Tommy: Hangman, Part Two

                    


                           Tommy: Game of Hangman. Part Two.

　



                  Leaving part one:

….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….

　

          “Sir, you must be more specific in your requests here. Pardon, sir, but you must.” Elegant, dark haired, handsome man of height spoke eloquently on.

           I asked for absinthe, didn’t I? Did I fucker stutter? More nervous with each syllable, voice growing louder, the birth of sweat touching face. Just give me a Goddamned absinthe!

           Bartenders smile growing broader, knowing far too well the road Tommy was going to travel. “Absolutely, sir! Your wish is my command!”

         Tuxedoed man slowly turns 180 degrees, tanned left hand taps on mahogany paneling in Morse code: D-D-D. d-d-d, D-D-D! Message of SOS releases magnetic hold and small door opens slowly, creaking over hinged release. Right hand grasping bottle of Tommy’s desire, a scantily clad redhead with sagging breasts and sunken nipples asks where the Ale Smith ales are. Motioning to his left toward neon vibrantly in greenish hues: ALE SMITH ALES.

           Gracefully pirouetting toward Tommy, free hand snagging an overly tall shot glass, he begins to pour bluish liquid into it, deftly mixing other watery substance into it . Rising tall as the drink reaches safe crest, starring at Tommy, he lights it.

         WHOOSH! Igniting proudly, flame changing colours as the arenas ever-changing lights touch it briefly.

          “Here you go, Sir!. Absinthe, as you asked for. Enjoy!”

          Hand taking flaming drink from evil-eyed Bond from Hell, eyes meeting firmly. Sincerest of handshakes thru glass from the giver of Guyana Grape punch to the soon poisoned.

         Off to other concerns, Mr Tux leaves Tommy, exit stage left in quick fashion.

        Do we do this, or don’t we? The drinks flame, as his body shadows it from back lit illumination, goes from blue to green to orange.

          FOoooooooooooF! Flame blown out, three quarters of liquid left in tall, slender glass, lazily smoky vapor dissipating.

         Let’s go to Hell!

         Closed eyes, standing tall, shoulders broad, catches one last glimpse of himself in the massive mirror layered in its forefront with every type of alcoholic beverage known to mankind. He places glass to pink lips, mouth opening slowly to greet flavours not known. Body tightening, legs tensing firmly, back nearly arching in expectation.

        Bottoms up! Slamming the glass down in exclamation. Holding in mouth closely.

        Letting go and swallowing.

        Tommy’s eyes open sharply as fluid takes over tongue. Eyes, pupils rapidly cart wheeling madly about, taking in a millisecond at a time as the drink courses down his lessening throat, final eye-to-eye with himself.

        Let’s go to Hell.

       Not so bad. Losing sense of self, failing at control, he quips as he does a 90 degree from the bar. Eyes taking in shades of keener darkness senses like that of a feline predator, seeking out with only instinctive hunger guiding him.

       Bumping into a 80’s dressed male with spiky hair, Tommy embraces him and plants a kiss. Responding in kind, Flock of Seagulls dude reacts in kind, taking tongue in and giving same. Holding each other firmly, 80’s guy asks Tommy to pull back from him and gut-punch him.

      Tommy, going with freeing mind and streaming illegal booze, grants him his wish.

       Sort of, that is.

        Staggering man of small embrace backs away, eyes locking to Tommy’s. He drops to his knees.

        Dropping back, Tommy’s mind calculating best situation possible. He steps forward moments later and draws his right leg behind him.



        90 decibel riffs, killer bass tones with spiraling light show arrays mating with dank smell of growing urgent, sexual sweat, pit odor and those direly in need of a douche.

           Blood shoots abundantly as speeding foot meets face as the 80’s guy nose explodes as cartilage barely misses brain with impact. “th-tha-thanx, man. G-god! That wu-w-was fucKING AWESOME!”

        Tommy, no reaction, no emotion, without raise in either heart rate or blood pressure, tests his luck on the dance floor.

      Flashing lights in a myriad of colours and intensities, not holding grayish cheaply made plastic handrails, descending 40 steps to fiercely under-lit colored floor with writhing humanity over it, casting eerie images to the ceiling above.

          Reaching bottom, but only on this floor, he with head held high meets wasted males and females head-on. He grabs a brunette by the back of the head and pulls her into him. Left hand gripping on right, though anorectic tit. Forehead to hers, drugged exaggerated eyes and minds melded, searching, bruising her as she takes hold of soft groin hiding behind cotton fabric.

       Shayla pulls up on Tommy’s balls like one might a Bic from a table wanting to light a smoke.

      Eyes meeting in the truest of mutual agonies only never to be known by those without drugs. Knowledge crossing unspoken wavelengths between them. She lifts his shirt up with her right hand, exposing flat and bare chest.

      Never leaving her eyes. Her eyes growing in intensity.

       Music pounding, imaging’s flooding colored.

      Blood Red acrylic nails of her left hand slash his chest deeply, furrowing it, carrying flesh under them.

           I love you! Gasping in ecstasy, Tommy looks at her. Body feeling looser than it has felt in ages. He reaches for Shayla.

      Shayla drops to her knees quickly, avoiding his arms extended toward her. No embrace, no, don’t want that at all, fucker!

      Looking down, eyes glazed, mind wanting more absinthe…

      Shayla pulls Tommy toward her.

      She licks his stomach where his blood rolled down to. Taking it, sucking it in, tasting iron, moving toward his chest, elation, resurgence, hotter, more alive.

      Cleaning him, rising to meet face to face, eye to eye. “Beat me, hurt me, lick my blood! Take me as I did you!.” Shayla’s look of ferocity shrouded with bloodstained white hair back lit morphing humanity behind her.

          Tommy, obliging, leans toward her, pearly whites abase in colour, lowering himself toward her chest, wanting to take a bite from her chest, rebounds suddenly and gives her a right hand to the jaw, breaking it, giving her a moment of pure pleasure followed by months of pain.



       Threading his way through undulating throngs of semi nude flesh in various stages of connections, Tommy seeks greater shades of pain through tainted pale hues.

       Strong right hand connecting with an S&M garbed brunette, asking her, panting loudly.

           What else is here?

       The brunette, balancing a 24 inch circular tray of drinks, never losing balance. “Let me deliver these, Sir and I will step you further. One moment, please.” Passing him, passing no other words, knowing this man will grant bigger tip-age if she drags and gives dire warnings to what lay beyond this area.

       Granted, Shayla’s warnings should be heeded, but men are stupid. She knows this and the greater she spins, placing her now nude body against them in some fucked sign of purity, will make them tip her further. She tells them what is beyond and its horrors.

       They never listen.

        Shayla reaches for him as she takes him to the doorway that only goes down.



          Dying refrains of Creed’s Higher and purple to blue colours reaching this place he asked for, diving deeper, seeking what others feared to embrace.



         Heart beating faster, second absinthe downed in a blink, confident, going down swinging.

         “Just open that door, “ she said, going for the 1-0-0 tip Tommy held to her. ‘Have a nice stay.”

        Reaching for doorknob, feeling life course his veins in ways unknown to him, wasted, yet feeling more alive than ever.

          Taking hold, hearing Kiss Alive’s Detroit Rock City echoing…



             He opens another door…

　

　

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                             Authors Note: End of Part II.



              Personal note: Damn, even I did not know when I started this where it would go to this area. Knowing where this is going, grant me time to finish this.

          Christ this is so falling to areas that take much in ability and strength on my part.

           Like the Creed song: Can you take me higher?



                 Mark William Darus 07162012.