Deep, distorted thump of music. Heavy beats underlie a dissonant slew of synth. Heads bob up, down. Human pistons in the dance machine. Hair flies, a multitude of wings. Blonde, red, black, purple, blue. Arms wave in dry fog. Swirl it to intricate eddies, pictograms of movement.
Through undulating torsos, scantily clad tits, hips, slick with sweat. Enter the eye of the limb hurricane. She dances alone, magnificent, careless. Dress a sparkling purple scrap, hair wild, eyes closed, layered with green glitter shadow, stark black Egyptian kohl.
Bright lips, blood red, stretch a smile of sheer bliss. Arms sway up, down, slow, feline. Hand reaches from fog, grasps her wrist. Margo’s eyes snap open. Predatory red mouth beams delight. She bolts forward, wraps limbs around Rolf like tenctacles. Yells in his ear.
‘About fucking time. I need a fag, twenty million more White Russians and a piss.’
Rolf giggles as she unpeels. Hooks his arm through hers. They slice through the crowd. Margo’s elbows are battering rams. Half naked whores pitch off cheap heels to sprawl, ape-like, undignified, on the floor.
Downed Blonde screams. ‘Bitch!’ Spread-eagle. Knickers exposed. French silk. Drooling men stare bug-eyed.
‘So clumsy,’ Margo drawls, teeth exposed, hyena cruel. ‘Perhaps invest in orthopaedic clogs?’
‘Fuck me clogs!’ Shouts Rolf, breathless with giggles.
Margo grins, a dirty leer. Her eyes pop. ‘Oooh. Speaking of fuck me clogs… ‘ Long, prehensile fingers grasp his jaw, pull and stroke. ‘Where’s that five o clock fuck me shadow?’
‘Darling, it was more euthanise me than fuck me…’
Margo snorts laughter. Struts. Shimmies. Rolf minces alongside; tight arse wiggling in spray on leather as they hit the bar. Margo slams down a hand tipped with hooked, black claws.
‘Alcohol, at once!’
Margo squats beside a dumpster. Thin trickle of piss winds out between pointy toes of sparkling shoes. It slows. Stops. Margo stands. Yanks knickers up, dress down, with one hand. The other clutches a glass filled with creamy white alcohol, a long black cigarette.
She flick ash, slugs her White Russian. Rolf leans forward, zipping up. Piss steams on the wall.
‘Where the fuck is Moe?’
Margo leaps to the dumpster edge. Legs dangle, akimbo. One heel half off, swings. Diamante flashes yellow light from street lamps.
‘Stood me up, the dirty cunt. Not the first time. He’ll turn up.’
Rolf pouts. ‘Oh! When? Did I waste my tightest tighty whiteys?’
Margo slugs, shrugs, careless. ‘Fashionably late?’
‘Bollock off, sweets.’ Rolf hops up. Snatches the fag. Drags long and deep. Declares. ‘I’m fashionably fucking late. Moe’s practically erstwhile.’
Margo hiccups. Holds up bare wrists. ‘Not on the clock, wouldn’t know.’
Rolf sniffs. Mutters. ‘Never known you to be off the cock.’ Thrusts his wrist out. Giant gold rolex dazzles on tanned wrist.
Margo peers at the face. Squints. Blinks. Glances at Rolf. Back at the watch. Wobbles. Looks off down the alley, bottom lip clamped in sharp little teeth.
Rolf nods. Emphatic. ‘Precisely, my big breasted bitch. He’s overdue.’
‘Darling,’ Margo announces, ‘if he were my period, I’d be in the bathroom with a hanger.’
She huffs. Thrusts out her tits, mulish. Free hand digs into Rolf’s pocket. Grabs at various bulges. He jumps, yelps. Margo pulls out a slim gold phone. Rolf clutches his dick, whimpers. She pinches it. Vicious. Laughs like a drain.
He shoves her. ‘Slag.’
‘Anal jizz spurt.’
‘Rotten cunt cheese.’
They lock eyes. Giggle. Margo dials. Listens. Screeches.
‘Fuckin’ ansa phone.’ Waits. Unleashes. ‘Moe. I’m liver deep in White Russians, up to my lungs in fags. And where are you? In absentia. Treason! Rolf’s here and I can tell you darling, his arse is tighter than a Bishop’s nostril.’ Filthy, inebriated grin. ‘Imagine it, Moe, like skull fucking an anus.’
Rolf shrieks, grabs for the phone. They wrestle. Tussle. Margo falls back, howling. Rolf rolls her over. Smack her arse hard. Once. Twice. And again. She wiggles it. Looks over her shoulder. Eyes wicked smoke.
