The cannibals are howling, Klaus Kinski perched atop his White Wedding Church with silver bells ringing. Smoke clouds; the stolen car's wheels are burning. French music playing. Lace stockings. Her cats are prowling, razors for the faces and purses and wallets taken.
Pain is a curse, the bones snapping, asphalt wet and blinding. Gears grinding, apocalypse of umbrellas unwinding, twilight freight trains with terrible horns blaring, wires and warehouses eroding. Corrosive copper and yellow gold luster. A slick, black handgun. Tongues protruding and fangs growing, the vampires are multiplying. Crime wave, heat wave, blood wave, a synthetic window silhouette, an angry vignette, another moonless, nobody town with no eyes easy to disappear into.