Filed under: 1 | Tags: Downtown, Heroin, Triclops, Winter Of Our Discontent
What kind of place was this? All the women had short skirts and three eyes, hissing whenever I approached. Oil exploded from the linoleum tiled floor as men wallowed in her black ground-goo. Happy days are here again! Men in black suits walked around, measuring this and that and comparing them with what size they would be 20 years from now. The bartender snorted little lines of coffee sweetener from an economy sized bag with half of a dollar bill.
Madness! Pure as the heroin in this bar’s ventilation system!
A rum runner made love to a piano and a dead veteran played the jug. They smuggled whiskey from across the Atlantic oceans; nobody had told them of our successful battle with prohibition nor of the invention of the aeroplane.
The dance floor was shelled. entire apartment buildings sat there, destitute and empty on the inside.
I’ve got to go! This is not the place to be! Not in the slightest! Nixon? No, I don’t want to buy any! Reagan? Let go of my coat! Carter? Oh sir, I’m sorry for your loss! Ford? You swine! Where is my car?
Goddam it, I seem to have made little bullet-sized holes in the ceiling. That could not have been me, could it? I like to think that I have a pretty good grip! It appears that I’m gripping a gun at the moment. Everybody is running, all the triclopses, oil addicts and businessmen. I don’t know what they’re running from, but I want to be as far away from it as possible.
I come from downtown! Born and ready for you!
All these Tropicana dancers, doing the can-can out the door; where are they going? The party’s right here, guys!