‘Mmm. Tasty.’ Pushes up to hands and knees. Puddle of alcohol on the floor. Cloudy as spunk, shot through with glass shards. Margo pouts. ‘You knocked my fucking drink.’
‘So let’s buy a fuckin’ nother,’ he sneers, grabs her arse, leaps off the dumpster. Margo screams. Delighted. Hangs down his back. Teeth lock on tasty tight arse cheek.
‘Ach, bitch, get off.’
Cooing call. Margo rises up, hands on arse for balance. Screams delight. ‘My best bitch.’ Margo tugs Rolf’s jeans. ‘Giddy up homo!’
Rolf drops her down, shrieking giggles. Hauls her up, legs either side of his neck. Sets off down the alley. Margo shoves her head through his legs. Grins.
‘Look, backwards sixty-nine!’
He chokes. Holds ankles in one hand. Uses the other to push her back through. ‘Men only,’ he shouts and runs off, bounces her, knows she loves it.
Halfway down they meet miniature pre-Raph Minnie. Totters along on spiky black heels. Tits, arse, wrapped in yellow PVC, pumped to max exposure. Nipples flash as she moves.
‘Cunt and centre you two.’ Minnie shimmers. Air behind her bends. Re-shapes. Tall gothic arches, fluttering feathers. There, then gone. ‘I had a moment. Moe’s hit a snag on the razz. Leek’s already there.’
Margo grabs Rolf’s knees. Yanks. Sticks her head between. ‘What?’
‘Ravids. So shake a tail feather.’
Margo flips. Lands feet down behind Rolf. Leans a chin on his shoulder. ‘You’ve got the feathers, bitch.’
Minnie grins. ‘So shake your fucking tits, then.’
‘That,’ says Margo, ‘I can fucking do.’
Sound of howling, baying Ravids carries on the air. Margo struts on, click clack. Glittering purple dress fades out, fades in. Silver gleams, sculpted tight to heart shaped arse. Bronze holds breasts in scrolling loops. Just contained. Ripe. Erotic.
Minnie lands, wings send a rough breeze to ruffle magenta locks. ‘Ready?’
Margo’s sword sings from its sheath. ‘Oh hell yes.’
Two long whips crack out. Corded black leather. Ends solid links of etched steel. Crack again, fold to loops in Rolf’s hands. He’s half naked. Glorious. Alabaster perfection of features continues to torso rippled as a statue. Periwinkle blue eyes reflect katana blade.
‘Oh bitch I love it when you fight dirty.’
She smiles. Long, lewd. A murderous bitch about to party. Struts alongside. They move to easy lope. Soft whoosh of wind above from Minnie’s wings. Dive headlong into the mess up ahead.
Decrepit innards of an old store yard. Backs to wall, Moe, Leek, a tall, fox-eyed stranger, slash, cut, slice. Send gouts of blood like banners to colour walls, floor, festive red. Before them, a mob, fifty strong and waning. Ravids. Mechanised revenants. Dead eyes, rotted flesh. Machine innards gleam, solid metal. Hard to kill. Minnie swoops to land. Face a dazzled smile. Points to fox-eyes.
‘Slimm. He fucks like a goddamn Brazilian man-whore.’
‘The fuck?’ Margo asks, eyes agleam.
‘Mine,’ Minnie hisses, claws up, at full length. Six-inch long scythes, glint in the moonlight, the hazy glow of streetlamps.
Margo pivots. Katana sweeps down, a delicate arc. Ravid arms fly up, like confetti. Pretty. Hit the ground. A mix of meaty thunk and metallic spark, clink. ‘All yours, darling. Far too tall.’
Sound of Rolf’s whips cut the air. Ravid heads sail overhead, out of yard walls. His torso spattered red. Ebony hair tousled, dripping sanguine showers. It trickles his face. Blood tears. Yells to Leek over sea of Ravids.
‘Who sent them?’
Leek, tall as Slimm, slender as willow. Head to toe in black straps, skin showing in pearl white stripes. Looks up. Shouts. ‘Don’t know. Could be anyone. Can you reach for it?’
‘Too many. Need to kill at least half, buy me some time.’
‘Need to slice and dice,’ screamed back, ‘these are expensive, they won’t fucking stop till nothing’s left.’
Rolf turns. Sure enough, three headless Ravids reach for him. Brutal strong mindless fury. He yelps. Leaps back, whips crack out like bullets. Twist to a balletic tornado. Turn Ravids to slippery metal flesh pile. Stench of putrid innards hits like a bulldozer. He coughs. Spits. Turns to Margo, Minnie. Yells.
