The hotel still operates right above the club, but they are two distinct entities. To get into the club you have to drive around the back of the Ramada Inn and walk through a courtyard to get to the door of the club. There are no signs or lights proclaiming this to be the entrance, just a flat black metal door. You enter this door to walk up and around some dimly lit stairs to come to the toll booth. You pay your money only to subject yourself to a weapons search by the club bouncers. The walls are covered in strange white black drawings. Black is the key word. City Club is a gothic bar.

In a dilapated ballroom full of dancing black clad people all screaming "kill me" at the top of their lungs along with a Trent remix. She wore white, and danced like an animal, wild and free. Crouching low to spring up and swing around while swaying her hips the whole time. Black leather, white shirt, black jeans, black boots, and black hair. Kill me.

Conversation heard in the bathroom:

Hey Dave, how are doing? (Dave looks to be around seventeen, leaning against a wall wearing a dog collar.)

Not so good. (looking very down in the dumps)

Why man?

You know that Radio Shack breakin? Well, they're blaiming me for it. They're saying I did it and I'm getting fired Monday. My mom ran away again 'cause of Dad. Man things are just fucked up.

You got a place to stay man?

I'm thinking of driving to Chicago and crashing with some friends out there.

If you want, stay at my place.

Outside in the hallway, there's two overweight girls with one leading the other around by a dog collar.

She tosses these words over her shoulder to me, "Cheap beer, they say it's bud. Which isn't great in itself, but this shit tastes like busch. Great after taste..."

Yeah, man.

— Ozymandias