Painting above by Debbie Plowman

Thursday, October 29, 2009

armed to the teeth with LIPSTICK:29.

by Blag Dahlia


When everything happens at once there's no one to blame but the weather. You couldn't argue with my entrance though, guns blazing a South Side lullaby, the soft shoe a Florsheim to the gullet. There was no taming the blood jones I'd been keeping in check.

I heard gun fire to my right and saw New York's Swinest closing flanks and capping innocent bystanders like a mad case of civil unrest. As usual, The People couldn't help but be anywhere that wasn't in the line of fire.

The Hells Harlots heaved the better part of a toolchest at me piece by agonizing piece, still I couldn't keep my eyes off the tender morsels dressed in paint and nothing but. Slugs sang make hay while the sun shines and bad moons rose.

In a makeshift harness Suzy-Q was lifted toward the ceiling, young legs spread wide for the first assault. I saw bikers filling huge burlesque-sized syringes, banging up and slowly rising off the floor toward the prepubescent promised land.

If you've never been hit on the head with a lead pipe it's a sensation I'd have to recommend. You're never so much one with the Earth as when the floor rushes up to meet your face like an old friend. I guess seeing Natasha up close and personal in glorious black and white was about the only thing that could still make me concussion nostalgic. That was how we'd said goodbye the last time.

This time around it was all business, Martian style, straight from the old Korps manual --

"Natasha Romilar, you have the right to remain violent. Everything you do can, and will be imitated five years later on television. If you want an attorney you're out of your mind, but I can get you carpeting wholesale. Any questions?"

"Darling, how can anyone take you seriously with that loathsome fedora on?"

My first instinct was the cold-blooded murder of Natahsa, Faust, the Cro-Mag bikers and everything else that wasn't nailed down. It just had to be done with style. I pulled out the Fly-Rite and walked the dog across two dimpled foreheads. They dropped.

I lassoed Faust's wrist with the razor wire, his screams a symphony, then shot two gravity defying dirtbags who popped intestines and fell to the floor like lead balloons. Suzy's precarious cherry would be safe for the moment. My Luger spat brimstone.

The men of Precinct 5-O made it backstage finally, only to get caught in the crossfire of the bikers' AK-47s. Sgt. X was the first to fall, his frilly lingerie a dark red tangle beneath the lonesome corduroy. Lt. Grizzle took a slug to the belly, adding second-hand donuts and bile to the remains of the bands' obligatory deli tray.

Sgt. Saltpeter's only attempt at self-defense was his patented two-ply Kleenex bulletprof vest. Like his whole career in law eforcement it was a rousing failure, a waste of blood and tissue.

For me, hot pursuit was an understatement, what with Natasha, backfield in motion, so close you could taste her with your stomach. We careened through a maze of dark hallways, the intestines of the joint, and I felt the familiar throb of my johnson chafing the rough of my pants. Girls like this you don't get, though. The best you can hope for is a stand-off and maybe carfare.

Jesus leapt.

What followed was a catfight with me as the unfortunate rodent. Quick as I could, I sized up the situation. I was weak and looped on goofers. She was a glandular Jackson, the tourniquet round my wanting neck. Give me the big one, the Last Hurrah, with tears streaming and Satan hovering in the foreground.

But, the Good Lord hates a mercy killing, and sometimes the Fat Lady gets ham in her windpipe. Natasha got very quiet all of a sudden, but her body was taut like a highwire.

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