Guest MC, Phillip Marlowe, is, per usual, hot on the heels of a femme fatale that will lead him through the fog of noir deep into some very strange territory.
More from the ancient oracle known as The Sybil here.
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Transcript:
I loaded my pipe and set my eyes over the Capablanca I was playing over and doing my best to take my mind off the current state of affairs. The lovely, sweet voice of Bambée lilted out from the radio in the corner and I took another bite of a drink before it took a bite out of me. But my mind was wandering and soon I would be as well.
As I took the elevator down to get my car out of the garage to follow up on what had been eating at me, I remembered I no longer had a car and I was still trapped in this place, that was not my apartment, but a strange hotel and I was not in Hollywood, but in some other glitzy and doomed Hell, full of hungry ghosts. Just like old Marlowe, to get caught up in another man’s nightmare. I pushed the button for the 13th floor and rolled my eyes.
There was a smell like an exhumed, open coffin in my nostrils as I edged along the dank hallway. With my flickering penlight in my left hand and the other hand groping the rough and somewhat sticky textured wallpaper, I was hoping for a switch of some sort, but only found a raised surface to catch a hangnail on. I chewed that off and spit it out and reached into my right pocket for a cigarette and then fumbled for a match to no avail.
I was able to abandon the penlight as I turned a sharp left into what seemed to be a space-age dancehall of some sort, with a lighted floor in primary and secondary-colored square tiles that pulsed to a strange up-tempo bossanova beneath rhythm and blues bass licks and an electrified and hysterical guitar chop like a choir of deranged cats in heat. In time with the music were odd, dancing light projections beamed onto the sunken velveteen black walls above the chromium railing of a wraparound balcony.
The music was still playing, the lights still flashing, but there weren't any souls in sight except for the ghosts of memories long forgotten and the smell of old sins. I began to realize that the entire joint had filled up with an oppressive pink fog that wrapped around everything in sight like a caterpillar made of cotton candy.
And then she appeared, like a walking cliché out of a dime store novel – a dangerously alluring shape with her black hair and smoky eyes, drawing me in, moth to the proverbial flame. But just when I thought I had her all mapped out, she transformed into something else entirely – a monster matinee creature of the night, all fingernails, fangs and hunger.
Just when I thought I had seen it all, she changed again, this time into a scared little boy who had been playing in Mommy’s makeup and wearing a tangled, greasy wig. I touched his shoulder to console his tears and lie to him that everything was going to be alright, but he quickly evaporated into the candy fog. It was enough to make me wonder if I was losing what was left of my marbles.
And then there was the beach. I took two steps and I was somehow on a beach. But instead of sand, there was black volcanic ash that hovered upward and floated about, like demonic cherry blossoms in a cursed shrine, into the fog with each step forward. This fever dream continued as entranced showgirls in bloody bikinis began dancing violently, like they were auditioning for Busby Berkeley’s Dracula. I tried to make sense of it all, but it was not unlike trying to piece together the night before, after having a few too many, then being sapped on the head from behind in the parking lot.
I stumbled through the mist, with each step feeling like I was walking in circles, until finally, I came across a splintered surfboard washed up on the shore. I looked out beyond the black volcanic ash, to the black sea with black clouds overhead and neon fractures of magenta flashing within their ominous shapes. I looked behind me only to see a single set of footprints walking away from my shoes. I turned around and followed them for what seemed a lifetime.
Eventually, the footprints lead through a passage of lava rock into a dark beach cave. Every instinct told me that I shouldn’t enter this lair, but just like always, I ignored this and followed a very queer hunch. I took my penlight out of my pocket and made my way inside.
I didn’t need the flashlight for long, as there were torches lit inside that illuminated skulls on posts, stalagmites and stalactites, and finally, the statue of a peculiar female being sitting atop a cathedra. She soon began to speak, with what at first seemed to be utter gibberish and gradually seemed to find some logic, albeit in an Exquisite Corpse sort of way. I could hear my pulse becoming louder and louder and reflecting off the shadowed walls of this subterranean parlor as she continued….
