This man used to run one of the largest rave forums in Montreal. Thousands of people flocked to his site, and over time, he built up something of a cult following. Women threw themselves at him, men gave him free drugs, and he had VIP access to all the best clubs and parties in Montreal. Unfortunately for this one time party maven, his time at the top of the party scene was short lived. It came crashing down in 2004 when he was busted selling heroin to minors.

His days of incarceration have just come to an end, and now that he's a free man, he's trying to get back into the rave scene. Things have changed though. His old friends have grown up and moved on, and the new generation of ravers don't care for him. He's bummed out about his fallen status, and is desperate to claw his way back to the heart of our city's nightlife.

He was never the brightest bulb, and his time in prison hasn't changed that. A few weeks of freedom have convinced the man that the key to reversing his pariah status is by engaging in some good old fashion blackmail. He still has a copy of his old forum's database, and that database has thousands of user names, email addresses, and passwords in it. He's been spending most of his freetime checking those passwords and email addresses against each other, looking for hits. Many of those email addresses have died over the last six years, but some of them haven't, and out of that minority of still active email addresses is a smaller minority of people who were stupid enough to not only keep the same password for six years, but to use that same password for both their email account and his former website.

Thanks to his sleuthing, he currently has access to over three dozen email accounts. He's been digging through them looking for material he can use against people. He's already found a treasure trove of naughty messages and pictures that he's using to squeeze folks for cash, drugs, and party favors. As rumors of his crimes begin to spread, more and more of his former friends are crawling out of the woodwork to call him out on his douchetastic ways. Years ago, these people were his most ardent of supporters, and now they've realized the error of their ways.

Young ravers often idolize villains. Even now, countless ravers are idolizing narcissistic sociopaths who don't care a lick about anyone but themselves. That's why ravers should take frequent inventories of their friendships, and ask themselves if the people they invest their time and energy in deserve it.

The PLUR Boys are the newest gang in Montreal. This crew of vicious raver thugs were born in a baptism of fire. All the members were victims of a dehumanizing orgy of violence and rape that took place at an old school happy hardcore party. These one time wide eyed, glow stick wielding, fun fur wearing candy ravers caught the eyes of the Reds, a street gang that's been terrorizing Montreal North for the last five years.

The Reds saw easy marks, and began picking on the candy ravers. The taunts turned to pushes, and the pushes turned to punches, and the punches were accompanied by rape and rapine. The gangstas ended up sending six people to the hospital, and permanently ended one DJs career by breaking both of his hands.

One of the men who was hospitalized, Charles, was furious at not being able to stop the Reds from ravaging his girlfriend. He started talking to the other victims, telling them they needed to organize. Ravers needed a gang who would protect the interests of the scene, because if they didn't stand up for themselves, no one would.

The ravers started meeting regularly, working out, learning how to use guns. Eventually, they started calling themselves The PLUR Boys. They'd bring Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect to Montreal -- by force, if necessary. They even came up with a slogan: "PLUR OR DIE".

Last month, the PLUR Boys felt that they were ready for action. They did a little sleuthing, found out where the head of the Reds lived, headed over to his place, and then they beat him to within an inch of his life. They mangled him, they brutalized him, and just for good measure, they sodomized him with a glow stick. They told him that he better get out of the gangster business, because next time, they'd kill him.

The PLUR Boys put the hardcore in happy hardcore.

This fifteen year old scamp ran away from home years ago and now spends most of his time hanging out with a crew of cocaine loving rave fiends. His background is tragic and has left him with an eat or be eaten mentality. At some point during the last two years, he had a brutal encounter with a couple of power tripping officers. Apparently, the boy was sleeping in an alleyway and the officers decided to pick on him for loitering, when he didn't treat them with the kind of reverence they felt they deserved, they began to beat on the boy. Ever since that attack, he's been hell bent on getting his revenge.

He fell in with the coke head, who introduced him to the world of prostitution. He started turning tricks for money, and what he doesn't spend on drugs and the necessities of life, he spends on fireworks that one of his johns, a frequent traveler, picks up for him in the states. The boy now has a large stock pile of fiery pyrotechnics, which he has been using to annoy his enemies in blue for the last three months.

Our wily teenager fancies himself a regular freedom fighter, though in practice he's more Home Alone than Che Guevera. He has yet to hurt anyone with his crazy antics, and from what sources say, he doesn't plan on changing that anytime soon. His goal is to harass the police, not hurt them.

He taught himself how to build time detonators by watching some videos on youtube. This knowledge has allowed him to build and deploy over half a dozen fake bombs -- basically just fireworks rigged to light up at a time of his choosing. The teenager usually hides his fiery babies in remote, hard to reach places. He plasters the walls with anti-police propaganda, then calls in a bomb threat. Locations have included the top of a water tower, the roof of an abandoned building, and a sewer in Point St-Charles.

The police have no choice but to show up and remove his devices. He's effectively gumming up their work, forcing them to spend their time on his pranks. The boy wants the police to feel as powerless as they made him feel, and controlling what they spend their time working on seems to be an effective means of doing that. He doesn't seem all that concerned about getting caught, but given his age, he'll probably get off lightly even if the police do catch him.

His toes were bloodied, his shoes ruined, his wallet missing, his smartphone broken, and his front tooth chipped. He couldn't remember the walk back home or how it resulted in so much destruction, but he was able to piece parts of the night's events back together. He shuddered at his own stupidity.

He had been shanghaied into tending the water bar of one of his friend's raves. He was a terrible worker, and wasn't all that enthused by the prospect of serving drinks to ungrateful ravers who don't even know how to say thank you, let alone how to tip. His friend needed the help, though, and had sweetened the deal by offering him free alcohol in return for his manpower, an offer he couldn't refuse.

He certainly knew how to abuse it, though. He had downed a six pack before the party even started, and was half way through a bottle of vodka by the time midnight came around. Once the clock hit 2am, he was completely and thoroughly knackered. He had stopped serving drinks at the bar entirely, and was instead pissing off of balconies, yelling at ravers, and drinking even more alcohol. His promoter friend, meanwhile, was to busy managing the party to get annoyed at his crazy antics.

