The David Guetta vehicule with the saucy name causes gridlock outside and inside Pacha every night of its Thursday residency.
Season passes are worthless, guest lists get ripped up. Doormen you thought were your friends will spit on your shoes. Gorgeous models will stab each other through the heart with six inch stilettos for a spot in the DJ booth.
Every inch of the dance floor will be covered in writhing bodies. If Dante Alighieri was French, F.M.I.F. would be his disco inferno.