Indo Silver Club
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"This is a template." "Really, Winthorpe?" |
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“Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao! Da di doo ~ao ~ao!”
Every night, at the Indo Silver Club, I dance.
I cannot quite describe why the club has this name.
The walls are made of silver. The floors are made of open electricity. We have regular floods.
Yet somehow, rather than shocking and killing its clientele, it instead fills it with an analogue vibrancy that can be tweaked at will.
It’s always at full.
It always leaks out of the doors.
How can it not affect anyone else?
It’s so magic.
The waves of electricity flow. It’s... unnatural. It’s perfect.
The walls never melt, even when on fire underwater.