Given time and space to catch my breath and let my mind racing stop to think, I stared around.

The warm ceiling of the orange room was blocked by the underside of a table, which cast a pool of shadow on the floor. I wasn’t alone. The shadowy space was occupied, on my left, by a huge pair of men’s lace-up shoes, a pair of scuffed sneakers, and on my right: a pair of pale pink kitten heels, and a pair of candy-striped pumps.

Outside Jen’s closet, I’d never seen so many giant, feminine heels this close up.

I was shivering and uncomfortable; my jacket was saturated with water, so I pulled it off and tossed it aside. At least my t-shirt was still dry.

Out from the table, the air was loud and dense with tremulous music and chatter. Smells came at me, thick and sharp, rolling along the floor with draughts. Each of my tiny inhalations swept in a multi-textured garden of olfactory stimulants; and many of them unpleasant. The pleasurable scents of alcoholic drink were way up out of reach. Under the table, the smell of sour leather, foot odor, sweat-soaked sock, and stinging nail polish swirled around. Down this close to the floor, it was an unaffordable luxury to be squeamish, so I moved in deeper, towards the center of the table where the central support column was, and unconsciously heading onto the side of the floor where the candy-colored heels were.

Above the table, the people seated were chatting away amongst each other. I kept my ears pricked for suggestions of deceitful dealings, but they seemed to be laughing over harmless anecdotes.

From above the table, there came a resonant feminine yawn. There were some titters at the girl’s expense, while she protested she was in fact not sleepy, and did not yet want to leave.

“I’M FINE. JUST NEED TO STRETCH MY LEGS. MOVE YOUR BUTT OVER ZO!”

The twin pairs of heels shuffled along the floor. Then the pair of smooth bare legs wearing the pink kitten heels lifted and extended forward, ankles rotating leisurely. As they did this, the closed pointed toe of one of the shoes delivered a solid bonk into my head, and my skull erupted with pain. Next second I was sprawled on my front, staring dizzily at the dark floor, sticky under my palms from alcohol spill. Anymore of these monster shoes pinballing my head around and my skull was going to crack like a nut.

I rolled onto my back just in time for another pair of heels – the striped platforms – to descend directly onto me, and the weight of one chunky toe box settled heavily on top of my torso. Air rushed out as my front compressed until my ribcage managed to put up the last bulwark of aching, trembling resistance to keep my heart and lungs from bursting like grapes under pressure.

The flat smooth sole of the toe sat there, heavy and cold, like a boulder of ice on my quivering body, while my head throbbed with pain from the most recent blow. The pressure was so great I couldn’t move or speak, and my arms were pinned to the floor.

“DID SOMEONE DROP SOMETHING?” came a young woman’s voice – Zo.

The other voices piped up with denials.

“WHY?” said an indifferent male voice.

“OH, NOTHING. IT JUST FEELS LIKE THERE’S SOME WADDED UP LITTLE PIECE OF JUNK STUCK UNDER MY SHOE—”

The shoe shifted experimentally, tilting forward and accidentally sinking its mass deeper into my chest for a moment as it attempted to ascertain what I was. I gasped and choked on my own breath, flailing my arms around as the toe box shifted precariously onward, beginning to flatten my throat as it made its way towards my head…

“—FEELS LIKE A SCRUNCHED UP NAPKIN,” she decided. The oppressive weight shifted back again, grinding over the skin of my neck, pushing down against my pectorals, and the ankle rotating subtly, the shoe turning about, using my diaphragm as its springy supporting fulcrum to balance upon.

“SLIDE OVER,” Zo told the other girl, “AND I CAN PICK IT UP.”

My thoughts screeched to a halt as the weight of the shoe seemed to be sinking me into the floor.

“IT’S STAYING THERE,” the other girl said resolutely. “YOU ARE NOT BENDING OVER. NOT IN THAT DRESS; YOU’LL SPLIT A SEAM.”

