The DJ

You have the stage in your sights; you have to get up there. If you have the microphone in your hands who knows what could happen.

You fight your way through the crowd, making way to the opposite end of the room. You feel hands brush against your body but think of them nothing more than an honest mistake. The men and women you pass are clearly **** and you feel you have struck gold with the club, the part of your mind that used to scream those fears are gone and you feel empowered as you approach the stage.

You maintain your cool, passing whoever guards the way with confidence, acting like you belong while you ascend the steps to the stage. The disc jockey is pumping his fist into the air at each beat, oblivious to your presence until you approach him. He turns around, hitting a button on the console that slows and muffles the beat to the music.

"Whoa, hey man," he says, taking his headphones off, "What're you doin' up here?"

"You drunk?" you ask candidly.

"Well..." he replies, shaking off your presence and looking to the side, placing a hand on the back of his head, "I wouldn't say 'drunk'," he says in air quotes.

At his words you catch a sudden whiff that contrasts the practically sterile club, one of thick earthy fragrance from his breath... Ahhhhh.

Weed is a form of intoxication... right?