Mind Eraser, No Chaser

‘The Chrome Coalition’ is a club on the outskirts of town, hidden within a disused warehouse in the industrial sector. From the outside it blends in with its derelict surroundings, if not for the queue of punks, cyber goths and neon ravers waiting to enter through its sacred doors. The club has an aesthetic, and the dress code is mandatory. Failure to comply and the bouncer deems you unworthy.

Once you pass into its inner halls - through the entry corridor of corrugated iron and luminous red, past the coat room plastered with gig adverts and other solicitations - you see why they flock to this place. The Chrome Coalition prides itself on maintaining its visage. Everywhere you look there is neon set against stainless steel, the lighting molded into circuitry and making the club pulse. The imitation cable throbs in time with the music, and so do the dancers - up on raised platforms, slithering around poles or groping out of their cages. It’s like stepping into the future, whiplash and all.

But you know this. You’re a regular. It’s hard after experiencing this place once not to come back for seconds, or thirds, or twenty-fifths. After all, what else are you going to wear this outfit for?

But the feeling of immersing into this other world never gets old. The Chrome Coalition is an escape from reality, and everyone here is playing their part. We live in the future, everything’s connected, from the dancers to the drinkers to the socialisers. Even the staff; especially the staff. The Chrome Coalition’s servers and bouncers and bartenders are all adorned in a very particular uniform. They wear polished chrome faceplates that completely conceal their faces, and their hair is dyed a hard clash of high voltage blue and cotton candy pink. They never speak a word, directing you with hand gestures, but you always understand exactly what they're trying to convey. Whether they are serving you a drink, assisting you with the venue or showing you the door, you will always be greeted by that emotionless, silent chrome.

You sit back into a faux leather sofa, painted a deep purple, and watch them. They wander through the pastel smoke and strobe lighting, under the ceiling of television static. If this is heaven then these are its angels. They move so gracefully, seemingly unperturbed by the myriad of club goers lost in the trance of the Chrome Coalition. Handing out drinks of luminous colours in plastic cuboids. And all the while the beat vibrates through the mirror walls that reflect the rave back in on itself, dampening the senses.

For all this, the club is surprisingly cheap, from the drinks to the entry fee. Everyone knows why though, it’s the same reason why it’s situated in the middle of nowhere. There’s something going on here which isn’t strictly ‘legal’. On the lower level, there is a doorway, guarded by two of the staff at all times. To the unsuspecting eye, it comes across as just a staff room, until you watch closer and see patrons slyly entering and leaving. The catch? It costs 50 bucks to get in there, if they even let you in. But it’s the reason why half of us come here, just to get inside that room one more time.

But we don’t talk about what’s in there outloud, when we’re chatting and drinking and spilling our secrets, because either you’ve been in there already and know what’s waiting - or the staff denied you access.

No one knows exactly what the faceless bouncers use to judge you on. Most assume they’re checking for pigs, but some say there’s some other criteria. They say they’re looking for the ones who will embrace that room, and are rejecting those who would cause it harm. That room is a place that leaves its inhabitants vulnerable. You should know, you’ve been inside it many times.

There is a password, but that’s just a formality. It’s not what determines your validity. But still, as you approach those chrome faces that reflect back your own, that stare at you speechlessly - they’re waiting for you to utter the words and give your consent.

‘I want to have my mind erased.’

It’s always followed by a strange moment of silence, as though the music has stopped playing for just a beat and the dance is waiting for their conclusion. The drop into the abyss, as the staff indicate that you have been granted permission. The world comes rushing back. Time to enter into the deepest chamber.

You breathe deep and push through the doors, into a room the width and length of a tennis court. The doors seal behind you, muffling the beat of the dance into a dull hum. This room is tiled with grey slabs of iron, ensuring no signals get in or out. They say smart devices won’t operate in here either, though you’ve never thought to check.

It’s not the aesthetics that grab your attention though. It’s the people, or rather, ‘people’. Mind erasure could probably take place in any position and it would still work, but the Chrome Coalition demands something additional from you. It wants to objectify you, dehumanise you, so that you can become part of its visage, if only momentarily. This is why the entrance slots of the mind erasers are ovals in the walls at hip height. Only half of you gets to go in through the slot, the important half that houses your brain. The other half is left waiting on the other side, still standing on the floor.

Which is why, as you slowly pace down this room, looking for a free slot, you’re walking past the trembling legs and behinds of other club goers. Sealed into their mind erasers at the waist, leaving their lower bodies exposed and vulnerable. Not that anyone would ever take advantage, this is for exhibition only. 

Is it humiliating? Of course. In fact, you recognise some of these occupants, from their silvery miniskirts to their lime green fishnets. But there’s a thrill that comes with being effectively made into decor, turned into just a pair of curves for people to observe, while your upper body is subjected to ecstasy.

After all, the only ones seeing you like this are going to be joining you soon anyway.

