One Hundred Nine

The cavernous room is brimming with garish decorations, clearly the work of a drunken wedding planner. An artificial aisle littered with neon-pink rose petals and orange and silver glitter defines the pathway between the rear door and the stage. Dozens of mirror balls hang from the ceiling, each one targeted by a unique colored floodlight, washing the room in a psychedelic kaleidoscope of light. No marriage could withstand this lunacy. Who could have blamed the bride for fleeing even before the ceremony started?