Mr Mascellani's Musings

It's sleaze o'clock in the moaning and the moon scowls down
on a citythat is as lackluster as the charm that hangs off a gimp
hooker's bracelet. While in the fortress of filth and debauchery
that he calls his apartment, in a bedroom filled with deer and moose
head trophies, and a bear skin rug, and on a bed as big and as long
as a kerouacian sentence, Big Louie is being entertained by a dame
named Candy or Brandy or Sandy, maybe it’s Mandy.

He tries to remember which it is, for a moment, but then he shrugs
his shoulders, scratches his beach whale ass, and takes another drag
from his Cuban cigar as the dame plays a virtuoso performance on his
one-hole flute, swallowing the notes at the climax-then the sound of
Big Louie's phone invades the moment like an unwelcomed visitor from
another dimension. He picks up the receiver, talks, and puts it down.

"I gotta go", he says to the dame, police business, there's been some
trouble down town. Some god damned VIP palooka’s been shot dead,
right on the corner of Nowhere and Nothing streets.”

The dame gets under Big Louie's bed sheets and through pupils that
are as tiny as pinholes watches him change into his uniform.