Zo let out a bashful giggle and the two engaged in a heated teasing match for a moment. Then one of the guys said:

“WE’VE GOT MORE NAPKINS IF YOU WANT THEM, RIGHT HERE—” and that settled the issue.

Without releasing its weight, the end of the shoe began to slide backwards, dragging me along the floor with it. My t-shirt rode up to my armpits, and next second flipped over my head and was left lying on the floor, out of reach. Then my bare back muscles were spasming in pain as they were rubbed and molded like firm clay against the cold hard wooden floorboards. It felt like my back was a half slice of orange being ground against an orange juicer.

The shoe stopped and settled again, leaving my back red and stinging as I grimaced in pain. My vulnerable, exposed flesh sunk and contorted, forced to mold itself to conform with the heels' tread.

One of the voices overhead made a remark, causing an outburst of laughter. Mere seconds later, the shoe shifted against me while a series of sharp knocks emanated from within its confines. The confined toes were flexing with nervous energy, causing the toenails to rap against the walls of the inner shoe.

Then the shoe’s toe box bobbed anxiously, using my abdominal muscles as a trampoline, so forcefully in fact that my body and limbs jerked a little against the hard floor with every bounce, from the shock of muscle tension. And yet I was just glad that my head was getting a rest. Surely my skull could not sustain that kind of springy punishment for very long.

The knocking sounds resumed – the toes tapping inside the shoe –this time the small knocks were tapping against my torso, vibrating inside my sensitive, aching chest cavity. Each sharp knock ignited a pinprick of almost ticklish pain somewhere on my torso, as if the rapping toe was delivering a series of tiny punches into my delicate flesh by its pure resonance through the shoe medium. Focusing on keeping my abdominal wall firm in defence against these battering taps, I took deep breaths to ward off the haziness building in my head. I could barely focus on the rapid, excited conversation surging on above the table, at intervals, interrupted by alcohol-aided laughter.

The toe box of the striped shoe lifted and stamped a couple of times onto my chest, causing me to emit several small squeaks of breath. As I desperately tried to suck more air into my lungs, the shoe would dig into my ribs again and again, forcing my breath out with a whoosh. Or shift its weight, digging into different areas of my torso, depressing my ribcage with a sickening bone-grinding sound, or rolling its weight lower, causing my stomach muscles to fold inwards. It felt like a cannonball was rolling around on top of my midsection. I prayed the shoe’s roaming, shifting weight would not eventually visit my tiny, vulnerable prick and balls, which would have been pulverized by the shoe’s unfettered adventuring across my surface anatomy.

Rapid thudding sounds approached, more shoes materialized and stopped right at the edge of the table. Excited voices greeted each other. My brain barely kept up with the exchange of new names. It sounded like some of them were being invited away.

The girls’ bare legs were beginning to shift. One last time, the striped toe box dug into my liver, before the weight lifted as the legs slid sideways, the shoe and its mate repositioning itself, clunking down beside me as the girls slid along the banquette to leave the table.

“WAIT, MY BAG’S DOWN THERE,” said a girl’s voice.

“OH, AND GRAB MINE, TOO, HANNAH,” Zo piped up.

The banquette vinyl squeaked as the girl, Hannah began bending down under the table.

To avoid imminent detection, I jumped up and, on impulse, dove headfirst into the leather handbag nearest the striped heels, tumbling into a black void, thick with perfume, onto a fabric lined floor.

Next moment the fabric floor rose into the air, bump against a firm surface, and began to sway like a huge pendant, sending me sprawling along the interior, knocking into unseen objects one way, and then sent rolling back into more objects the other way. In pitch black, I couldn’t tell where I was headed – maybe even out of the club entirely, and I began to feel sick, with both vertigo and mounting dread. A dim part of my brain was thirsting for more Kolade, until I remembered that’s what had impulsively sent me dashing into this situation in the first place.

Outside the bag, the thrumping music swelled up as Zo and crew must have re-entered the central area. I wondered if they planned another dancing session, but if so, the bag would have been left behind, like last time.

