This psytrance crew had just finished throwing one of their most successful parties ever. The mess that had been left behind was epic in scale, and several volunteers had stayed behind to help clean it up. To show their appreciation, the promoters decided to order pizza for all of them. Their generosity would set off a chain of events that no one could foresee. One of the volunteers, a deco artist, was joshing around with a prominent DJs girlfriend, when he decided to slap her in the face with a slice of everybody's favorite Italian dish.

He thought his act of food warfare was hilarious, but his victim didn't share his mirth. She looked at him in shock, tomato sauce and cheese dripping down her face, before launching into a furious tirade against him. At the heart of her anger was the fear that she was going to get zits because of his food throwing ways. When he started laughing her concerns off, something in the back of her head snapped, and she lunged at him. She landed a good punch right in his face before the other volunteers pulled her off of him. The promoters asked the deco guy to leave, which he did, though he couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

The deco artist didn't fully appreciate how upset the girl was with him. He thought she would eventually calm down and let things slide, but that never happened. Later that week, he saw her at a club her boyfriend was playing at, and the first thing she did upon seeing him was dump a glass of beer over his head. Several days later, he came back home to find a voodoo doll hanging from a noose attached to the handle of his front door. There was a little note attached to the doll's chest with a single word written on it: "YOU."

The deco artist has tried making peace with this woman on several occasions since receiving the voodoo doll, but she wants nothing to do with him. Prior to the pizza fight, she and her boyfriend would often drop by his place and share a couple beers, but since the night of the attack, they haven't been by even once. His food slapping ways have cost him two friendships, and made him an unwelcome figure among certain psytrance circles.

The deco artist has since learned his lesson, and now believes that food should never be used as a weapon.

Prince William, Canada's next king, was recently engaged. It's kind of a big deal. Over in the United Kingdom, the wedding day will be a national holiday, and everyone will get to play hookie from work. However, the Brits aren't the only ones who are going to use the royal wedding as an excuse to get wasted and party -- a group of royalist ravers in Montreal are planning to throw a huge bash to celebrate the union of the King and Queen who will one day rule over them.

Tentatively titled White Wedding, the party will take place on April 29th, the day that Prince William and Kate Middleton's will tie the knot. They chose to get married on the 29th to accomodate Prince Harry, who will be enjoying a two week break from military service at the end of April.

While the royals are getting hitched at Westminster Abbey, the royalist ravers in Montreal will be partying at a mansion in Senneville. Apparently, they've found a wealthy blue blood patron who is funding the whole damn shindig. He's even paying out of pocket for buses to bring people in from the city to the mansion kind of like those old school parties that used to bus people from Milton / Clark to the middle of nowhere.

The anonymous benefactor used to rave back in the nineties, and he thought it would be nice to relive his youth on the day one of his idols, Prince William, says his wedding vows. As a result of his largess, many people will benefit.

I'm sure his won't be the only party going on to celebrate the royal wedding, but it'll probably be the fanciest.

Parents of a small suburban community are up in arms over one party promoter they claim is preying on their children. The thirty five year old event organizer apparently surrounds himself with a bevvy of underaged playthings that he recruits at the bashes he throws. Even sixteen years olds might be past their prime for this man, who obsesses over the underdeveloped.

There's something off about a guy in his thirties who hangs out with children, so when a neighborhood family man spotted the promoter at a park flirting with a bunch of young girls, he confronted him. This lead to a brief kerfuffle under the monkeybars, and ended with the event organizer on his back, face on the ground, sobbing like a baby. The party man didn't take kindly to getting his ass kicked in front of his darling dainties. He decided to reclaim his dignity by redoubling his efforts to corrupt the young lasses of the suburb.

Our intrepid promoter began throwing suburban raves every week. At first, he was throwing legitimate parties, but the cops kept shutting them down This didn't stop the man, it just drove his efforts underground. He started breaking into buildings and throwing squat parties. These weren't taking place in abandoned buildings, either. He threw one party at a high school gym and another party happened on the rooftop of a local bank. The events weren't massive affairs, and usually he'd be lucky to get a turnout of seventy five people, but they were big enough to serve his purpose -- to impress the underaged.

Teenagers aren't the most reliable people when it comes to keeping secrets. Eventually, parents found out about what this faginesque promoter was doing, and got the police involved. The parents wanted his head, but they probably won't get it. That's not to say the promoter isn't in trouble -- three of the girls who were regulars at his parties admitted to sleeping with the man, so he was facing multiple charges of statutory rape.

DNA evidence later showed that the parents made the whole story up because they were uncomfortable with their children hanging out with the perverted man. He is now suing for defamation of character.

Four men and three women, all of them from Pointe-Claire, are now looking forward to a winter full of community service as penance for throwing an illegal rave at Cap St-Jacques earlier this summer.

The police realized something was amiss in the peaceful borough of Pierrefonds-Roxboro when they noticed an abnormally large amount of late-night traffic headed towards the beach, which isn't open after 10pm. They set up a road block, and started turning people away, but by then a huge group of people had already gathered at the Cap. Instead of risking the wrath of an increasingly hostile group of party goers, the officers moved the ravers over to an unused parcel of farm land with the consent of that property's owner.

The event had been organized through an online social site, and well over eight hundred people ended up getting through before the barriers went up. Instead of risking a riot, the cops let the party go on, but vehicles were stopped and searched as they left the party. Anyone who had any equipment of any kind ended up getting arrested for holding an unlicensed event.

