Deadmau5

The next morning, Ryan and his group showed up at Harpoon Harry's Bar, a wooden structure sitting on the beach, propped up on wooden stilts to keep it from being swallowed by the tide.

Wooden railings, wooden stairs, red lifebuoy decorations hanging on the walls—it looked almost exactly like something out of a movie. Now, hanging outside the railings were banners for the Beach Bash music festival, and of course, a sea of people, even though it was only ten in the morning.

Last night, Ryan had tagged along with the group to experience a "Wet T-shirt Party." Like most social mixers, it used some borderline activities to liven things up, plus alcohol as a catalyst, all aiming for "quick matching."

Ryan did end up leaving with a senior from a Florida university last night—she had thick, wavy hair, a tall figure, fiery red lips, and the classic golden-age Hollywood blonde vibe. But the dozen or so tattoos all over her body killed his interest, so he turned down her invitation and went back to the hotel alone.

Now, Ryan noticed the banners listed today's performing guest DJs. Ignoring the names he'd never heard of, one stood out—Deadmau5, pronounced exactly like "dead mouse," a DJ with some fame in North America. He picked that stage name because when he swapped out his graphics card, he found a dead mouse in his computer, and due to IRC chat room character limits, he used "5" to replace the rest. His trademark was a Mickey Mouse-like headpiece he wore during performances, and he wondered if Disney's legal team had caught wind of it yet.

"We gotta get in quick, the show's about to start, gotta grab a good spot." Paul slung an arm around Ryan's neck, talking while scanning around, clearly on the lookout for pretty girls.

Ryan glanced the other way. Abigail was chatting with a few cheerleaders, wearing a floral shirt and denim hot pants that showed off her thighs. Catching Ryan's gaze, she deliberately looked the other way, probably still sore about him "ditching" her last night.

"It's not even noon yet!" someone suddenly asked.

"Exactly, you know what a day club is? It's a party that starts when the sun's at its strongest, with a big indoor pool as the centerpiece." Paul took a few sips of his coconut drink through a straw.

Under Paul's lead, the group went inside the bar. Seeing the first-floor lobby was way too crowded, they headed up to the second floor and lined up along the railing. No seats, but from here, they had a bird's-eye view of the whole party.

Ryan watched the scene with interest. This little music festival was more popular than he'd expected—the first floor was packed shoulder to shoulder, making it hard to even turn around.

Then Paul sent two people to buy drinks. The warm-up act had already started, with some unknown DJ scratching records. Ryan thought the noise wasn't pleasant compared to Termor—borderline grating, actually—but the crowd seemed to love it.

Ryan let his gaze wander aimlessly, then suddenly locked onto something...

Not far from Ryan, Abigail and a few girls started bobbing their heads to the beat. Her eyes kept drifting to Ryan, and she noticed him staring intently at a corner of the lower floor.

Following his gaze, Abigail spotted three Black guys mixed in with the crowd downstairs, trying to hit on some girls.

It's those three from the beach yesterday! Abigail's heart raced, and she quickly moved closer to Ryan.

"You saw it too, right? Call the cops first." Ryan whispered in Abigail's ear. He'd instantly recognized those signature dreadlocks.

Just then, Paul came back and handed Ryan a big red plastic cup filled with green liquid, topped with a layer of blue.

"Classic tequila, Cointreau, and Mountain Dew, plus honeydew and green apple liqueurs. The blue on top is blue curaçao. We call it 'The Swamp'... Oh, Ryan, what's got you pissed?" Paul started explaining, but then saw Ryan's grim expression.

Ryan recounted what happened on the beach yesterday.

"Those niggers should all be chemically castrated!" Paul cursed. "What now?"

Abigail had already come back from calling the cops: "They'll be here in a few minutes. Told us to keep an eye on the three."

Ryan and Paul exchanged a look, then called over another football team member, a stocky defensive tackle named Hank.

The three quietly went downstairs and each took a position at the three exits, waiting for the cops. Abigail stayed on the second floor, tracking the three's location and keeping in touch with Ryan via phone.

"The three are right near you, not moving..." Ryan heard Abigail's voice in his earpiece.

A few minutes later, Ryan heard sharp police sirens behind him.