At some point, he decided the music was too damn loud and that he was going to walk home. In the snow. His apartment was on St-Denis, and he was stuck somewhere in Lachine. He didn't care. He didn't have the mind for it. He just started walking.

And then things go black.

He wakes up, bloodied and in distress. Considering the state of his feet, he doesn't think that he got a lift at any point in his journey. He's very thankful he didn't get frostbite. His shoes, a pair of runners, were completely destroyed by his journey through the snow. They look like they'd been runover, repeatedly, by a tractor. He probably fell on his face, which would account for the chipped tooth and maybe even the broken phone and missing wallet.

The one thing he knows is that he never wants to be that drunk again. He no longer trusts himself around alcohol, and worries that the next time he's off his knocker wasted, he might go on a death defying journey that results in more than just a chipped tooth and some bloody toes.

His journey through the snow has taught him the value of caution, a lesson he doesn't plan to forget.

Montreal's rave community is home to North America's largest and most active circle jerk group. The Brothers in Hand, as the circle is called, was founded fifteen years ago by two rave promoters who were going through a very experimental phase in their sex lives. Legend has it that the two men started the club after a ribald game of Drink or Dare ended with all the players masturbating together in public. While most of the players decided to never speak of the incident again, the two promoters discovered that they were turned on by the experience.

They turned to the internet to find like minded men, and started hosting weekly circle jerks at their apartment. The first years were quiet ones -- the diddle fiddling sessions were small, and usually involved only a half dozen or so men. Eventually though, their online cat calls for exhibitionist wankers caught the ears of a powerful and well connected backer, the owner of a Montreal bath house. This man opened up his establishment to The Brothers, and soon membership exploded.

The rush of fresh blood inspired the promoters to up the wow factor of their circle jerks. They started decorating the bath house, hiring wank friendly DJs to spin at their beef slapping nights, and supplying their chicken choking members with plenty of brain candy to nibble on. Their efforts were a success, and their circle jerks grew like cancer. Within a few short years of teaming up with their bath house patron, they were at the head of one of the largest group masturbation organizations in the world.

Until last Spring. That's when the two promoters had a falling out. No one knows what caused the two men, who've been jerking off together for a damn long time, to zip up their shorts and call it quits. We do know that the bath house owner tried to keep the peace between the old school rave makers, but his attempts at mediation were a stunning failure.

The Brothers in Hand still exists, but its numbers are much diminished now that one of the promoters has said goodbye to the bath house. He's set up shop in a cafe that, at night, transforms into a free for all bordello of pleasure. He calls his new group The Stroke Folks, and his aim is to revitalize the Montreal circle jerk scene. He views The Brothers in Hand as being moribund and in a state of decay, and thinks his new project will help inject energy into the circle jerk scene, bringing it back to the heights of glory it experienced in the early naughties.

These two men had been the best of raver buddies for nearly five years. They went to their first party together, they dropped their first hits of mdma together, they even tag teamed a couple of raver girls together. They were inseparable friends. Practically Siamese twins. When you saw one of these men at a party, you knew the other one couldn't be far behind.

That changed eight months ago when the younger of the two men up and disappeared one night. It would be three months before he reappeared, and when he did, he was a changed man. The way he looked, the way he spoke, the way he acted -- they were all completely different. He had gone from being a hardcore party freak to simply being a freak.

A year ago, he was a business student studying at Concordia. He had a promising future. He wasn't perfect. He did drugs. He listened to loud music. He had unprotected sex. He got drunk in public. He had his vices, and they were many, but he was still sane. That's no longer the case. Now he speaks to spirits and is convinced that vampires exist, and they want to drink his blood.

When folks ask him what happened, he just gives them a blank stare and ignores the question. No one knows where he escaped to for those three mysterious months, and no one knows what he did during that time. Some folks suspect that he dropped DMT and that the experience left him schizophrenic.

His old BFF spent several months trying to find out what happened. It was like talking to a brick wall. It got to the point where he couldn't even bring him to parties anymore. The last one they went to together, the now-mad raver spent the night praying on the dance floor, blessing the windows of the party by throwing water on them and then kneeling in front of them, and engaging in lively conversations with what he claimed were the little fae folk that only he could see. He was doing all of this without the help of any psychedelic stimulation.

Everyone's concerned about him, but no one knows what to do. Worst of all, the man's gone and vanished all over again. No one knows where he is or what he's up to, but it's probably bad news. For now, they're just wishing and hoping for the best, praying that they won't read about how his body was discovered in some ditch in Chicoutimi.

Ravers are prone to breaking. The rave scene is located at the fringes of society. It's a world full of drugs and mental illness. It can be a real riot, but there's a cost that comes with spending time in this social wilderness. Raving is a world of extreme hedonism, and too much of anything, including pleasure, can cause a person to shatter. Ravers are always at risk of falling over the edge and landing face first into a world of misery and madness. That's why their friends need to keep an eye on them.

When you see someone going too far, you better pull them back before they get into trouble.

One of Montreal's most active raver kids has landed himself a hottie of a girlfriend. This lovely lady isn't some nobody either -- she's an up and coming movie starlet that's been in at least one blockbuster hit. The unlikely pair met during the fall, while the beautiful brunette was filming a period piece in the Old Port.

She went partying with her co-stars at a club the raver likes to frequent, the two bumped into each other, sparks flew, and they've been an item ever since. They've kept their relationship on the down low since hooking up, and the woman has spent a considerable amount of time teaching her naive lover how to avoid the prying eyes of the paparazzi. Of course, when you're head over heels in love like this raver boy is, it's hard to keep that a secret. He told a few friends, and they told a few more, so now it's pretty much an open secret in some raving circles.

Unfortunately for the pair, the girl is going to have leave Montreal soon. Her movie wrapped up shooting at the end of November. She extended her stay in Montreal a few weeks just to be with her boy toy, but reality beckons, and soon she'll have to head back to Los Angeles. Our raver is crest fallen, and is seriously thinking of moving to California just to be with her. She's not convinced that's a good idea, but she isn't against it either.

For now though, they're just living their lives one day at a time, enjoying their moments together while they can.

This former rave promoter picked up a disturbing habit while on a cross country road trip last summer. He was driving from Montreal to Thunderbay, and at one point in the trip, right when he was stuck in a desolate part of corn country, his bowels started rumbling. He could have pulled over and relieved himself on the side of the road, but he decided to soldier on. He was going to keep it in until he got to a rest stop.

