Bruce wandered out into the night. Too drunk to go home. Not drunk enough for the cat house. A warm breeze blew from somewhere. Nowhere. The senses lie when the spirit is unfulfilled.
Bruce listened to the empty darkness. Distant music played.
Bruce walked north, trying to shoo the pied piper image from his head.
Alley after alley the music grew louder. A thumping beat with no rhythm. No harmony. Just a symphony of industrial instruments pounding out product.
The greasy old factory pulsed with music and light. The doorman wouldn’t let Bruce in.
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