Men Without Faces

Men Without Faces

Daz was munted. Right off his tits. So much whizz ripped through his system he hadn’t slept in three days—now it felt like he’d never slept, would never sleep again. Things moved in the corners of his vision that weren’t there when he looked. He swayed in the queue outside Romero’s, half leant against Banger.

Around them, clubbers shuffled in the cold and dark. Chatter, tension, anticipation hung with plumes of breath and cigarette smoke in the autumn night. The walls of the club—a semi-industrial concrete box as charming and adorned as an electrical substation—throbbed as though some creature of bass were pounding against them. Light pooled around the entrance. Two bouncers loomed either side: a squat bald-headed ogre, wider than he was tall; and a pro-wrestler type with a blond ponytail. They ushered in a gaggle of shivering, bare-shouldered girls, who bopped and swayed as the music drew them inward. Behind Daz, the queue dissolved in writhing shadows. The orange traceries of cigarette tips hung in the air like some occult script Daz could almost read…

The Black Massive

The Black Massive

It was a banging scene, back in the day. Before Cadman came out of the shadows, touting his weird black shit.

Back then it was all colour and sound. Everyone off their bone, grinning like nutters, sweating and gurning and losing it to the lights and the tunes. Lasers slicing the dark. Bass beats kicking up from the floor. Fractal lead lines like living things, like creatures of light that danced the sound, that danced the rush that was all of us. It was like another world. A magic kingdom.

Fucking La La Land.

I’d tell Mum I was staying round Dog’s, then we’d catch the bus out to Tescos carpark. The warehouse was always this big secret—the flyer in my pocket didn’t say nothing more than a time and a place for all the ravers to meet. No one knew where they was going ’til the lead car pulled in and everyone drove in convoy to the night.

Me and Dog was too young to drive, so we had to be there in time to cadge a lift. We’d go early and slip into the bog before the supermarket closed. Sometimes we’d roll one. Other nights we’d sniff whizz off the bog seat, come out sipping Strawberry Ribena, breaking the seal on a brand new pack of Benson & Hedges. Then we’d strut out between the cars, looking for mates or a friendly face, grinning and bobbing, blowing smoke rings into the cold, still night…

 

Read the full story for free in Issue 21 of Dimension6.