The Key Club

There was something simply euphoric when biting into a crooked metal key. The ridges and the teeth of the key would scrape across one's tongue, leaving a trail of white. Sometimes the key would pierce the gums, and the combination of the tanginess of blood and the coolness of the metal key that creates a taste so beautiful and profound that can be only experienced by the chosen few.
These... chosen few. They would live their lives in the corners of public bathrooms, taking their neighbor's housekey and bite into it. The metal clink as the jaw centers in on the object would resonate throughout their skulls. It was sinful. It was strange. It would cut their gums open and they would bleed over the tiled floor, coughing onto the black-and-white checkered marble. It would stain the white tiles, an eternal proof that they experienced that high. It was a rarity for them to bleach and clean their floors because of the beauty in the splatters and drops. These keys would be so red-soaked in blood that it was almost as a trophy. It was proof that they have coughed up their veins.
Sometimes they would hang these keys up. These keys would be crusted with a crimson red. Flies would hover around the string of keys, laying their eggs on the month-old blood of the gurgling red mouth juice. The larvae that would be born on the crusty red key, and those larvae would be worshipped under the sole fact that they were children of the blood-soaked key. In a way, they were part of the chosen few. And because of that fact, they were revered as above the human race itself.