the hopeless romantic and narcissist that i am, i have decided to put up the beginning of my novel. beautiful girls you are my inspiration. love
nicotine
Drugstore Romeo by Nicotine??
Her gaze was so venomous it could kill a man; it was so sweet he would go willingly. She owned the Villa Des Sainte, she had paid for it with more blood than it was worth. Self-appointed mother to "her boys" she was on the tip of the lips of every junkie in town. Roulette brought them the good shit, the dust that dreams were made of. With chocolate dipped strawberry lips and a body no Rockwell painting had ever depicted, she was Freud's reoccurring wet dream. Yet no man in the Villa Des Sainte could claim her. As far as anyone knew she was as pure as the snow her boys smuggled in truckloads from some sunshiny paradise south of the border. In truth, she was a ten-cent gun. Roulette worked the streets in a pair of double spurred, steal toed, studded cowboy boots in her younger days. She had found them on a dead prostitute outside puss n' boots, the best brothel in town.
Back then the man to call when your dick got too dry was Big John Doe. More like a bear than a man, Big John stood 6'7" 400 lbs. Unless a small Jew named David strolled into town one day with a sack full of rocks, Big John didn't have to be afraid of anybody. John was illiterate and somehow having seriously pissed off lady fate, mute as well. Clientele at the Puss n' Boots found it reassuring, however, that their wives would have more luck proving their infidelity with some poor nameless fellow down at the morgue than with Big John Doe. No one knew where he came from or what his past held. It was clear from the two dead eyes above the melancholy scar running sideway across his neck to fists that had delivered too many souls that Big John had been born in the lap of many cruel misfortunes. In truth all it had taken to do in Big John was one, and she had been very small. Bella was named too perfectly.
Nothing is soft like a woman is soft. Nothing is as brutal as the fate of the poor fool who loves her. Bella was the best thing to grace the pavement of Angelos Avenue. Her blush pink stilettos baptized the ears of every man accessible with the bittersweet echo of each heel. Siren by trade, her song was the way her hips swayed lazily back and forth; like a Sunday church bell calling the sinners home. Only they would find no loving god to take their worries to his ever-loving bosom. All they would find was Bella with her knife ready to send them to whatever heaven they had come to her for. They would die in the arms of the Collier De Sang or so the papers called her, their last view on this earth would be a blood stained wedding dress holding a bosom that rivaled god's.
Bella found herself in the Looking Glass on the corner of Angelos Avenue and Los Pecador Place. Above the bar in slut pink neon letters, "el agua de la vida" or "the water of life." On every wall were a hundred mirrors that echoed the lovely way her back met her legs over and over again.
"What's your poison, Angel?"
"An Amnesia, extra wet."
The barkeep brought her the sweet elixir in a Delphian red glass fashioned in the never-ending limbo of a woman's curves.
The Looking Glass was the trysting place of August Rubios and the Hombres Mutuos, the men they all answered to on this side of the tracks. The Booth in the darkest corner was the big man's, designated and signed for in a few black eyes and broken teeth. Rubios golden boy and confidant was a tall man with a loose mouth to his right, later to become known as Big John. He was what kept the Hombres in dough and women. What John couldn't get by charm or money alone he didn't mind taking by force and so he had tasted it all. Big John sat at the booth with a blond on his right and a redhead to his left. He had partaken in his fair share of dames. Plump, skinny, ravishing, homely; he was a buffet junkie by heart.
Bella watched him from across the room, the patrons of the Looking Glass hiding her from him like a snake in the grass. She watched the tall man's conversation with a gin highball and kept the pace of his suicidal romance with the ever-emptying opaque bottle in his right hand.
How quickly love can hit you. It steals the air from your lungs and the blood from your heart and you're finished. A semi-truck has just run you down and you are broken and bloody on a highway far from anyone who cares. How cruel and heartless cupid must be to deal such an awful fate to big john. This was the first glimpse Big John had of his love. One thousand or more Bellas reflected endlessly, hopelessly in the walls of the looking glass. And then just one. One perfect Bella. How he loved her. He loved her with everything, even more than everything if that were plausible.
What is so bewitching about a beautiful woman? Her slow smile, so slight she could have been frowning, the gleam of eternal tomorrows in each hazel net, one piled on top of the other in a sweaty heap of endless summer. There was something rapturous about the woman, something uncivilized and rough; she was sex as crude and primitive as the dawn of time. The merciless way she carried her head maybe? What made a rose bloom, what made its smell so enticing, what made it grow thorns to make curious hands bleed?
nicotine
Drugstore Romeo by Nicotine??