The bag rocked like I was on a boat on the sea and objects shuffled back and forth, banging into me as they switched places. I went careening into the back wall of the fabric interior, then rolling into the front, and then spinning into the back, and again, and again, until my ears rang.

Much rocking around later, the music lowered to a humming timbre, as if heard through a wall. My heart sank, convinced we’d left the club, a speeding taxi cab imminent to shuttle us across the city and undoubtedly far from my apartment.

A hard surface bumped against my body as the bag came to rest again. Then, to my immense relief, the sounds of vinyl seats squeaking. We were still inside the club.

Stretching up, I poked my head warily over the top of the handbag, though outside the bag it was scarcely lighter or clearer.

This looked like a completely different place, not the orange room. It was as dark as the central dancefloor, but instead of laser effects, the neon lights here didn’t flash. My sense of direction had evaporated while in the pitch black handbag. I couldn’t tell if we were still on the ground floor, or had ascended to the second floor, or which corner of the building this was.

A big striped high heel moved up close to collide into the side of the bag, sweeping it -- and me -- discreetly out of the way until it bumped into the bottom of the banquette. Then the bag was pressed in on either side by the high heels, to keep it in place.

The conversation above the table droned on for what seemed like a long time, without getting any closer to what I was after. And now the thrill was coming down; I was feeling less like a little ninja and more like an invader, if not someone outright sitting on a ticking time bomb that would detonate if I got caught. 

"I SAW CLYDE."

It was the voice of the other girl, Hannah.

My ears pricked up and I began to silently pray to the Gods of juicy gossip to toss me a bone so I could pack up and get out of here.

"OH, HE'S AROUND," Zo said, sounding completely unsurprised.

“YOU SHOULD HAVE SAID SOMETHING,” Hannah answered, “WE WOULD HAVE GONE TO INFINITY INSTEAD.”

“UH-HUH,” Zo said dismissively, “THEN – OOPS – HE’S THERE, TOO. OR, NOT INFINITY. EIGHTY-SIX. OR, NOT EIGHTY-SIX. PUSSY IN BOOTS.”

“PUSSY IN BOOTS ISN’T A NIGHTCLUB,” Hannah muttered, “IT’S A STRIP BAR.”

“EXACTLY,” came the low, dangerous reply. Then she went on, “WHY DO I CHANGE MY PLANS? – LIKE I’M THE ONE SNEAKING AROUND? I’M MOVING ON, GIRL. BETTER THINGS.”

She let out a scoffing laugh:

“THE BREAK-UP WAS THE BEST THING TO HAPPEN OUT OF IT. GAVE ME CLARITY.” She said in a breathless rush: “YOU KNOW THE STRIPPER GIRL HE WAS BANGING WAS CALLED…GUESS WHAT…?...‘CHASTITY’. NOT HER STRIPPER NAME, HER ACTUAL NAME.”

There was a long silence. Then Hannah burst into regretful laughter, and Zo joined in.

“YUP,” Zo said tightly, “I JUST LAUGH ABOUT IT NOW.”

“WHEN DID HE COME CLEAN?” said Hannah.

“PFFT!” A scoff. “THAT WOULD BE THE DAY. HE WENT THROUGH MY PHONE SO I WENT THROUGH HIS PHONE. THAT’S HOW I FIGURED IT OUT. THERE’S NOTHING ON MY PHONE ANYWAY, BUT HE KEPT THINKING THERE WAS.” She groaned.

Hannah murmured in sympathy and began talking about her own similar past relationship issues.

Meanwhile, my interest in the espionage had deflated like a spiked balloon. If I told Clyde his suspicions were wrong, I wondered if he’d even believe me. In fact, Zo wasn’t the only one with clarity. I had some a moment ago like a slap and now wondered how I’d even ended up huddled up, cold, under a table like this. I needed to go. Now.

In a flash I vaulted out of the bag opening and dashed over the dark floor to the outward facing edge of the table, stopping to stare around and get my bearings.

