Back in my wild college days, there were a few incidents that stuck out just a little more than the standard. This is one of them.
My college town had a robust and popular riverfront district. Bars, clubs, coffee shops, the standard. One such place was frequented by the rejects from the normalcy surrounding us.
Goths.
The ground floor was by all appearances a normal coffee shop in a college town. Small tables, a glass case filled with pastries and sandwiches. But if you knew where to look, or who to ask, you would find yourself descending an unlit stairwell into the basement, where the real fun was.
Half the floor was covered with the same tables as the coffee shop, but in front of them was a dark hardwood floor, polished and inviting. Dark clad bodies pressed against one another, swaying and gyrating to the deep bass and harsh tones presented by the latest local talent or by the ever present DJ.
Deep red and black leather couches lined the walls on all sides.