Tomato boy and his accomplices

In The Pit

In The Pit

It’s like Fight Club.
That awesome book, that cool movie, that’s what it’s like at the Pit. I suppose our ideals are slightly less noble. In a way though, our beliefs run parallel to Fight Club. “We are all a part of the same compost heap" or rather, we are the worms. We are the writhing, slimy worms, we are meaningless and faceless, chewing through crap and leftovers. We are the worms, living unseen and blind underground, flinching from the harsh light. We are the worms that keep the soil fresh and make your flowers grow. But Deities forbid we be seen above ground.
The noise that thumps is incredible. Sometimes a DJ, sometimes a band, so long as you can sway, so long as the worms can congregate. It’s called the Pit because that’s what it is – a club under a club. Alcohol is served upstairs, upstairs there are tables and chairs left to sit in and pool and darts and rules. In the Pit there is nothing. There’s some source of sound, something more toxic than drink, something more dangerous than drugs. The Mosh. Crushing bodies packed, wall to wall, sometimes you get lifted and that’s terrifying because if you slip, if you hit the ground – you’re dead.
It’s the perfect place to commit suicide. People have to, I’ve seen them just lie down and be overwhelmed by a mass of worms. I’ve stood on faces, I’ve stood on feet, and I’ve kicked people in the balls. I’ve dragged others down to keep myself alive and I know they’d do the same to me.
We're all good buddies us worms.