The bass from the sound system jostled her internal organs, and her pancreas now sat amongst her bowels. Yet she still felt like she could dance for days. In fact, she had. It was Monday morning, and while the comfortably suited rushed off to catch their MUNI death rides, Margarite was working up a gristly sweat at Dubious, a recovery club dug out of sulphur walls that held stench like hands on a throat. The crowd comprised freaks from all corners of San Francisco, and the music hadn’t stopped since Saturday morning. There was so much speed coursing through the miles of collective veins of the spinners, every indication showed that this frenzy would go on for another week. Goddamned if the cops were gonna find out about this one. The fuckin’ place was buried so far under the prison floors of Alcatraz that it would take a supersonic ear and an oil rig to even question the 90 decibel bass and 244 bpm that forged the path to freedom for the privileged punters.
Margarite needed another hit. She yanked Trashbury’s arm, directing him with a darting eyeball to one of the solitary confinement cells barracked off from the main block 50 metres above. Entering, they heard filthy grunts from the recesses of the dusty block but continued their freebasing ritual unhindered. Trashbury lit the contraband and inhaled. Feeling a clammy hand on his thigh, he filled it with the pipe for Margie to feed on. Her eyes crackled and pooped gooey eye snot that built up while capillaries lit in negative, a snapshot in a darkroom; not diffused lighting, just pure firecracker blasts that tore at Margie’s retina like a surgeons’ scalpel. God, she needed that hit. Her hands started to shake uncontrollably. She stood up and started to dance to the muted beats from the main room, shuffling her feet along the dusty floor, sliding to all ends of the pitch black block until she fell into the fleshy pile of sodemites piled in the concrete corner. Her hand landed in smeared shit and glass, and she quickly wiped it on the hairy back of one of the naked bears. Shuffling back to Trashbury and out the door, the two of them were geared up for another day or two.
A splintered ladder led Trashbury and Margarite through the darkest recesses of this one-time hellhole where tortured screams blew through the walls like icy Bay breezes through the Bridge. Up top, there they were again, peering across the scene, unable to stand still, freaking through jilted eyeballs, numb limbs, thirsty ears and sweaty tongues, Margarite slid into her dutiful movement. A hand grabbed at her ankle. She let it. No reason to dismiss any tactile sensation that could enhance her high. The grime of the fingers caressing her calf represented the revolution. The coming of the end, and no one on the rock was going stop.