The immortal party.

I was there, the bright lights and fantastic theatrics formed a spectacle that even the most cultured of attendees opened their jaws in awe about. Parties rarely rise above the simple indulgence of social interaction and mind-numbing additives, but this one, this one was different -- Of course until the accident happened.

I remember it, it was an almost elevating experience, watching gymnasts twirl in the open air with a decorated sky filling with fireworks behind them. Every person there was of the same mind, we weren't simply at another get together to forget about to woes of society, we were watching the climax of human decadence take form. Drinks of lavish fancy were being passed around like communion cups and snack tables towered like some modern art piece dedicated to the sin of gluttony. I recall the sight of some man laying on a table and having drinks and snacks showered onto him as he twirled and twisted in ecstasy. It was all so surreal, before the accident.

I would say that I spent most of my time at the bar, but to call it just a bar would do it no justice. No, it was more of a military supply station except its weapons of destruction were booze and drugs, and its war was on sobreity. A militia of staff was running around like clockwork to fill cups and hand out colorful pills. Their efficiency alone was a thing of wonder. Before the thing happened, I sat there, in a pretty pitiful state I must say, and conversed with the man who at that time happened to be my bar seat neighbor. His name I don't recall.

"What is all of this?" I said in a wonder that I can only imagine was also masked in drunk slurring.

The man had a long cigarette in his mouth and was sipping from a long, fluted cup. He was dressed quite strangely, covering most of his body with a long black trench coat. He shook his head to my question and replied in a surprisingly sober tone, "Hell or heaven, but I haven't quite figured out which one yet."

The man was right about that. Whatever this party was, its status was eternal, no one could question that. "How'd you find your way here?" I had asked him. The invitations to the event seemed almost random. Some artists were invited, some politicians or celebrities, and in some cases, people who had no clue why they were invited.

"I consider myself an artist." The man replied.

"Of what craft?" I said while lifting another drink down my throat.

There the man hung himself in mysterious silence, it was as if I had asked him a deeply personal question. He finished off his drink with a swift gulp and turned fully towards me to reply before dashing off into the sea of dancing hands. "The oldest one." Was what he said. See now that sense to me, but at the time I was perplexed.

I can't exactly remember what I had done after that encounter but I can only imagine it was roughly the same thing I had been doing before. Stumbling through the decadent mansion of hedonistic wonder and gazing at the events like some school child visiting the zoo. I do remember that the interaction with the man had left some sort of strange impression on me, his demeanor and person was much different than that of anyone else at the party, including myself.

This all of the course preludes the event, which has now reached an almost cult-like status among observers and fans alike. At some forsaken moment in the night whose precise time has now left me, the lights all flashed and the whimsical theatre that was occurring around the party all halted. It was as if someone pressed pause on life, the gymnast left the sky, the drink bearers retreated into their dens, and the bands halted mid-song. It was a stop that echoed throughout the crowd. Then, like some physical manifestation of true wonder and awe, a platform lifted from the middle of the crowd. Its origin still perplexes me as no one noticed the thing before the event. Atop this stage was a singular man dressed in a perfectly fit and stereotypically black suit. Almost everything about the man wouldn't prelude to him being the owner of the most fantastic show of human abundance ever put on. His stature was meager and short, his face was casual and mundane, but his presence was surreal. Even from the platform, one could sense the aura of his purpose, it smelt of mystery and idealism, a strange juxtaposition from what was occurring around him.

He began by introducing himself to the crowd, he was of course the owner of the party and the proprietor of the house. He then began his speech that as now cemented itself in history and placed the party in much different light than anyone could have guessed coming into it. He took his hands out of his pockets and with the precision and purpose of a doctor began speaking, "It's a sight, isn't it? This whole ordeal, it's quite the spectacle... You know, I read a lot about the parties that ancient kings and distant emperors used to throw. One observer of a certain Persian party described that event as 'The manifestations of immortal gods.'" He paused for a long second and looked around the party, witnessing the silent crowd of onlookers. "Immortal gods. It does feel as if we're in the presence of something greater, doesn't it? Something, perhaps, profound? You see, I see that as the goal of every individual -- To chase that incredible status of immortal gods like the Persian kings once did, but that's not an easy task. No, I would venture to say it is an all-consuming task, one that requires every bit of your dedication and willpower."

I will never forget these next few moments for the rest of my life, as I'm sure the rest of the crowd won't either. The man took a deep breath and smirked ever-so-slightly as he continued his speech, "Yes, it takes everything, but that's necessarily unfair. It is everything for everything, that seems right to me." It was at that moment that a large bang echoed throughout the room that caused the crowd to duck and enter a slight panic. After a few seconds of regathering and a single, shrill scream to unify our attention we noticed the bright, velvet circle that was now expanding in the center of the man's chest. He'd been shot but someone in the crowd, and almost immediately after everyone's understanding of what had just occurred, he collapsed. I now know that he had died right then and there, as the bullet pierced perfectly into his heart.

Now you see, this is where we are. An unequaled party surpassing any known display decdance, a mysterious practitioner of the oldest art, and a dead host. What is to be the meaning of all this? Well, there is only one thing that I am certain in saying. If the man hadn't been shot, I'd only be writing of the party, and you'd only be reading of the party, both things that would have soon been forgotten. But because of his death, because of his romantic assassination, I write of that, and you remember that. It feels almost immortal in that way.