"Angkor's Neon Gods: A Rave to Remember"
There's always a wild twinkle in the eye of a girl who smokes; you can almost smell the reckless sex in the air. I've heard tales of Wat Angkor. "A con man's delight," Max declared. Just ancient temples plastered over with a fresh coat of lies. "And 80% of the structures are fake," I mused. It's like walking into a Disney theme park without the cheer. "Because Disney owns it," Max blurted, proposing a rave on February 1st. "Why February?" I probed, half-curious, half-dreadful. The cemetery's DJ craved another night under the spotlight—always a crowd-pleaser.
Max and I rigged up fog machines loaded with a cocktail of cocaine and ecstasy. Academics claim Asian nightclubs lure in patrons with the promise of hot girls and free hits of heaven. I figure if folks want to fly, they'll swallow a pill. "That's the usual route," said JG, the DJ. "But a try won't kill us." The party's elite swarmed the Siam Reap bar. "This will be epic," I thought. JG had tunes that'd make grown men weep. "When I'm done, they'll sob," he vowed.
The Flood Book, part five, began at a crawl. Then Jesus strutted on stage with some groovy moves. Another dude rode in on a Honda claiming he was Yahweh. Hot disco chicks started stripping down their gear moment by moment. Generals and politicians dirtied their suits on the bare earth.
Then the DJ took the stage. "A generation ablaze," he announced. The hippie crowd bobbed in agreement. The fog machines drilled into their skulls. "This generation will burn," he prophesied. The DJ had sound mixers, two lads from Berlin, versed in JG's diatribes, adding a mischievous twist to the Wizard of Oz's words. "They're all cowards," Max scoffed.
A thousand guests, shattered. Desperate. Manic. A deluge of despair. "All thanks to The Flood Book," the DJ, who knew a thing or two about collective stench, declared. I sat at The Heart of Darkness bar, watching the TV as bizarre images flickered across my retinas. "Can you turn up the volume?" I asked the kind waitress.
I had some beer inside me, chased it with gin and tonic. No funny grass for me—I don't mix my highs. I popped some Valium for good measure.
The Mekong was a stone's throw away. I reckoned I could hurl empty bottles at it from my outdoor table. Three tries, and every time the street urchins caught them. Kudos to them; I don't oppose recycling.
Arrival in Phnom Penh; sketches of stretched relocations needed most when production craves it. What happened to inspiration? This lad was a sequel to Max Headroom. I pinched myself, yes, at The Heart of Darkness—a place where folks come just to drink. Right. It was Hooker Central, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise, pal.
Images danced across my retinas. The royal barge sank. De Gaulle looked down his nose. Sihanouk watched the tall French statesman, embarrassed. This was Cambodia, where nothing ever went wrong, except for the little mishap called genocide. No one could recall why it happened. Paris played mind games; pâté and French bread, overrated, bewildering the intellectuals.
Instead of more books, they exterminated doctors, chemists, teachers, engineers. "The Americans are coming, the Americans are coming." No one questioned that they weren't, and the city evacuated. Ground zero. And the hyenas laughed. Long night. Five years later, collective amnesia. Dare anyone remember what they went through? Doubt it. Imagine dying an unknown poet, discovered only 200 years post-mortem. Max kept up with literature alright.
DJ JG spun the tunes. Fat Boy Slim was in seventh heaven. Jesus Christ was a nigge...
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Dall-E Prompt:
Create an image capturing the essence of a raucous rave at ancient temple ruins, with a DJ cloaked in a hard hat, bathed in a frenzy of neon lights. Include silhouettes of revelers dancing wildly among the stones, a mischievous blend of the sacred and profane, in a style reminiscent of Ralph Steadman's anarchic ink splatters.
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