The buildings have lights strung on them year round. Winking and glittering strands. They shine back off the slick streets at night. And the streets here are always a little slick at night, either from being cleaned or needing it after too much fun (and throw up and spilled drinks).
Mostly, the lights just add something of a festive feeling, all year round for this party town.
Like beads. Or pearl, ha, necklaces.
Considering this town deals in wild screwing like other towns deal in t-shirts and the World’s Biggest Whatever, Right Here On Route Who Cares…
Well, feel free to snigger a bit at “pearl necklaces”. Just a little.
Not too much though. I’m not here to screw around.
Well how about just to screw? No, not really. I’m here on business. But if I had a mind to, this would be the city for it.
When In Rome, Fuck A Horse And Call It a Senator and all that.
There’s something about this place, even this relatively quiet street. There’s life here. Breathe it in. Life and drugs and lots (and LOTS) of fucking. Girls who like boys who do girls like they’re boys, etc.
The point being…the point being…something. Something in the air. Makes you fuzzy and a little horny and a little goofy. Like someone’s slipped something into your drink, only they’ve done it to the air.
And those lights. Blink. Blink blink. I want to call it hypnotic, but the idea’s giving me the heebie jeebies. Is that a rhythm? A pattern? Is that a gun? And where was she keeping it?
The streets always slick from cleaning. Oh, now I get it.
Move. Run. Suddenly it’s not a party, it’s a gun show.
She’s shooting after me, after that first shot I barely skidded away from. The slick streets helped me there, gave my feet a little more electric to their slide and moved my head out of the bullet’s path. Here, now, trying to get away, the street’s helping not so much.
I’ve decided. I am here to screw after all, after this. But not here.
Screw this place.