Stars Trickling Down

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Stars trickling down

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Stars trickling down. Tra la la. We are in true fucking beast mode, a sexy fucking freak show full of whisky and blow and hauling a Gonzo pharmacy of uppers, downers, screamers, laughers.

Someone brought the tequila.

Someone brought the rum.

Someone brought the ether, and we are up in the ether, let me tell you! Passing a vaporizer that someone else thought to bring.

I'm inhaling, exhaling, chewing, injecting, popping, dropping, filling myself with halos and concerts and hallelujahs and hellfire. Amen! Wanting more more more MORE MORE! Always more!

More food!

More drink!

More merriment!

More mayhem!

More!

A billboard overhead says, GOD IS WATCHING! Stern eyes glare at our merry band rolling down the Sixth Street circus, but fuck all that. We are damned and undead with our cool white skin, somehow the least weird of the weirdos who prance and preen beneath the bar neon.

Just another bunch of revelers out to devour the night.

I am looking oh-so-fucking good in unvarnished denim and clean Oxford tweed. My blazer cuts sharp as scissors and my shirt's riding the ripples of my ribcage. My jeans the blue of bruises, of storm-muddied skies, cuffed just right, skinny bare ankles down to my vintage suede shoes and I am fucking nice, oh so nice!

Top it all off with the best of fucking accessories: Santos riding my elbow. Sexy fucking Santos! That dirty fucking whore. Hair down to his shoulders, black as plague, thick as lust, a curtain to shield the sanctity of his saintly fucking eyes.

Saintly fucking Santos! Saintly fucking jaw, saintly fucking shoulders, saintly fucking cock. Oh that cock. So fucking big I can see it bulging through his jeans, his own private Idaho potato ready to be peeled. I'm so fucking jealous of that schlong. It's a fucking dragon slayer and he's the Saint George, Saint Sebastian ... a portrait waiting to be painted, he slides down the sidewalk like he's bestowing fucking miracles.

Of course he's nothing compared to the girl right there ahead of him, the sexiest of all, Hannah , the nexus of my orbit, a sun to warm my face ... or maybe she's the moon. Yeah, the moon. Cold, cool, distant. Skin white as statues. Lips red as open signs. Tattoos swirling up her legs: Cherubs and demons and zombies and cowardly lions. Oh my!

Oh my on my oh my!

Gracing the arm of Vince Legend, she swings her legs down the stairs that lead us to the purple haze and graffiti smears and laser velvet and noise pollution of Vellocet.

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