Thirteenth Episode - Midnight At The Magic Bordello

So I'm upside-down packed against the wall behind a fold-away bed and I can feel broken mattress springs corkscrewing into my back and butt as Madame Kissinger asks Nessa Muertorella: 'But are you sure you're all right, my little streaming eye-wound? You look so frail, like a battleship made of parchment or something. Won't you let me bring you a cup of green tea to soothe your brittle nerves? No? Builders' tea then, two lumps and show it the spoon? Peppermint? Cinnamon? Ginseng? Fruits of the forest? No? How about sucking my piss through a straw with all your teeth missing? How's that grab you, you workshy slut? You want me to come over and rip that hoop out your nose like a ringpull? Just what in the name of creeping Jenkins is it going to take for you to wipe that pug-ugly grimace off your mush and get back on the passion wagon? Do I have to open your hind quarters with a car-jack?'

'Just gimme five minutes, okay? Fuck's sake.'

'Aww, what's wrong my withered petunia? Lady's problems? A touch of feminine discomfort? Did Maximillion try putting a lighter to your snatch again?'

'Kiss my ass.'

'And smudge my lipstick?' Madame Kissinger's chuckles collapsed into cod-coughs. 'Sweetpea, I've a whole landfill of punters down in the lobby who'll pay through their atrophied nostrils for the privilege of snogging your stiff-bristled ringpiece till their teeth turn brown. Either look smart and lube up or I'll be forced to put you in a headlock and punch you repeatedly between the eyes. You'd like that wouldn't you, you little tramp?'

'What part of five fucking minutes don't you understand?'

'Well, the middle part, apparently. Sounds like you think fucking's just a cute intensifier, whereas I was under the impression it was something you've got to do or you won't get fed.'

A pause where I had to bite my lip to keep from shrieking.

'Bitch.'

'Believe me, under this thick skin my blood flows like wine. You've got two minutes before the next punter comes knocking, so please, if not for my sake then for your own, at least try to look like five hundred dollars' worth of prime jizz mitten.' And the parlour door slammed.

I heard Nessa sigh, long and deep, then she jerked the bed open like the door of an oven. I jounced on the busted mattress, grunted when the frame clanged against the floorboards.

'Chief what the fuck is this? I'm working! I thought you and T-Blade were ' is that blood?'

Across my midriff there was a stain like a blackcurrant sun.

'Fuck!' I clutched and grasped at the wound's epicentre. 'Nessa? Nessa I can't feel anything! It's all gone numb! It's too late!'

She glanced at the wall behind me, then scowled like a doorknocker. 'You asshole.' I followed her gaze and saw a crimson splatter-pattern like a burst tumour smeared across the wallpaper. 'That's not yours ' that's from a session this morning.' She shook her head, turned and clopped away, tail slapping back midges. Curving up from glossy chestnut withers, her spine was studded with steel pins thick as stiletto hafts, the flesh between them pale and crinkled. Two black leather straps held a kind of half-cuirass made from blue-tinted glass to the front of her torso. Her hair was long and dirty, the colour of cooked bacon. Her horns had been sanded to nubs. When she peered back over her shoulder I could see straight up her snout, a brass ring hanging from her taurine nostrils. 'So what's the deal, Chief? It's been ' what ' a month since I saw you last? And why the fuck are you wearing a wedding dress?'

'You really want the truth?'

Nessa snorted. 'Fuck the truth. Gimme the story.'

So I did.