Walking away, shelling well gambled wampum in your wallet, you switch out cassettes and nod to the disintegrating tape-recorded version of Usher’s “OMG.” The parking lot is dark, and the reel continues rotting as you pass newer cars, so ticks and tings flicker in and out of the music and magnet. Looking at that honey photo taken earlier, your sweatpants get a little tighter, and a speckled row of cell phone screen lights linger past the corner you just came from behind. Turning down Usher’s stretched voice enhances your hearing: shuffling feet surrounding you and echoing, distant smooth jazz matching electronic dings from the flea-market casino. A silhouette of a man approaches and snags the photo out your hand. “It’s her. It’s her I was righ— fuuhahahuuck,” he says, spits, and points at your brow, “Ya done.” Running across cars becomes the best escape route, and the sound of flattening metal and alarms drives gamblers from their games. One of the cell phones chasing you nabs your ankle, and hitting your head on a car’s hood has you seeing pockets of dark matter. Out of spite for their stepped-on cars, gamblers are cheering on the gang taking shots at your gut while holding you down, and a few cheerers approach and slug a few too. The police arrive. You see this in a bright migraine light, and there’s a lot of handcuff clicking. They stand you up dripping, but you still thick, oh-me.
• $PL▲$H ¢LUB 7: http://soundcloud.com/splash-club-7
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