Severin: ‘High Shot’


You barge open the double doors and stride into the Cyber-Nightclub. Your undercut-mullet flaps back upon hitting the humidity before relaxing atop the spot the 3GB subdermal implant-chip with the President’s dreams downloaded onto it nestles uneasily betwixt neck and cerebellum, while a Gold-plated Desert Eagle is squeezed into the waistband of your jeans. Oriental whores with bobbed black hair are drinking dayglo cocktails through chemiluminescent straws under neon penises, while Musclebound Guys in leather Bowties check their emails on Virtual Reality Helmets. Onstage, there’s a Rock Chick with Dance attitude, her solitary underarm-crutch acting as Mic stand. A tattooed man with Videotape-encased dreadlocks is headbanging them, slapping against his black plastic Keytar…

and the rest…


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