Dance pon da riddim

Dance pon da riddim

The Royal Peacock is dead.

“Last night around this time, the place was packed,” says a baby-faced bartender while handing out Red Stripes and scooping up dead presidents.

Shit.

Looking around the barren nightclub, it’s hard to envision the room packed with dancing, gyrating, sweaty folks. Sure, there are a few people in the house. But the crowd is sparse and scattered, and most of them are sitting in chairs around the perimeter of a very empty dancefloor.

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