The suspicion was conceived out of thin air. Max began to wonder just how in fuck’s name alcohol could be served so indiscriminately without a proper liquor license… then remembered that the rave, the dancing, the booze, the drugs; hell, just about everything involved with this hollow empty chassis of a warehouse, was all prime substantial bust material. No licenses, no permits, no interference from any higher authority figures… no way out.
No shit Sherlock, we’re being served illegal beer in an illegal after-hours snort-and-screw orgy. How much more illegal can one get than that? Perhaps if these ravers re-enacted Greco-Roman gladiator arena battles?
In this private warehouse of widespread proportion and unbridled confidentiality, the truth had been that Max was involved in a strictly illegal practice to begin with and just sipping unlicensed shitty beer in a junkie’s haven was the mere tip of the iceberg of confounding turmoil. If stepping foot in this heinous building had been a crime initially, Max should’ve already been charged with first-degree murder and possession of an illegal substance with full intent to sell. No authority figures, no number-crunchers and cold storage utilities, no jail-time incarceration or court hearings, no resolute income and certainly no community-based assistance. Just a “Guilty!” sentence and the minister’s last rites; nothing more, nothing less.
The rave was a crash-course study on the prohibition era and how most of history’s earliest humans devised crafty plans to avert and bypass radical governmental jurisdictions involved with smuggling contraband items, live product deemed too hot for any market other than the underground one to invest in; a recreation of Atlantic City during the roaring twenties all over again, only with harder drugs, heavier music, denser alcohol and rougher, more passionately heated sex, enough to make a bootlegger’s head explode with sublime glee. If there were feds currently waiting outside to raid the site, they would overturn an absolutely humongous bust and the local county penitentiary - or The Hoosegow as some preferred - would be filled to capacity overnight, an idea which pleased Oregon’s local law enforcement agency to no end with shits and giggles aplenty; roll out them bonuses, baby. The top headlines in the local papers would read: “RAVE BUST AT ABANDONED LUMBER WAREHOUSE: LARGEST IN MONTHS!” Embarrassing, to say the least. Hell, this was nothing Max couldn’t handle though, just another eventful human-interest piece to address, like they’d really give ten shits about his presence to begin with. Yet he couldn’t help but feel an intangible regret upon being here in the first place. As if he'd made a horrible mistake.
Maxwell Blackburnadeaux’s patience was nearly burnt to a crisp.