Little Miss Atilla led me to this witty, macabre bit of fiction:
"She came into the joint wearing a seething red burqa micromini, Gucci backpack & stilettoes, & a thunderhead of nihilism. Everyone watched as she approached the bar, her rear suspension swinging back & forth like a bottle of hot sauce.
"What'll it be?" I croaked.
"Cup of joe with a straw," she said. Through the corrugated mouth vent, her lips were as thin & red as a surgeon's scalpel. I couldn't see her eyes, but I had a feeling they were the frosty blue of an iceberg & I was her Titanic.
"Cream?" I asked.
"Lots," she said. "I like my coffee like my men - weak."
Her perfume was annihilating. "Chanel?" I asked, but she shook her head.
"Cordite by Faberge." She had a smoked voice, like Lauren Bacall or a smoldering schoolbus.
"So," I said, "what's a bombshell like you doing in a place like this?"
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Posted by: Kyle Armstrong at décembre 9, 2005 10:01 AM