The beat rose, the night's synthetic pulse quickening to a frenetic exertion. DJ Mars (known by Marshall only to friends) stood tall over the writhing neon horde, dictating terms of motion, phase shift after phase shift. Sweat laced with ecstasy and alcohol burst from every gyrating pore, building a mist of heedless hedonism. Above every concern of not being pretty enough, lithe enough, smart enough- all the people on the floor filled their heads with the one ever-present command, constantly delivered from the DJ on high--
Feed the night, it roared.
Brett stared into the haze, barely able to discern his friend's steady form on the pulpit of amplifiers. Yes, the DJ he knew by name was there, doing what he did best. Squinting, Brett could make out the sweat-slick sinews ministering to the turntables; the hair matted onto a calm and concentrated forehead, interrupted only by the obligatory headphones; the cool eyes half-lidded in intractable concentration. The mere sight of it all sent chills up Brett's spine, and he flushed an unnoticeable hue in the flashing lights.
Yeah, there was no getting around it.
"Definitely gay," he muttered, as if cursing himself.
Hot and hard (to say nothing of heavy) were the occupying whispers in Brett's ear. As Marshall spun out a retro-Dixie throwback remixed with synthetic opera, Brett could only hear the resounding dictates of roaring hunger. Feed it, sate it, and gorge on it. The hunger gnawed ruthlessly at Brett's quivering self, screaming at him to go on in spite of the abject fear. What room was there for a newly minted faggot?
I can't. He wouldn't-- came Brett's hoarse whisper, hitting only empty air. He wouldn't ever; not with a guy, never with me. But the words, as if meeting their polar opposites, were annihilated by the phase pulse of the bass rain.
Tempo sparked to attention, picking up with it the arms and hands of its adherents. Rise, rise, rise, and build the hunger. Ravenous and grasping fingers were all that could be seen under the tides of light. The message coursed through the warehouse--
Feed the night, it moaned.
Mars, on the mountain top, on the stage, and illuminated by a halo of laptop plasma, again turned his eyes to the crowd. The hard and savage heat filled Brett's form as the two suddenly locked stares. Even through the waves of bodies, there was an instant and raw focus. What was it? What did he want? A knowing smirk played on the beat-priest's face, its unfamiliarity almost pushing Brett to the floor.
What the hell was that?
The pictures blasted unnervingly into his mind, spurred by the sudden anxiety. All of them, laughing, taunting- Goddamn fairy, look at the little queer! And Mars, never again to be Marshall, laughing at the pathetic little faggot. A horrid sickness rushed into Brett's stomach, and he burst from the crowd in frantic search of the washrooms.
Minutes trickled drip by drip into the sink as Brett stared wearily into the mirror. He pressed his head against it, letting the reverberations pour through the crap and misery. Crunching his eyes tight in their sockets, he grasped blindly at the sounds that trickled through the tiling.
Marshall burst in, of course.
"Brett! You okay? I saw you rush into the johns... "
Concern, Brett looked at his friend and saw just concern.
The pounding of the beat came louder now, Mars automatic set list churning out rhythm.
" Mars, I mean, Marshall... I'm gay, man. "
A beat passed, but was drawn and stretched to forever.
"So what?" The knowing smirk was back.
"So, I dont know."
"So lets get back, boyo," said Marshall, throwing an arm over Brett's shoulder, pulling him close. "Haven't you been listening?" The DJs spare arm threw open the door, urging a return. "All you have to do, all that's important..."
Marshall pulled closer, harder, almost to the point of touching. Hot breath burned sweetly on Brett's neck. Mars, always Marshall, stared with evident craving, and his friend stiffened in the now-hungry embrace. The words pulsed, resonating throughout the darkness, and all assembled understood--
Feed the night, it whispered.