their comrades and the prisoner. They didn’t make a sound, even though many of them had obviously noticed Leo’s weapon. No one shouted "drop it!" or anything. Instead, five of them in the front row raised their weapons.
Leo was quick enough to fire a single round in their direction. Darien made to follow the bullet with his stare, yet couldn’t make out where it went. None of the police showed any sign of connecting with the thing.
As everyone in the crowd, including Darien, stood mesmerized, these five cops opened fire. Instantly, Leo was pummeled by twenty some rounds. He was literally ventilated, his clothes soaked with blood. A split second later, he collapsed on the floor. Problem was, the cops shot too many to be really accurate, for every bullet getting Leo at least a couple went astray. Experience has shown strays end up somewhere after all, and this just so happened to be the human wall from which Leo first came. Darien wasn’t sure, but he saw a lot of people buying it roughly around the congregation’s center. Luckily, he was off to the left side himself.
The final straw was broken and everyone went nuts all over. People were rushing without any order or logic, and the entire invasion crew seemed more than pleased at the opportunity to waste a few unwitting suckers. Darien ran back and headed for the bar, accompanied by a handful of smart shoppers who understood it would be wiser taking cover rather than risking it outside.
Tough luck. A second later both bartenders rose up from behind cover, the girl holding an M16 and Mike’s blond server totting a shotgun. The latter screamed "motherfuckers!" at the top of his lungs, unknowingly mouthing his last famous words. A few well-placed shots took care of him. His colleague fared better, successfully emptying half a clip, but soon enough was also KIA. Her weapon fell clanging to the floor not far from Darien, who, like the other bar refugees, was now cutting his hands on glass from bottles shattered by gunfire.
Slightly bleeding but still alive, he listened with numb awareness to sounds of massacre as more and more people where felled just beyond the bar’s safety.
After a few seconds of this insanity, the cacophony receded, and Darien began hearing orderly footsteps from around the door. He figured it was the attackers finally leaving, since no more shots were being fired. Only screams and moans from the wounded were audible.
Ears ringing, he gathered courage to pop from behind the bar to witness an expectedly horrific sight. Dozens of bodies lay everywhere, and gun smoke wafted lazily throughout.
His mind reeling, Darien ignored both survivors and victims, crossing the fiasco on his semi-lucid way to the door. He suddenly looked down, only to see Carla and Mike dead by the entrance. Carla’s head lay on Mike’s chest, and both were vividly mangled by hungry bullets. Darien sometimes suspected there was much Carla kept from telling him, a bit like his attitude around women he finds attractive. Whatever she never said will remain untold for all eternity.
Next to them was one of the pseudo-cops. Possibly their only casualty, he was most likely a target of the hot bartender’s fire. His MP5 was still there, sticky with blood.
All this horror sent Darien over the edge. Although alive, his fragile, unhappy and often frustrated existence went flashing by in his memory. He came to the final conclusion that he would never be satisfied and never, ever, feel like there was a point to this travesty whose extension people so desperately crave.
Staring at his friends, dead for no reason whatsoever, Darien wondered what the world would be like if it was him instead. No big deal, he thought. Other than close family and a couple of friends, no one would miss him. Life would go on, except for his own, loveless and without use.
A throaty buzzing noise snapped him back to reality. It came from outside. That Honda Civic was there, Darien could barely see it through the door. Awed with surrealism, he listened on as it sped away from the parking lot.
Darien began crying. This was so miserable. Feeling his heart sink so deep there would never be enough will power in him to lift it back up, he pondered all those things he never tasted, mostly true love.
Like a zombie, Darien stood there all limp, oblivious of people weeping their way out, some carrying the injured.
He bent down, picked up the MP5. For the first, and last, time in his short life, Darien’s brain was completely silent, quiet now that there was no longer a steady background of stressed anxiety pulsing through it.
He brought the submachine gun to a gaping mouth, put the short barrel in there, and without much of anything other than tears squeezed the trigger. Time to die.
* * *
At a Starbucks on a mildly ho-hum day, a young woman of amazing beauty and appeal was sitting by herself, gazing through a tinted window at random passersby, a raspberry latte growing cold while her mind was deep in thought.
She must have spent a small fortune at this particular location over a month or so.
The only draw it had for her was the memory of a cute vintage-looking guy she noticed here that time. For some obscure reason he seemed genuinely interested in her yet for perfectly gentleman-like motives.
The young woman felt alone and desolate inside the coffee shop’s drastically air-conditioned interior, juxtaposed sharply with the sweaty mid-summer exterior.
She was gorgeous beyond words and could probably get a whole bevy of men lined up for inspection at will, yet his memory lingered in her mind and somehow she knew they will never meet again, knowing life’s depressing nature.
With a bitterly empty heart and sinking feeling, the young woman finished her latte and left.
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