Meat Club

owlwink · 01-12-2008 10:15pm #1

Meat Club

A long labyrinthine corridor leads us down into the club. Thumping music causes the many meat hooks to spin and glisten. The chains cause a rhythmic clanking as the bass levels cause them to beat off the bloodied walls. The stench of ‘retired’ carcasses prod at your senses leaving you feeling like someone has been playing with an open wound. Entering the turnstile of terror, I found that upon offering up my pound of flesh, a glowing cattle icon is branded carefully onto my skin. I am now part of the herd.

Looking down from our pedestal we view a gender ****ed individual lighting the level below. Shoddy lipstick marks out a colouring book attitude that the figure has towards its own performance. Stubble grates at our expectations of womanly velour. We begin to lose ourselves as we view a malformed and malleable interpretation of gender identity. Thousands of spinning mirrors catch this bodies desperate dancing. Make-up begins to spit violently from its face as the sweat from drug induced fantasy causes outbursts of perspiration. Monroe obsession drips from the various masks being worn. Nurse latex, holds its plastic skin, whilst also suggesting a day-walking profession.

Salty-blooded teenagers sit by the bar sucking down any type of beverage that is given to them, in the hope that their inhibitions are reduced to the point where they will no longer think about their financial violation. As the perpetual feeding continues many of the monstrous beings buzzing around the bar begin to transform into beautiful beetles. More bareable to the eye and the fact that they are equipped for nuclear survival takes away the risk of them immediately following you to the “deathbed” when you refuse to wake to the apocalyptic world of the ‘morning after’.

At the far side of the room the calming figure of a “PIG HEADED” women, ponders vagrantly as she sits protected by a magic ribbon that makes her a VIP (very important pig). Her derelict expressions of movement are secured somewhat, by her bestial head. Sitting across from her is a skinny pseudo-sexual who hides his face behind a military issue gas mask in an attempt at nuclear survival. His constant shaking predicates the heavy breathing that causes the mask to fog up. As his body begins to convulse and he joins the dance floor with agonising outbursts, it becomes evident that he has become contaminated. As my eyes fly along his limbs, the root of his infection becomes apparent, as out of the clouds of sulphur I see that the “PIG HEADED” woman is now firmly suckered on to the end of his hand. In my last moments fear caught hold as I realised that in all my spectating I accidently made eye contact.

My skinned corpse spun on the kebab stick as the drunken delinquents filled the narrow confines of the take-away outlet. The shop clerk shaved my stubbly speckled flesh and began loading the mulchy meat into their sporadic orders. My meat tasted the inside of their mouths and then found itself befriending the contents of their stomachs, as it lay discarded and sticky along the corners of the streets.