Club Dwimor is the kind of place you can't find online, a place that lives in the slurred speech of 3AM wanderers who vaguely remember which way it was and the scrawled ramblings in public bathrooms who dare you to go there and come back the same.
There is no floor plan for it in the council archives, no planning permits or business licence or anything to suggest that it physically exists and yet hundreds of people swear they've been there. Some even take photos which show little more than red blurs that might be people or plants or punching bags - it's too hard to say for sure.
In spite of everything declaring the contrary, it's a real place. It isn't a building but it's a structure that you can walk into and thousands of people enter it every evening. Most of them are never heard from again and the ones who make it out in one piece are rarely sober again.
I suppose that's what comes from walking into the open mouth of something that can't possibly be alive and yet the floor glistens with paralytic saliva and the lights are as friendly as those of an angler fish (with a similar use - keep the food relaxed until it's too far gone to realise that it is food).
In the flickering beams and thudding roar of music - or was it more of a heartbeat and the faint screams of people realising that they're being digested - everybody seems like they're actual people just ignoring the world and dancing the night away.
If anyone is sober enough they might pay attention to everyone else and realise just how flexible the dancers seem to be, writhing about like worms on a hook. Their faces never move, they never pause to breathe or get a drink or even move from their places on the oddly carpeted dancefloor.
When they head to the bar, and they always head to the bar at some point, they might get the briefest glimpse of the gargantuan throat that they have gently been steered towards the entire evening. It doesn't like how they taste when they panic.
There is no floor plan for it in the council archives, no planning permits or business licence or anything to suggest that it physically exists and yet hundreds of people swear they've been there. Some even take photos which show little more than red blurs that might be people or plants or punching bags - it's too hard to say for sure.
In spite of everything declaring the contrary, it's a real place. It isn't a building but it's a structure that you can walk into and thousands of people enter it every evening. Most of them are never heard from again and the ones who make it out in one piece are rarely sober again.
I suppose that's what comes from walking into the open mouth of something that can't possibly be alive and yet the floor glistens with paralytic saliva and the lights are as friendly as those of an angler fish (with a similar use - keep the food relaxed until it's too far gone to realise that it is food).
In the flickering beams and thudding roar of music - or was it more of a heartbeat and the faint screams of people realising that they're being digested - everybody seems like they're actual people just ignoring the world and dancing the night away.
If anyone is sober enough they might pay attention to everyone else and realise just how flexible the dancers seem to be, writhing about like worms on a hook. Their faces never move, they never pause to breathe or get a drink or even move from their places on the oddly carpeted dancefloor.
When they head to the bar, and they always head to the bar at some point, they might get the briefest glimpse of the gargantuan throat that they have gently been steered towards the entire evening. It doesn't like how they taste when they panic.
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