Friday, March 25, 2016

neon noir at the "Back Door"

Ghostly strains of skittering static melody came from somewhere in the corner. The ceiling was low and the dive was lit like two ancient computers fighting each other; cyan-magenta against neon green. Vaporous clouds and crowds procluded any hope of straight lines.

It was not smoke. It was instead vapor made to look very much like smoke. Dayglo and grey figures did not dance in a veritable mist of propylene glycol, water vapor, cannabinoids, nicotine, and so much more.

Nevertheless, the barrage of high tempo sonic pings did not cease.

There might have been furniture. Maybe the clientele lounged on hyper colored fog. There was probably a bar, but she never found it. Time did not exist in places like this.

Rather time waited in parked cars, leaning against dusty bricks, sitting on orange lit curbs. Everyone kept their backs to the door.

A mechanical whir reminded her she was smiling.

She'd been told she'd get used to it. Six years on and she still noticed above the song.

The package lay ten feet behind her on the undanced floor, thrumming under the fog.

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