27 Strings

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I had to get out of that room, too many strange things were happening all at once, besides I needed a drink that didn't come out of a sample bottle. I guided my feet into my rubber-soled boots and secured them by stamping the ground; I slid my arms into the sleeves of my leather jacket before adjusting the collar. I was ready to get lost. I thumped down the stairway and wandered into the reception. A man with a greasy bowl-cut hairstyle and looked like the financial constraints of the motel kept him from attaining 6 hours of sleep, assisted me with road directions to find the nearest pub. He sauntered out the entrance of the motel. His nail-bitten finger pointed down a long stretch of tar that appeared to be flowing into the horizon. "Fuck", I sighed. Patting the bottom of a pack of Roger Lee Durham cigarettes, placing the butt on my bottom lip, igniting it, and inhaling a cloud of toxic smoke, I started to tread this long walk just for a pint. Louis Chauvin Avenue was occupied with numerous run-down boutiques: Pete Ham Butchery, D. Boon Electronics, Pete de Freitas' Green-grocer, Fat Pat Bakery, the Jacob Miller Liquor-store, and between Kristen Pfaff Jewellers and Chris Bell's Antiques was an Arlester Christian Chapel. This place was a ghost town.

After walking past a few "closed" signs, I paused to the sound of a cluttering twin-propelled engine plane screeching through the sound barriers. What the fuck? I searched the skies. The plane was a Piper Twin Comanche with C.H.A.S.E. painted in red on the tail of the plane. It was heading for a crash landing towards the Mia Zapata Mountains, a place where there are no survivors. The Mia Zapata Mountains were situated behind Jesse Belvin Boulevard, which was accessed by a dingy and polluted by-way from Rudy Lewis Road. The area reeked of murder and suicide, a place that I wasn't keen to visit. I scratched my head, interjected a "Fuck!", wondered if that was a daily occurrence since no one seemed phased by what had just happened, and moved right on towards the Blind Owl Pub.

The pub had the ambience of a biker's bar; it was poorly illuminated, had a pungent stench of booze and burgers, and owned a stage to host live bands. As I roamed towards a dining booth and sat down, I overheard the manager dehumanising the maintenance guy (whom was wearing a black Stone the Crows T-shirt and rearranging the wires of the microphone cable so that it became earthed) with embarrassment by bellowing: "We don't need another fucking lawsuit because singers are being electrocuted by this piece of shit! Hurry the fuck up, we have a show starting in 10 minutes and I'm not going to lose customers because of this shit!"

When the waitress arrived, I ordered a greasy Dagwood burger and a bottle of their cheapest whiskey. I couldn't help but notice that there was something different about her, she possessed a burning soul that elated a genuine smile onto her soft-contoured face. Although, she would be regarded as an outcast and a rebel in my home town; due to her raven-black hair; piercings on her bottom lip and left-side of her nose; midnight make-up that gave her a mask of hidden secrets; and a tattoo on the lower part of her back (that I had glimpsed between the hemline of her black polo shirt and beige chino's as she walked away), she still had the essence of being a saint in this town of sinners.

The band of misfits started to play and performed a cover song. "I said death don't have no mercy in this land. Death will leave you standing and crying in this land, death will leave you standing and crying in this land, in this land, yeah!" I felt an odd sensation, a sharp pain by the area associated with my liver. I assumed that it was linked to all the alcohol that I consumed on an empty stomach. I was saved by the Seductress of Darkness when she arrived with a burger overflowing with bacon, cheese and other toppings, and a 750ml bottle of their in-house whiskey. I poured half-a-glass of whiskey so that the ice cubes could float and read the fingerprint-stained label of the bottle. The Stooges' twice-mellowed whiskey? Fuck, I have never heard or read of that brand before. I chugged the glass of whiskey, but felt as though it had gushed down my trachea instead of my oesophagus, filling my lungs up with the disinfectant liquid. I coughed while gasping for air.