Microfiction: Evil D.J.

On the beat and the beer, they danced. Women and men, high on their own hormones and the feeling of youth, kept bouncing and singing.

The D.J. spun a new beat and then pulled the microphone toward him.

“Everyone put their hands up!”

The crowd, suggestible, was only too happy to oblige. Half of them already doing so. It made a sea of skin, of palms and band merchandise and friendship bracelets. Jewelry, too.

All too drunk: no way they would notice the fans, spinning with all their might, lowering slightly.

The D.J. smiled and played his jams louder. The wind blew hair into eyes and made shouted words even more lost in the buzz of the party, but no one much cared. They wanted what all teenagers and young adults want: release, sex, freedom.

Sharp-edged those fans were. Solid metal. Made for a specific purpose.

“Everyone,” the D.J. broadcasted over the microphone, like a voice from God, “put your hands up!”

Special thanks to: Bob GerkinCollin PearmanDylan AlexanderJerry Banfield, and Michael The Comic Nerd. 

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