Like the orange room, this area had a separate light scheme; heavy UV blue like a forensic crime scene, with curving surfaces of seating and tables matte black. Only the three stairs leading up into this ‘blue room’ and the bar's drink display glowed a warm infra-red kind of pink. My eyes were submerged in the deep light scheme for some seconds before adjusting. It was like being inside a futuristic space ship.

At ground level I was facing a wide black jungle of bar floor, an entire village of tree trunk chair legs, some paired with an occupant’s legs and shoes, while walkways between conveyed the sudden, unpredictable passage of lethal foot traffic.

Out in the open, paralysis struck: I didn’t know whether I wanted to stay or go anymore. Clyde said he’d give me an hour to get information, but in all this weirdness my concept of time had exploded, and I couldn’t check my phone. The Kolade didn’t help; it made time seem to move in bursts. Plus, I didn’t know the way back to the orange room; it could be anywhere amidst the sea of shoes brimming around the endless floorspace.

Anyone could stumble by and squash me flat any second, and realizing this, I felt so helpless, like a baby, just wanting to collapse and cry, waiting for someone to come along, pick me up, and make it all better, and the gut reaction mortified me, so I pushed it down.

Maybe the hour had ticked over and, if I was lucky, Clyde or Raf might even be looking for me right this instant. Hopeful, I strained my ears to try and hear my name being called out, but there was just the blood rushing in my ears, the music oozing through the walls, and drone of human chatter.

It was so cold on the floor; the skin of my bare forearms was creeping.

Footsteps charged up to the table, causing me to jump. The girls’ conversation tapered off with glass clanks as drinks were placed onto the tabletop.

“WHAT’S THAT?” Hannah said.

I froze.

“A BLOODY MARY,” one of the guys’ replied.

As the guys slid onto the banquette besides the girls, I hazarded a couple of steps out from the table, and stood, paralyzed with indecision, needing to get away from the womens’ bulldozing stilettos, but not sure if the outside of the table was any safer. The passages between tables were a minefield of potential stomping by distracted, blundering, half drunken shoes, but if I could sprint under another, unoccupied table and hide there for a moment…

“HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT A BLOODY MARY IS?” the guy was saying.

“WHAT’S IN IT?” said Hannah.

“TOMATO JUICE.”

“FUNKY. IS IT LIKE A SMOOTHIE? GIVE ME A TASTE—”

The guy gave a stifled chuckle.

“YOU ASSHOLE!” Hannah spluttered. “YOU POURED A LOAD OF PEPPER INTO IT!”

“IT’S TABASCO SAUCE. IT’S RIGHT THERE ON THE MENU BOARD!” he protested.

“HANNAH IS ALLERGIC TO SPICY THINGS,” said Zo, sounding both disapproving and subtly amused.

“OH DAMN,” said the guy.

“I’M NOT ALLERGIC,” said Hannah, “BUT IT MAKES ME…UGH…” Her voice diminished into an irritated grunt. Then she let out a gasp like she was trying to hold her breath. Then, with preternatural, unavoidable speed, ducked her head under the table—

My heart tripled its pace as I caught a glimpse, just in time, of the giant silhouette of the girl’s head, a shadowy faceless mass under the dark table, partially backlit by a neon white strip running along the top of the banquette, right before—

“AHHHH-CHOOOO!”

An explosion erupted into my face.

“BLESS YOU,” said Zo, as Hannah’s head rose above the table, out of sight again. She hadn’t even seen me.

Oh God! I thought miserably, wrenching my eyelids shut with all my strength as my stomach heaved.

It was like getting a spurt up and down with a garden hose, except the cloud of moisture was flecked with generous helpings of viscous slime and a soup of spicy red splatter. My eyeballs felt repulsively wet and slimy and even bubbly from an infiltrating film of foreign saliva.

I stood with my eyes and mouth shut, feeling hopeless, the sticky sauce running down my face, and praying the girl hadn’t seen me. The seat squeaked as she must have sat straight again, and with no mention of me, I must have gone unnoticed.

