"Do you like the clothes you're wearing?" a partygoer asks as I approach the home of Disco Bloodfeast 3000, a gathering that the flyer promises will be "a spine-tingling spectacle of mass proportions." "Uh, yeah," I reply. "Get some scrubs," she advises.
As I enter the quaint domicile, my shoes stick to the makeshift carpet and a scene out of ER gone horribly wrong presents itself. A pig's head sits in a box. In the kitchen, someone's handling porcine guts as if preparing a culinary delicacy. A DJ is spinning tracks by Wu-Tang Clan rapper Ol' Dirty Bastard, who died earlier Saturday (not in this space, though you'd be forgiven for thinking so).
In one room, a dunking contest ensues, as people try to hold their breath in a tub of fake blood. The record is 30 seconds. A modern primitive purposefully sprays folks with faux plasma from a Super Soaker. I overhear another partier ask, "How's your abortion going?" "There are so many things stuck to my fucking hand," a young woman whines. A bewigged dude utters, "Never pet a burning dog," before ordering another Sparks.
DJ Tawney informs me that a psychiatrist specializing in schizophrenia had to leave the party early because it was freaking him out.
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