Cocktail party

My brain is a cocktail party and the guests are getting rowdy.
They've gotten sauced and are taking swings at their shadows with their dirty little fists.
Trying to maintain order in this sweating sloppy riot I gas them with smoke.
Which only makes the party turn into a filthy festival of food and flushed skins.
Saliva drips from the walls and the floor sags like a huge slab of dough.
Its starts to get violent as the sun comes down. Switchblades glint in the failing light and sides are chosen.
A little boy huddled crying in the corner catches my eye, a crimson scar sprawled out upon his tear stained face.
Before I have time to try to slow things down the guests dive at each other, ripping themselves apart.
It rapidly becomes a game of everybody's it but tagging with a knife to the chest.
Big men are seen dragging women by the hair to the bathrooms to rape them with their knives at their throats.
I see it with clear eyes finally, a pack of lions all fighting to be the king and to earn respect, Tearing each other to pieces with their manicured claws to make them feel they deserve to live.

The phone rings.

And everything freezes. And for the first time since I brought out the hors d'œuvres they notice me.
All eyes turn towards me. Fingers stretched around necks, blades already halfway in, but eyes fixated on me.
Like the dinner bell has rung for a tribe of starving savages.
A pretty blonde with a broken nose and gushing blood from her chest sits up at my feet and gently puts her hand on my knee.