People got fucked in Byzantium, same as Lakeshore, their golden chariots and slick, black coffins made from dragon enamel, the luscious vampires are the same silken dolls and whores that we've created in labs for centuries.
God's Holy Fire, our gold mosaic etched into a fine emerald and ruby drenched wall, shards of bone-white skeleton and raspberry brain particles, fox tracks, the ugly, brown carpet dotted with weird ebony globes of some alien chewing gum that has turned to stone.
Sick with desire, a dying animal, the cyber-prostitutes fight outside the duct taped window, the broken blinds letting in just enough pale, yellow light, the gun on the table is heavy, too heavy. No one expects the executioner to look like a schoolteacher, a strange foreign accent that no one can place, it's not Russian. It's Belarusian. Minsk. The sweet darkness of a flowery city that breathes neon lights and strobes of flashes, knife gashes. They made the German slaves rebuild it after the second great war, imagine that. The Russian soul is a very dark place. My accomplice is in the bathroom throwing up, I don't think she liked this client very much.
My bodily functions, curvy shape, and poetic form, robotic, black rimmed glasses, sculpted from any natural thing, my elegant sarcophagus, clad in precious gold. Elves hammered such gold and gold enamelling to keep your drowsy Emperor awake. I watch him, the transaction almost complete, the poison is slow, his bodyguards dispatched as soon as they blinked. I'm not sure if my accomplice can puke louder or her intestines have finally come out of her mouth.
Be careful what demons you invite back to your hotel. It's not your wealthy charm or elegantly balding allure, it's your data. Data is oil in this business, and it's collection time.
I like to leave notes. Spray expensive perfume in the air. To the Lords and Ladies of Byzantium, of what is past, or passing, or of what is to come.
I am here. I am the last thing they see before that beautiful, eternal rest, the chalky moon dust, and red drapes and red coffins, a red puddle pouring from the reddest nose, the ancient black blood gurgling up from the throat, a coffin hunter sign flicked outside, all is silent save for the rattle of a chrome buggy being pushed by an old witch across an adjacent parking lot, the colorful trash heaps and madness of discarded candy wrappers, the expanding legions of spermy, albino rats feasting on new, oozing zombie-marrow, the dirty and diseased asphalt is bitterly gut-slick with tiny diamondlike volcanoes, mismatched bullet casings lay askew like broken shark teeth, should have used a revolver, our ride is here.
Shadows dancing under the bathroom door, a weathered and unloved faucet running, warm palms on her face. Another bleary night, I wouldn't mind a slice of plum cake if there's a hole-in-the-wall diner in this slab city of toxic-ghouls and disfigured, and waxen, melted mannequins. Funny how everyone wants to be a movie star, and they're always awestruck when they finally meet one.