Now just wait for the cops to surround them, tighten the circle slowly... Ryan thought.

The next second, the pounding bass cut out, replaced by shouts: "Panama City Police Department, suspects in custody! Nobody move!"

Shit! Ryan cursed the idiot cops.

The cops' shouts didn't control the scene—they just made it more chaotic. People scrambled to leave, shoving and pushing, and someone screamed.

"They're slipping out the back door." Abigail's voice came through the earpiece.

Ryan didn't hesitate. He circled around the outside, yelling for the cops, Paul, and Hank to follow him.

Ryan was the first to reach the backyard, which had a big pool. He spotted the three hurrying away through the crowd of swimsuit-clad people. Ryan and the cops broke into a sprint.

"Move!" Ryan shouted at the people in front of him.

Before Ryan could get close, the three noticed the commotion behind them and sped up, then broke into a full run. They were fast—Ryan could barely keep up, and the cops fell behind.

Hitting a dead end, the three panicked and burst into a room with a door left ajar. Ryan followed right behind and saw, besides the three, a few other people inside: two women in bikinis, and three men in T-shirts and jeans who didn't look like spring break students here for the festival. On the table sat a pile of electronic gear.

Cornered, the three had no choice but to charge at Ryan. At the same time, Paul and Hank caught up, and it turned into a three-on-three brawl.

The three Black guys were built solid, but Ryan's side wasn't lacking either—all football players. Neither side gained an edge for a while.

Ryan went up against Dreadlocks. The guy was incredibly strong, slamming Ryan to the ground. In desperation, Ryan groped around and grabbed something shaped like a "sphere," then swung it hard at the guy by its edge.

A few swings later, the sphere—wrapped in red cloth with a plastic frame—shattered into pieces. Shards cut Dreadlocks' face, and Ryan seized the chance to throw a flurry of punches, landing solid hits on his face like a storm. Dreadlocks' head lolled to the side, seemingly unconscious.

The moment Ryan let his guard down, Dreadlocks' eyes snapped open. He flipped Ryan into a ground technique straight out of UFC, locking his legs around Ryan's neck. Instantly, Ryan felt suffocated, veins bulging at his temples, his face turning purple within seconds.

At the critical moment, a figure appeared and stomped down on Dreadlocks' face, heel grinding in, stomping repeatedly.

The hold loosened, and Ryan broke free, seeing Abigail had chased after them despite the danger.

This time, Ryan didn't let up. He grabbed some device off the table and hurled it, then leaped into a flying kick. Dreadlocks collapsed and didn't get up.

On the other side, Hank had subdued his opponent too, using some flat metal object to smack the guy's face until he passed out.

Only Paul was losing. A gash had opened on his chest, and he could only clamp his legs around his opponent. But before Ryan or Hank could help, the guy broke free and bolted out of the room.

Luckily, the cops had arrived by then. The three of them teamed up to subdue the last suspect, not holding back on the kicks and punches.

One cop, who looked like the sergeant, shouted "You goddamn bastards!" while kicking the Black guy in the gut twice. A crowd had gathered to watch, some holding up cameras...

Seeing the cops had taken over, Ryan finally breathed a sigh of relief. Then a wave of fear hit him—if those three had had weapons, even guns, he'd be the one on the ground. Given another chance, he'd never step in again.

"You okay?" Abigail rushed over, her face full of concern.

Ryan pointed at Abigail's foot—not only had she lost her flip-flops while running, but the top of her foot was also cut with a gash.

Yet Abigail still kept complaining that Ryan had been too impulsive, so worried about him that she ignored her own pain.

"So, this isn't a movie, right?" Ryan heard a voice from behind him.

Turning around again, he saw the man picking up fragments from the ground.

Ryan looked closely, and then his head buzzed—the pieces, when assembled, formed a very distinctive shape: an oversized helmet with two round ears, just like Mickey Mouse from a Disney cartoon.

Now Ryan finally knew what the "round object" he had grabbed in his panic really was—it was Deadmau5's mouse-head helmet.

The identity of the man before him was also becoming obvious.

"Mr. Zimmerman, it's your turn..." At that moment, a music festival staff member also arrived at the scene, and seeing the mess of equipment on the ground, could no longer speak.