Rhythm breathes through the air, intoxicating the patrons of Club Aftershox. Multicolored lights dance playfully around the gyrating bodies, reflecting off the glistening sweat of a thousand hip thrusts. The room is jammed with dancers tonight as the founder and main beat scientist, Vox, has seized the helm and is bringing the noise, note for note. Up in his tower, surrounded by monolith speakers, he is inexhaustible. A whirling dervish of mixing and sampling, painting an original picture with music much more akin to Picasso than Warhol. Beneath new headphones (brought to you by Steel Series), blond hair tosses around his bobbing head, taking on its own life.
Fingers flying, Vox calls up another set of songs in sequence, notes hovering before him with a glowing spiritual quality. His smile broadens as he surveys the crowd, feeling the sweet vibes coming off the dance floor and knowing inherently what to play next. He flicks a few floating songs away and jabs at one with a pinkish hue. The song swirls, collapsing in on itself and whistling toward the speakers like siren fairies. The speakers glow pink as the song takes hold, pounding forth with a new rush over the floor. The dancers groan in ectasy, exploding in a new wave of limbs and torsos akimbo.
You won’t even know what hit you, he mused.
Vox closes his eyes and goes back to mixing. The boards are an extension of his self, his hands finding the dials and gains without falter and in rapid succession. The crowd begins to howl, their cries threatening to eclipse the music so the maestro gives the volume a boost to battle them back. The track swells and Vox becomes embroiled in the sound itself, the cries sounding farther off as he harkens back to the Masker Rage. That memory, while grim, wells inside his chest with elation, being the first time he really felt true to his being. The crescendo reaches a fever pitch, layers of melody and rhythm draping atop one another like a pile of lovers.
Here it comes.
A synthetic cacophony rouses those on the floor to shrill wailing.
The pressure of the sound vibrating his very eyeballs.
Wait. For. It.
A defeaning silence for one supreme moment as all music stops, the screams of his fans maddened with “party”, and then the bass drops in heavier than a Brachiosaur performing a perfect cannonball. The blast shatters cocktail glasses and turns over tables. Eyes still tightly clenched, Vox can feel the energy of the crowd taking over the entire foundation of the building. Sweat from their bodies splashes his face in surprising amounts. He rides out the rest of the song, basking in the ululating calls from those below and even tasting a spray of dance sweat that lands on his lips. Salty, and not without a touch of iron.
As the music finally fades off with one final decibel of perfection, Vox freezes for applause. At first there’s nothing, and then just one pair of hands begin battering together in enthusiasm. A slow clap! He’d always wanted to be honored with such theaterical spontaneity. But no, it never grows beyond the single person. Were the rest in pure shock?
Vox opens his eyes to the massacre. Bodies and body parts are strewn about the room. Blood covering the walls and floor in one shining layer of crimson skin. The dance floor is entirely devoid of life, save one person clapping. The blood stains her as well, flicking off as she bounces with glee. Her rainbow claws clack together with each childish smashing of her hands.
“Again! Again!” Koshka bubbles.
Vox smiles, “You cost me a lot of customers tonight.”
“Oh.” She stops long enough to survey her handiwork, face falling momentarily before snapping back into a smile. “I just wore that red dress with the pretty gold claws and now I have lots of ICE!”
“That’ll do!” Vox turns his attention back to the boards. “Request?”
Vox spins up another song and lets fly. Koshka begins twirling across the floor in a manner far too indecent to describe. Her claws flash across the floor, cutting gouges and flaying chunks of corpses like a surly butcher on his last day. A few young people enter the door in the back, laughing for some inane reason, but take one look at the dance floor and wisely turn tail.
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