Beautiful and PLUR

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There's a bum breakdancing in the crosswalk

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There's a bum breakdancing in the crosswalk.

The light's green and cars are honking, and yet here's this old siphon busting out his robot moves. He has towels wrapped around his shoes and when he smiles, I see he's missing most of his teeth. But he's pretty damned good at dancing.

I slow down to watch him and Sarah bumps into me. We're walking single file between orange construction barriers, hemmed in by chainlink fences, and even this late, there's a jackhammer pounding and heavy machinery grumbling and the workers in their bright yellow vests are whistling and shouting at us.

Jesus Christ I bet I look hot. I have, like, the best outfit on. These bright pink booty shorts that really show off my ass, plus a keyhole halter top so sheer I have to wear pasties over my nipples.

The pasties are totally cute, shaped like unicorns, and the halter is shimmery and and my fluffy boots have twinkling LED lights in them and I look totally magical.

So does Sarah. She's all cleaned up from her show, the raccoon eyes scrubbed away and refreshed with new mascara. She's got a neon-yellow skirt so short I can see the booty shorts beneath it and a cute pink mesh halter, pink cannabis pasties.

She's drunk and rolling on the E we split and I'm feeling so good, my muscles all melty and my nerves like warm butter, I want more. More. I want to roll another blunt, I want to smoke another cigarette, I want to suck it all in. I want to grab Sarah and pull her against me and rip her to pieces. I want to gobble her up. I want music. I need music. I want to dance as I destroy. I want music. I want the club. I want music. I want Sarah. I want it all. I want music. I need music. Music music music. Sarah.

I need it all.

"You sexy bitch!" I giggle. "I want you."

"No you don't," she says.


"You don't really want me; you want a dirty secret, and that's what I am. That's all I am to you."

What the fuck does she mean by that? I have no idea, but it sounds like Sarah's got some nonsense in her head. I suppose I'm going to hear all about it at some point ...

But for now we've reached the club, Drago, and I don't  have to worry about Sarah's shit, because even though there's a huge line, we don't wait. The bouncer's name is Clint and with a look into his eyes, I know that he likes working the club because he likes having an excuse to hurt people, and last night he dragged some asshole into a dark, quiet place and broke his jaw and ribs. Clint does steroids and is worried about his balls shrinking, but still does the steroids anyway because he loves the way they make him feel — all swole and shredded and strong. And he likes the rage. He's hoping someone acts stupid tonight so he can throw a few punches at them. Maybe break a few bones. Clint likes breaking things.

Now under my sway, he waves us in and we plunge into the purple air, the smoky heat, and watch lasers knife the haze. We are swallowed by the sound and the fury. Bass beats fill me and I'm dancing and I can feel vibrations in my teeth and we are pretty. Oh so pretty. And everything's pretty. This scene is so pretty, this dazzling, incongruous scene. This darkling wonderland, and we're dancing ass-to-cheek with all the pretty young siphons.

There are the kandi kids with their hypercolor booty shorts and their fluffy boots and their hoodies and their halters and their PLUR.

There are the pastel goths with their ruffles and their pigtails and their lollipop tones.

And of course there are the goths, the many goths with their black hair and their white faces and their sullen eyes and their upside-down crosses and pentagrams and vampire tropes.

I love the goths.

I grab a sweaty goth boy and I latch on and I gauge the fuck out of him and everything's so beautiful, everything's so PLUR, everything's so perfect, except what Sarah said.

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