“….sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. you took it well, the total hemoglobin in your veins absorbed everything after your days in the woods. it's hard to do when that happens. if so, the text of the text is sick and does not exist. they throw out the light, the weak lamps crack and shatter like broken mirrors, and the balconies that have not yet reached them scream with such fury, mutilated flesh, bruises and vines. why don't you use water to use it? you have no patience, but maybe the wind will blow enough sand into your sandy eyes and you will find gold. how many times do you know who you are, when you are at home, this time is the best. i look back and see a set of footprints leading to the beach. they try to treat you like a child, like a little monkey in a cage. once, when you danced with peanuts on the table, they shot sticky bullets in your leg, put a leather pad on your waist and fell into a coma again. that i always try to imagine losing without thinking and being forgotten again. we need shelter from the storms of sentimentality, humanism, consumerism, capitalism, the rat race, dog feces and horse faces. just when you think you can hide behind the costume of a villain, a brave fairy, or both. diplomats die and are torn to shreds by their diamond teeth. you can read or read more about your story. most of the people living in the country today have coffins, a carpet with dagger marks, popcorn on the carpet, and lots of discarded wigs, shiny wigs and bloody scalps singing to each other. they are still in the dark, but they are still in the dark. living room scraps are below to provide food for these species. chrome winged scissors. he licks his thick, wet lips, feeling a deep bulge as the cup touches the bone. you have to find another glove, but now the glove is flying around the cave of your soul, it can't stop your beating heart, and it's upside down in the cracks on your face. you can't help but feel it. on the phone is on the phone on the phone on the phone on the phone on the phone on the phone is on the phone but i can't tell if it's a dream or a movie. and i sit there and see something. i stare at it for ages, until it clicks. as i got off the elevator, the sound turned into a whistle, and as i entered the swamp, i heard the sound of green moss. footsteps run through the swamp, some dog creatures look at you with deep longing like their children. mouth movements are slow to movement for thinking, language is incomprehensible, but when asleep or awake, standing or lying down, when freezing, he feels that something is wrong in his head. you're going straight, flat, you can keep sliding down. he is thankful for the day and the day after the end of the day. you wonder and wish it was, but when god calls, he's full of old polaroids of the salty lightfoot club, places you think you've been, and field wash mush suits. i'm sick of it, i'm sad, i'm sad, but i'm happy. the owner of the family has his and the family of lobster 57 chevy can ride the cool gray ocean waves stretching out to the ocean without fear of falling or sinking. i live for my papa and disc bow tie. in this way, the price is higher than before, but it is a new person. the other one the one the one the one the one the one the other the roof of the hotel. you don't want to go back to the hotel roof. low level. in a flexible sheet, the embrace of love screams and teeth believe this video and start. he is happy, i love you, i love you very much, i love you very much, i love you very much. you are the one who left the house. time? there is no number corresponding to the real face and appearance of the earth. i like subscriptions, but this is not true. watching the game is juicy. i don't know who i am when i see you; i don't know, i'm tired, i'm tired, i'm tired, i'm still here in maarif hassam. but it's more than just a nightmare. was born. even if i had avoided bowing to davud in the cut of a peasant. closes in turkish. yes, centering your goal like a mistake if you can make a mistake is confusing. there is no movement. time and time again. time to see what happens. you are all one and the same. one is everything.”
I woke up with the ruins of the Capablanca embedded into my left cheek and only the vague remnants of a dream somewhere at the cusp of a fading landscape. I remembered that I had loaded my pipe, so I struck a match with my thumbnail successfully for perhaps the second time in my life, took another bite out of the Old Colonel and repositioned the little chessmen around their lacquered battleground.
The air from the open window had become cooler and as the mesh curtains pirouetted, the breeze curled the fragrant tobacco smoke. The sugary voice of Bambée once again caressed my ears….
ee10 • Exquisite Corpse