But now my face was on fire from the infiltration of Tabasco sauce, liberally swished with warm, foreign saliva, spearing into my eyes and nostrils. I bit my tongue as tears streamed down my cheeks. With my lips clamped shut, my lungs started to tighten, I inhaled through my nose and got a thick channel of slime straight into my nasal cavities, burning my throat.

My forearms had also been blasted by the noxious cloud, and were starting to tingle, raw as if inflamed. The warm saliva was sending the Tabasco into the pores of my arm like moisturizer. My already raw, tender, heel-pulverized flesh sprung up in pain again. Now I regretted taking my jacket off and leaving it uselessly crumpled under some table in the orange room. In desperation, I scrubbed my hands over my face and forearms, trying to wipe off as much fluid as possible. 

“I’VE GOT TISSUES IN MY HANDBAG IF YOU WANT SOME,” came another girl’s voice, a newcomer. “JUST WAIT—” the vinyl groaned as she began to lean and reach down under the table…

Oh shit!

Without thinking I spun around and burst out from under the table. Feet pounding madly over the dark floor, the world blurred past like a black forest of ankles and calves, table and chair legs, and black vinyl couches topped with pink neon strips like dark hills backlit by the rising sun.

Since vision was limited I relied on my other senses; straining my ears and body for sounds and sensations of metronymic pounding vibrations, which indicated a giant was approaching, in whichever direction was opposite any hammering thuds.

The Kolade binge had me in such heart-racing fear or being kicked or stood on that I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.

Seeking any floorspace free from giant shoes, I was magnetically drawn to a darker, quieter corner of the blue room where there were some empty tables waiting for me to hide beneath, at least until my itching, bloodshot eyes stopped streaming with tears and I could put together some plan of escape. Most of all, I sorely needed rest: my lungs cramped for breath, my muscles were tense like wire, and tremors squirmed up and down my cold, sweat-slimed flesh.

In the farthest corner of the blue room, the central floor’s invading music was its lowest, quiet enough to make out an odd little tapping sound, like someone tapping two erasers on the end of pencils against wood floor.

Within another second I realized what it was: it was the sound of my feet pattering against the dark timber.

And I wasn’t the only person who’d heard it—

“OH, GROSS, A MOUSE!” a woman’s voice rang from somewhere above.

I didn’t need a zoologist to tell me that the woman was mistakenly referring to me. The deep UV atmosphere and dark walls and surfaces rendered me as little more than a tiny shadow scurrying around on the ground, while my pumping feet emitting tiny scratching patters on the wood boards. Not to mention various patrons suffering intoxication-induced visual distortions. It was a wonder anyone saw me at all.

There was no time to wait for someone to pull out a magnifying glass and amend the misidentification.

Twisting around, I started dashing in the opposite direction from which the voice had originated, but it was too late. The woman’s cry had alerted all those closest to her, and they promptly went quiet, making my pattering footsteps audible to them, too. This caused them to jump up from their seats, which caused those sitting nearest them to fall quiet and look, and hear my skittering movement. As the voices of other nearby patrons hushed, it left my rapid pattering audible to more and more people, kicking off a domino effect of growing alarm to ripple across the blue room. Everywhere I ran, a Mexican wave of growing disorder was pursuing hot on my ankles. Everywhere I turned, more outcries:

“MOUSE!” someone shrieked.

“OH, CRAP, I THINK SAW IT!”

“IT RAN OVER THERE SOMEWHERE!”

“IT’S FAST!”

“WHERE DID IT GO?”

“HIT IT WITH A BOTTLE!”

“JUST SQUISH IT!”

Giant feet thundered in and out of my path. Dense shadows danced about me, wavering back and forth like towering black flames. Tree trunk legs jerked out into my path, casting crenulated soles over my head, ready to grind me into the floor, and dropping like anvils, smashing down to my left and right, and directly in front of me. Each failed assassination by shoe inspired my muscles to burn anew with feverish exercise, pushing me to run faster than I ever had in my entire life.