That didn't work out too well for him.

He was just a mile away from giving his sphincter a chance to breathe when his innards convulsed and his underwear filled up with a load of the brown stuff. At first, this raver was horrified. He was far too embarrassed to pull in to the rest stop to change clothing. Instead, he just kept driving, His mind was completely baffled at what had just happened to him. He was only 32 years old. He wasn't an old fart. He didn't need a supply of depends. And yet, here he was, sitting in his own filth. He almost started to cry.

But he didn't. Instead, he started to laugh. He was an aging candy raver driving to the middle of nowhere in a beat up chevy while sitting in his own shit. He couldn't help it. Mirth overcame him. He popped in an old Anabolic Frolic cd and started to cackle like a lunatic. Eventually, when the laughter died down, he realized he actually liked the feel of feces in his underwear. They were warm and kind of mushy. It felt like sitting in a giant bowl of onion soup full of bread and cheese.

He told his friends that's how he decided people were too scared of their own poo. He thought the taboo against feces is a sanctimonious western social construct. There's nothing inherently wrong with poo. It's a wonderful substance, and he was going to have as much fun with it as he could, to hell with what other people think.

Ever since this revelation of his, our candy raving promoter has started to wear adult diapers around the house. He's a huge World of Warcraft addict, and now that he's shed his shame of poo, he can stay at the computer and play for over ten hours without ever getting up. He needs to go, he just does it right there, while sitting down in his chair.

He has enough common sense not to do this when his friends are around, but he's not ashamed in the least about his habit, and loves to tell people about it. He thinks everyone needs to loosen up. It's only poo, after all.

A radical feminist has been terrorizing the Montreal rave scene with her feets of rage.

She carries a copy of the SCUM Manifesto in her purse, and has loaded her iPhone with videos of angry misandrist ideologues calling for the total destruction of the male gender. She fancies herself to be Dworkin reincarnated, and when she's not busy worshiping at the altar of Valerie Solanas or anticipating the collapse of the patriarchy, she's running around with steel tipped boots looking for male crotches to crush.

Reports have been streaming in over the last few months of this anti-heroine's vigilante efforts against predatory male ravers. Whenever she spots a man getting out of hand at a party, she dives in foot first, and lands a good swift kick to her target's balls. She's meted out her brand of street justice to at least five of these hyper aggressive males. Her targets were all well deserving, according to witnesses. They where either gropers, misogynists, jocks, or douchebags with little to no regard for the boundaries or desires of the people in their company.

The men who have suffered through her wrath have all been too ashamed to lodge a complaint with the police. Their egos would shatter if they had to publicly acknowledge that a tiny little ball of feminist fire managed to beat them in a fight. She might play dirty and start with a kick to the nads, but she always gives the men a good minute or two to recover before she piles into them some more. From the people who've seen this woman strut her stuff, she could skip the ball kicking and go straight to the fist throwing and still beat her targets to within an inch of their life without breaking a sweat. Some folks have even gone so far as to say that these men are lucky all she's done is kick them in the balls.

"That girl is a hero, and more of us need to follow her lead," said one of woman who witnessed the vigilante in action last week. "There are far too many men out there who behave like pigs and are never get called out on it. Maybe if more of us started kicking men in the balls, they'd start treating us with more respect."

Would physically attacking men whenever they act inappropriately encourage them to grow up and start treating people with respect? Our lady warrior of the night seems to think so, and she might be right.

Men of the rave scene; don't go harassing women at the parties you attend, or you might just get your balls kicked in.

Are teenage ravers getting high on their own feces?

That's what officials at one Montreal school board believes. These paranoid bureaucrats have sent out letters warning parents about the dangers of raving, and tucked beneath the boiler plate fear mongering about date rape and death by dehydration is an unusual warning against the Zambian drug known as jemken. Officials believe that jemken use is endemic in the Montreal rave scene, which should baffle anyone who has ever went to a party in the city.

Jemken makes meth look high class. Sniffing glue and huffing exhaust pipes are caviar compared to this toxic drug that was born in the slums of Lukasa, where children trapped in world of poverty spend their free time at the sewage ponds, where they prepare jemken. Jemken is done by filling bottles with human waste, leaving just enough room at the top of the bottle for methane to rise while its putrid innards ferment. It takes about a week before a bottle of jemken is ready to be consumed, and the high lasts around an hour.

The drug gained notoriety outside of Lukasa when news outlets like the BBC began covering its existence in the mid nineties. Soon, children all over the world were experimenting with this sludge budge. A series of threads on 4chan show teenagers making it and huffing it, scare stories about its abuse have popped up all over North America, with police departments warning that jemken is a gateway drug that will lead to more serious abuse if it isn't curtailed. Some cities, after learning about jemken's existence, began enacting more stringent controls over sewage facilities to make sure no one is going around stealing crap and turning it into jemken.

Bureaucrats and politicians constantly overstate the dangers of drug abuse to the point of absurdity, and drugs like jemken help emphasize this. The youth of North America are not huffing bottles of their own shit, and ravers in Montreal are not taking jemken at parties. In fact, if drug dealers were to start selling jemken at raves, they'd probably start losing business. Who in their right mind wants to buy drugs from someone who carries a bag full of shit with them wherever they go?

Jemken does exist, but it's uncommon in North America, and even if it were common, the only real danger it poses is to human dignity.

He's only thirty years old but he acts like he's just two steps away from being sent to a retirement home. Everywhere he looks, he sees the specter of old age stalking him with a wooden cane and a Matlock DVD. When he sees his reflection in a mirror, the first thing he does is check for grey hairs and new wrinkles. His fear of the golden years has turned him into an obsessive health freak. He desperately wants to stay forever young, and for the last nine months, he's invested all his time and money into finding the elixir of youth.

His body was the first battleground in his war against aging. He used to be a flabby ass raver who could barely dance for more than a couple of minutes before running out of breath and having to sit back down. That's changed. He took the Body For Life challenge early this spring, and since then he's lost over forty pounds of fat while packing on some serious muscle mass. The Body For Life challenge is a workout and diet regimen that aims to radically alter a person's physique, and it apparently works judging by his personal transformation. He credits his flab to fit metamorphosis to lifting weights three times a week, eating six smaller portioned meals every day instead of he usual three large meals most folks eat, and to supplementing his diet with whey protein, creatine, and a variety of natural herbs and vitamins, all habits he picked up during the challenge.

