Your feet seem shrouded in mist as you walk towards the club. Strains of music can be heard filtering through the rapidly opening and closing double doors at the front of the large black, dual-story structure. Tinted windows situated on both floors of the building peek out at you, almost stalking your movements as you approach. There seems to always be a line outside, headed by two large bouncers, both clad in black

shirts with a single red word slashed across the front of their muscular chests; 6 Underground, Those in line are all well-dressed in the latest fashions. You glance first to your left, and see the sedate coffee shop planted across the street, its signs toting the worlds best coffee and hot pastries. As you look back to the club, the line seems to have grown in length, with people curved around the side of the building. They all

seem to avoid the alley that hovers between the club and the nearest building, which seems to be an abandoned warehouse.

As you walk towards the back of the line, one of the bouncers glances down to his list and ushers you inside. The double-doors open and you are thrust into the body of this establishment. The walls are black, but seem to throb with life, due to the black lights and dark blue neon that seem to climb up their length. Fast-paced music pounds in your ears, making your heart beat faster, your palms sweat. The smell hits you next. A blending of aromas, ranging from cigarette smoke, to alcohol, to the scent of bodies as they intertwine on the large dance floor. Someone takes your coat, but you can't quite tell who it is, as the lights prevent anything from being seen, that doesn't want to be. You don't care. You're enthralled with the atmosphere.

You walk further inside, into the throng of people. Their bodies undulating together like a coiled serpent ready to strike. Moving in unison with each other, perfectly attuned. Your gaze strays towards the bar that spans the entire length of one wall. Black polished wood, with a litter of bottles behind it, all attached to shelves on a shaded mirror that seems to lend anyone who looks at it, a distorted image of themselves. Three bartenders work the area, all attractive, all attentive. On the end of the bar, and curving out into the back and sides of the dance floor, are several round, black tables. Each with a candle in the center. A place for people to sit and have a drink, to get a breather. Dark red velvet booths are planted along the walls of the club, some with curtains shrouding their inhabitants from view, some without.

You move through the crowd of dancers towards a backroom. On one side of the wall is a closed door. Your fingers caress the shiny silver knob, and you try to twist it open, but to no avail. A bouncer steps out of nowhere to inform you that it's a private room, and the bathroom is on the other side of the club. You nod to the large male, and step into the open door just beside the locked one. Just as dark, but not as loud, is the back room. Black leather couches line the walls, with a wrought-iron table situated in the middle of them. On the table, are a myriad of candles ranging from fat white ones, to skinny red ones. That same shaded mirror lines the ceiling of this smoky room, and the people upon the couches are usually at various stages of being intoxicated, or otherwise.

One may offer you a drink, a hit, a line, but you decline with a shake of your head and step back into the throng of sweating bodies to lose yourself in the atmosphere that is the Six Underground.