‘When it’s time to party…’
Margo whoops. ‘We’ll party hard motherfucker.’
Minnie dives. Scoops one Ravid in her iridescent black wings. Corkscrews, lets loose. Tosses him straight at Moe. Slender piratical Moe, all muscles. Eyes like chocolate. Delicious. Midair, the Ravid lets out a strange, mewling cry. Moe’s face, rakish perfect, tilts to the heavens. He roars.
Storm of wings comes, black as Minnie’s. As they wheel down, black reveals as inky, liquid occult haze. Flickers like a hologram. Wings, feathers, then only skeletal, eyeless crows. They boil, a tornado of bones. Minnie snaps back her wings. Face becomes a feral snarl. Nail-scythes rise. A bloodcurdling scream leaves luscious pink lips. And she attacks.
Below. Margo and Rolf back to back. A human blender, purifying Ravids. Leave only a chunky, liquid mass of parts and twisted metals as they go. Whips move, sinuous power. Katana creates an endless song of slicing steel, atom suicide. Ring and spark. Rain of delicate bones begins to fall.
They hit the wall. Grins pass between blood drenched faces. Ravids down to twenty, less. Rolf laughs. Margo elbows Moe. Grins, suggestive, dirty. He rolls those chocolate drop eyes. Pinches her tit. Carries on slaying. Calls to Rolf.
‘Leek says you can read these. So read.’
Rolf nods. Eyes wide as saucers on Moe. Tries not to drool. Cracks his whips to coils. Reaches out, snags a Ravid. This one armless, missing chunks of torso. Machinery sputters sparks in the holes. It’s weak but struggles to reach muscled flesh, teeth metal spines, sharp as a barracuda’s.
Rolf holds it down. Places a hand over nose, eyes. Eyelids shutter periwinkle blue. Mind leaps inside dead thoughts. Flies trapped in amber. Cold in there, black, mindless, he shivers. Flesh contracts to goosebumps. He plunges further. Past freezing emptiness to recorded memory. It’s like diving an endless tunnel of thick, icy water. He battles on.
Then. There. Foggy distance springs to full technicolour, and he sees. Starts to talk. Voice a flat monotone.
‘Men. Seven. No, nine. Suits. They conjure. Call the Ravids. Rare, expensive ingredients. They’re pleased. These will be unbeatable. Small, disparate band will not become coherent whole. A problem solved.’
Margo leans over, Katana punches through the chest of a pouncing Ravid as she goes. Licks his ear. Croons. ‘Who are they?’
Rolf’s head tilts. Eyes leap open. Blue has bled to black, corner to corner. Margo sees her face reflected. Shudders. He’s so beautiful. His mouth opens. ‘Order.’ He intones. ‘Order of nine.’
‘Where do we need to go?’
Rolf twitches. Black glows. He follows in further. Slices through Ravid memory of summons. Jumps to ghostly minds of the Order. Dangerous. Could lose himself in here, but it’s vital. Further, deeper, he pushes hard, relentless. Sifts memories like sand.
There. Stops. Closed meeting. Only two members of Order present. Commands given to four suited men. Walls of heavy muscle. Blank faced in shades. Huge guns strapped to hips.
‘Find the Angel.’ He moans to Margo. ‘Stop Mother Immortal.’
Margo signals to Moe, Leek, Minnie, Slimm. ‘He’s found it.’
‘Can he take us?’ Leek, busy with two Ravids, her blades flash bright as diamonds. Showers, spouts, blood, machine fluid, spurt into the night.
Margo shakes her head. ‘We’ll have to take ourselves. He can show us the way.’
‘Then let’s fucking do this.’
Margo leans back to Rolf. ‘Show us the way, baby. Show us where they went.’
Rolf jumps into the four. Follows where they go. Hot, desert planet. Double suns. One leprous yellow, blinding bright. The other leering red. Alive. Malevolent. Sends the image back down the line. Through Margo’s soft lips on his ear. To five eager minds.
They gather the worlds to them. Knife through. Fold from here to there. Six beautiful bodies blur, fade to shadow. Disappear. Eight Ravids, all that’s left, raise ravaged heads, roar to the winds.
Remains of bone crow storm swoop down, descend upon them. Plague of tearing beaks strip Ravids to heaps of tangled bone. Machine parts glinting on gore drenched concrete. Crow cloud rises, funnels off into starless dark, caws mournful as lost souls.
© Ren Warom 2011