Most of the defendants claimed they weren't the ones who organized the party, while a few of them claimed that they only brought the gear because they assumed that the party had been licensed.

Stanley Feinbaum, 25, Jacques Lavigne, 18, Nicholas Hedgerow, 19, Jonathan Sterling, 22, Natalie Hochman, 18, Julie Thibault, 20, and Carolyn Fennyl, 23, all entered guilty pleas and were sentenced to 100 hours of unpaid work as well as fined $750 each.

Every time you spend money at a club, Satan has a baby.

Clubs are dens of iniquity, covered in filth and full of scum. When you support them, you support the criminals who usually run them. You'd be hard press to find a club that isn't in league with the underworld. Gangsters, bikers, and thugs all have hard-ons for the nightlife scene. They obsess over it the same way teenage girls obsess over Twilight. They don't necessarily want to own all the clubs, but they do want to control the drugs that move through them.

These crooks take your money, and then they re-invest it in wonderful things like human trafficking, drug smuggling, racketeering, and the arms trade. Giving money to a club is no different than giving money to the meanest, dumbest, most violent person you know. This mean bastard might let you listen to his music and dance in his apartment, but later that week when you're at home on the couch watching the Big Bang Theory, he'll be on a flight to Turkey, where he'll buy a dozen Ukrainian women with the help of the money you and your friends gave him. He'll then rape them, get them hooked on heroin, and pimp them out to a bunch of Wallstreet bankers. Your vices make the world a more terrible place.

Of course, not all clubs feed the underworld. Only most of them. Consider this one Montreal club that was recently shuttered. It had a name that would have made Shigeru Miyamoto proud. Its business practices? Not so much.

The club was brazen about its desire to control the flow of drugs that happened within its walls. You were frisked for illicit substances at the door, and if the bouncers found any on you, your stash would be confiscated only to be resold later by approved dealers. Folks who managed to sneak stuff in would live to regret their success if they were caught taking them by security. Not only would they get their drugs taken away from them, but their smuggling would be rewarded with a little battery, and maybe a touch of assault too.

The worst was reserved for small time peddlers who tried to deal on the premise, though. They could look forward to being dragged out to the back alley, where they'd have a couple of enforcers break their fingers. More than one ravewaver found this out the hard way after trying to sell some of their own supply to friends.

Most clubs are not nearly as aggressive as this place was, but that doesn't mean they're any less dirty. Clubs rarely make their money from selling tickets or alcohol. Their cash comes from selling drugs, and if you ever found out what their drug money was being spent on, you'd probably hate yourself for ever supporting them.

Want to have a good time and a clean conscience? Stick to smaller parties, one's that are too tiny for gangsters to bother with. And if you do buy drugs, try to get it from small operators who aren't affiliated with the kind of criminal organizations that rule over most of our city's nightlife. You'll sleep better at night.

Unless you're buying meth. Then you won't sleep at all.

Two ravers are facing several charges after being accused of placing a cat in an oven and then trying to set it in on fire. The alleged kitty baking incident took place at a loft in Mile End. Apparently, one of their girlfriends caught them in the act, freaked out, and called the cops on them. Which begs the question -- how the hell do kitty roasters even manage to get girlfriends? Is there some kind of dating site for psychopaths out there? A friendfinder for the deranged?

Not only are the men in hot water for their kittene cuisine, but when the police showed up at their place, they found a lot more than a kitty cat with burned paws; they also discovered that their desktop background was a wonderful picture of the two boys setting an abandoned church on fire, as well as several giant cases of labeled CDs that had been stolen from a local music shop a few days earlier.

The boys knew the cops were coming, and yet they chose not to hide any of the stolen goods that were blatantly on display in their apartment, and they chose not to close their laptops or change their background image to something that was slightly less incendiary. They just sat around drinking beer and smoking pot until the cops showed up. Not because they didn't care, but because they were incredibly stupid.

The police rescued the kitten, and charged the two dumbasses with arson, burglary, and cruelty to animals.

Anyone who has ever watched the Antique Roadshow knows that some people have hidden treasures in their house. One lucky Montreal raver found that fact out for himself when he stumbled across a dusty old painting tucked away in his parent's attic.

He was helping his folks move out when he discovered the old family heirloom, which his own parents had forgotten they even owned. It had been given to them as a wedding gift by a crazy uncle with a twisted sense of humor. The painting depicts a pack of wild dogs eating a horse. Hardly an appropriate wedding gift. The couple found the thing so hideous that they tucked it away and forgot all about it.

Their rave loving son, though, wasn't nearly as dismissive of the piece. He found it so fascinating that he tracked down the crazy uncle, who was still alive at eighty five, and asked him about it. Turns out the painting had been gifted and regifted as a prank for over a hundred years. The crazy uncle had got it from an old friend of his as a birthday gift when he was twenty one, and that friend had gotten it as a Christmas gift from his brother years before that, and that brother had gotten it as a joke from his wife, and the wife had gotten it as a joke from her dad when she was a little girl. He didn't know where her dad got it from, but he did know who had painted it -- an obscure, revolutionary era French painter named Alexandre De Languisse.

The raver looked up who De Languisse was, and after putting in a great deal of time and effort, he discovered the man had a small cult following among a certain class of rich weirdos. Marilyn Manson, for example, is rumored to own three of De Languisse's paintings.

De Languisse seemed to specialize in horribly painted scenes of brutality and violence. Rape, pillage, plunder, cannibalism, the more graphic, the better. His stuff isn't exactly beautiful, but it is intense, and it's very sought after.

