I HAD NEVER SEEN DEATH BEFORE. IT WAS DISTURBING.
There didn't appear to be anything wrong with him when I found him, apart that he was lying face down on the toilet floor
in a shallow pool. He must be paralytic, I thought at first, agonising at the stain in his ZigMan shirt and
SteinStadt jeans which would be the consequence. He looked young, 20 at the oldest, fairly tall, slim, with
short brown hair: a typical patron of the club. When he hadn't moved after a minute of observation I began concerned.
I knelt over him pausing to note his exquisite ethnic necklace, realised he wasn't breahting. The impact was
Fuck, who is this guy?
Tashca Ngurra's distorted flakebeat expanded into a few moments of painful cacophony and then retreated.
Someone had come in behind me and obviously now regretted it. I couldn't say a word as he walked over to the body,
paled, theorised about foul play. Like me, he ended up standing mesmerised, mumbling softly:
<<Fuck, who is this guy?>>
After a while a crowd began accumulating in the Mens Room as each visitor, no doubt on an innocent journey to the trough, or
possibly just looking for a lost friend, became trapped by the spectacle on the floor. At one stage someone said
<<Nobody touch his boots!>>
and I realised they were hippo SKIN clogs, a bold biological statement compared with more industriallooking Zigman shirt
and SteinStadts. More puzzling, the sprawl of his arms revealed a pair of postcorporate Nike mitts, a ghastly
white on white.
<<What happened here?>> asked
the 30th person into the toilets, curiously a woman. <<This guy's
a walking contradiction.>>
<<Either that or he>> someone
else chipped in <<dresses in the dark.>>
The toilet was your standard early 21st century advertising hell: flashing lights and holograms selling all kinds of wares:
condoms grafted from real pornstar skin and love scents from all the dead silver screen sirens (not to mention the African
jungles). <<Hey look>> the
aforementioned woman said. <<There's a mark on his wrist. There, above his
<<It looks like an amintat. A dancing cat.>>
<<Is there a club in town with a stamp like that?>>
As I teetered forward for a final look before making way for the police I realised an intriguing detail. He was wearing
Uranus #5 aftershave, the latest NASA offering. Its pungent aroma mixed with the more earthly stench of urine and
smoke to make a truly discordant comment. FUCK, WHO IS THIS GUY??
CASSIUS CROON (c)opyright Crunch Millennia 1996-2000. Contact the author for all your criticisms and feedbacks.