All I needed was a sign. It was a club, of course the floor was sticky. Not a sign. I had a good look at everything, but couldn’t see the end of the room in the fake fog. Luck would have it that the boredom the reader is currently experiencing with this description was also my own, so I danced. Soon, elbows flew south west-north east and no one could finish a whole drink before it was knocked out of their sticky, dirty hands. People’s shirts and trousers smelled more of spilled Red Bull than perspiration (wonderful), and there was always someone gagging in the corner. Every time I went out to the smoking area, the sun shone brighter. It was a hot summer morning. Still no sign. Suddenly, there was a girl, poor thing, coral red lipstick smeared all over her face, twitching with a cigarette in the heat. When told that she looks like Joker, and that she should fix that, she became grateful, so grateful, that her trembling voice could barely reach past her lips to say, “Tha-a-a-a-a-a-a-nk youuu so mu-uu-u-ch. Woul youu lii-i-ike some M-mmd-m-a?”
Immediately, she collapsed and nobody turned. I tried to help her up, but every time I reached out to help her, I hit the mirror.