The raver's family will be selling their own dog-eat-horse piece at an auction, where it's expected to sell somewhere north of $100,000.

Who knows what other treasures are buried in the attics of the Montreal rave community?

In the back alleys of the Old Port, barely a stone throw away from the Basilica Notre Damn, a grungy Jungle party took place in a non-descript loft that attracted the scum of the city: frothing at the mouth ravers that were coked up, blitzed out, and angry at the world. The party's line-up of has-been DJs who haven't played raves since meth went out of style and Technodium closed shop wasn't the worst thing about the party; it was the punk ass brats who flipped their lids and started causing mayhem. They broke windows, smashed up pavement, knocked down trash cans, and even managed to over turn a couple of cars.

The event organizer, which is probably too strong a term for the jackass who threw this little disaster, would have avoided a lot of grief if he had kept the noise down and ensured that none of the ravers spilled out into street while the party was going on. He didn't, people complained, and the cops came by. They not only shut the party down, but the dumbass promoter is now facing a mess of trouble for selling booze without a license, as well as for selling it to minors. He's also certainly going to be evicted, so let's just say he regrets ever throwing the party.

Unfortunately for the police, the kids didn't leave the loft peacefully, and instead started to riot as they spilled out into the streets. Things got tense, and the kids started to fight the officers. Before you knew it, you had a bunch of brats dancing on top of cars, throwing rocks, and basically making a nasty stink of things. Many of them were chanting "Baise la police!" while taunting the officers to come and arrest them.

Which they did.

It didn't take long for the riot cops to show up, and mere moments after they arrived, a dozen ravers were taken down. Most of the kids got away, but those who didn't now have a date with the courts. Here's hoping they throw the book at them.

This moon worshiping raver leaves a trail of broken hearts and police reports wherever he goes. He can't enter a person's life without making it worst. He's a taker, not a giver, and when he takes, he takes everything he can. He's incapable of empathy, and there isn't a single kindhearted bone in his body. Like most cunning sociopaths, he makes up for his lack of heart with an abundance of charm.

He might be incapable of feeling sympathy, but he's a master at drawing it out of other people. He will make you cry like a ten ton onion. He's a confidence man, a huckster, a snake oil peddler.

He starts by reeling folks in with an improbable sob story about how terrible his life is. His apartment just burned down. His girlfriend killed herself. His parents were run over by wild horses. He was mugged by a dozen rabid twelve-year-olds. He was once molested by Mr. Rogers. He was framed for Michael Jackson's murder. He's recovering from amnesia and can't remember where he's from. Whatever. He'll come up with a yarn worthy of the Days of Our Lives, and deliver it with the eloquence and grace of a Shakespearean actor. No matter how ridiculous his story might be, it'll sound real.

Dozens of people around the country have bought his lies and felt his grief. And then, when he asked them if he could spend some time at their place while he gets back on his feet, they open their doors, their arms, and their hearts to him.

A week later, their stereo system is missing, their laptop's been pawned, their bank account's empty, and if they're daughters were stupid enough to sleep with him, they'll have chlamydia too.

No matter how often he does it, he never gets caught. He never pays a price for his crimes. He just keeps trolling the world, lying his way out of one disaster in to another.

Watch out, Canada. The Moon Man is still out there, running his scams. You've been warned.

His job was to save her life, but he decided he'd rather rape her instead.

Some punk ass bitch slipped roofies into this young girls drinks while she was out clubbing at a local raver watering hole on Jean Talon. Her friends called for an ambulance after they realized booze couldn't explain how out of it their friend was.

Grabby Hands the paramedic showed up, all smiles and teeth and reassurance. He loaded the girl into the ambulance with the help of his non creepy partner, and then they headed for the hospital. Grabby Hands spent the trip there alone in the back of the ambulance with his patient. He was supposed to be monitoring her condition, but instead he gave her some penile injections and took pictures of it on his cellphone.

Unfortunately for the paramedic, his victim wasn't knocked out, she was just paralyzed. She was fully aware of what he was doing, so his creeptastic ways were reported to a nurse once the girl had recovered enough to talk about it.

Grabby Hands denied the charges, but saliva on his victim's chest matched his own, which sealed his fate. When the cops asked him to hand over his phone, he thought he'd be clever and give them his wife's phone, which he pretended was his own. That didn't work out too well for him.

Now he's not only been charged with sexual assault, but obstructing justice for trying to pull a fast one over on the cops.

It's pretty bad out there when the people who are supposed to help you out are the very one's who will take advantage of you. Given the way the justice system operates, expect Grabby Hands to get off lightly.

He's a crazy drug peddling lunatic with a penchant for violence. Three years ago, he took a young stoner under his wings, and introduced the boy to the Montreal rave scene. The pair have been inseparable ever since, and when this young kid turned seventeen last month, the older man decided to help him lose his virginity. He didn't do this by bending the boy over a couch and taking it himself, though. He might be a terrible person, but he isn't a cradle robbing card carrying member of NAMBLA, either.

Instead, our crooked buddy got one of his clients to service his young protegee in return for an eight ball of cocaine. The woman who made this raver boy a man wasn't the classiest of wenches. Not only was she willing to pop a barely seventeen year old kid's cherry in exchange for coke, she was down with doing it despite being twenty years older than him, and nearly eight months pregnant.

