Debs told me I would need an avatar for the Masquerade, so I went into my wardrobe in search of an outfit that would suit a macabre masked ball. There was plenty there to fit the bill, garments I had worn as costumes over the years or quirky, dressy clothes I bought just for my own sense of identity. I settled on a pair of tight fitting black velvet britches with a deep red embroidered waistcoat, ivory poet shirt and full face harlequin mask with a long nose. For the hell of it, I added a vintage wig tied into a ponytail. When I drove round to Debs' flat, the door was answered by a masked lady in a beehive wig, painted porcelain face mask and a full Marie Antoinette ball gown.

"Hello, well-dressed handsome stranger," she said. "I am Ermintrude. And you are?"

I pulled a name from the air.

"Humperdink, madam. Charmed to be at your service."

"This is you dressing down, is it?" said Debs as I stepped into the flat. "We really are a pair."

She explained what I could expect tonight.
"I've had a word with Uncle Morbid, who runs the place. He's eager to meet you, but understands that you'll want to have a look around first. If you would like to do an initiation deathplay he'll keep the option open, but there's something else big happening tonight so it won't be the main event."

"What else is happening?"

"It's the finals of a tournament they've been running, apparently they have something special lined up for the loser. Both contestants are friends of mine, so I want to be there to see it live. If I get killed before then I'll need to watch it on the closed circuit TV up in Limbo - that's the backstage area you go to to unmask after your avatar's dead."

"Your avatar tonight being Ermintrude?"

"That's right. I've just started developing her and if we do your initiation tonight I'll need to kill her off as your sponsor, but I'm quite happy to. Seriously, though, Humperdink?"

"Be glad I'm not Englebert."

We went in my kit sports car, we must have looked quite a sight in a small open top dressed like a pair of eighteenth century European aristocrats, pulling up in front of an old country house which turned out to be the main building of Morior Studios. We signed in at the front desk before making our way through to a central hall, where a growing group of masked partygoers were mingling, drinking and dancing to neoclassical rock music. There were masked staff members in matching uniforms serving at the bar and chatting with members.

"The people that work here are called angels," said Debs. "They can get killed as many times as they need to be because they're meant to be nameless surrogates. But like all the rules here that one can be subverted."

"Do you like subverting rules?" I asked.

"Very much. It's one of my ways of taking control."

On a stage platform in one corner were two guillotines set up at right angles to each other.

"Guillotines are a staple because they're easy to set up and reset," Debs explained. "I think they'll be playing some games on there early in the evening, but if you decide to go through with it that's where we'll be ending the night together."

"This is still not a date," I noted.

"Sure it isn't," chuckled Debs, "Just like these aren't couples' costumes."

The first few games were played in the main hall. The twin guillotine setup was used to pit two contestants at a time against each other in a head to head quiz game, the loser of each round being beheaded. The players' heads rested on an extended platform looking up at the blade, so the heads didn't actually fall - but they did see the blade plummet down into the stocks over their necks with a shower of blood emanating from within. The losing victim would convulse, then lay still to be loaded into a coffin trolley which was wheeled out as the next contestants took their places. There were other rooms as well - in the cellar was a mediaeval dungeon set where four players stood in iron maiden cabinets, competing in a card game to decide which would be closed, impaling the occupants. It was all over the top fun with copious amounts of gore, which everyone concerned got into enthusiastically. There were no particular stories being told and some avatars had more effort put into them than others, but for what it was it was well done.

Then came the main event, which was set up outside in one of the hangars. A large industrial concrete mixer dominated one end, with a chute dangling ominously above two metal and plexiglass cubicles, each with a stool inside. It wasn't hard to imagine what the purpose of this was.
The two contestants made theatrical entrances to music. A flamboyant character in a pink party dress, doll mask and bangs entered to a new wave punk track, while her opponent was a calm, slim character in a fine tailored tuxedo and top hat, entering to west coast jazz. They were introduced as Didi and Steve respectively and each took a seat in one of the cubicles.

"I made the outfit for one of these," said Debs. "Can you guess which one?"
I examined the two avatars. Didi's image was complete kitsch with a dress that looked more upcycled than custom made. Whereas the lines of Steve's tuxedo were immaculate, clearly made to measure what was a distinctly feminine figure.

"I'll go with tuxedo guy," I said. "Only I'm guessing it's a woman in there."

"Right and right," said Debs. "My friend Maise. She's really into dressing up and comes to me a lot to make her avatars, this time she wanted to try playing as a man in opera dress. She wears it well, I'm almost hoping she wins just so she can keep the avatar a little longer."

