A sudden explosion rattles the cavernous building, sending a large group of kids occupying the rooftop running for cover as the loud booming sound ricochets and echoes down to an eventual murmur, weakened between the decaying graffiti plastered brick skyscrapers, monuments to psychiatric failure and deinstitutionalization. My right ear rings with pain, temporary deafened by the screaming bottle rocket which just whizzed past my face, dangerously close enough to nearly graze the hair on my cheek. Moments later, the sky above illuminates with colorful plumes of sparks. Red, blue, yellow, green; bountiful hues of colorful vibrant light illuminate the darkened shadows of the shuttered asylum campus like an artificial lightning storm experienced on acid.
Ahead a posse pushes forward, armed with an arsenal of roman candles spitting balls of sparkling colorful light blobs high into the air. Shadows of humans scattered against the darkened roof line run like cartoon silhouettes against the dark summer night sky. "COME AND GET ME MOTHER FUCKERS!!" a crazed lunatic obscured within the dark screams atop his lungs, as loud as words can possibly be uttered. "FUCK THE POLICE!!" this repeating chant bellows between the abandoned buildings nearly as loud and forceful as the TNT explosion rattling the roof just moments earlier. Plumes of smoke and sulfur now drift past my nose occasionally carrying within a tasteful scent of burgers, which just so happen to be grilling away atop of the barbecue. In the distance a trash fire of beer boxes and paper plates is ablaze, pulsating an orange glow, attracting humans to its warmth, like we're flies to shit. Beer bottles chucked from the hands of drunken soldiers smash against the ground a hundred feet below, followed by a rogue molotov cocktail which ignites a small patch of dry glass below ablaze before quickly burning itself out. There is nothing to ignite here, its all just brick and concrete, yet my heart races as it may be time to leave for that cocktail of fire sent quite the rebellious message to anyone on the ground below.
Glancing off the roofline ten stories down, I spot the headlights of approaching potential authority cutting across the overgrown field through the blackened smoke filled night sky. As with any lurking danger, everyone in proximity gathers around to gaze. Soon the nearing hi-beams are met with a barrage of bottle rockets and mortars launched at various angles from makeshift cardboard tubes. Rumors of cops entering the building now quickly circulates amongst ourselves, the news spreading like fire. "TIME TO HIT THE TUNNELS" an indiscernible male voice shouts into the crowd, inciting panic. But in that moment of firefight backdrop infused dismay, the forward progression of the headlights suddenly stop and the red glow from the break lights highlight the broken asphalt below as the vehicle begins to return from where it emerged. Inaudible, clamorous cheers and hollering now breaks out amongst the remaining party goers occupying the rooftop. The fort has been held against all opposition, a battle well won, the party will rage on. This isn't war, this is KPPCBBQ!
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