The boy and the woman did the deed in the back of the dealer's Volvo, which was parked just outside a bar over in the Plateau. It took all of five minutes for the big bellied, baby carrying coke whore to thoroughly devirginize the child. The older man snapped a few pictures to celebrate this transformative moment in his young pupil's life. As for the woman, she felt bad about how long the kid lasted, so they hooked up again later that week for a little longevity training.

A raver was hospitalized on Tuesday after being brutally beaten by a very angry and photo shy acquaintance. The beat-down took place after the raver posted several pictures of the man on a social website. When his acquaintance found out about the pictures through some friends, he asked the raver to take them down. The raver refused, and things escalated. Eventually, the acquaintance tracked the raver down to a bar he often hung out at on Tuesday nights. They started arguing, which is when the acquaintance grabbed a beer pitcher and smashed it over the raver's head.

The raver fell to the floor, and he jumped on top of him, then proceeded to punch him repeatedly in the face. It didn't take long for people to pull him off of the raver, but by then the damage was done -- the raver was knocked out, and had to be rushed to the hospital. He received a concussion, a broken nose, a split lip, and lost two teeth in the attack. The acquaintance, meanwhile, was arrested for aggravated assault.

The pictures at the heart of this feud have since vanished from the raver's profile, but people who have seen them claim that the photos were essentially benign. The pics were taken at a party both men attended on Halloween, and the attacker was only briefly featured in a few of them, and even then, only in the background. They weren't unflattering photos, either. That didn't seem to matter to the attacker, though. Apparently, he's a huge privacy buff, and was pissed off that anyone would post his picture online without his permission. When the raver wouldn't take the pictures down, he went ballistic.

Two promoters were wrapping up after a party on Sunday, when the freight elevator they were taking broke down. Unfortunately for our dashing duo of party making hedonists, the building manager was out of town for the weekend, and they couldn't get a hold of him on their phone.

The building they were trapped in was almost entirely deserted on weekends, and the two floors they were caught between were completely empty. The few businesses that were open were on the first two floors, and they only used the freight elevators on weekdays. The ravers tried yelling out for help, but no one ever heard them scream.

They thought about calling 911 to see if the fire department could help pry them out of their situation, but one of the promoters was paranoid that if they called, the cops would show up and arrest him for drug possession. He smelled like pot, and the backpack he had on him was full of illicit contraband that he'd been selling throughout the night. He convinced his friend not to call them for help. Instead, the two kept calling the building manager, hoping against hope that he'd show up sometime soon.

Eventually, after wasting about thirty minutes in the elevator, the promoters had a simple and obvious idea -- to call one of their friends to come to the warehouse and help free them. Had they made this call sooner, it would have saved them hours of discomfort. They didn't. Their phones had almost been out of energy when they first stepped into the elevator, and had run out of juice by the time they decided to start calling people who were actually in Montreal.

The terrible twosome were now completely stuck in this freight elevator, and there was no way they were going to get out unless someone found them, or the building manager checked his voice mail. Well, the manager did end up checking his voice mail -- Monday morning, at 6am. When he found out what happened, he called maintenance, and sent some guys over. They got the freight elevator working, and when the doors opened, they found the two party boys spooning together on the floor.

They were in that elevator for nearly eighteen hours.

Bright side to the story? Building manager gave them a refund on their rental. A day locked up in an elevator saved them a thousand bucks in rent.

They came from outer space, and they threw some of the most awesome raves ever. This alien sex cult got into the raving business back in the beginning of the 1990s. No one know's the exact reasoning behind their foray into the bacchanalian nightlife of Montreal, though it probably had something to do with recruiting the young and the willing to their crew of saucer building hotties.

Backed by mysterious financiers from Switzerland, the cult would throw a gigantic party every month in the Old Port. They would fly in an eclectic line-up of top international DJs to bust out premium beats at their swanky and very pricey digs. How expensive was the place they threw their parties at? Very. It cost them $10,000 a month in rent for the location. Add in the cost for the top DJs they had coming to play, and their parties were some of the priciest early bashes to take place in Montreal.

Eventually, some ravers got suspicious about the cult's parties. They became convinced that the sex crazy saucer worshippers were slipping subliminal messages into the music and visuals being played at the party. The beats where hypnotic on purpose; they were meant to convert the party goers to the religion of free love and space travel. Worst of all, the cult allegedly worked with the police to have some of their own party goers arrested on drug charges, while simultaneously protecting their own dealers and suppliers from getting busted.

This caused a backlash against these epic bashes, and soon the cult stopped throwing their massive parties. Many old timers who were at these raves believe that the saucer worshippers pioneered the kind of profiteering that took place a few years later when the biker's got into the Montreal's rave scene. The cult showed how far ravers could be pushed before they turned their back on a promoter.

A 15 year old Pointe-Claire raver had to change schools after her classmates found out about one of her secret hobbies. Some people collect stamps, others paint or play the guitar. This girl loved to masturbate with the help of the vegetables in her family's fridge.

On it's own, that wouldn't be too strange. Millions of cucumbers have been sacrificed to the gods of the Nether Regions. Teenagers can rarely afford dildos and vibrators, after all, so they have to improvise. They raid the kitchen pantry, or prowl the grocery story for cheap alternatives. It's pretty normal.

What's bizarre is what the girl did once she was done playing with her food; she'd put it back in the fridge, then watch with glee as her family ate her soiled goods at the dinner table.

Everyone would have remained blissfully ignorant about her naughty ways had she not involved her boyfriend in them. She would sometimes have him pleasure her with a spare carrot, which the two of then put back into the fridge.

