¡Desmadre!
When The List is full, my nights have a habit of turning out completely different from what I planned.
At first, everything actually went according to schedule. I started at Sojourn, hit NITE and then made my way to Afterneath. There’s a very good chance I’ll tell you about all of those later. But first I need to tell you something else.
Because things escalated.
By now you know about the risks involved in my particular lifestyle. I’ve told you about getting punched at Valmoor. Turf wars break out occasionally. People disappear into dark corners. Deals are made. Allegiances shift. And basically all of this boils down to me relying on the good stuff to survive nightlife.
I mean, what’s the alternative?
Without it, my daily routine would look completely different and you’d probably only see me posting pictures wearing cute clothes while telling you where to buy them. Imagine.
No. Really. Imagine me doing that!
So anyway, if you choose to conduct your affairs somewhere in that grey area between the spotlight and the toilet stalls, things can get risky surprisingly fast. I won’t bore you with the details. Mostly because plausible deniability is a beautiful thing. But I’ve learned that, for all the skills I apparently possess, knowing when to find a getaway car remains one of the more useful ones.
So we were on the road. Heading south. I figured if I could reach a border, there was a reasonable chance I wouldn’t fully rez on the other side. I could live under the radar for a while, wait for things to calm down and eventually sneak back home. Solid plan.
Unfortunately, put a bunch of people in a getaway car for half an hour and inevitably someone needs a drink.
Withdrawal symptoms are real. They are also incredibly annoying when you’re trying to steer a car down backroads towards an international border while presumably being hunted by several unnamed organisations.
Then Polly texted me. She knew a place.
Of course she did.
A safe hideout somewhere along our route. A biker bar called the Titty Tornado. Open from Dusk till Dawn. Law enforcement hadn’t been seen there in decades.
I fucking love people like Polly.
The ones who, at the most dire moments in your life, don’t ask unnecessary questions like What happened?, Are you in trouble? or Why is there blood on your shirt?
They just send you a landmark.
So there we were and suddenly we had stumbled straight into one of the wildest and, frankly, best parties I’ve seen in a while.
Nobody gave a fuck. Not one.
The place was completely unhinged. Bodies everywhere. Drinks everywhere. Music pounding through the room. People dancing like sunrise was a rumour and tomorrow had been cancelled over a lack of interest.
Just glorious, sweaty, hardcore partying until the sun came up, which was exactly what we needed and somewhere along the way I completely forgot we were fugitives. Or why. Or from whom. Probably for the best. We had an absolute blast.
And when we finally climbed back into the car at sunrise, clothes less respectable, heads less functional and my ears ringing loudly enough to interfere with several major telecommunications networks, there was only one word still bouncing around inside my head.
¡Desmadre!
Click them for a larger resolution and save.
This post is not sponsored or paid for in any way. I was also not blackmailed or tortured to write it.
Join the awesomeness. Leave an epic reply.
