A low, tilting shelf marked in heavy block letters: 'DESPISED SUBGENRES'.

A low, tilting shelf marked in heavy block letters: 'DESPISED SUBGENRES'.

Look for 'Geopolitical Novelties'.

'Geopolitical Novelties' -- nestled between 'Hairdresser Music' and 'Gong Use'. You spot 'Superbloc, Baby' toward the back.

"I'll take 'Superbloc, Baby'."

"I'd advise you to burn it but the fumes from the Superbloc-quality plastics may kill us all."

"Not enough money -- consider yourself saved."

Leave it alone.

"Just admiring the low-quality packaging? I prefer not to look at it myself."

Scan the shelf.

Various sections are separated by narrow plastic dividers, each one labelled with the same neat script.

Look at the closest row.

A baffling assortment: 'Hairdresser Music; 'Children's Choirs'; 'Self-Love Anthems'; 'Opinionated Female Vocalists'; and 'Too Many Keyboards'.

The labelling and sorting is as meticulous as it is uniformly disdainful.

Look at the middle section.

More labels: 'Falsetto-Centric'; 'Made for Pederasts'; 'Made by Pederasts'; 'Pretentious Time Signatures'; 'Yodeling, Ululations, et al.'

You're not just flipping through records. You're going deeper into Petre's Museum of Loathing.

The section 'Weaponised Boredom' includes such titles as 'Music for Dentist Waiting Rooms' and 'Narcoleptic Landscapes,' both by Eloísa Alba.

The care placed into the organisation is itself an act of love, performed hatefully.

Neat labels identify every section: 'Falsetto-Centric'; 'Made for Pederasts'; 'Made by Pederasts'; 'Pretentious Time Signatures'; 'Yodeling, Ululations, et al.'

Look at the discs in the back.

A single label fills up the entire back row: 'L-Pop'.

You feel the media vendor's eyes on you as you flip through the offerings.

"Nice sorting."

"Thank you."

"What galls me is that it doesn't matter how I label any of it. These animals thank me for being thorough, then buy two."

"It's all shit." (Nod approvingly.)

"There are vomit bags behind the bin, should the urge arise."

"Why is L-pop in the back?"

"Have you met fans of the slop? If I leave it out front, I'll spend the evening scraping fluids off the jewel cases."

"Is it possible you just don't like music?"

"You confuse dislike with discernment. Typical of those raised on jingles and sponsorship anthems."

'L' for Luz, as in Luzian Electro-Pop. A blend of traditional funeral ballads and cutting-edge synthesisers. Once a minor regional trend, today the ascendent musical form across the world.

Wonder if there's something good buried in there...

You try, but it's difficult to find something you're interested in while wading through the labyrinth of the salesman's disdain.

Whisper-funk albums. Kazoo devotionals. A breakup/meditation EP. An album cover where the singer hugs themselves in the mirror. Track lists with nine-minute long affirmations. A solo project described as 'ecstatically celibate'.

Almost as though you already knew what you were looking for, you turn straight towards the 'Made for Pederasts' section...

Wait, why?

You pluck out a disc -- Ultra Violeta: 'Cover the Moon When I'm Gone'.

On the cover, the halo of a lunar eclipse frames the silhouette of a young woman, her outline distorted by the jagged edges of the costume she wears.

Inside the darkness of her silhouette, for a moment, you think you can make out her small dark eyes and sad, young features.

A chill runs up your spine. The beginnings of an uncanny convergence.

"What is this?"

"I'm sad to have to be the one to impart soul-impoverishing knowledge which you seem to have been spared."

"Luzian electro-tripe of the most vile sort. Every month they inflict a new starlet upon us. She's today's."

Behold, the crown jewel of the technofascist Mass Culture programme.

"Petre, why is this under 'Music for Pederasts'?"

"And what exactly would you call adults who fawn over dolled-up starlets too young to even own the rights to their own music?"

"Don't tell me you're one of them."

"I'll take this one."

"There's not many who would admit to such... proclivities. In public, no less."

"Don't let anyone see you with that!"

"Too poor to even be a pederast! A lamentable state of affairs."

"Another time, maybe." (Go back.)

"Never is the only sane answer."

Let it happen.

No!! Abort, abort!

You quickly avert your eyes and nervously look around, as though anyone were observing your browsing habits.

You know there's something worthwhile in there, but it is lost amongst the brambles of trash.

Without knowing why, your eyes flick as though on their own accord towards the 'Made For Pederasts' section.

I think I get the picture. [Go back.]

The shelf stands, meticulously organised, a monument to lonely elitism.

Hone in on a disc.

Reason will not help you here. Close your eyes and let your hand seek out what it wants.

There.

Swirling maelstroms of darkness adorn the album cover, intricate but hardly-visible patterns of black on slightly-darker-black.

The band logo is an illegible scrawl allegedly composed of letters in a human script.

On the spine you find the title: BLOOD GOLEM.

Is that the name of the artist, or the album?

The artist. The album is called 'I Will Know You By The Sound of Your Structures Crumbling'.

What is it?

It is what your hand wanted, and found. Violence. An all-out auditory assault.

Its condition is pristine, as though it were pressed yesterday -- for us, and us alone.

Look at the back cover.

There is no track listing. No credits. Only violence in its purest form -- unjustified, unrighteous, primal.

A soundtrack for violence could come in handy someday...

Now. Always.

No, thanks.

It's you who found it. Your hand which sought it like an enemy's throat.

"Look what I have here." (Proceed.)

"Hhm." The salesman raises his eyebrows with a surprised expression.

"Still crass music on a crass replayable format, but at least it's not an active attempt to idiotize the population, I'll give it that."

"I'll take it."

"I won't be held responsible for what happens with this disc."

"I'm sorry... this is still a business, after all."

"I might come back for this."

He nods curtly.

Trash. Trash. Trash. You're so worn out you couldn't even recognise a good disc if you saw one now.

Nothing but same shit. Better not touch your face until you've washed your hands.

"You're doing it to yourself."

"You should be in jail, Petre."

"This is my jail."

"I'll keep looking. There must be something."

"Yes, more shit."

It's like there's lead rings weighing down your fingers. You can't even bring yourself to properly look through the bin.

"This is all shit."

Derivative, inane shit. Made for nobody. What are you even doing here.

"Do you understand now?" The vendor's look is expectant but pleased.

"Literally nothing redeeming in this entire box."

"You were warned, abundantly. By the labels. Not my fault if you choose to ignore them."

"I need to scour my hands with industrial cleaners."

"At least you're wearing gloves."

"You should have worn gloves. That's on you."

"How can you stand to sell this stuff to people?"

"I patiently await the day when an Einzeltone aficionado will come and rescue me from this hell. In the meantime..." He shrugs.

"If I didn't sell them this brain-poison, they'd just get it somewhere else."

"I'll take Blood Golem."

"I'll take 'Superbloc, Baby'."

"I'll take 'Cover The Moon When I'm Gone'."

Move on. [Leave.]

You turn your attention away from the shelf.