Swingers blazed with excitement.
A speccy Goth had accidentally set fire to his girlfriend's hair extensions trying to light a fag one-handed while groping her tits and snogging her. Rory watched as hearse-loads of would-be grim reapers sloshed their G&Ts over the bubbling tresses dripping onto the faux bloodstained leather carapace seemingly nailed to the howling girl’s midriff. As knockabout spectacles went, it was up there with two blind fat men slipping on the same banana skin, but what tickled him most was the irony of it all: the Goths were the only people in the entire club whose bodies weren’t either rotting, creeping about a limb at a time or being sucked clean of blood by marauding vampire bats.
He took another swig on his lager, sniggers crackling along his nasal tract like a packet of chocolate biscuits imploding inside a python. The undead didn't bother him any more ― and now, in the gibbering heat of the spotlights, they were sprouting fungi to the music.
Carrot-topped Jai Alai players bounced out of grubby VW Buses and began to whack musical ping-pong balls into the crowd; the balls glittered pastel-like as they bounced and sang a buzz-saw rock from golden-oldies days - like a dozen Hendrix squelching riffs from the dead. A pair of fire-breathing, dragon-like, ice-sculptures melted contentedly near the food.
A geeky grunge addict wrangled Pop Tarts over a gas-fired grill. The honeybuns would eat healthy tonight what with meat from the vampires, fungus from the undead and grease from the local rat-infested Taco Bell. But Rory wouldn't be joining them. He had an appointment with an R & Q flakweiser, and he still had to pick up the colonics.
Opening: WO.....Continuation: Dave F.