Dom rang the doorbell with frustration, having already waited three minutes downstairs. He had earlier gotten into a fervent debate about how many potatoes comprise restaurant-grade mashed potatoes and had since not spoken to the rest of them, but all of that was now water under the bridge given the price-tag on the night ahead. A few weeks ago they had been at some bar off the corner of their Airbnb and were accosted by an older man who sang the praises of some up and coming DJ. This was only understood after he aggressively pointed at the poster on the wall of the smoking area, following a long exchange of glances and eventual recognition of the language barrier. Despite this though, his attitude emanated a certitude that easily sold them, so those ticket confirmations quickly pounced onto their phones. Needless to say this caused endless disputes on reimbursements, one of them (the usual offender) invoking an unreciprocated round from a few years ago. The evening had been long awaited and was now before their eyes. 

“Ohhh!”, a strange hooded man blurted in his direction with a dancey intonation. Dom, struck with fear in his usual way, clung to his imaginary purse, quickly relaxing once he recognized the stranger's face. Following a few phone calls and heavy laughter from the third floor window, they flew up the staircase and found themselves around the living room table. 

The cards on the table formed a flat, tree-like structure, each begging to be revealed. Discretely checking his cards so as to not reveal any information to the other players, Theo leveled with his hand: three twos and one seven of hearts. His eyes peered around the table as its constituents spoke of everything and nothing with diplomatic fervour. Cascades of electronic melodies imbued conversation with a sense of unwarranted importance. Hands and mouths moved with professionalism as though competing to exude more life. Occasionally, in between an expectedly long-winded story on some old happenings and the usual declaration of hate between two near-biological brothers, Theo caught other eyes checking cards too. Harmless smiles and powerful laughs dominated the scene, yet the eyes told a different story. In the eyes one could see a solemn recognition that the loser’s night would be fated by this game, their immune systems all shivering in fear at the prospect of a loss. Red bulls chased bubbles as a colorful array of liquids flowed from bottles into each player's glasses, a preparatory ritual performed by the bravest at the table. The evening had assumed an elegant disarray that only made sense in the presence of those surrounding the table. While they were in Tokyo it seemed the exact scene had taken place hundreds of times around hundreds of such tables in thousands of such places, the players the only constant. As cards started revealing themselves, men were challenged, eyes would race around finding victims. Sweat beads ran across foreheads and jumped onto other players and evaporated in thin air. Theo had been attacked by three bulls by the time they had gotten to the last card, endowing the holder 16 drinks to pass on to anyone. With the revelation of a further two, Theo’s gaze fixed itself on George with a deeply evil excitement, in full knowledge of the eventualities this implied. Familiar screams and perfectly normal nudity ensued as George accepted defeat. 

At 00:36 a platypus-looking player was getting riled up in the usual way, a performance of speedy verbal jabs incrementally increasing in volume. The unmanned shoes scattered around the room would always precipitate an unwarranted fear and fury in him as the night won over the day. The other players, hearing the early shots of this inevitable rally, would pay very little attention to any clock, watch, telephone. Even the occasional intelligent microwave that exposed the time was seen as the lowest caste amongst whatever objects happened to appear at their location. They cared very little for the separation of their laces and the solitude of their jackets, instead lauding the bulls and aces and cigarettes that danced between them. Eventually though time always caught up, finding themselves on the windy streets of Shibuya, now apologetic to the jackets and deferential to the platypus. It was an almost consecrated transition that never lost its flavor. Briskly walking past closed restaurants, noisy bars, a stapler company, they navigated the tentacles of Shibuya to eventually arrive at their desired sucker: the queue to some up and coming DJ that had been recommended by a local a few nights ago.

After some small chit-chat with security, a few jokes on the state of Platypus’ ID picture and a quick drop-off of jackets in some locker, the players' legs pulsed with fervour at the true beginning of the evening. Entering the room, they were immediately engulfed in a swirling crowd of lights and people and music. Disparate rhythms, languages and sounds merged and disentangled and flew and sunk with ethereal veracity. A bald man’s body glistened, his movements in complete harmony with the sounds he was captaining through turn-disks, hobs and switches. It was as though his light-beige body had melted from solid to liquid, his arms flailing around unreservedly, torso shifting from one side to another. The outline that traced his body was ever-changing, no single shape was held for long enough to recognize. His bones seemed to be overpowered by his mind, as though his right arm could extend to the cubicle flush and his left to the Asahi tap. The room was no different in flavor. It had converged to a singular mass reverberating in unison, a physical manifestation of the oscillating beige water above them. Our players, immersed in the experience, jostled and laughed and jumped together like six shrimps amongst an endless troupe.