Primal Joy
The walls were rippled from countless years of damp, mildewed air. Where there were no crooked boards providing a makeshift patch to the ancient plaster, there were gaping holes filled with all manner of disturbing refuse. The once eggshell colour of the scattered patches of remaining plaster clinging to the boards for dear life were now stained a patchy brown from nights of being splattered with sweat, booze, and blood. To many, this was paradise, for in the middle of this run down once-warehouse was the altar of the gods.
Waist-high to Thomas, the shrine was just a platform that matched the rest of the trashy look the building possessed, and was covered in a visible layer of just about every kind of human excrement you dared to imagine. But the people still poured in, dodging the trouble-seeking eyes of the men at the door: The collection pot in this temple is enforced.
Cables. Cords. Lights. Speakers. A thousand lights illuminate the golden calf of this event: A single guitar takes possession of its wielder and drowns out every sound in the building. The pagan ritual begins and all eyes are now on the main attraction.
Thomas' friend Matt arrives just in time to witness the crowd start to rise. Getting passed a drink, Thomas thought to himself “He managed to have my money turned to beer. Truly a fitting miracle” before taking a generous swig. Six nights of the week are spent in anticipation of this.
Eying up the crowd, Thomas watches as the people fall into the music. Mohawks dance in the coloured lights. Piercing speckle the silhouettes of countless figures. Bodies shuffle closer and closer to the stage, while moving more and more to the beat, until everyone is shoulder to shoulder. Still they close in on their target, and the music picks up even more. Bump turns to push. Push to shove. The music quickens. Soon enough all hell breaks loose.
Shoulders to noses and elbows to spines, the entire building erupts into the most bizarre social order known to man. Booze is currency, blood is a hero's medal, every person in the pit is family. Sex, music, and fear of death itself are the only things powerful enough to create this strength in unity, and this atmosphere brings enough of all three.
The musicians leave and the night winds down. People go home dripping with sweat. They leave with bruised backs, bloody grins, and torn vocal cords. The next morning Thomas is back to his daily routine with the same old bullshit life brings, but now with new life in his eyes. Nothing seems quite so important anymore. Nothing is as urgent as everyone tries to make it seem. Society has it all wrong. Years of technology and beurocracy has changed nothing: deep down inside we are all tribal beasts in need of a good release for our suppressed instincts. If your hair rises on end when you hear those drums. If your blood pumps for the excitement of war. If you feel like you are falling eternally when dancing with the girl you just met, then you, just like all the other misfits, degenerates, and so-called rebels, know what truly holds substance in life.