Got some change, mistah? Yeah, thanks sucka! Walking by, that piece of shit, not even taking a look. Got eyes only for the teevee, yeah a real DownTowner.
You still here? Really wanna know, don’t ya? Well, I remember, I still remember. Once I was one of them, before everything came undone. Fuckin’ BPN that was, hell, somebody fucked us straight into the ass and even aked us to smile. Fuckin’ Shiva, well, she’ll eat a bullet, too, some time.
Where was I, ah yeah, the Boiler Room. Got a bit distracted there.
Yeah, the Boiler Room. It was big, as long as it lasted. I remember the rainy night I got my Invitation Card. Yeah, they were gold. No, not golden, they were gold. A sheet of pure gold, embossed with the logo, the date and my name. Fuckin’ exited I was. Yeah, had to phone Wolfe to tell her, turns out she got one, too. She was some kind of woman, bit on the kinky side and aggressive but still –
Wolfe, yeah that name still gives me the creeps. Remember that one kid she tortured or as she called it interrogated only to get .
Yeah, fuck, let me tell my story in my pace or get lost, punk.
Anyways, was a big mystery back then, the Boiler Room. I mean everybody knew that Necanthrope Hellraiser. Aptly named, I can tell you. Yeah, Black Death, that was his squad. There were stories you wouldn’t believe. My favourite is about that time when they got some fuckin’ Blue and went to the departement for the exact specs. Man, imagine, you walk to the department to get the specs on a blue –
No, believe me, they didn’t do this because they were stupid, I mean, look at them, all Necs, you can’t become a Nec when you’re a stupid ‘Waster, can ya? No, you’d end up dead or lost in the White, I guess. So, anyways, that department dickhead tells them to come into his office and to sit down. Yeah, they sit down and the dickhead starts to talk. Gives them the whole works, thinks he’s in control, but after all, I mean, he’s dealing with Nec’s, so he’s asked for it, right? Well at some time all this stuff bores the living shit out of Hellraiser, so he interderms parts of his DeathSuit, takes out his prick and begins to jerk off and comes, right onto the expensive Parisian carpet. Hell, I wish I had been there, man imagine just the face of the department creep when some Nec jerks off onto your carpet.
What he did? I don’t fuckin know, the story doesn’t tell. Yeah, but such a guy was Hellraiser. Always sex and pain on his mind. Yeah, ‘nuther story is about him having fun in some club, cutting off nipples, but –
What’s this got to do with the Boiler Room? Everything, punk, everything. It’s all connected, Hellraiser, the Boiler Room and why the thing went down. Now lean back and listen, here take a sip – it’s good stuff – and listen.
Yeah, when you look at the Boiler Room today, you can’t imagine how it looked then. Today all you see is a squat bunker, huggin the Perimeter Wall, three broken steps, wet and covered with sludge and dirt in front of a broad, but low slab of rusting iron. Yeah, the entrance door that was. Even then, it was rusted, but by design and there were no graffits to be seen anywhere at the façade of the Boiler Room. Fairly unipressive, architecturally, from the outside. But you knew that there was something special. You’d only had to look over the parking lot, I mean, Augustus after Augustus, some Ocatvian and even a few Argos. And lots of cycles, clean and gleaming, Operative cycles. Just like in front of the Pit, only this is DownTown, Sector 37, directly next to the gates. Man, DownTown has never seen something like the parking lot of the Boiler Room. And everybody knew, the gangs, the locals: don’t touch anything. I mean, some of them were crazy, but not stone loco. They knew Hellraiser’s rep – and I guess nobody wanted to wake up with a cock less and a running pacifier baton in his ass more.
So those cars and cyles were perfectly safe on the parking lot. Yeah, he had security, but most of them were in front of the entrance door. What a sight that was. A bunch of muscle-bulging, tux-and-mirrorshades wearing, never smiling, but yet always polite tough-guys. All of them standing in the rain outside, and the tux and everything gets soaking wet, but they don’t fucking care. Just look, and if they see something they don’t like, act. I’ve seen them act once and I didn’t want to see it again. Mercyless and completely without emotion. Even thanked the guy for giving them a chance to practice, before the dumped the bleeding half-corpse into the gutter.
