Friday Night

Mad dogs with guns and a brown-eyed hooker that goes by the name of Crazy Sue.

The sun bronzes the western sky and an inky blue seeps across the eastern horizon.

A calamitous noise from the bar, whisky soaked vocals drowning out any semblance of pleasantness and zero chance of meeting anyone with aspirations of total moral virtue.

The black tarmac shimmers with heat.

Eyes like billiard balls roll about in her sockets, aglow and askew. She collects her skirt from the top of her knees and dances an impromptu dance along the kerb, stepping up and out of the road in time. Her curled top lip is an invitation and a provocation.

The dastardly rasping chanteur is drowned out by a nonsensical and rhythmic repeating boom, muffled by the shuffling windows. A drum-beat ticks.

His shirt is stained, streaked diagonally with liquid. He lights a white cigarette and stares down the street at the golden sun, sucking the warm smoke in to his lungs. The cushion of smoke hides his face, he pauses, and then moves.

The angels are leading the sailors to their doom. The sailors just chalk off the signboards on the way.

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