“Son of a bitch, it’s Steve Morocco!” The city lights burn like lasers as the siren call is let loose.

“Steve Morocco!! Steve, please! Over here!”

“Fuck off, I saw him first!” A pack of tattooed dancers start swinging on each other. Their claws will be counted as deadly weapons by the penal system

“Have my babies!” A sweaty snap backed man yells over the fun of the frenzied crowd. The DJ looks around the club in horror. It’s every entertainer’s worst nightmare— the Party Crash King, Steve Morocco.

Steve Morocco, with his golden lions mane and kitschy velvet slippers. The old spice sweat soaked menthol cigarette aroma wafts off him like a CIA funded pheromone riot weapon. DnD nerds call it his AOE attack— the Morocco Mist— an inundating invisible spell that emanates off of him.

There’s a hazy sheen to Steve Morocco’s face. It’s impossible to recall it with certainty— only the unsettling whispers that you did something questionable under its spell. His eyes have been said to make cloistered nuns bear their breasts.

The legend of the night will be the appearance of the enigmatic figure that is Steve Morocco. Strangely, all video records are rendered useless. Instagram posts fall into half loaded limbo. Snapchats cause androids to incinerate and IPhones to Venmo their most recent ex $100.

For all the chaos— everyone wakes up the following morning (somehow safely at home without knowing how they got there) thinking the same thing.

Will I ever see him again?