Yeah there were stories about them, Dark Finders, Contract Killers all the like, but I never seen anybody famous amongst them. Still they were good, damned good. No problem if you had a Gold or Platinuum Card, they were on your side, but if you wanted to enter without this card, you were history.
The Platinuum Card? Yeah, for members. Life-time membership. Premium access. The friends of Hellraiser, and some of them his victims, too.
So you had to wait in front of the door until they let you in. There was always a crowd outside the door, I never came to the Boiler Room without having to wait before getting in. No big deal, only rain, and everybody got wet. Guess that was Hellraiser’s little sadistic prank with his guests, get uncomfortable, walk in with wet clothes, but hell, get over it. As he always said, “the way of progress is not for the weak”. Yeah .
Anyways, after some time you could enter and as soon as you were in, DownTown was forgotten. Hell, even the CanSecs, so close were forgotten. Marble floors, polished so you could see your reflection and the reflection of every single candle or torch on the wall and especially the reflection of the magnificient chandeliers in the foyer. You always entered through the left door, the right was reserved for the people leaving the club. Some ten meters in front of you, at the end of the foyer, there was a cage. They used it to store your coats or valuable pieces of equipment or your weapons. Just like in the Pit, you’d hand it over, get a ticket and at the end of the evening you could reclaim it.
You’d have to walk around the cage to get into the main club, but you could aways see the main area behind the cage through the steel bars. Could always guess how full it was and how much ecstacy had already built up. And you could always see the lights, the strobes, the dance-floor fog in the distance. The true heart of the club.
There were stairs to the second floor built into the wall to both sides of the cage and people were always coming down or going up. Yeah, they were the only stairs leading to the second floor, perhaps not too bright to build only two of them.
Anyways, directly behind the cage the main area began. It was huge and it opened like a cavern. I mean you come out of the foyer and enter this huge hall, roughly circular with two huge bars swung gently along almost the entire length of the left and right sides of the club. Matte black with a row of iron stools in front of them, a torturer’s dream. You couldn’t sit long on them, unless you liked pain. Don’t know what it was, I mean they looked a bit creepy as if made from bone, but after all, what do you expect if the owner is a fuckin Nec? But if you sat down on them, after a while your ass would go numb and then the pain would start.
Still remember that guy sitting there, don’t remember his name, drinking and shifting his ass around on the stool. I knew the he’d gone numb. And suddenly he jumps up, spills his drink over the woman next to him, grabs his crotch, cries out aloud and stumbles away. Lucky bastard, never saw the woman he spilled his drink on. I did. Yeah, some bitch from high up in Internal. Guess he’d still be licking her pussy today if she’d got a clean look at him.
Yeah, you could have everything at the bar, you’d just ask, get your drink and hand over your Finance Card. No big deal. Some guys went stone broke after an evening in the Boiler Room. Yeah, you could even have the girls if you asked them nicely, paid more and looked even better. And they were some bitchy girls, all clad in the latest fashion, some in skin-tight Karmaweave, others with transparent clothes. Eyes like dark pools, lips like a dream and a smile to kill for. Liked to play with you, give you the looks when you had to wait or when they gave you your drink. And if they liked you, there’d be those casual touches, the insinuations, the real smiles, the whole catalogue. Had one of them myself once, yeah in the one of the private booths downstairs. I found piercings everywhere in her, and man, she knew the moves. Man I never had a fuck like that with the bar bitch. But it had a price.
Anyways, nothing in the Boiler Room was as impressive as the window to the CanSec. The whole eastern wall was one huge window into CanSec One. Yes, you can believe that. The club was built into the Perimeter Wall, fuck, I don’t know which strings he had to pull, I only know what I saw – that one gigantic window into Sector One. Must have been more than fifty meters. Not even Mr. Slayer could have a better view on the Sector than from within the Boiler Room. Could see everything there. The building storms, the crumbling buildings, roaming pigs, cannibals, flies, death, everything. You’d feel the vibrations when one of the houses collapsed and you could watch it live through the window. That was the secret of the Boiler Room, why so many went there. Not only for the luxury, no they wanted to see. They wanted to feel and be close to the danger. They wanted to party with death. Man, you won’t believe how stimulating it is to dance next to a beautiful woman, feel her hips moving against yours, feel her coming closer and closer, imagine the two of you fucking in a few hours, while outside a group of cannibals rips each other to pieces.
