Monday, September 10, 2007

Thus Passes the Glory

The week passed in delirium. Sleep, work, not much else. Same old crucifixion routine. Same old slow death. Thursday evening Cyprian took the ferry across at dusk. The sun sank down like a battered shipwreck over the New Orleans cityscape. Phantasmagorical rays of light splattered across the mirrored glass and metalwork of the skyscrapers. An austere display of nature amidst the madness of a metropolis. A strumpet sat opposite him on the small boat. She looked to be a stripper; an exotic dancer on her way to the job. Rue bourbon, doubtless. The filthiest street in America. Can you name one worse? She pulled a compact from her purse and rouged her cheeks. They were inescapable, these harpies. Another voluptuous female form. Another savory number. He couldn't take his eyes from her. The "outfit" she wore barely covered her shame. She saw him looking and crossed her legs, revealing even more lithe and supple charms. The ferry docked and they disembarked. Cyprian felt irresistibly drawn and followed her down the sidewalk. The last rays of sunlight were blotted out by the concrete monoliths and the black of night enveloped them. Canal Street darkened in a flash. He strolled along bug-eyed as a zombie contemplating that fine trim. She had long legs and a rhythmic gait. Those calves of her called out 'come hither' and he followed like a somnambulist in a stupor. Transfixed, he ogled her sinuous form. A young black kid sidled up to him and pointed to the woman who held him mesmerized. "You like that?" he said. Cyprian laughed. The kid was insistent, "You like that?" Cyprian nodded affirmatively. "You better take your chance," the kid advised him, "'cause she a stripper at one a dem clubs." The kid ran off toward the Penny Arcade on Rue Royal. Cyprian hastened his step and turned onto Rue Bourbon. The smooth, brassy sounds of a lonely saxophone cut through the night air. A solitary player stood in a darkened alcove near a dumpster and wailed his lament. An upturned hat lay at his feet. Cyprian pulled a buck form his pocket and tossed it in. The player nodded slightly and blew a few more sad notes skyward. Further up the block, crowds of tourist from the Middle-West swarmed the street and sidewalks. A stench of stale beer and urine hung in the humid air. The ubiquitous two-bit hustlers, ghetto pimps and hookers were working the throng. Neon signs sparkled and blazed in cheap glory; the open doors and windows a peep show on parade. Cyprian walked amidst the debauchery in sensory overload. Barkers stood in front of the joints luring patrons in. The human caprice, capitalism, everything for a buck, obtrusive money grubbing...A bacchanalian wilderness...nymphs, waifs, Amazons, the whole gamut...weakness of the flesh...body parts...a dizzying array...breasts,feet...heads, legs, arms...a psychotropic fuck in the Age of Death....Sex must be the malediction of harpies discontented with coy testicled beasts and their brutish, drunken temperaments. Cyprian's head began to swirl with a lack of oxygen and he walked toward the Sho-Girls Bar. A big, brutish bouncer stood at the doorway like a sentinel blocking the passage. He prodded Cyprian in the chest with a hairy paw and held four fingers abreast to indicate the price of admission.

- PiGbOyFaCe

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