Teenage love rarely lasts, and when their relationship crashed in an explosion of anger and recrimination, the now ex-boyfriend let it out at school that she recycled her veggies in some fairly nasty ways. Soon, all the high-school brats had nicknamed the girl Carrot after her favorite vegetable. They teased her, taunted her, yelled at her, and basically made her life a living hell. The harassment was intense, and after a couple of months, she pulled out of her classes and transfered to an alternative school.

Obviously, her parents found out about her play and serve ways, and she's now seeing a psychiatrist who is attempting to address her sexual deviancy.

A raucus male party goer lost a chunk of his manhood recently after receiving a sub-par blowjob by a young woman in braces. He met the woman at a sandy themed party, and after a few hours of dancing and flirting, the two sequestered themselves in a dark corner where they had a steamy and passionate make out session. Unfortunately for the man, the woman had just gotten braces and wasn't that used to them yet.

She was too rough with his package, and her braces scraped against his glans, causing superficial trauma. This wouldn't have been a major problem, except the man didn't get his penis checked out afterwards, despite the fact that he was in quite a bit of pain. He thought it would go away on it's own. It didn't. It got worse.

Much, much worse.

Two days later, the tip of his penis was covered in a bunch of erosions that combined together, like evil Japanese mecha robots, to form an unbearably painful ulcer. He couldn't walk a step without gritting his teeth and trying to hold in screams. When he finally got to the hospital, the ulcer on his penis was covered in necrotic debris -- dead chunks of glans that had to be removed.

Now his little soldier is a mangled mess who won't be seeing action for quite some time. The doctor's say he'll be able to have sex again once his penis is done healing, but he won't feel nearly as much from the experience as he used to, which isn't surprising since a quarter of the tip of his second head is now gone.

Worst of all? His penile problems could have been avoided if he had gotten immediate medical attention.

This 35 year old party papa has a dirty way of having fun. Until recently, he's suffered from poor digestion for years, and would sometimes go a week without laying one down in the washroom. Several months ago, his doctor put him on a high fiber diet, and to the party man's surprise, not only are his bowel movements shaking things up more frequently, the size of their loads have shot up dramatically. His shit used to be short, thin, and inconsistent, but now it's long, it's wide, and it's solid too.

So large and wide and hard are his fecal fortunes, that he now invests them in some fairly foul business. Inspired by stories he read on the internet about iceberging, this crusty raver placed some of his own shit inside of a freezer, hoping the cold would make his crap strong enough to use as a dildo.

His first few attempts of shoving his own shit back up his ass were less than successful, as his makeshift sex toys kept breaking upon insertion. Undaunted by these early failures, our filthy friend eventually hit on the idea of creating a silicone mold of his own penis by using a make-your-own-dildo kit he purchased at a local sex store, then mixing his shit in with the liquid rubber that goes into the mold. This worked, and so this fellow now has a fecal speckled dildo replica of his own penis that he uses on himself fairly frequently.

Our dirty daddy raver takes a great deal of pleasure of showing his friends his filthy, home-made dildo. If you ever visit his apartment, he'll almost certainly make you look at the damn thing.

Over a dozen ravers were hospitalized at a weekend party after taking MDMA tabs that were laced with para-Methoxyamphetamines, or PMA for short.

PMA is a serotonergenic drug synthesized from anethole, which is easier for crooked chemists to get a hand on then then safrole, the starting chemical used to make MDMA. The drug poses significantly higher health risks than MDMA while providing a far less pleasurable high. It's like coming up but never arriving, a sensation that has a way of convincing people that they'll finally get to their destination if they just pop another tab. Unfortunately, the dose response curve is steeper than ecstacy's. While lower doses can have a euphoric effect, higher doses are known to cause nausea, vomiting, severe hyperthermia, unpleasant hallucinations that can overpower whatever euphoric effect the drug might have, tachycardia, hypertension, agitation, confusion, convulsions, the severe breakdown of skeletal muscle, cerebral hemorrhages, and death.

Unlike MDMA, PMA is much more unpredictable, and a dose that's harmless for one person might be life threatening for someone else. To give you an idea of just how volatile PMA is, despite MDMA dwarfing the former's share of the drug market, PMA is still responsible for twice as many death than its older and more reliable brother. Two of PMA's more common street names illustrate perfectly the kind of reputation it has among drug users: death and dr. death.

The chances of meeting the grim reaper are significantly higher when users mix MDMA with PMA, which happens frequently in America since dealers over there often misleadingly label PMA ecstacy. This practice was, until recently, uncommon in Montreal, but apparently that might no longer be the case.

Go out and buy your drug testing kit, folks. Make sure you know what you're popping, otherwise you might as well be playing a game of russian roulette.

Officers in a small rural town outside Montreal are in a heap of trouble after using seized property to throw their own dance party. They used over ten thousand dollars worth of sound and lighting equipment that they had seized from a party promoter after he got caught dealing drugs at one of his events. The promoter was awaiting trial, and depending on the outcome on his day in court, his equipment might have been returned to him.

That's no longer a possibility, since the police completely wrecked his gear during their ill-conceived festival of excess. The officers, in a flight of madness, decided it would be a good idea to borrow the equipment from the locked room where they stored seized property, and use it for their own shenanigans. A half dozen officers, and several dozen of their closest friends, trekked out to a farm one of them owned and set the equipment up in a half-assed manner. They connected everything up to a portable generator, had one of their buddies pretend to be a DJ, then got toasted on drugs & booze.