Believe me, the Boiler Room had more secrets lthan that. Like the dance floor. Yeah, it was made of mirrors. The whole dance floor was a huge mirror. What a sight that was, the reflection of legs, lights and even the walkways above. I’ll come to them soon.
But for the initiate the Boiler Room’s dance floor wasn’t simply a mirror. It was more. I told you about the private booths before, where I fucked the bar bitch. Yeah, they were in the basement. Underneath the dance-floor. All of them gloomy, some with a bed and a couple cuffs so you could tie the bitch up, just like prison cells, others just with a table and some benches for those private meetings, but all had this glass ceiling. The dance-floor. A one-way mirror, and from down here you could see through. A voyeurist’s dream, you could see everything. And while I fucked that bar bitch in one of the cells I could see everything.
The second floor? That was the restaurant. You could only reach it through the two stairs in the foyer. They ended up on walkways that ran both sides of the club, right above the bar. And from these walkways, another set of walkways went right into the main area, so you could dine above the heads of the dancing crowd below. The main dining area was directly above the DJ cell. Yeah, that was on the ground floor, in the centre of the dance-floor. Another cage, five sided, like the one in the foyer, directly on the dance floor. Divided only through steel bars.
The menu was exquisite, all meals originally created by Hellraiser. I still remember the Stalingrad Platter, don’t know if it looked more like food or like a burst-open corpse. But eating wasn’t the only thing people did up there. I still remember an Ebon, a strange look on his face, fucking one of the Boiler Room’s strip dancers right on a table loaded with food. And everybody was watching and I could feel the urge in them, too, but something kept them. Today I know.
Yeah, that was the Boiler Room. Every night started innocent, but it would soon turn into a intoxicating blend of drinks, dance, food, flesh and sex. You could have it all there, the whole range of human – and alien – desires. Displayed and fulfilled. It was a dream. But it got corrupted.
You sure you want to hear this now? I mean, you know the saying about guns and truth, don’t you? OK, but give me some more stuff, yeah, a pack of Nausea should do. Here we go …
Nobody realized it at first, but things got darker over the weeks. Down in the private booths, sessions would turn ugly, and once I saw them carry out one of the bar bitches, blood all around her crotch, one breast sliced off. I never knew what happened to the customer, but I guess the bouncers had some fun with him. Shivers? Internal? Man, from what I heard, at that time Hellraiser was so far over the edge that he couldn’t care less. Personal justice, swift and quiet, no questions asked. After all this was the Boiler Room and DownTown. People disappear down here.
You could see it on the dance floor, too. The looks, the people, aggressive, centered only on themselves. But nothing in comparison to the last day. The final day.
I was there, together with my girlfriend. Some drug bitch, way too much into Alice and PI, but hell, a good fuck as long as it lasted. Actually she was my ex when we went to the Boiler Room, but I wanted to give her a special good-bye present.
You wanted to hear, so listen. This belongs to the story just like pain to sex. So we enter the Boiler Room and leave out things at the cage. Take the stairs to the second floor for a quick meal. Upstairs most of the tables on the walkways are already taken, but we find one, fairly central with a good view of the window.
We sit down, eat, while during the whole time I search the crowd below for her. My bar bitch. Yeah the pierced princess. And finally I find her. Not at her usual bar, but among the dancers. Dancing close with another girl, another bar bitch, having fun. Too much fun. But it’s in the air. The whole club is overheated with sex and I can see a never-ending stream of people going down into the private booths.
Finally my ex finishes her meal and I look at her, but she’s completely lost in some Alice dream. Must have taken the pill while I watched my bar bitch. I wanted to make her look while I fuck the bitch to show her what she can never give me, but now she’s off. Far off. So I leave her and walk down to the dance-floor. All the women who see me have desire in their eyes, but not only for sex.