However, getting fit is only one part of his overall war against aging. He started noticing that as he got older, time felt like it was moving faster. This realization prompted him to start studying the psychology of time. His research eventually brought a few studies to his attention that showed that, as people get older, routine begins to dominate their lives. Routine has a way of shutting parts of the brain down and making behavior automatic. The less people have to think about things, the less grounded they are in the present, the easier it is for time to slip past them unnoticed. The studies show that people who live varied lives, lives full of new experiences that force them to adapt, are much less likely to feel as if time is fast.

Novelty forces people to focus on the present, while routine draws their attention away from the present. Noticed how slow time seems to move when you're looking at a clock? New experiences are like staring at the most awesome clock ever. Time slows down without it sucking balls. When our pro-youth raver found that out, he immediately started making his life more random. He introduces himself to the unexpected and the exotic on a daily basis. Over the last month, for example, he's helped out at a Unitarian church fundraiser, he crashed a Sikh wedding, he went out drinking with a bunch of homeless people he met in a soup kitchen, he took a free Fox Trot dance class, he attended the Opera, and he saw Rammstein. That's just for starters. Every day, he does something a little bit different or outrageous. He's constantly experimenting with his surroundings, trying new things, asking new questions, and introducing himself to complete strangers. He wants variety. Craves it.

Getting fit and living a full and varied life have absolutely transformed him, but this transformation hasn't helped assuage his fears of turning grey. That's why this raver is busy at work trying to start The Montreal Transhumanist League. He's serious about living forever, and he wants to find as many like minded people as he can and help fund the kind of scientific research that might make his dream of immortality a reality.

For now, the Montreal Transhumanist League is a small affair, and only has a handful of members, but it's raving founder has big plans for it. He'll be throwing a party fundraiser in the summer, and is already in talks with several life-extension researchers about funding their work. And his ambitions don't stop there. He's got a thousand plans up his sleeves.

Who knows? Maybe he'll get his way. Maybe a Montreal raver will prove instrumental to finding a cure for aging. Immortality might be just one party away.

He was speeding down the 401 at a hundred and eighty an hour. There was a joint between his lips and a bag full of MDMA under his seat. His passenger, a Montreal promoter, was sound asleep, and blissfully unaware that the driver was staring death in the face while hurtling down the Trans-Canada. Something had snapped in this speed freak's mind. He had stopped caring about life. He just wanted to go as fast as he could.

It didn't take long before the cops were on his tail, sirens blaring. He didn't care. He just kept driving. This didn't go on for very long, but for a brief moment of time, the mad lead the police on a merry little chase.

Whatever had gone wrong in his head snapped back into place, and he realized the world of trouble he was now in. He pulled over. The promoter woke up just as the car came to a complete stop. He had no idea what the hell was going on, but he knew that there were a couple of cops walking towards the car. He turned to the speed freak driver and started yelling at him just as the cops knocked on the passenger window. The promoter rolled them down and piles of smoke started to escape from the car.

The police officer looked at him, eyes aghast, "it smells like a grow room in here." She then pointed to a sign not too far off from where the car had stopped. "You see that sign over there? At 160 kilometers per you get full demerits and you lose your license. You have any idea how fast you were going?" The driver shook his head and sighed. "A damn good deal more than that. Your lucky you didn't kill anyone"

The cops cuffed both ravers and threw them in the back of their cruiser. They sat there for over an hour as the officers waited for the K-9 unit to show up. The dog ripped through the car, and it wasn't long before it found that bag of MDMA under the driver's seat.

Both men denied that the drugs were theirs. "We let someone sleep in the car last night. They must have put it there last night and forgot it."

The two men were brought to the local jail, where the officers had them take off their pants. "You might try to hang yourselves with it." They spent a cold pantless night in that cell before being released on bail. They had to sign a statement promising that they would no longer hang out with each other but when they asked how they were to get home, the police officers turned a blind eye as the two left the station together.

Months later, on the day of their trial, their case was thrown out due to a technicality. The speed freak's car was so dirty that officers wrote in their report that it was a gray vehicle, when in reality, it was yellow. This simple mistake ruined the entire case against the duo. Cleared of the charges, the speed freak went back to terrorizing the highway with his yellow beast. The promoter, though, vowed never to ride with him again.

A furor has erupted in a Montreal North community after it was revealed that nine teenage girls from a local high school were all impregnated by the same man. The girls in question met this chronic inseminator through the rave scene. This mama-making machine was a fixture at the hardcore parties they attended, and he invested a considerable amount of his time and money in wooing them.

He had plenty of both because his parents are stinking filthy rich. He's twenty four years old, and hasn't worked a day in his life. He'll never need to. He's the sole heir to a small textile empire, and was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His upbringing has been eccentric, to say the least. He hasn't had a lot of experience with being rejected, scolded, or attacked, and is utterly baffled at all the negative attention that his sperm giving ways has attracted.

Our young father of nine spent several years in Japan growing up. During his time in the land of the rising sun, he was introduced to the glory of Japanese girl bands. He was especially fixated on Morning Musume, a massive group that features a rotating cast of talented young women. He started dreaming of having sex with all of them and as the years went by, his fantasies became more and more extreme. Eventually, he decided he wanted to bring these fantasies into the real world. He knew he was never going to bed an entire Japanese girl band, but that didn't mean he couldn't get the next best thing: a harem of young Canadian beauties.

He started scheming and plotting. When he was twenty years old, he decided he wanted to build a polygamous commune in the Eastern Townships. He bought the land where this commune would be built on his twenty first birthday, the day he gained full access to the trust fund his parents had set up for him. He spent the next several years scouting out for the perfect women.

Problems kept plaguing him. The women that he seduced never seemed to stick around. They certainly didn't seem like they wanted to be part of a harem. His solution to these difficulties was two fold -- he would start pursuing young teenage girls, since he believed them to be far easier to seduce. He would also impregnate them, which would guarantee that they would form a long lasting bond with him.