It was basically a mad free for all, complete with out door sex, cocaine, and really bad music -- we're talking CDs of 90s albums by mainstream Quebec pop stars like Rock Voisine, Celine Dion, and the likes. Some of the party goers filmed the debauched and thoroughly cheezy proceedings, and the video somehow reached the office of the town's mayor. Now the police force is under investigation by the Surete, and it seems likely that everyone involved will get the boot, unless their union manages to save their ass.

The worst thing though? The cops didn't bother to pack up the equipment after it started to rain, and a bunch of it got fried. The next morning, when the cops realized some of the equipment was wrecked, one of the officers decided to finish the job by lighting it all on fire.

The party promoter will have to wait for his own trial to be over with before he can pursue the police department for destroying his property.

A close relative of one of Montreal's leading promoters was assaulted on Tuesday at Berri park. The 16 year old "victim" had decided to dabble in the world of drug dealing, and set up shop at the park, completely oblivious to the fact that other dealers might have a problem with him being there. The idea of drug dealers having territories that they defended through acts of violence never even entered into his head. He was under the impression that Berri was some kind of free market, a notion that the area's drug dealing incumbents quickly erased from their young competitor's mind. Not with erasers, but with hands, and feet, and other body parts.

Four dealers surrounded the abortive drug dispenser, pushed him to the ground, and began to drown him in a sea of kicks and fists. When they got tired of that, they took his wallet and his drugs, doused him in a stream of insults and indignities, and then, the coup de grace -- all four of his assailents unzipped their pants and began to urinate on the boy. When they were done, they walked away, and told the kid if he ever came back to Berri, they'd kill him.

Bloodied, bruised, and soaked with pee, the young wannabe dealer returned home, and vowed never to deal drugs in public again. His party promoting relative laughed in the boys face when he told him what happened. The promoter then informed his entrepreunerial relative that he had paid a relatively small price for his inexperience, and was lucky he got off as easily as he did -- they hadn't hospitalized him, after all.

Ravers throwing an illegal party in the Eastern Townships learned a valuable lesson on the importance of thoroughly checking out a location before setting anything up. The boys and girls who organized this outdoor shindig didn't bother to investigate the parcel of land they were squatting on, and missed the fact that the owners, and their three large rottweilers, were camping out for a hunting trip just a stone throw away from the party site.

It didn't take long for the owners to realize that ravers were trespassing on their property, and these gun toting country folks didn't take kindly to their presence. Instead of calling the police or asking the party makers to leave, the owners sent their surprisingly well trained dogs after them. Most of the promoters managed to jump into their van without getting hurt, but one girl received a small bite that thankfully didn't break the skin. Her friends managed to save her from the animal before it could do any real damage.

Once everyone was safely inside the van, the promoters sped off like bats out of hell, leaving behind three speakers, a subwoofer, and a portable generator, equipment that carries a price tag of at least fifteen hundred dollars. The organizers were lucky that they hadn't got around to setting up the mixer or CDJs, which would have set them back even more.

The property owners, after successfully chasing the ravers away, shot their guns into the air like Yosemite Sam. They wanted to put the fear of God into these kids, and it worked. The promoters spent the rest of the night texting and calling friends to make sure no one showed up for the party, since they wanted to avoid anyone having to deal with the rednecks who had attacked them.

A happy hardcore DJ was attacked at a house party this weekend. The DJ had been drinking with two friends when a young woman and her drug addicted boyfriend accosted the happy music man, and slammed a bottle of beer over his head. He stumbled under the shock of the attack before being piled into by the unhinged couple. Eventually, his friends managed to pull the attackers off of him.

Unfortunately for the trio, the entire house had decided to join in on the beat down, and soon the three men were being chased through the streets by a bunch of angry trustafarians who live in lofts that their parents pay for, and believe that studying politics at Concordia makes them rebels.

How a group of ravers wound up going to a party full of pretentious poli-sci students is a mystery, though the reason for the beat down they almost got at the hands of these single speed bicycle riding, Che Guevera t-shirt wearing "revolutionaries" is not. Apparently, the happy music maker once had a misguided fling with the young self-styled anarcho-feminist who attacked him. Instead of chocking up her youthful indiscretions to a bad decision -- and let's face it, sleeping with a happy hardcore DJ is never a good decision -- she decided to retroactively label their sexual congress an act of rape, a very serious accusation. The DJ adamantly denies the allegations, but the progressives who were at this party believe that folks are guilty until proven innocent, and that only accusers have a right to make a case.

Had the DJ been allowed to defend himself against his accuser, he would have informed the violent crowd of rich hippies that the sexual encounter that's at the heart of the accusations took place in a spectacularly public manner, that it was witnessed by several people who walked in on the couple while they were engaged in the sexual act, that the woman had complete freedom of movement and could have left at any point during the act in question, and that she never once indicated any displeasure with him while they were together. No violence occurred, no threats were uttered, she never said no, and both parties were conscious at the time of the incident. The DJs friends would have added, for good measure, that their friend was a wimp who couldn't win a fight with a corpse.

Eventually, the trio managed to escape their pursuers. Since then, the DJ has filed a report with the police, and will press charges against the woman if she ever attacks him again. He has told her if she's serious about her charges against him, she should bring them to the cops and let the courts decide his guilt. The DJ's friends, meanwhile, now believe that a man should never sleep with a feminist who hasn't signed a consent form.