You see some of them twitching, writhing from the sensations that the brains are currently experiencing. Above each slot is a timer, indicating how much longer the inhabitant has left. The machine determines how long you need, ranging from minutes to a couple of hours. It understands your need, and how much erasure it will take to satisfy.

You find an empty slot and stand before it. The entrance to it is cushioned with a mauve fabric that inflates to keep the occupant nice and comfy (and sealed in tight around the waist). You lean down to it, gripping the port in both hands and slowly maneuvering yourself into its dark embrace. Arms in first, into the bindings that wrap around them in cool metal and twist on snugly. At this point, there’s no turning back, as it starts to tug you into itself. Your head, your shoulders, your chest, all becoming encapsulated by this small alcove. It’s warm in here, while your legs shiver out there in the cold air of the room. Your legs which are in their row on display, in line with all the others. Dehumanisation is bliss.

You feel the cushion expand around your tummy and your sides, clamping you into your new home for the foreseeable future and plunging you into darkness. You can feel the air swirling with your own breathing, the machine giving you a chance to savour the delight of being stored in such a small enclosure. Soon the screens will flash on, the cables and tubes will descend, and the experience will begin.

A timer illuminates at the highest reaches of your vision. The same timer that will be displayed above your own trembling posterior. It flickers as the machine calculates to determine your time. The most you’ve ever had in here was 57 minutes. You twitch with anticipation.

‘17:32:89’.

What?

That can’t be right... Seventeen hours? You’ve never seen anyone set anything close to that high before. You squirm, twisting and turning against the cushioning, feet grinding outside against the tiles. There’s a sudden panic - maybe the machine is broken? Maybe something’s gone wrong?

But…

You scrunch your hands into fists and bite your bottom lip. Seventeen hours of mind erasure are about to smack into you like a sledgehammer.

This is gonna be something.

The screens blare on and it’s like being rammed by the sun. So brilliantly bright, such a multitude of colours, that dazzle and confuse and knock the consciousness out of you. Normally a light of this intensity would force you to look away, yet it captures you and reels you in. It becomes impossible to resist, you find you can’t even blink.

Just staring into that mesmerizing, swirling screen of pixelated colours, that change in such smooth gradients that you can barely perceive. Once locked in, it becomes so difficult to think about anything else. Any stray thoughts just peter out under that all-consuming light. You go into a slump. Your feet hold grip with the flooring but only just.

But that lower half of your body may as well be a million miles away in a different world, they feel so distant from the intensity of your brainwashing.

The emptiness and the void take hold. The clarity of having no thoughts. You lack the processing capability now to sift through memories or emotions. You can just drool, as the machine works its magic, leaving you blissfully hollow. This is what mind erasure is all about. Getting to be nothing and revelling in the peace of it.

Now that you’re pacified, in a drowsy trance, the machine switches to its secondary phase. Appendages attach to your head - a mask that covers your lower face and feeds you air laced with sweet hypnochems. Cables slither through the air, connecting into your ears. The circuitry is integrating with you, making you one with the club. You feel its beat drumming through your brain - hammering it smooth.

Suddenly there’s something new. A blast of liquid splashing against either side of your head. Something is trickling through your hair, soaking it and dripping down into awaiting gutters beneath you. Not that you can contemplate it. Not that you can contemplate anything at all.

You no longer notice the time. Brainwashing was already an endless set of eternities. It’s difficult to conceptualise that being multiplied. There is only a shimmering void where your mind used to be and the body is a quivering ragdoll that just happens to be attached to it. Your legs never give out, firmly planted in their place in their row. None of the other patrons would suspect the intensity of your trip, other than the timer above your ass looking strangely longer than usual. As if they’d think there was anything wrong - they’d probably wish it was them instead of you.

There is only a sweet, silent emptiness. The deeper you go into it, the better you feel. The better you feel, the deeper you go into it. It’s an endless spiral that is forever pulling you down to the center. Taking you deeper than you’ve ever gone before. So empty and docile. Such sweet nothingness embracing you. Coating over you. Leaving you null and void in the most enchanting ways.

…

There’s a click, and a release, the cushion deflating and the machinations letting go. Your body, drenched in sweat, slides out of the slot and into a heap on the floor. You’re breathing calmly. Everything still feels so perfectly empty. You can still sense your integration into the club.

All the other slots are vacant, the club would have closed for the night ages ago. It’s just you, under the incomprehensible gaze of two of the staff. You spasm as you force your head upwards, into the awaiting chrome. They stand stoically, waiting for you. Godly in their facelessness. Again you see your reflection upon their faceplates. Your hair has been dyed like theirs now, a conflict of pink and blue. And your face… it looks back at you, but its just a representation of emotion and passion. It feels so alien to you now.

One of them is holding something before you. A chrome faceplate, unworn. It is still, like the calmness of an undisturbed pond. You take it in trembling hands, turning it around to see its interior. Slowly pulling closer, cupping it in both your hands. It is a touch cold, but there is love in its embrace. It fits you perfectly, sealing around your jaw and locking into place.

A long silence beckons.

Slowly, you stand.

Another added to the Chrome Coalition.