Wednesdays at the Mod

Shazbat shazoom, we enter the room, the last pit stop on the path toward doom; heaven sends visions to coerce the crowd, the saxophones sounding for the weak and the proud; it’s another Wednesday in your charcoal city, I’m combing alleyways for pity’s sake; fantasy, ecstasy, some ice cream cake, anything. Tonight’s make or break: we take a piece of ass action, lap dance dissatisfaction; we can wiggle on after to Mississippi Jackson’s. But nothing makes sense.

“Forget me not,” whispers one-eyed Betty, until I tell her I’m related to Ed Lorenzetti—shrieks, “you Mafia goons ain’t welcome here; keep that drink and finish your beer”—cackles curses, I’m blue in the face, the Sad Sack Sisters just smack me with the mace. Cellephones clanging in the midst of a skull, come out Alexander, to the conqueror’s ball: back up to wall, rohypnoled bottles, but we don’t fall, pressure’s intense against balcony rails; ha ha Betty, it’s Murphy’s law: the chick in red, tall heels, getting hit up for feels in strapless sequin dresses, pink Medusa tresses, I’m guessing she’s a call girl, y’all.

Bass is pumping, girls and boys in back stalls humping--little does she know he’s got the clap; little does she care; it’s laser lights, it’s dry ice in bleary-eyed dazes, it’s all about scraps, the visceral commotion in the sex club trap.

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