The Witching Hour is every other Friday, from 11:58pm to just a half-hour before sunrise. The church closes down to get ready. The black lights are unplugged. The temperature is jacked up by six degrees. It's a humid, sweaty mess. Cover is a hundred dollar bill and still, people come by the busloads. It's like the lottery behind the red velvet ropes: many will enter, few will win. Except "entering" is what it's all about.

Inside the club, when the clock strikes midnight, that's when the party starts for real. The music is all bass and subsonics. The lights are shining down through blood red gels. The dress code is all-black or all-skin. And just about everything goes.

Everyone is tagged once they pay the cover charge and show a valid ID. An off-white wristband made from some tear-resistant paper. They say it's your ticket in.

The ink is invisible under normal light. But when seen under ultraviolet light, or when seen by UV sensitive eyes...

"28 F AB-" reads one. A cute redhead with a navel piercing.

The dude with a goatee and a leather jacket is "33 M O+"

Everyone is marked. But some wristbands are more straightforward. They're marked with a capital "V" and nothing else. V is for Vampire.

The vampires aren't looking at your eyes or your tits. Their eyes are locked on the code wrapped around your wrist. Because everyone has particular tastes...and the Witching Hour is hip to that.