Four single males live here. Upstairs is empty, dirty. The basement is packed to the point that moving past the stairs is impossible. Everyone's crowded around a lone figure, S. Funkee. It's hard to see what he's doing, but it involves singing into a microphone and playing something electronic. It's loud and good.
Upstairs, there are two kegs. People are doing drugs. Downstairs, the band Neighbors go on. Someone says the singer chugged whiskey for breakfast and that they were trying to get him to drink coffee before he started playing.
In the host's room, I accidentally kick over my cup of beer onto the carpet. There's nothing anywhere to clean it. The host grins. "I don't care," he says. "I spill shit on it all the time. Here, look." He begins pouring his beer onto the carpet. It makes a pissing sound. "Hey, come spill beer with me," he says, looking at his roommate. His roommate walks over and starts pouring beer on the floor. Someone takes a picture.
The band finishes its noisy set. A dance party springs up. There are maybe three participants. The backyard is packed, and the kegs keep mysteriously changing locations.
Everyone quiets down when the cops come. Two people go into a bathroom together. "Let's just make out right here," the host from Brooklyn says, falling down on a bed with a girl. The cops come twice more, and once shine a flashlight through the window and almost catch us doing something illegal. Someone pisses in a mason jar while others laugh. Then he puts the jar of piss on top of his head and poses. He makes a facial expression. Someone takes a picture.
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