Staged

The bar was crowded for a Wednesday with the usual fair of fetish enthusiasts. Part meat market, sex club, and venue it provided a dramatic back drop for the popular playground. The Hunting Ground always promised to attract an eclectic group of deviants, artists, and hardcore thrill seekers. Where else could you listen to some trash punk group of nobodies on stage while getting your cock sucked off by an out of town business man, watching a butcher cleave up a fresh kill? Only in Chicago of course. The Hunting Ground was named so for the collection of animals heads festooned on the walls, its macabre collection of generously termed artistic taxidermy animals in strange poses, patched together like something Dr. Frankenstein did on his off days. But that wasn't even the best part of The Hunting Ground. The Hunting Ground staying true to it's gangster heritage also sported a host of secret passages both for those too shy to indulge in public what they had come here to satisfy, and to protect the place's licenses for being able to turn a convenient blind eye. Find the right door, you could drag one of those latex models of your choice into a meat locker, fuck against a slab of beef, and then sit down in an alcove and be served some of the best ribs in Chicago.

Hal was sitting at the bar down wind of the butchers window when the door opened up and a group in animal rights paraphernalia t-shirts busted in with blow horns, and buckets of blood. Hal turned around to hear them start spouting off about animal cruelty and that this place was a festering insult to all decency. The lead singer decked out in a dozen facial peircings, too much eye makeup and sporting a feathered, raven black mohawk cut off his song. He gave the group who was pushing through the crowd a leering grin, as he signaled a drum role. Hal threw back his shot. As the fire rich liquid hit his stomach the singer screamed out over his mike. “FUCK YOU!”

The place erupted into a brawl. Brawl was perhaps a tad bit generous, it wasn't exactly a brawl, more like a pack of wolves descending on helpless lambs. Hal almost felt sorry for the poor bastards. But he didn't, if they wanted to fight for a noble cause by all means they had a right to their stupid speeches nobody wanted to hear, but if they expected to come into The Hunting Ground and not get their asses kicked they were just delusional. The bar had a reputation for being rough on the senses for a reason, and it had nothing to do with the side shows. He liked watching humanity rip itself apart, but with a sense of humor about it. See it wasn't enough that the fierce patrons of this club kick some tree hugger ass, that's what they did on Mondays, on Wednesdays however they kicked their asses and then stripped and forcefully dressed them as their own before throwing them out. On Wednesdays it wasn't enough they bloodied some vegan-pushing hippies noses for sticking it where it wasn't welcome, they had to rub their noses in it too.

The group didn't stand a chance against the crowd, probably had never had any other place who they picketed to fight back with more than some words and thrown trash. This group however, when the first bucket of blood was thrown, urged on by the bands insuring cords of discord gleefully attacked the naive protesters. The dance floor was swarmed with fans wanting to mosh, aroused by the blood, and protesters suddenly trapped with people who just laughed and came running forward to give them a bear hug and smash their faces in with a head butt.

Hal watched as one small girl in dark rimmed glasses and curly hair put up a fight as two men descended down on her. She squirmed and screamed as they dragged her to one of the back tables, taking her punches and kicks all the while laughing and delivering a couple of their own just to keep a hold of her. She let out a piercing terrified scream as her clothes, bra and panties were stripped from her. She was fitted in a latex mask, zipped just to shut her up (the whole group of twenty would be gagged before being thrown out) and then dressed in the entrails of the animals they wanted to protect.

Another dirty blond man with a patchy beard made the mistake of catching a dominatrix with a splatter of blood. She had been sitting on an imitation throne with her dog lapping at her feet. The man instantly jumped up to lick his mistress clean only to have the six foot plus amazon uncurl from her throne looking every inch an angry queen of hell. She first back handed her pet who fell to her feet not really having to feign his whimpers, and then stepped forward with the mesmerizing mien of an enraged cobra toward the slack jawed do-gooder. This fella wouldn't get the gentle love pat she reserved for favored pets. She clenched her leather studded glove dripping a dull crimson with congealed blood and knocked the sorry son of bitch's teeth out. He collapsed like a shattered china doll. She held her glove out and let her pet skittishly begin licking her glove clean as she toyed with the crying man curled up on the floor futilely trying to shield himself from the prodding  stiletto.

All around patrons offered up extra bits of accessories and toys to add insult to dignity to the failed activists' humiliation. The band hadn't even gotten through the second song before the place had the group subdued, bloodied, and humbled in the middle of the floor. The band finished their song as if they couldn't be bothered with this minor interruption.

Hal signaled to the bartender to pour himself another shot. All in all, it wasn't a bad piece of performance art, interactive, provocative. It never ceased to amaze him how the orchestrators of this staged act managed to find a fresh batch of unsuspecting conscientious objectors so easily duped for the shallow purpose of entertainment. A modern day version of Temple Grandin engineering, but born from a much more disturbed mind.