The late show.

large

We finished up in the first bar just before 4am down in Williamsburg and we took a cab back towards the hostel.

Our weary stomachs sought out some of New York's finest pastrami at a 24/7 sandwich joint where you put money through a perspex spinning box. We were approached by a dude in sun-glasses who, after pleasantries, offered to get us in to a hidden club open after-hours. The after party.

He took us down the street to a building covered in graffiti where he knocked on an inconspicuous door. We slid quickly into a loading bay of sorts. The music was ear-ringingly loud, switching between dub beats and hardcore rave. The dank smell of cannabis wafted hither and thither.

The crowd was a mix of ravers, hipsters and gangster type dudes, some of whom paid no cover charge but rather bumped fists with the burly guy frisking everyone before they went in. I've never been frisked going into a club before, I only first held a gun a week or so ago.

Glow sticks were plentiful and their trails caught the undivided attention of wobbly people whose bottles of water betrayed their choice of entertainment. Women in tiny gold underwear, stuffed with dollar bills walked around whispering in ears.

It was a hive of intense dancing, vibrating floorboards and heavy air. Popping back out onto the street was a strange rebirth into desolate and sun-lit concrete. You could make out the slightest of muffled music from the secret rave, but to a stranger, the door looked like it led nowhere.