The Nightclub

There's no doubt in your mind that a club like this one would have a few drunk patrons. You've never been, but you keep hearing the occasional story from a close friend about all the **** confiscations that happen there; so it's probably a pretty lit place.

The club is downtown and you'll have to take your car; if you get too drunk you can always call for a ride. As you leave for the night, you pass the intersection just outside your house to see the flashing lights of a police car; Hmmm.

It's an uneventful drive, passing a few local grocers and the alleged pot smoking bookstore. Your mind simply wanders on the drive, intermittently pondering what you'd even do if the paper you wrote on were magic. You round the corner onto a dead-end street and parallel park behind some dusty red truck, getting out of your car and following the directions on your phone to the nightclub, taking a shortcut through a dank alleyway before being blinded by the neon signs of the needlessly overexposed building.

You've arrived at the nightclub, a sun-bleached brick warehouse nestled between a conglomerate of buildings. It would almost feel exclusive if you hadn't followed directions to get here.

For the most part, however, it was exclusive. You're standing at the back of a line jumping with dudes; you're not sure they'll let you in. You notice a lot of the men in line already seem to be drunk, stumbling and shouting profanities at random things. You're about to call it quits when you notice something out of the corner of your eye.

The bouncer at the entry door pulls a flask from his blazer. A nondescript shiny canteen he raises up to his mouth, taking a swig from it before placing it back in his coat. It couldn't be that easy, can it?