His plan was a success. He found some young, naive little thing, and won them over with his good looks, charming ways, and exciting lifestyle. He'd have the girls introduce him to their friends, and then convince them over drinks that they should join his harem. Apparently, his sales pitch worked.

The girls are adamant about their desire to stay with their raver sex god, though their parents are less than pleased with that idea. Raverboy, meanwhile, has escaped to Vanuatu, where he was originally born. He was raised in Montreal, and considers the city home, but he's willing to make a new life in the bucolic Pacific Island nation. The country has never signed an extradition treaty with Canada, which means if the state decides to charge him with statutory rape, there's not much they'll be able to do. He's safe as long as he stays put.

And that's his trump card: once the girls turn 18, he says he'll pay to bring them and their children to Vanuatu. Unless the state clearly states they won't pursue him, all nine families are going to lose contact with their daughters and their grand children. He might have lost his dream of starting a harem in Quebec, but starting one in the Pacific sounds a heck of a lot better. That's probably why he thinks all the rage and legal threats sent his way might have been the best thing that ever happened to him.

An Ottawa raver died Thursday in what police are describing as a freak accident. The teenage party goer had left the venue of a dubstep event to relieve himself in a nearby patch of foliage when an overhead powerline snapped in half and swung into him. Investigators are uncertain as to what caused the powerline to break, but the impact of the line falling on the raver's neck was enough to kill him -- he was dead before he was fried.

You'd think a tragic death like this would be enough to keep the police busy, but as party goers realized what happened, they started to stream outside and gawk. One of these ravers, a 29 year old porn shop employee, made an inappropriate joke about crispy ravers being delicious, which was overheard by a friend of the deceased.

The comment sent the dead boy's chum into a furious rage. The kid picked a stick up off the ground and whacked the bad comedian right across the head, sending him flying into the ground, where he was then jumped on and pummeled by the boy.

Officers had to pull the distraught teen off of the porn peddler. The boy wasn't charged with an offense though, and the x-rated comedian apologized to him for his complete lack of social grace. Just when the teen seemed to be calming down, the older man then offered the kid a voucher for the porn shop he worked at. This offer upset the boy to no end, since he thought it trivialized what had just happened to his friend. He started yelling at him with renewed intensity, which prompted the officers to restrain the teen in the back of one of their cruisers. They released him after he had settled down, and by then the man who had antagonized him was long gone.

A funeral for the deceased has been set for next Friday, where no one is expected to make any jokes about crispy ravers.

This tiny downtown pizzaria is pulling in some big bucks through a highly illegal, but incredibly delicious side business. The owners of this greasy establishment sell more than pizza pies and diet pepsi -- they also peddle a variety of tasty, drugilicious concoctions. Pot brownies, hash butter, cocaine cola, mushroom soup, opium tea, whatever your epicurean heart desires, these pizza pros have it. Their buffet of treats is sure to leave you with a good, long buzz.

Their prices might not be the best in the city, buty they're one of the most reliable providers in town. Not only can you buy your high on the premise with a simple code word and a knowing wink, you can also have your choice of munchies delivered to your flat. The pizza boys cover most of the island of Montreal, though the further out you are, the more you'll have to pay for the delivery.

Thank the pizzaria's owner's son for the existence of this incredible drug buffet. He used to work as a delivery boy for his dad, and eventually noticed that three quarters of his customers were high on pot. He realized that most druggies are too damn lazy to make their own food, and often order out to satisfy their cravings. He figured he'd satisfy two of their needs with one trip, and started offerering them drugs to go along with their pizzas.

He was worried about what his dad would do if he ever found out about his little operation, but to his surprise, when the dad eventually figured out his son was dabbling in the drug trade, he didn't chastise the boy -- he egged him on. He told his son he should broaden his horizons. Stop focusing on pot, and start focusing on every drug under the sun! And don't just give it raw, but cook it, bake it, shake it, and make it tasty. The son obliged, and created the now legendary buffet.

Business is booming and the father and son drug dealing duo are now talking about starting some franchises. The only thing standing in their way is their fear of getting caught, but considering the incompetence of the justice system, that's not all that likely. A justice system that has spent over a hundred million dollars on a single trial -- the Pickton case -- is a system so inefficient and incompetent that it's a marvel that any bad guys are ever caught.

Not that these pizza pioneers are bad guys, though. They're anti-heroes who risk the wrath of a remorseless, contemptible, and dehumanizing state apparatus, all because they engage in consensual trade with nominally free adults. The good news, though? Each time you get high, you punch the government in the nose. That's no joke: every law you break that doesn't result in police action against you helps undermine the state's legitimacy. Each time you toke up, each time you sniff a line of candy, each time you drop a tab of acid, you are rejecting the government's authority over you. These tiny acts of rebellion are accretive in nature, and overtime, they start joining together to create a culture of contempt for the state and it's power over people. That doesn't mean taking drugs is going to topple the government, but it does mean that taking drugs can help turn the government into a farce worthy of ridicule and scorn.

Ravers, your body isn't state property. Prove it to yourself by finding these fine purveyors of tasty pizza and delectable narcotics. Order up a storm! Their current special, the Party Combo, is pretty epic. It includes a pizza pot pie, a two litre bottle of cocaine cola, a small tub of hash butter, and a loaf of poppy bread. Delicious? You bet.

A Montreal promoter is currently under investigation by the police after allegations that he ran one of the cities largest prostitution rings reached their ears. The promoter, who is a stalwart of the city's avant garde electro scene, reputedly started his illicit trade in human flesh back in the fall of 2003. He was good friends with one of the men who dominated Montreal's meth trade at the time, and the two of them hatched a plan that involved sexually exploiting women that became addicted to the drugs they peddled.

Their modus operandi was to provide young teenage girls with free meth, heroin, and crack. Then, once their addiction firmly established and their morals were fully abandoned, the two men would coax the women into turning tricks to pay for their recently acquired drug habit. What started out as a small operation of maybe a handful of girls eventually blossomed into a full fledged enterprise with nearly forty girls spreading their legs at the behest of their raver pimps.

Eventually, the promoter got greedy and pushed out the meth dealer who had helped him establish this prostitution ring. He got some hire muscle to chase the dealer off the island of Montreal. The dealer settled down in Ottawa, where he's since gone straight. He's currently working at a gas station not too far from Parliament.

