Shouts from the street below rang up and in through the open window, ecstatic or agonized it was hard to tell. I put my pants back on, Mica cleared the dishes and we left. The night was muggy, the glow of the occasional not burned out streetlight illuminating the way. The city was buzzing tonight, laughter and shrieking emanated from every corner and alleyway. As we passed a crumbling storefront a voice addressed us from the shadows.
The section of the empty station Club Corona was located in was down on the second level of the Undernet, and as we descended the stairs and dead escalator the music started to hit us. The deep beat was echoing eerily around the first level, which was almost totally dark. The first level housed mostly places to eat, but they were closed now, with every grill and chair and table wrapped up in black tarps and swaddled haphazardly in a mess of chains and locks. There was a sign straight ahead above the staircase that read “Club Corona”, although the strobe light along with the pulsing of music emanating up from the platform made it obvious where we were headed.