The Establishment resident Wan King has lifted his head above the parapet of stock market trading programme MetaTrader 4, transforming himself at NIGHT into a VAMPIRE-like creature, spinning his VINYL DISCS in the presence of disinterested DEBUTANTES, who at his age have no interest in dirtying their WHITE SOCKS with him. Unlike its counterparts, it's sole aim is to SCARE OFF potential clients. TH
E ESTABLISHMENT PRIVATE MEMBERS CLUB was for greying, checkered slipper wearing ex-stockbrokers on the slide. It welcomed members, the scumescenti of Berlin and their blond, huge-breasted female guests. The Club professed to be a canvas called into existence to exhibit a mixture of art in all it's forms be they in musical form, painted, on video, projected, or whether encompassing naked frivolity, racist hedonism, drunken debauchery, sculpture, fascism, wanten acts of petty vandalism, whatever. Door policy was actually common sense to everyone living outside Kreuzberg but:
No tramps, no whiteys with dreadlocks, no beggars, no twats buying their first beer of the evening with copper money, no smuggling, no dogs, no spongers, no döner.
