SNUFF (h.s.)

Chapter 35

The Red Room

The bicycle saddle was placed on the sidewalk. The wheels were hard, bulgy, spanking new. The spokes gleamed like spider-web threads. Saguaro's palm had a stamped black mark, he washed his hands with the motel's green Palmolive bar (Get 4 for the price of 3). He threw an ice brick in the sink breaking it with an ornamented cheese knife. Crystal-cut parts jumped to the floor, until he found them they'd turned to tiny ponds. His mug dived in the crooked chunks. He lifted his numb head, cold droplets soaked his chest.

A small Siamese twin cubo radio was playing Rhiannon's galactic transmission. She, in a black turtleneck and capri pants, had left her red shoes for the ghosts to wear and was resting on her bare foot. She was smoking a cigarette from an ebony pipe and was wearing a wide band covering her ears but letting her bulky hoops poking. Her fragranced hand touched the cup, her sip left a timid technicolored lip on the porcelain. A loose jetset charm bracelet chimed each time she spoke. She couldn't have been more than sixty, her articulation was pompous and theatrical, the voice of a fairytale troubadour.

Lips move different when dressed in lipstick.

"I encounter surfers on the nocturnal waves...", she began her story and always managed to finish it at dawn. The after hours voice never giving out to accompany the sleepless for a handful of decades. She was speaking with the mouth of a butterfly's wings. She opened her Tiffany lamp acquiring a kaleidoscopic presence, she seemed to be born from the auditors' dreams never existing but in the minds of those listening, "I have never sung. I have never touched an instrument of melody...", she narrated.

Saguaro had a company of hollow oranges pierced with cloves and lit rechaud candles. He threw some rum and cacao cream, he cut and wringed out a hasty lime along with some sweet pineapple triangles and elegant chartreuse titches. He blended the flavors and poured the beverage in a clay glass. He lied on the chintzy couch, the moonlight was coming in like wide white envelopes in a postal box. He put some wrapped ice on his forehead. He was moving his hanging hand along Rhiannon's musical airplay.

The kids had pegged the dim lounge light at the motel's reception room.

The turtleneck boy winked to wait at the parterre pathway behind the rooms. He'd catch up after he'd lace a loose end. The kids followed their checkered route, the boy approached the reception room. He crouched. He walked towards the bicycle on his knees, he flipped the switchblade. He stabbed the wheels biting his tongue with a smirk. There was dried blood where the blade glued to the handle. If that prick Jimmy had balls he wouldn't sniff around for musketeers. He imagined being a termite crawling in Jim's marrow.

The boy left to find the kids. They were resting on the wall restless.

"Haven't you pissed your socks yet chipmunks?"

"We're down to our ride, man", the double-braided filly had the match on the corner of her mouth as she spoke, the other lady marmalade was avoiding the wall so that the humidity wouldn't mess her wrapped hair. The boy ignored them watching the bathroom windows.

The flip flop fella sat on his heels to inspect the situation with his feet. His socks had a garland of mud, he was sensing the creation of a brown pond under his soles as the creature of the lake was tingling them. He'd spattered his calves as if he had the chickenpox.

"Hey!", the filly's crooked smirk moved the match from one mouth corner to another, "Now you looking for worm chums?"

"What are we doing here, man?"

"Cross your hands, I'll climb", she tightened the scarf around her fixed hair, she tangled her fingers. The boy pointed his switchblade at the open window, he stepped in her hand nook, "See, children? The hicks know no tricks"