From the Pillar of Salt Lounge, in Tupelo, Mississippi. Between Sodom and Gomorrah City.
The speakers shook the foundation with the raw blues, caterwauling sounds, like unneutered women in heat, with the weight of their sins. With an erection, Satan watched. Obsessed with the grain on the mahogany, His hands permanently stained a patina of dark rye whisky. his eyes sharp and hungry. It was Happy Hour, the alligator semen (vodka) was on the house.
On the dance floor, Lilith, in her naked skinny flesh. Her legs long and lean, shaking her adroginous genitals.Setting fire to the pubes of the damned. She didn’t walk; she glided, a slow-motion carving a path through the smoke. She looked like a prayer answered by a god who had long since stopped listening. Her eyes were two holes burned through a piece of wet parchment, scanning the room for a target that didn’t mind the smell of sex and brimstone.
Lilith didn’t just touch him; she owned him, dragging him from the high perch of his observation down into the grit and sawdust of the floor. They collapsed into the same singular motion, a tangle of limbs that felt less like a romance and more like a collision of beasts rutting in the dirt. There was no grace to it, only the raw, rhythmic desperation of two predators who had finally found their match. He entered her with a violent certainty, the mahogany of the bar forgotten, replaced by the cold, hard press of the floorboards against her spine and the hot, humid weight of his chest crushing her breath.
