Branch
Branch
Branch
When the drinks are poured out and shirts slowly unbuttoned, will it be your heels scuffing the parquet?
Yes, I'm a party machine.
Smooth. Well oiled. Utterly counter-revolutionary.
Branch
End of this branch
Not enough slots.
Branch
The only line I partake in is the Party Line.
The advanced reading group meets every Saturday night. We'll see you there.
Resist it, Hershel. You've a job to do.
Resist what?
Nnttss nnttss nnttss. The DJ's siren call, the relentless neon thumping of the night.
The writhing crowd, its sweet miasma of sweat and smoke, bodies moving in time to the speaker's commanding thud.
Fuck yeah! Let's pull up with some tinnies, we can do choreography.
SEE HOW THE BEATLAYER INFECTS THE CROWD WITH A COMPULSION TO PERFORM THE SAD WRIGGLING AND THE DROPPING IT DOWN LOW.
Sounds amazing. Where?
It's not 'amazing'. These fools have fallen prey to individualist indulgence, obsessed with putting their hands in the air when they should be overthrowing the fucking bourgeoisie.
The booze, the drugs, the delicious casual sex. It's all a distraction.
It's not 'amazing'. These fools have fallen prey to individualist indulgence, obsessed with putting their…No, it's not 'good for them'. These fools have fallen prey to individualist indulgence, obsessed with putting…The poor fools have fallen prey to individualist indulgence, obsessed with putting their hands in the air…
What, I can't ever have a nice time?
No time is nice on this earth while techno-fascists still breathe, you dick.
The communist party can be a party community.
Semantics is bourgeois. It's for losers, Hershel.
Correct. We must serve the revolution with solemnity and sobriety.
No drink! No drugs! Even if you get shot a bit. The pain is the sensation of the reactionary impulses leaving your body.
Good for them.
No, it's not 'good for them'. These fools have fallen prey to individualist indulgence, obsessed with putting their hands in the air when they should be overthrowing the fucking bourgeoisie.
Don't they have anything better to do?
The poor fools have fallen prey to individualist indulgence, obsessed with putting their hands in the air when they should be overthrowing the fucking bourgeoisie.
Get off my dick about my tasks.
This isn't about tasks. It's about you heeding the DJ's siren call, the relentless neon thumping of the night.