I enter the main area, on one of the walkways above, my ex is still sitting, lost in her Alice dream. I directly head for the spot where I last saw my bar bitch and she is still there, still dancing with that other bitch. I grab her and she turns, anger on her face, but then she realizes its me and she smiles. We leave the other bitch on the dance floor and go down into the private booths.
The basement is hot and damp. It smells of sex everywhere. We take one of the prison booths and I handcuff her and begin to fuck her. Yeah, I fuck her a long time, and when I am finished, she is a rotten corpse. I don’t know what had happened, I don’t know what I have done, and I don’t know how much time has passed, but I can hardly recognize her any longer. She looks as if she has rotten for longer than a month, there are flies around her mouth, her eyes are gouged out and I can see maggots crawling in the rotten eye sockets. She stinks and I pull out of her and throw up. You ever felt maggots crawling over your dick? Man even thinking about it makes me wanna puke again.
So I stop punking and look up and she moves, her dead mouth widens to a grin and her voice is like, you know the sound a meat-hook makes when it goes through flesh? Yeah? That’s her voice, a quiet, sludging, whisper of death.
And I hear the screams around me, everywhere in the basement. I run, out of the cell and she begins to laugh behind me. But man, what I saw didn’t prepare me for what was outside the cell. Blood, pools of blood, smeared on the walls, a pile of eyes in one corner of the corridor, entrails hanging from the ceiling, pieces of skin hanging from the walls like fucking tapestries. And I want to get out, want to leave, but I slip on a poodle of blood and crash right into the mess. The floor’s a mess of blood and minced meat, and I slip into it, and its all over me and then I can see the others. And my bar bitch leaves the cell, softly calling my name.
How the fuck should I know how she got off the cuffs? Man, I don’t remember how I got upstairs and what else happened down there. But when I enter the main area on the first glance everything is as it should be. But it isn’t. One of the waiters at the bar is buttfucking another waiter right on the bar. But the waiter is dead, his throat slit, blood cascading on the bar. And when the other waiter pulls out his dick is not flesh, but a blade and there is no music, only screams and I can hear a drum beating, the rhythm like the beating of a heart. The people on the dance floor are a convulsing mass, naked, torn flesh and clothes, chains, blades, I don’t know if they are mass-fucking or if they are already dead, kept up only through the proximity of other bodies and the chains. And there are streams of blood running down the walls, black in the flicker of the strobe light.
And then I see my ex. Her eyes are open, looking at me, but without a pupil, snow white, blind. She stands on the top rail of the walkway, spreads her arms and her final scream is like a hysteric laughter as she jumps down into the crowd. And she crashes through and I can hear her skull crack.
Hey man, you asked for it. No, I swear, that’s the way it happened. Something came that night, something that had visited before. From the Sectors. Man we all should have known not to challenge death or what lurks out there in the sectors. Yeah, it had visited before, but at that day it decided to stay.
How I got out? I don’t know. I woke up. Yeah, fuck, hell – it was no bad Alice trip. My ex she was missing. Never heard a word of her again. And other people, when I wanted to find something out I was stonewalled. D-Flag. You know what that is? And the Boiler Room was closed. Deserted. Just like today.
Yeah, I went there again. I had to see. I had to know. And believe me, whoever cleaned up the mess was very good. But when I came to the front door, there was blood on the door, and I could hear the muffled screams and moans of the dying. Just like through plastic wraps.
I ran. Then this Shiva bitch buttfucked us. And now I’m here. What a career.
Hey, is that all, for this story? Only 20 unis? Fucking asshole!
Another bum, walks out of the shadow where he has been for quite some time. “And you mistah? Yeah, you’ve been listening for a while. Anything from you?”, I ask him.
He squats before me, looks me straight into the face.
And I realize. I can see it in his eyes.
“Stig or the others?”
“Does it matter?”, his voice silent, neutral, solemn as the grave.
And he pulls out his Blitzer.
No, I doesn’t matter.
© 2001 by dnotice.de