American Bad Blood: City of the Dead

Kevorkian

Hola Casita.

God. Fucking. Finally. It feels so good to stretch these beautiful legs.

Mi casita welcomes me with shrills and shrieks of drunken women laughing as they fling themselves over prominent bachelors, the walls of The Graveyard vibrating as "Bless the Booth" by Megan Thee Stallion booms through-out the club.

Senorita Perfecta already gloated about her so called excuse for a home. Now let me gloat about mine.

Erected right in front of Heritage Memorial Park, The Graveyard immediately sends shivers down your spine-good and bad. While the Harris Estate radiated luxury and warmness upon arrival, The Graveyard did the opposite-it was down right scary looking but at the same time, seducing you to come in, giving you mixed emotions to either stay away or take a look inside. It was a stereotypical haunted house mixed with a 70's disco club-you'll literally dance the night away until you drop dead. Pos, no need to travel far to take your dirt nap. We'll just hop and drop you over the 10 foot high concrete and rod iron stake fencing to join the 300 plus eternal slumbers located right behind the club.

Mixed with the façade of the Winchester Mystery house, Montecito Mansion and 1/4 scale of the Palace of Versailles, drenched in dark colors ranging from black to dark reds and purple, ornate French decals and wood carvings, mi casita was the best looking home in all of Dallas, if not the world.

"Mistress." One of the bouncers welcomes me as I stride through the front ornate double doors of the "grande mansion", my well known status giving me the right to do so. A line of people is outside to get in, the two bouncers only allowing people inside if they had their reservations. Oh yes, The Graveyard was an exclusive nightclub. Only certain individuals can party like and with the dead. No invitation. No reservations, entonces, no way to get in.

I purr at the bouncer, who is a tall African American man, late forties, almost resembling Boris Kodjoe. I can't help but give him a flirtatious smile, in which he gives me one too. Pues, I can look but I can't touch. I already have a fine ass black man waiting for me upstairs in the club.

"Bless the Booth" changes into "Don't Stop" by Megan Thee Stallion, women and men grinding and bumping against each other as the new song begins to vibrate with-in the mansion walls, tall roman like columns from floor to ceiling at each corner of what is the "heart" of the club. Oti's crown jewel, a six tier cone shaped chandelier made of nothing but of disco balls, flickers as the top stage lighting shines on it, illuminating flecks of light around the club, mixing with the neon red LED lighting trimmed along the ceiling. Four LED chandelier shaped fixtures hang around the main disco balls chandelier, the LED lights changing at the bass of the song.

I pass by the rows of black velvet tables located along the dancefloor, weaving my way through people, then passed by the bar located on the left of the club. I manage to pull myself out of the crowd towards a flight of stairs leading to the private office perched at the top, where I can see it from here. I can see the black stained windows; looking up to blow a kiss at it, knowing all to well Oti was probably staring down as we speak.

One of our men stands at the base of the private stairs, standing erected, even more so when I creep closer. Dressed in my 1990's square collared chiffon sheer long sleeve mid-thigh LBD, black patent Louboutins and a white diamond Swarovski skull shaped clutch, I walk past him, the guard nodding slighting as he addresses me. I fix my garnet necklace, the sound of Oti's voice booming as I ascend higher up the stairs.

I stop before entering the office, Gus and Harem, two of our best made men, standing by the office door. I cock my head to the side, listening to Oti bicker with someone before hearing him cuss in Samoan.