Tommy. Game of HangMan for real.
Exiting his ever rusting once black mid-eighties Oldsmobile Sierra behind, coursing drunkenly down a dank alley that smelled of two nights of restaurant garbage and human piss. Rustling sounds of rats, mice and huge cockroaches like the hiss of voltage rising up a Tesla coil, growing louder with each step further.
Blinking 100 watt bulb fluorescent, shorting out and coming back, strobe lighting a descent to hell, Tommy goes deeper.
“Duhhhh-don’t go thhhhhar, “ some nicely suited man with stylish brown hair says to him. A voice of drug-annihilated uncertainty states. “donnnnn-g-therrrrrrrr.”
Tommy, taking grasp of this wasted man before him, smart black suit, tailored to fit, gold cufflinks, and the words given.
He also took hold of the blood covering white shirt and purple and blue tie riding down and gravity and darkness created crimson hues descending to his pants.
He witnessed this apparition crossing his path, its words hitting his mind like hollow points, smiling as he stepped aside to not reach its flailing outstretched arms greeting/warning.
Passing fucked up socialite, breathing deeper, Adidas smacking thwonks on bricked alley, going further, sex sounds in many absurd forms, stink of pork gone south on this humid Amsterdam night. Flies, no ending of muffled buzzing flies ascending as he walked to the doorway he sought.
Above the doorway, vibrant black-lighted illumination on florescent walls read simple words: Your god gave up on. Shed all hope. Its door, cold grey metal reaching warmer colours with its slowly rusting bottom having no peep-hole.
Tommy grabbed its knob, turning it clockwise, and went forth.
Graffiti colours of blues, greens and the brightest of reds greeted him with their contrast against flat-black walls. Wasted and water-stained flooring meets each step.
Huge muscled man with bald head and sharp expression comes from Tommy’s left. Blocking, putting him in check. Sporting a Swastika with a rainbow above it, Tommy wondering if he’d met some floundering zone where Nazi’s meet Homo’s.
Steady mind, wanting something else, accepts and stops. Running fingers through slight black locks. Confident, self absorbed and hungry.
“Show me your dick, fucker!” the gay Arian states with strength of tone and pitch. He places large left hand on Tommys right shoulder, clamping down like a misplaced Vulcan drop-zone, stopping him.
Tommy, obliging, unzips his fly freely. Shrunken penis falling from the fly of his faded Levi’s. Expression of facial continence as its weakness shown.
“Welcome to Amsterdam, American!” Nazi-Fag, sucking on a failing peppermint breath mint, motions Tommy into the grander reaches of this depressing hall to its steps leading up.
Inhaling deep the coming gloom, leaving smells of animal piss reaching whiffs of Super Hit and Jasmine inscents enveloping him, taking him further.
Reaching final step to level showing bronzes’ high-priced ceramic tiles, he takes a 90 degrees to his right. Eyes fiercely like a kid first visiting a Kidz-R-Some, growing wider and wider still with each sight memory thru eyes could take in. Deepest of air he takes into nonsmoking lungs.
Redhead, dressed like New York secretary, flowing hair over deep blue suit coat covering pale blue shirt, with tight fitting black slacks toward stilettos. “Cash or Plastic?” Her voice is even and unyielding. She blackly wishes for better things for herself and her children.
Tommy hands her an American prepaid Walmart **********.
Approved! A positive sound chimes.
She welcomes Tommy to Hell and opens the black door to her right.
Steel door opening, greeted with massive bass thumps smashing against his heart and sights of human thrashings and audible throes of abandonment and ecstasy.
Fiery eyed long haired blond females thrusting madly over flat males gasping harshly on stained pillows of yesterdays orgies. Moans in various stages of climax, rising, descending or content: smells of human scents via the ’private places’ secretions represent.
Tommy trips over a wasted brunette, his pale Levi’d knee landing firmly on her forehead soundly, surely leaving a bruise. She says: “sorry,” the most wasted of those that have lost both soul and body, truly and with complete sincerity, caring not as they no longer wish to be.
Strolling toward the strobing, fluorescent realms of the bar as images change with the most of decadent backgrounds of artists obscured thru history with modern videos of Rammstien and Martika romp.
Out totally of place and time, wearing a cowboy hat, throwing out a fake drawl, “ C’n I h’ves absinthe? “
Bartender in the most sublime James Bond tux says simply far better than most Americans,. “Please, Sir, say again”
Frustrated and failing with a Texas accent : Just give me a beer!
“What beer would you like to have, Imported, Russian or elsewhere?’
Tagging him, suspiciously, he is brought down….
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AUTHORS NOTE: to be continued tomorrow….
Mark William Darus ; 07-14-2012
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