An old-school psytrance promoter has been touting the benefits of amaroli after claiming it helped him cure his cold. Amaroli is the ayurvedic practice of drinking one's own urine upon waking up in the morning, preferably before sunrise. Amaroli practitioners don't drink their piss right as it comes out though -- they only collect it midstream, which is where the good stuff is. The urine that comes out first is apparently bad for you.

The pee-drinking promoter lives with several roomates, and none of them are happy with his recently acquired habit of keeping jars of urine in the fridge. The man is adamant about his self-made medicine though. He claims that auto-urine therapy has some amazing benefits: it promotes tranquility, fortifies the immune system, and increases a person's power of imagination. Scientists who have investigated urine therapy believe these benefits are partly achieved because morning pee is chock full of melatonin, the hormone that plays a key role in regulating a person's body temperature and sleep cycle. Low levels of melatonin are associated with depression, insomnia, and a host of other disorders.

Despite the possibility that drinking your own piss might actually be good for you, his flatmates remain unenthusiastic about the practice, and insist that the goa loving pee guzzler find a new place to store his bottles of yellow gold. They've suggested that he buy a mini-fridge, or a small cooler, but the promoter has rejected both suggestions. Since his name is the only one on the apartment lease, he's told his flatmates that if they're unhappy with where he keeps his pee, they can move out. This seems unlikely, so for now, the flatmates will have to learn to live with a fridge full of bottled piss.

Several people witnessed an outlandish spectacle this Friday at one of our city's finest night clubs. The brouhaha all started with a man clad in a track suit dancing by himself to some drumstep. The more he danced, the more excited he became, until he had pitched a tent right there on the dance floor. Instead of being embarrassed by his hard to miss erection, he was proud of his chubby, and used one hand to point at his pocket rocket, and the other to call out to his friends to come bust a move with him.

The two men, who up until this point had been drinking quietly at a table, actually took their buddy up on his salacious offer. Like him, they were wearing light material that made erections hard to ignore, and within minutes of dancing, they too were sporting wood. You now had three men wearing sweat pants and equipped with hard-ons dancing like those imbeciles from A Night At the Roxbury. The folks who saw what was going on were too shocked to say anything at first, but this quickly changed when the three men attempted to grind with some ladies who had not yet seen the stiff tentigos of their would-be suitors.

A large and burly man plowed into the trio shortly after their grinding attempt, pushing them off the dance floor. While this was going on, a group of women had alerted a bouncer about the creepy dancers, and the boys were promptly booted out of the club, where they are now banned from ever entering the place for life.

A raver that was looking for love on the internet instead found heartbreak last week. The raver had scored a date with a dashing gothic lolita he had met on a popular dating site, but the night before he was to meet her, he stumbled across a collection of pornographic pictures of her on alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.gothic, a usenet group. These pictures all had links on them advertising his date's porn site. His discovery proved problematic -- either he had to omit the fact that he had found out about her porn career, or he would have to tell her about what he had found and hope for the best.

Since this raver is both honest and stupid, he chose to tell her about his serendipitous discovery, and broached the subject with her over dinner. This, as you might expect, proved to be disastrous. His date started to cry. After telling him how mortified she was that he had seen those pictures of her, she explained that she had been taken advantage of, and that she dreads the day her parents find out about the site.

The story behind her foray into pornography will hopefully serve as a warning to many of you. Our lovely goth queen had just suffered a break-up, so her best friend brought her to one of the largest bars in Montreal in an effort to cheer her up. The two were dancing and drinking and having a grand ol'time when they caught the eyes of a charming yet manipulative slimeball photographer. The man in question supplied the two ladies with alcohol all night, got them good and wasted, and then convinced the two girls to take part in an impromptu modeling session over at his place, where he had the drunken ladies sign release forms. The result of their boozy sexcapade? They get the shame, he gets the money. Their photo set has been for sale online for the last two years, and apparently people are still buying.

Don't do porn while drunk. Save yourself the self-loathing. Otherwise you might end up having really awkward dates that blow up in your face.

The raver and the goth girl will never see each other again. The photographer though? He'll keep doing what he does so long as it makes him money.

For those of you who meet the man, hopefully you'll have enough presence of mind to walk away from him.

A West Island raver is currently in the dog house with his friends and family after his girlfriend found pictures of him having sex with her pet Yorkshire Terrier.

Two weeks ago, his girlfriend was chilling out at his place, surfing the web on his computer when Firefox's auto-fill function offered her a link to a prominent bestiality forum. She was looking for Digg but got Dog Fuckers instead. A quick search of her beau's hard drive brought up several folders of man-on-beast action. Videos, pictures, books -- whatever a dedicated dog lover would be interested in, he had it. His collection of anonymous puppy porn would have been bad enough, but then the girl found a folder named Paris, which was the name of her dog. She clicked on it and was horrified by the numerous photographs of her boyfriend engaged in a variety of indecent acts with her beloved pet. Doggy style, Cunnilingus, peanut butter fellatio, you name it, he had done it.

Humiliated by the fact that her boyfriend was sexually abusing her dog, she was at first reluctant to discuss the matter with anyone. However, after an emotional break-up, she informed her now ex-boyfriend's family about his particular taste in women (four legged & covered in fur), and asked them to get him some help. The family freaked out, her ex's sister told some of her friends, who informed the ex's friends, and now everyone knows about his bizarre sex life.

No one knows what his next move will be, but don't be surprised if he tries to turn over a new leaf by leaving Montreal and moving to a city where no one knows about his puppy pounding predilections.