With his former business partner out of the way, the promoter began a period of rapid expansion, and started cutting corners in order to maximize his profit. He seemed to be completely oblivious to the fact that his actions, which were increasingly brazen, would eventually invite the scrutiny of the police. Maybe he had a reason for being so laisser faire about his prostitution ring, since it did take nearly seven years for the police to even realize that it existed. His time has finally come though, and his prostitution ring now lies in tatters.

In a perfect world, this raver pimp would get tossed into jail, never to see the light of day again. However, our justice system coddles villains. Chances are, this man will spend maybe a year or two in prison, an inadequate punishing consider all the destruction that he wrought over the last decade. When he gets back out, chances are he'll go back ruining lives for pleasure and profit, and the courts of this country will shrug their shoulders and say "eh, who cares."

It's the Canadian way.

This nerdy ravewaver thought he had scored an epic win after landing a date with a hottie he met through Craigslist. She was a gorgeous busty blond with big blue eyes, legs that went on forever, and a waist that would make Christina Hendricks jealous. This woman wasn't only out of his league in the looks department, she was in an entirely different galaxy. He was the milky way, and she was the sunflower. That's how far a part the two were.

You'd think his brains would have made up for his lack of looks, but she outclassed him on that front too. He's a well paid sysadmin who often zips around the country to give speeches at conferences on behalf of the company that employs him. He's a smart cookie. She's just smarter. She's an M.D working on a Ph.D in a very specialized field, and is currently collaborating with one of the world's top hematologists on some fancy ass project. Basically, her IQ is as a high as her breasts are big.

Why would a beautiful genius with a rack that gives grown men heart attacks go trolling Craigslist for dates? It probably had something to do with the fact that she was a crazy pervert.

The full story of what happened during this raver's date from hell is a tightly guarded secret he won't divulge. We know how the evening started -- at a coffee shop on St-Denis. And we know how the date ended -- at 3am, with the nerd half naked, covered in his own filth, and stranded at a park in the South Shore. How the nerd went from clean and downtown to dirty and in the middle of nowhere isn't a complete mystery, though. The raver nerd called a friend to pick him up, and that friend managed to squeeze enough information out from him to paint a partial picture of the night's events.

The woman kept changing venues, dragging the nerd from one place to another. Every time she brought the nerd to a new location, she would escalate things sexually. At first, the nerd was really digging that. He started the night flirting with her at the coffee shop, then they started kissing at a bar, started making out at another one, then he got a handjob in an alley. That's about the time things got weird. Her sexual favors took a turn for the unsettling. She started asking the nerd to do some pretty out there stuff, stuff that he was too embarrassed to tell his friend about.

The last thing the nerd and the hottie did together was play a game of shit football, which was apparently less disturbing then some of the activities that the two engaged in earlier that night, because it's the only one the nerd was willing to talk to his friend about. What is a game of shit football? It's like a scatological version of Russian Roulette. You fill a condom with shit, then you throw it at the other players until it breaks open on one of them. The player who gets splattered with the broken condom has to take off a piece of clothing, which triggers the second round of the game. The game ends when one of the players loses all of their closing. That person is declared a bottom, and has to spend the rest of the night fulfilling the sexual desires of the other players.

After the game of shit football, which the nerd lost, the two had outdoor scat sex. Then, for reasons only the raver knows, the woman ran off with his pants, leaving him to fend for himself. He was thankful to find that his cellphone had fallen from his pants during the woman's vanishing act.

When his friend asked him what the hell was wrong with him, the nerd said he didn't regret a damn thing. It might have been disgusting and humiliating, but it was the best sex he ever had.

Not all promoters are starry eyed, kitten hugging waifs who throw parties out of the kindness of their hearts. Some event organizers are in it for the Benjamins. They throw raves to make a mint. They don't earn cash by selling tickets or energy drinks, but by controlling the flow of drugs at their events, just like clubs. Parties are a high risk, low margin business. The only way to make serious cash in the rave world is by helping people get high.

A decade ago, that job went to the bikers, but now that they're on the outs in Montreal, we're starting to see more and more promoters hooking up with street gangs. This is truer of dubstep, jungle, and drumstep events then it is for the psytrance or hardcore scenes. One crew of drumstep boys got in a nasty little argument with one of Montreal's more nefarious gangs a few weeks back, and the gang decided to get some revenge last weekend at one of their parties.

The guy who founded this drumstep outfit was the target of the attack, though several bystanders were also hurt. The founder was beaten, mugged, and pepper sprayed. A random girl at the party who witnessed the attack was beaten after she tried calling for an ambulance, and her boyfriend was almost knifed when he tried to stop the attack. The security at the event did what they could to put an end to the fracas, but they were pushed back. Eventually an ambulance showed up, but the gangster brats tried to shoo it away, telling the driver that they weren't needed.

The medics had to wait for the police to arrive before they could do their job, but by then things had gotten nasty inside the party. One DJ was hit with a brick, and the founder's girlfriend had her skull fractured by a crowbar. The gangsters, meanwhile, threw a canister of tear gas on the dance floor, and the chaos that followed helped mask their escape.

Let's hope that this kind of violence won't become endemic to Montreal's rave scene.

He's a ladies' man with a party van. Wherever he goes, he brings a party in tow. He spends his days cruising the city for hot women and good times. The back of his ravemobile is equipped with the finest liquor, the hardest drugs, and the tightest music system money can buy. His ride is so epic, that people don't even flinch at the fact that he's a forty five year old man who surrounds himself with twenty year old women. They call him Papa, he calls them doll, and their evenings are spent in an erotic free for all.

Papa loves the party life so much, that he refuses to ever stop. This often causes him a considerable deal of trouble, but he's an act first, think later sort of fellow. His lengthy criminal record would attest to that. The most recent of his tangles with the law took place several days ago, when he refused to leave an empty parking lot that he and his ladie friends were loitering in. Their van was blasting out acid house so loudly that the neighbours had called the cops the complain.

The police eventually showed up and asked the crew to leave the area. Papa wasn't having it. He told the officers he had no intention to leave, and when they insisted, he started throwing punches. The cops caught them and threw a few back his way, which incited his little harem into action. They started piling on to the officers. The girls weren't the fiercest of fighters though, and it wasn't long before Papa and his dolls were all rounded up and arrested.

