Hunting in a Club

Hunting in a Club


It is hot in the club, hot and loud. As soon as you enter, your body is engulfed in the muggy heat which hangs stale in the air. As you eyes attempt to search for a familiar face, they are accosted by pulsating lights, flashing in a myriad of color, swinging from side to side, alternatingly blinding and revealing. The glistening sheen on your skin starts to bead and drip as you slowly worm your way towards the bar. You pause by the metallic stools, glancing at the backlit glass shelves which are littered with row after row of bottles in innumerable shapes and colors. You place your hand on the granite top, gratefully welcoming the cool kiss on your fingers. Throat twinging in pain, you hoarsely attempt to be heard above the technological sounds assaulting your ears, beat slamming through your body. The burly bar tender hunches over the counter, evidently struggling to hear you over the sirens screeching from an impressive array of speakers, clumped throughout the room. The man nods and meanders off. While impatiently waiting for your drink, you shift from foot to foot your eyes scanning the mob which clings together, grinding and shifting in an hedonic fashion to the throbbing bass whose sound dulls every other sense. A stranger sensuously runs a hand down your spine, making you aware of how your dampening clothes stick to every curve on your body. As the stranger starts to slip into the sea of humanity you ignore the open invitation. The bar tender lightly taps your shoulder and hands you a perspiring glass. You welcome the freezing burn that allays the pain in your throat. The slow burn in your gut ignites into a flash fire as you spot your prey sauntering off the dance floor, led by a luscious and flirty blonde. Your glass chinks as you slam it on to the stone counter and intently stride towards your Quarry.

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