"He took my shirt! . . .He said 'come over here,' and I did. And he took my shirt." Joel starts stammering something else. "And then he. . .and then he. . ." He never finishes.

Our attention's drawn to the concrete floor. Lee's crawling on his hands and feet down at our knees. He pushes at our legs, forcing us back. He's making frantic pawing motions with his hands. His face is only a couple inches above the floor.

"What's wrong, Lee?" I yell. No response. Joel's staring dazedly. I grab Lee by the shoulders and haul him to his feet. His eyes are bulging and his teeth are grinding together.

"NO!" he shrieks. "LEAVE ME BE! . . .I DROPPED A ROCK!"

He flings himself back to the concrete, arms flailing in a maddened search. Other ravers close by, with cries and shouts of joy and wonderment, start throwing themselves to the floor as well. As these crazed addicts crawl and squirm over and under each other, word spreads swiftly through the warehouse, causing a domino effect of more frantic searchers.

With another loud screech the music cuts-out, giving way to the blaring voice of the DJ: "SPINNERS, DRUNKS, FRY GUYS, AND FELLOW RAVERS. . .HE DROPPED A ROCK!"

The DJ slams down the microphone and throws himself into the pack of scavenging hyenas. Joel and I are the only ones now standing—the entire mob is crawling, scouring the floor, in maddened, crazed pandemonium.

The battle is on for nearly five minutes. The whole time I fight to keep from losing my balance and being trampled. So does Joel. Finally, miraculously, Lee explodes to his feet, beaming with a look of triumph. "HA—FOUND IT!" he thunders, thrusting a clenched fist high above his head. Hungered gazes lock onto his fist. Time seems to stand still. And then he drops the dime-size white rock of crystal methamphetamine to his open mouth and swallows. The crowd on the floor watching seems to sigh.

And as these drunks, drug addicts, and other freaks of society begin to rise, a faint commotion is stirring near the rear door of the warehouse. Ignoring Joel, who's clutching my sweater for balance, I scan the scene. A shudder seems to ripple through the ranks, bringing frightful whispers, which soon reach my ears. The commotion at the rear of the warehouse grows. So do the whispers:

"Shh! . . .Cops!"

Oh shit!

The warehouse falls into silence. They're all sketching, I start to tell myself. They're all paranoid. . . .There are no—

Like a sudden earthquake and the violent grinding of the earth's shifting plates, a megaphone booms aloud from outside the warehouse, announcing the arrival of the Los Angeles Police Department. It's for real. The cops are here. A dull roar rises in treble into terrified shrieks as the growing mob rushes from the rear door where police officers in dark blue are starting to stream in.

"L.A.P.D.!" the bellowing continues from the megaphone. "NOBODY MOVE!"

This only feeds to the frenzy. The ravers are being carried as if on flood waters from a burst dam.