I squinted along the matte black floor, the neon lights above reflected in it like city lights on a black pond, dazzling my vision, making it hard to navigate. I seemed to be heading towards the entrance of the blue room. Or, I hoped I was. The black, light-stripped bar was in the way.

The floor was suddenly wet with spill and my leg went skidding out from under me, pulling a muscle. As I limped forward—

A black tapered stiletto point fell from the sky, nearly skewering me on the barbaric lance of its heel – for an instant I dove, wedging through the gap just beneath the steep slanting arch, directly underneath the sole—

“OH MY GOD, GET IT AWAY FROM ME!” came a quaking feminine scream from above, histrionic from intoxication.

The shiny black high heel lifted over me and stamped down on the wood floor with a second deafening tap, this time just to my side, sending a jolt through my skeleton. Then I was in motion again, pushing my legs to their limits to get away from the woman when—

—another shoe appeared out of thin air and booted into me, sending me spinning through the air. The black floor spun up and struck me, and I was bouncing and tumbling blindly, stars whizzing past my eyes, but before I could clamber to my feet—

A different shoe curved into my path, making a wide sweeping motion, collecting me and sending me zooming over the floor and straight underneath the shadowy underneath of a table.

“IT WENT UNDER THERE!”

With a dry rustling, an enormous object like a gigantic eyelash, with a horizontal set of thick black strands shot beneath the table like a pinball plunger, heading straight for me. It was a push broomhead the size of a living room rug.

The thick straws of brush jabbed me, almost needling my bare skin like porcupine quills. My feet were literally swept out from under me, and striking my shoulder on the floor, I was sliding along, the bristles pushing me, trying to claw me back to the broom pusher.

I jumped up again, diving away from the broom and sprinted out from under the table. Now back on the open floor, I managed to pass the bar and the throbbing music got louder as my path was taking me within reach of the blue room’s open entranceway back to the central floor.

A chilled shower burst down and something hard thunked onto my head – an ice cube, with several others hailing down onto the floor. My skull pounded with pain. Someone had thrown their glass of water at me, maybe in an attempt to stun me. Had they been successful it would have given the broom pusher enough time to bring a foot or the broomhead down on me and squash me like a pancake.

Nerves shocked with electricity from the chill, I fought to stay lucid and not pass out.

At least the water washed the Tabasco sauce off. As my body dripped over the floor, I kept running and the chillness disappeared with the frenetic exertion. Ducking my head, made the last mad dash, passing out of the blue room and back into the wall-pumping bass music filling the central floor.

A cursory glance up and down the endless polished aisle floor showed less towering foot traffic on my right, so I turned and began to race up that way. The music shocked my feet as I followed the aisle along the wall filled with stray people heading up and down. Darkness and lasers flashed like lightning. I was invisible on the floor; my only hope was to try and pass the shoes without being stood on.

Then footsteps came bounding out behind me. Some of the people in the blue room must have seen me run out. My chest panged with dread; I couldn’t outrun normal sized people charging at me full sprint, and out in the central floor there were no tables or low hanging surfaces to hide under; it was just dancefloor and the railings that bordered spaces, with big chubby vinyl cushions placed around the edges.

High above the central dancefloor, the scintillating laser lights were connecting at right angles, creating grids in mid-air, diamonds, prisms, cages, and suddenly I was thinking of Jennifer and what she was doing right now, and wondering if I’d be able to get out of here alive to see her ever again.

I screamed at the top of my lungs but no one heard me.

A swooping sensation climbed up my body, my stomach curled like a fist and vomit projected out of my mouth but my legs kept pumping. The swooping sensation vanished with the contents of my stomach, a load of undigested Kolade. I felt better, but not much.

Down the aisle bordering the dancefloor, I passed giant shoes; some of these stopped and shuffled around to follow my path, and I thought I heard gasps from above, just over the beating music.

The footsteps behind me seemed to have stopped. I turned back to check: no pursuers. I turned around again to keep running.

And there was a pair of giant high heels blocking my path.