Cormac McCarthy’s Dance Party

The young people dancing half-naked their sweat illuminated by glo-sticks like some preterite atavistic ancient ritual. The host moved between them, some years older, face stretched by chemical injections and grinning with a crazed rictus. The microphone in his hand like a club. Then putting the microphone into some dazed white rasta kid’s face, the kid looking shocked filthy and crude like some Wesleyan freshman emerging from eight weeks of molly. What did you think of the song? It’s got a great beat, you can dance to it, says the kid. The hosts tilts his tightened face. Awesome, he says. We’ll be back right after this. The camera pulling back to reveal a blasted wasteland of a set with dancers flailing on platforms of various heights like some fever dream of a prehistoric epochal chimera.

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