NAPEEKIN

Somewhere between all the whimpering and "Why not me!"'s, the divisions were becoming clear.

This, the capitol city of basement debachery(?), the house of a thousand quirks, the fabled land where etched upon the gateway is scrawled, "Abandon all hope ye who enter and get no play."

The barest, water wing equipped members of the 'seperate but equal' luke warm gene pool could find themselves hilt deep in the finest thigh velcro many counties had to offer, or at least a fine selection of virgin slayers.

For so many lucky, hapless bitches of fate, this was Elysium.

Yet the veteran here was forever to fail unless his coin was selected from the lottery and then still only if the number's echo made its journey unimpeded by generic pulsing techno beats, the stench of unwashed goth ass, and the flicker of propeller mimicking light sticks in a morose reflection of so many faces' beauty that lasted only until the moustache strikes one's view. As the evening progresses, the haves and have nots stake claims in heir respective territories, the former fading into so many one shot stands, the latter scrounging for the last scrapings of substances with the potential to dull the mind enough into convincing them that they were of the nobler class.

My companion and I, knowing our lot and having direct knowledge that no intoxicants besides too many sodomites' private reserves lay untapped, we did as those rebellious souls quelled before ever having the opportunity to raise a call to arms: we lifted our chins and resolved to watch an action flick. Sowewhere during the feature, the subtitles began to blur. Flashes of buckshot and horserides meandered through the entirety of this haggard creature sprawled across some five or more chairs.

My fellow journeyman had since found greener pastures (or at least a more comfortable place to bed). I was alone. I had found to my reckoning. A fresh, yet cliche, title screen came to life beyond the snow and the ocean of the drop cloth. Something clicked. Time was taking a real form again and the fact that I had passed out in a hotel conference room materialized in my spine. It was time to move. The warmth of the sunrise in the shadows of the film was responded to by a rush of pressurized ocular bleach that would make a boddhisatva curse all existence.

Yet with this gift came the greatest gift of all, the Zen moment of insight that had eluded my unyielding grasp in all of this mess of corsets and poorly colored vodkas, the pinnacle of all binges of body or thought, the healing that poured from one spring for all: breakfast at Porter's.

Bishop Les Femur