Madame Reaper

You’re somewhere along a dusty stretch of I-90, where Chicago’s urban sprawl bleeds into a rural wasteland. Beyond an exit as nondescript as the next, a dilapidated building bears the words “Madame Reaper’s Gentlemen’s Club” in neon, coaxing you inside.

You’ve heard of this place. People have speculated as to what happens inside the club, but never above a whisper. They say she puts on a great show. They say that the most obscene clientele leave in body bags. Welcome to the club.

Vampire synth pop