Have no fear, Papa fans, because the man with the van always pulls through. No matter how often he breaks the law, no matter how often he finds himself in prison, he always ends up back on the streets, sharing phat beats with loose women and loaded men. The lesson you can learn from Papa's misadventures is that, most of the time, when you break the law, the consequences aren't that bad.

Rave on, kids. Life is short. You'll lose more by following the rules then you will by breaking them.

She was young and out for fun. This suburban princess from Pierrefonds had just turned eighteen, and to celebrate her first day as an adult, her friends brought her downtown for a night of non-stop partying. They started with a bar run at 8pm, turned to clubbing at 11pm, before wrapping the night up with some after hours fun at 3am. By the time they reached their final destination, the ladies were all drunk and tired. They needed a boost of energy, so they decided to buy some cocaine from a dealer at the club they were at.

Our suburban princess had never done any hard drugs before. She was all pot and beer, and maybe a few mushrooms now and then. Coke, though, was a whole other beast, one she wasn't prepared to ride, as she would come to learn.

Our festive lasses threw caution to the wind, and headed for the ladies room to sniff a few lines of nose candy. Most of the girls handled the rush with aplomb, but the princess didn't fare so well. Half an hour after her dance with the white stuff, she was throwing her clothing at people on the dance floor, yelling like a lunatic, and basically acting like a two year old on a sugar high. Common sense had escaped her, and she was now in some kind of weird delirium.

She became seperated from her friends, but didn't care. She decided she wanted more coke, but realized she had no money left on her. She looked in her purse, took out her bank card, and decided to take some money out from the club's ATM machine. Unfortunately, the machine had a small line-up in front of it, and she was too coked up to want to wait. She tapped the shoulder of the guy in front of her, who was a complete stranger, gave him her bank card and password, and asked him if he could take out some money for her while she was out dancing. He could find her on the floor when he was done. The man smiled, said sure, and off she went.

The rest of the night is very fuzzy. She woke up the next day at her friends house with a terrible hangover and very little knowledge of how she got back home. She vaguely remembered giving a total stranger her bank card though, and started to freak out. When she couldn't find the card in her purse, fear started gripping her heart. She logged into her online bank account on her friend's laptop and was crestfallen to discover that it was $500 lighter than it had been the day before. The stranger she gave her card and password to had maxed out her daily withdrawal limit. She called the bank, canceled her card, and spent the rest of the day beating herself up for being so stupid. She swore never to do cocaine again, which isn't surprising. It's a hell of a drug.

The webmaster of a popular Montreal nightlife website is being hailed as a hero by the city's police after he stopped a bipolar teenager from jumping off the roof of a six story apartment building. This commendable act of heroism took place after a night of reckless debauchery -- yes, last weekend, a night of senseless excess saved someone's life. Had our webmaster stayed home to study instead of have drunken sweaty sex with a half dozen people, a teenager would be dead today.

Our raver savior had spent the night boozing up a storm at a Fetish Club with a bevy of bondage loving transgendered beauties. He was on his way home with this group of decadent sensualists for a good old fashioned orgy when a member of his entourage made a joke that had him laughing his head off. The webmaster glanced up at the sky in a moment of mirth, only to notice a guy standing on the ledge of a nearby building.

He pointed the man out to his friends, and a mix of panic and shock came across their faces when they realized they were about to witness someone commit suicide. The webmaster immediately took control of the situation. Despite being as drunk as Mel Gibson at a Ku Klux Klan keg party, he got grounded and took command of the situation.

First, he had a leather clad drag queen call the police to tell them what was going on, then he sent two other members of the group to see if they could climb up the building through one of its fire escapes. Meanwhile, he'd try to get in through the front door. The rest of the group would stay behind and keep an eye on the jumper.

Unfortunately, the front door was locked. The webmaster started buzzing every single apartment in the building, hoping against hope that one of them would open the door. None of them did. The building didn't have an intercom, so he couldn't warn any of the tenants about what was happening. He gave up after a few minutes, and decided to check in on his friends who were trying to climb the fire escapes.

There were two sets of ladders, one on each side of the building, and like many fire escapes, they were the kind that were easier to climb down than they were to climb up. The last portion of the ladder had to be pushed down from the second floor before it could reach ground level, and it was impossible for the group to reach the ladder by jumping. The webmaster had his friends look for a dumpster they could use to reach the fire escape, while he started picking up rocks and throwing them at the windows of people on the second floor.

One of his rocks hit a window so hard it broke. Within seconds, the tenant of the apartment he hit opened what was left of his window to yell at the webmaster. He told him he was going to call the cops. The webmaster retorted that he had already done that because someone was trying to jump off the roof of his building, and that if he didn't do something quick, that person would break his neck, which was a lot more valuable than the tenant's window. He told the man to push down the fire ladder, and was apparently so persuasive that he did it within seconds of being asked.

The webmaster then called out to the friends he had sent to look for a dumpster , and the three sex fiends rushed up the fire escape, with the tenant not too far behind them. Once they got to the top, the teenager was still standing on the ledge, rocking his body back and forth, inching his way towards certain doom. The kid didn't even bother to look at the people who had intruded on his meeting with the grim reaper. He just stood there, rocking to and fro', locked in his own world.

This was when something remarkable happened. The webmaster, upon seeing the fragile boy who was a step away from death, turned into some kind of drunken Dr. Phil. He unleashed an epic, life affirming, soul enhancing love letter to existence. The exact words he said are lost to time, but his speech was profound enough to actually move the teenager away from the ledge he had been leaning over. He turned to face the webmaster, tears in his eyes. The webmaster approached the teenager, and the two of them hugged for a very long time. The teenager was sobbing into his chest for what seemed like hours. By the time the hug had ended, the police had arrived with an ambulance in tow.

The teenager, who lived with his single father on the top floor of the building, was brought to a hospital. The dad thanked the merry band of hedonists for stopping his son from doing something stupid, and the police told the group that they were all heroes for what they did that night, though they saved their greatest compliments for the webmaster.

