My fingers slip on the algae and worse that line the walls. Creep along, splashing in the dark, occasionally stepping on something that squishes between my toes or wriggles away altogether. Not far to go until I hear the throb of Club Nocturne's backbeat, high above me like the music of the spheres or something. I know you're up there somewhere, flopping about on the dance floor like a wounded fish. I can smell you.
Toreador think they run the place.
I clamber up, like Satan crawling his way out of hell, and emerge amid wires and lumber and debris. The sound surrounds me - the backbeat hammers in my head and pisses me off even more. I check the Mask - I want to look real pretty for you. I am a veritable artiste, as it were. Nonexistent boots glisten under the single bulb, and my nonexistent silver ankh gleams against the black canopy of my nonexistent Dead Can Dance T-shirt.