About a dozen people are scattered about a "small" side room in this Ephesian greco-revival wannabe plantation house turned rave den. They're huddle up against the floors and walls, dotted about on several large bean bag simulacra, tearing through whippets like there's no tomorrow. Earlier someone espoused the idea that we were celebrating the end of some world.
"The government will stop maintaining the roads up here, and then what. The fuck are all these cars worth then?"
I've never danced before, not really, but that night I danced in platform boots, a skirt and some pasties for four hours straight. I blinked and all those whippets turned bodies to piles. A mass grave speckled in glow-in-the-dark neon marker. Sweatpants stained with cheap liquor, blood, and resin. Arms and legs jutting out from bean bagged guts, pool ques and solo cups. Four billion bodies dumped in a chalky sea right down the street from the worst diner I've ever known.

You'd think it'd be easier to find weed at a 420 rave.