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Where David Lynch, Blade Runner and The Cramps meet in a subterranean world of hot rods blazing through dark cities and glancing at alleyways. Where the heat in the rain pours into the darkness. As we slip into the shadows, suited and booted, dancing slowly with a cocktail in one hand and the pulse of the night in the other. This is the place where dreams go. When you lay on your bed and think about the day and the night blending into one neon pulse. The green curtains fall, the red lights and the orange hum of fluorescent tubes and stale air mix with the tension of what’s to come and what has been, and what is always rock and roll.