A pretty girl named Cloud takes me down a dark alley. There are old men loitering, smoking opium and stroking their white beards. No one speaks.
We turn a corner. There are six Lamboghinis parked out the front, at precise 45-degree angles. My eyes linger a little too long, and a black-clad man steps in front of us, with folded arms.
We arrive at a single door. More pretty girls. I can’t hear any music. Cloud pays the exorbitant $50 cover charge. I tell her I’ll repay her in drinks. She laughs.
We pass two more checkpoints. I still can’t hear any music. I wonder what the hell I’m in for.
The doors open. I am hit by a sweaty, sexy energy. My eyes adjust.
The music is pulsating, the DJ imported from Reykjavik. The barmen specialise in fire play. People are doing lines off the bar, and each other. Everyone is dancing, most of them shirtless.
Cloud keeps buying me drinks. I wonder where she gets her money from.
Jesus Shanghai girls can drink.