|
It's Friday, part XXVII
Pale pilsner pitched upon the lacquered counter, canter toward the sour corners in the dingy pub. Ankles stained in soot and solemnly sagging underneath loose trousers. The fragrance of an intermingling group of subsets, delinquents lingering loosely in the shadows. A crease of dim light cuts across the flagellating motes as a sneer curls the lips of the bartender in a vice vacillating between bartered trust and vengeful allegations.
She was only 19, the face of a pheromone, the price of coddled camphor in the local village fighting off old heirlooms, stolen trophies. Credit cards maxed out, cunt as clean as a whistle. Frittered frissons and fettered thistle, a saliva-covered whistle echoes off the brittle bricks, caroms off the candlesticks, hangs in the harem next to the tossed chopsticks, and settles in the puffed pillows.
Here is where the magic happens....
|