Her gaze was so venomous it could kill a man; it was so sweet he would go willingly. She owned the Villa Des Sainte, she had paid for it with more blood than it was worth. Self-appointed mother to "her boys" she was on the tip of the lips of every junkie in town. Roulette brought them the good shit, the dust that dreams were made of. With chocolate dipped strawberry lips and a body no Rockwell painting had ever depicted, she was Freud's reoccurring wet dream. Yet no man in the Villa Des Sainte could claim her. As far as anyone knew she was as pure as the snow her boys smuggled in truckloads from some sunshiny paradise south of the border. In truth, she was a ten-cent gun. Roulette worked the streets in a pair of double spurred, steal toed, studded cowboy boots in her younger days. She had found them on a dead prostitute outside puss n' boots, the best brothel in town.
Back then the man to call when your dick got too dry was Big John Doe. More like a bear than a man, Big John stood 6'7" 400 lbs. Unless a small Jew named David strolled into town one day with a sack full of rocks, Big John didn't have to be afraid of anybody. John was illiterate and somehow having seriously pissed off lady fate, mute as well. Clientele at the Puss n' Boots found it reassuring, however, that their wives would have more luck proving their infidelity with some poor nameless fellow down at the morgue than with Big John Doe. No one knew where he came from or what his past held. It was clear from the two dead eyes above the melancholy scar running sideway across his neck to fists that had delivered too many souls that Big John had been born in the lap of many cruel misfortunes. In truth all it had taken to do in Big John was one, and she had been very small. Bella was named too perfectly.
Nothing is soft like a woman is soft. Nothing is as brutal as the fate of the poor fool who loves her. Bella was the best thing to grace the pavement of Angelos Avenue. Her blush pink stilettos baptized the ears of every man accessible with the bittersweet echo of each heel. Siren by trade, her song was the way her hips swayed lazily back and forth; like a Sunday church bell calling the sinners home. Only they would find no loving god to take their worries to his ever-loving bosom. All they would find was Bella with her knife ready to send them to whatever heaven they had come to her for. They would die in the arms of the Collier De Sang or so the papers called her, their last view on this earth would be a blood stained wedding dress holding a bosom that rivaled god's.
Bella found herself in the Looking Glass on the corner of Angelos Avenue and Los Pecador Place. Above the bar in slut pink neon letters, "el agua de la vida" or "the water of life." On every wall were a hundred mirrors that echoed the lovely way her back met her legs over and over again.
"What's your poison, Angel?"
"An Amnesia, extra wet."
The barkeep brought her the sweet elixir in a Delphian red glass fashioned in the never-ending limbo of a woman's curves.
The Looking Glass was the trysting place of August Rubios and the Hombres Mutuos, the men they all answered to on this side of the tracks. The Booth in the darkest corner was the big man's, designated and signed for in a few black eyes and broken teeth. Rubios golden boy and confidant was a tall man with a loose mouth to his right, later to become known as Big John. He was what kept the Hombres in dough and women. What John couldn't get by charm or money alone he didn't mind taking by force and so he had tasted it all. Big John sat at the booth with a blond on his right and a redhead to his left. He had partaken in his fair share of dames. Plump, skinny, ravishing, homely; he was a buffet junkie by heart.
Bella watched him from across the room, the patrons of the Looking Glass hiding her from him like a snake in the grass. She watched the tall man's conversation with a gin highball and kept the pace of his suicidal romance with the ever-emptying opaque bottle in his right hand.
How quickly love can hit you. It steals the air from your lungs and the blood from your heart and you're finished. A semi-truck has just run you down and you are broken and bloody on a highway far from anyone who cares. How cruel and heartless cupid must be to deal such an awful fate to big john. This was the first glimpse Big John had of his love. One thousand or more Bellas reflected endlessly, hopelessly in the walls of the looking glass. And then just one. One perfect Bella. How he loved her. He loved her with everything, even more than everything if that were plausible.
What is so bewitching about a beautiful woman? Her slow smile, so slight she could have been frowning, the gleam of eternal tomorrows in each hazel net, one piled on top of the other in a sweaty heap of endless summer. There was something rapturous about the woman, something uncivilized and rough; she was sex as crude and primitive as the dawn of time. The merciless way she carried her head maybe? What made a rose bloom, what made its smell so enticing, what made it grow thorns to make curious hands bleed?