That's not where the good times end, either. Several hours after this ordeal began, the group of BDSM loving sex freaks finally made it back to the webmaster's apartment, and he was treated to a royal feast of pleasure that went on for over three days. They fucked, they slept, they fucked, they slept, and they fucked some more. They celebrated life like champions, and had what they claim, was the best sex of their lives.

The greater your deeds, the greater your sex life. That's what our group of raving saviors now believe, anyways.

A couple late night lady revelers got in the wrong cab last week. The two women were drunk, they were tired, and they just wanted to get home. Unfortunately for the raving duo, the man who had picked them up was a lecherous creep. This tactless and tasteless cabbie made several inappropriate comments to the girls, and they were having none of it. Both of the women eventually started arguing with the driver, and demanded that he pull over and let them out. A brief kerfuffle took place as the women left his vehicle, which is when one of them told the driver they were going to call the cops on him.

The cabbie laughed it off, and taunted her, telling her to go right ahead. This is when the story takes a bitter turn. When the cops showed up, they were brusque, rude, and condescending. Our lady ravers were anglophones, and the police officers as well as the cab driver were Francophone. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but the officers at the scene were apparently racist as hell.

The cab driver was the one responsible for this entire imbroglio; he had made inappropriate sexual advances to his customers, and then when they asked him to pull over and let them out, he attacked them. This didn't matter to the police officers one lick. Because the women couldn't speak french, they decided the entire problem was obviously their fault. When they told the cab driver that he was free to leave and that he had done nothing wrong, the women started arguing with the officers, which is when they threatened to arrest them.

The women shut their mouth, and decided to back off. The two were understandably upset with their police encounter. They felt disempowered by the exchange, and have lost considerable faith in the justice system as a result of what they experienced.

Unfortunately, we live in a society where the police are rarely held accountable for their actions. Police abuse is endemic in Canada, and our political class has no interest in addressing the issue.

A Montreal promoter is thinking of calling it quits after his last illegal squat party crashed and burned. Like most of his parties, this bash was an off the grid free for all that didn't cost a single red cent to attend. He threw the party on the second floor of an out of the way, abandoned bakery over in Verdun.

There was plenty of drugs, booze, and sex on hand, but he expected that. Hell, those vices are half the reason he throws these little parties. What the promoter didn't expect was for his gas generator to start leaking midway through the night. The generator was initially placed next to the DJ booth, but when the room started reeking of gas, he tucked it away in what used to be the bakery's freezer room. Shortly after he set the generator up in this poorly ventilated location, several acid heads decided to drop in and turn the place into a make-out room. When the promoter tried to shoo them away for their own safety, they got indignant and started yelling at him.

Instead of fighting with them, he decided to move the generator to an even more remote area of the bakery -- a backroom that was impossible to get to without walking over a sea of broken shards of glass. The room had a small window that lead out to the fire escape, and he decided to place his generator on its sill.

Later that night, the cracked out ravers who had given the promoter a hard time decided, for reason's of their own, that they were expert mechanics. They trekked out to the backroom to try and fix the leaky generator. They failed. Miserably. One of the wunderkind raver mechanics tripped over the power cable, which accomplished three things: it brought the music to an abrupt end, it shut the lighting off, and it sent the man hand first into the sea of glass that covered most of backroom's floor.

The promoter rushed to his generator to try to get the power back on. He quickly jumped over the fallen raver, who was bleeding everywhere, though you could hardly tell in the darkness of the room. The promoter got his hands on the cable that the drugged out mechanics had unplugged, and right when he was about to turn the power back on, he heard a terrifyingly loud and agonizing scream of pain. He was so startled by the yell that he accidentally pushed the generator off the window sill and on to the fire escape, which was apparently falling to pieces, because when the generator landed on it, the whole thing collapsed. The generator and a chunk of the fire escape hit the ground with a thunderous boom, a noise that was loud enough to get the attention of a police car that just happened to be passing by the building when all of this went down.

He looked out the window in shock, then quickly turned around when he saw that the cops were about to park their car. This was when he found out what had caused the blood curdling yell that had precipitated this disaster: one of the wounded raver's friends had decided that glow stick fluid would make an excellent healing balm for his cuts. After he managed to break one in half, he started pouring its raver juice over his wounded friend's hands. The moment the toxic goo hit those cuts, the guy started yelling out in pain. The promoter was baffled by their stupidity, but he didn't have the time to deal with them. The cops were on their way, and he had to get as much of his equipment out of the place before the cops got there.

Everyone managed to escape, though the wounded raver had to have his hands treated at a hospital. The promoter, meanwhile, didn't lose anything besides a few lights and a crappy generator. Well, that's not entirely true. He also lost a great deal of respect for the rave scene. He'll probably get over it though. After all, most ravers aren't stupid enough to think that glow stick goo has medicinal properties.

Right?

A Montreal promoter has recently become estranged from his friends and families after embracing a disturbing new diet philosophy. He doesn't think people should eat animals, but he's not a vegan or even a vegetarian. He's an aspiring cannibal. For the last two months, he's been telling anyone who would listen that human beings should consider eating their dead; to do otherwise is a waste of food, and unlike eating animals, eating people is ethical since folks can consent to being eaten, while animals cannot.

His new point of view has been hard to stomach for those who know and love him. They thought he was joking when he first told them about his desire to feast on human flesh, but they soon realized he was dead serious about his passion for cannibalism. His friends and family are now concerned for his well being, and some of them suspect that he might be going through a psychological breakdown.

If he is going crazy, then he has to be one of the most grounded lunatics out there. He's been spreading the cannibal gospel for the last six weeks, and has converted at least a few people to his man-eating ways. This crew of cannibal connoisseurs are even talking about starting a non profit organization to advance their cause.

They think that if people want to eat each other, then the government has no business telling them otherwise. The rave promoter, as the leader of this small group, also argues that we could solve world hunger if we simply started eating our dead. He maintains that an enormous amount of human meat is wasted every day in funerals and cremations, and that this meat could be used to feed starving people around the world. This is a radical argument, so you can understand why people are starting to find this promoter unsettling to be around. Is he crazy though? Well, maybe not.

Who knows? Hundreds of years from now, our descendants might think we're crazy for burying people instead of eating them.

Values change. Maybe he isn't a lunatic. Maybe he's a visionary.