"Almost?"

"Wait and see."

"What about Didi? Is that really a girl?"

"You decide," said Debs with a smile. "But when talking about avatars, we go with the character being presented."

That was fair enough.

They began playing a word association game where each attempted to trip the other up as the cement mixer churned away noisily behind them. When a player failed to come up with a suitable word in time, the cement chute would swing over to their tank, play continuing even as the stream of wet concrete began flowing. At that point the pace picked up dramatically, with the chute swinging back and forth rapidly between the two tanks. Then, just as it appeared to have settled above Didi's tank with no time for escape, Steve made an egregious error (one I suspected was deliberate) to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory just as the cement began to pour over the edge. It splatted noisily onto the crown of his top hat, crumpling it visibly as it flowed down around his shoulders and began filling the tank. Within seconds Steve was waist deep, with the cement rising rapidly up his body. As it reached his chin I saw him bite at something between his teeth, just before the cement flooded up over his face and head, submerging him completely. The flow finally stopped, leaving the wrecked top hat floating at the top of the tank, thick with cement.

Didi was released from her tank and began to celebrate, while Steve conspicuously failed to emerge from the cement filled tank across the stage. Eventually stage hands appeared to dismantle the walls of Steve's tank, leaving a solid grey block of what had apparently been quick drying cement, still crowned with the ruined hat. There was no other sign of its occupant, who apparently was set fast in a concrete tomb.

"OK, that's a good effect," I said to Debs. "It really looks like he's still in there."

"That's because he is," she replied. "Or she is, I'd say Steve the avatar is definitely dead now. It's a special cement recipe they use that can set around you without ripping you to shreds. She has an air pipe to breathe through - it doesn't really do anything because of the whole being actually dead thing, but Maise isn't fully recalled yet so don't mention that when you meet her. It's one of the things you have to figure out for yourself."

"That air piper was what she... he... bit when the cement reached neck level?"

"That's right."

The stagehands loaded the concrete block onto a truck and wheeled it out of the hangar doors into the night. Debs told me they'd break Maise out round the back, then she'd go up to Limbo to shower off, change and relax.

"Now then," said Debs, looking directly at me. "Two questions: one, what do you think of our club here? And two, are we dying tonight?"

I became aware of somebody else stood beside me, a man in a fine dark suit with a trimmed silver beard and moulded mask who I recognised as the compere who had officiated throughout the evening. He nodded a greeting, then waited silently for my response.

"Well," I said, addressing Debs while acknowledging the newcomer, "I am impressed at the level of effects on display and the commitment everyone has to the roleplay. That cement game was wonderfully dramatic, I think the outcome was pre-planned but can't be certain. I'd be very interested to see if there was a longer storyline linking that with other games."

I saw the man nod thoughtfully at this,

"As for whether I want to be a part of it, which I believe is what you're asking, well of course I do. I don't think that was ever in doubt, was it?"

Debs - or Ermintrude - beamed at this. She turned to the man beside me.

"Do we have enough time left?" she asked.

"Of course we do," said Uncle Morbid. "Two On A Guillotine?"

"Two On A Guillotine," said Debs. "We'll see you in there."

Uncle Morbid turned to me.

"I'm very pleased to have you here," he said. "I hope we can talk in Limbo afterwards."

We returned to the main house, where we were directed to wait by the entrance to the main hall. Uncle Morbid stepped on to the platform with the twin guillotines and briefly addressed the crowd, finally introducing us as Humperdink and Ermintrude. I really wished we'd picked better names, but it was too late now.

A Chopin nocturne began to play as we made our entrance through the crowd toward the platform, the masked faces smiling with encouragement as we went. The music continued as we mounted the stage and were locked face up into our respective guillotines. We were left to stare up at blades, waiting for them to fall as the music entered the coda. I looked across at Debs, masked in Venetian costume as Ermintrude, it really could have been Ellen lying there, the two of them were peas in a pod. She looked back at me and winked. Then, as the final cadence completed the blades were released, slid down with a terrible metallic scream and crashed into the stocks, piercing a pack to send blood gushing out in every direction. We shook with the impact and lay still, waiting as the stage hands released us both from the guillotines, loaded us each into separate caskets and wheeled us away.

In the darkness of the coffin I felt the movement of being wheeled along a carpeted area, taking a hard right into an elevator, which took us to the upper floors. We were taken a short distance from there before the lid was opened to reveal Uncle Morbid looking down at me.

"You can take your mask off now," he said. "Humperdink's dead and we need to talk."