A trance DJ found himself in the back of a police car Wednesday night after getting caught in the middle of a fight between his pornstar friend, some hookers, and a very angry pimp. The DJ and his greasy buddy were out having a beer at a bar near St-Catherine and St-Laurent, when the adult filmstar decided he wanted to score some snatch. Instead of trying his luck with the women at the bar, he chose to hire a hooker. He told the DJ he'd be back in thirty minutes, and went off in search of poon.

He knew where to look, so it didn't take long for him to find one. The pornstar and the hooker spent twenty minutes in one those hourly motel rooms in Montreal's red light district before the star decided he was unhappy with the quality of the hooker's work. He told her to stop, she asked for her money, and he refused to pay the full price. This didn't sit well with her. He didn't care. He left the hotel. She followed him. They started arguing. Her hooker friends, who were hanging out at the entrance of another bawdy hotel heard the argument, and made their way to over to the quarreling couple. Soon, the porn-star was surrounded by a bunch of prostitutes, all of whom were yelling at him. That's when the pimp arrived, and things got violent.

The trance DJ was still drinking beer at the pub, hanging out by the window, when he saw his pornstar friend, who had a bloody nose, running away from three hookers and a pimp armed with a giant metal chain. The DJ looked on in shock before deciding to run after the group to find out what the hell was going on. Before he could get any answers though, the cops arrived, and everyone involved in the chase was detained while they figured out what to do. The DJ spent an hour in the back of a cruiser with one of the hookers, who he later friended in real life.

The police took everyone's statement, but in the end no one was brought in, and no charges were pressed. The pornstar, the pimp, the hookers, and the DJ all went their seperate ways to live, fight and fuck another day.

Another week, another break-up story. This time, scissors and bleach won't make an appearance, but dog shit will. Lots of it.

A slightly loopy raver was so torn up after hitting splitsville with the love of her life that she concocted a very messy plan for revenge. This angry angel of doom spent a glorious morning in a Westmount dog park picking up as much crap as she could. By the time she was done collecting turds, she had eight pounds of the brown stuff piled into several plastic white bags. Our avenging raver then got on a bus, poo in hand, and traveled over to her ex-boyfriend's house.

After arriving at her destination, she proceeded to cover as much of his house with the stuff as possible. She proved herself to be a master of the fecal arts. Her work was both thorough and meticulous. She knew how to smear shit, how to place it, and how to throw it. Windows, door knobs, walls -- you couldn't move more than a few inches without finding turds.

Like any true artist, she signed her work. Left a lovely little note on her ex's door, and told him he was such a shit-head that she thought he'd appreciate living in the stuff. He was not amused, and it apparently took him quite a bit of time to clean the place up.

You know what they say... Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

A once darling Montreal DJ was arrested over the weekend in a public restroom where he was busy enjoying the finer aspects of a makeshift glory hole. He was charged with public indecency along with four other men. Our group of lustful adventurers were all dressed in Catholic priest costumes at the time of their arrest. Even our former wunderkind DJ.

A glory hole is a hole in a wall, or some other kind of partition, through which people either engage in various sexual acts or observe others engaging in those acts. The wall provides anonymity between the two sides. Common body parts that are inserted through the glory hole are penises, fingers, and tongues.

Detective Robert Dobbs of the Montreal Police said he discovered the priestly glory hole excursion after broswing the adult section of a popular online classified site. The ad in question was a call for religiously flavored anonymous public sex. The brazen nature of the act forced the police to shut it down. You wouldn't want a little kid walking into that bathroom where the glory hole exchange was going on.

Detective Dobbs was emphatic that glory holes put all their participants at risk.

"Some glory holes are perfectly legal -- if it's on private property and money doesn't change hands, there's nothing we can do. That doesn't stop them from being incredibly dangerous. You just don't know who might be on the other side of that wall. It could be a serial killer or a violent rapist. Someone might have a knife and use it to cut off whatever goes through that hole," Dobbs said.

A decade ago, Montreal was plagued by a mean spirited party promoter who had ties to the underworld. His buddies were bikers, and he himself was allegedly engaged in a slew of illegal activities.

This promoter was so utterly jealous of his role in the rave scene, that he would routinely find ways to shut down parties organized by the competition. Our devious event organizer wanted a monopoly on the Montreal party scene, and there was no trick too low, no lie too large, and no deed too evil that he wouldn't stoop to in order to get his way.

He did what he could to ruin other people's fun. If you were going to enjoy yourself on a Friday night, it better be at one of his parties -- or else.

This promoter often didn't have to resort to anything too drastic though, because his brother was high up the ladder at city hall. All the promoter had to do was tell his brother about a party that a competitor was throwing, and the city of Montreal would swoop in to shut it down. There would always be some kind of rational, some justification for closing down a party, but at the end of the day, the real reason the parties got hit was that a shady promoter was manipulating the city of Montreal into doing his bidding.

Given the extremes the man went to in order to knock down the competition, rumors of his involvement in the drug trade might not be unfounded. This would be ironic since he was also a big supporter of an anti-drug organization that used to have a large presence in the Montreal party scene. Members of this long defunct group would hand out leaflets on responsible drug use to ravers, and also ran a drug crisis hot-line that people could call. Their ultimate mission was to turn kids away from the evils of intoxication, so this promoter's support of the group was something of a bitter joke.

It's been years since he's thrown a party, and that might have something to do with the biker gangs having pretty much abandoned the rave scene for more profitable pastures. That's good for the party kids though. Raves are safer now then they were ten years ago, and promoters no longer have to worry about getting shut down by greedy gangsters.