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Dawson
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Smoke and alcohol waft through the air, from the shining clean hardwood floor to the high, black ceiling. The Corridor is dark, quiet and empty. The walls are a coarse black, uncluttered by decorations or windows. One hundred pairs of low torches cast a creepy glow along the entire length of the hall. Circles of light above each sconce dance with shadows on the floor below. At one end of the long and narrow dance hall are tall steel doors. The flames closest to the doors jump wildly as the doors sway open into the hall. Silently and slowly, the doors close behind three tall men. Dressed in fine black leather and holding cigarettes and briefcases in their hands, the men stand motionless inside the dance hall. They stand quietly while facing the bar, which seems miles away at the opposite end of the hall. “Let them in,” two of the men say in unison.
The doors crash open and eager yells and humans flood the hall. Music cracks into existence; a slow, shocking bass line. Everything bounces, “doom, doom! duh-boom! doom, doom! duh-boom!” For hours, sweaty bodies slam into each other. Some rise and float over the steamy roiling mass. In a kind of ecstatic climax, accelerating squeaks and clicks smash over the rumbling beat, and the dancers shout approval.
With what sounds like a rush of water, the music silences and at first the dancers hardly seem to notice. Fear plays over the entire hall, but every dancer’s expression is either expectant or ecstatic. Their dancing slows and they turn and stare towards the bar. The sound of a waterfall slams into the frozen dancers and quickly becomes a slow, booming, disembodied voice. “Revolution.” The hall screams and hundreds of fists pump in the air to an inaudible beat.
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