Jericho's Razor by Casey Doran Page A

that I would find someone back there.
    I lucked out. Standing in the service entrance, propping open the door with his foot, was a young kid with spiky blonde hair. He wore black pants and a black-and-red button-up shirt that looked like a drunk threw up on it. If he had been a member of security, I never would have stood a chance. But the kid was most likely a bartender, working this job while attending classes at the college and living on tips. He took long drags from his cigarette while looking down at his cell phone. I approached casually, waving as I drew near.
    â€œHey, man. That line out there is a killer and I gotta use the can. You think you can let me in?”
    The kid backed up. His eyes bulged like I was Godzilla.
    â€œNo way, man. I know who you are. Watts would kill me if he knew I let you in here.”
    I held out a fifty-dollar bill. It immediately got his attention.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I asked.
    â€œDaniel.”
    â€œOkay, Daniel, maybe your boss wouldn’t appreciate you letting me in. But who is going to tell him?”
    Daniel looked around as though suspecting a trick. But his eyes finally landed on the money. He stared at the bill while rubbing his jaw.
    â€œI don’t know. I could get in a lot of trouble. I could lose my job.”
    I was ready for this. I reached in my pocket and pulled another fifty. Daniel’s eyes lit up. He spent another few seconds pretending to consider it, but in the end, greed won out. He swiped the money and turned his back to the door. I hurried inside, finding myself in a storeroom. Almost everyone who patronized downtown had heard the rumors about this storeroom; it was allegedly where the security team known as the Brute Squad would take drunk and unruly patrons and rough them up before tossing them into the alley. For those misguided few who actually resisted, they would be pounced upon like a rabbit surrounded by a hungry pack of wolves. Dark, ominous stains on the concrete floor gave the rumors all the credence I needed. I quickly found the door and in seconds was mingling with the stream of bodies.
    The Dungeon was built in the 1930s as a Catholic church. It was a fixture in town and the center of a large congregation, until faulty wiring and a leaky roof forced them out. Rather than invest the time and money it would have required to bring the building back up to code, the church moved into a more residential neighborhood. The building collected cobwebs, until it was purchased by Eric Watts. Newly released from the NFL, pockets still flush from his rookie contract, Watts bought the building and had it converted into a nightclub. The decor was simple. Watts hired a team of designers and told them to make it look like Hell. From saints to sinners.
    Hell Kat was onstage and performing one of their standards, a cover of the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated.” It had all the angst and attitude of the original, but with a primal venom that Katrina added. She wore black fishnets and black knee-high boots with three-inch heels. Her naturally auburn hair was dyed the color of an aged merlot. She looked like a hooker who would give you a night of passion you had never before experienced, and then slit your throat.
    I noted that even here, in this den of debauchery, precautions were being taken. The floor space directly in front of the stage had been sectioned off in a ten-foot demilitarized zone. The gap was guarded by large, no-neck bulls wearing taut black T-shirts with BRUTE SQUAD emblazoned in red lettering. I was certain that Katrina, a renowned crowd surfer, had argued against pushing back the mosh pit. It was nice to see that Watts had actually stood up to her and exercised some good judgment. Of course, given enough time and enough alcohol, Katrina would probably just jump it.
    The band ended the song to a roar from the crowd. By and large, the people were dressed in costume. Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and Freddy