The Dragons Tooth in the Blimp Cartel Tower chimed 7:58 pm. Time for the really late and highest status avatars to arrive at the Museo, and all the gawkers and paparazzi were on their toes, jockeying for the best sight lines, reviewing their glamour angle notes, and loading their brownies.
Sleepy Urchin, lapsed child star, and now very successful paparazzi, but loathed avatar, heard it first. The low sound of a very expensive limo. A 60 squirrel engine, clearly a V8 and headed this way. He made ready his Super Telephoto Brownie, and made sure that the Quick Shot with fish eye, hanging from a string around his thick sweaty neck was ready for action. Listening carefully he realized he was wrong. It was an 80! Insanely expensive and available only to first tier lobbyists, and pop stars in the first flush of the amazing success of their one hit wonder, and shortly before their descent into one night gigs in dark dives as the lead act before the bar fight began. In the distance he saw a really long long limo turn off the Avenue of the Sims and onto Beast Street. Its black frame gleaming under the green light of the pickle vapor illumination of the street lamps. Sleepy saw the glint of gold wall tires.
It moved very slowly and its speed, or lack thereof, signaled its contempt for deadlines, schedules, or commitments. It was someone really important thought Sleepy. Perhaps Lindsey, or Sponge Bob, or Simon himself. At glacial speed the limo approached the red shag carpet. The police and security guards were nervous, another sign of stardom and fleeting fame. Ever so slowly the long long limo angled into the discharge zone. It halted with a kind of tension and captured momentum that meant the limo was heavily armored. Perhaps the Governor himself, possibly accompanied by Paris. There had been rumors. This picture was well worth a thousand words and a linden for every word including the footnotes.
A hush fell over the red rope cordoned sidewalk crowds and the always buzzing paparazzi. Is was so quiet the only sound that could be heard was deep basso purr of the V8 and the muffled cry of a autograph obsessed two month old infant thrashing in her yellow basinet and trying desperately to form the words, ‘over here, over here.’
The center door of the limo opened. The crowd drew its collective breath in anticipation. Paparazzi raised their brownies and aimed. Flash! Someone fired prematurely and then the dark cold winter night turned into daylight with the snap, crackle, and pop of a thousand flashbulbs. Across the street the last few desiccated leaves of the Liquid Amber and Golden Shower trees burst into flame from the intense heat.
Then a tall scarlet tuxedo clad goon stepped from the center door, quickly followed by a matching goon. Their scarlet tuxedo practically fluoresced in the glow of the cameras. Sleepy could hear the snap and pop of their heavily starched French cuff frilly shirts as they moved to the rear door of the limo. A conspicuous bulge near the left coat pocket of the scarlet tuxedoes telegraphed RAPP 266 or perhaps the more deadly P99. The rear door opened and Sleepy saw a brief flash of well turned ankle. This must be one hell of an important dame, he though, taking careful aim.
Chris noted that the Jazz band had been augmented by the brass section of the Drum and Bugle Corps of the School for Wayward Girls. And the ensemble launched into some early music first with ‘Soul Vaccination’, quickly followed by “Get Yo' Feet Back On The Ground”. The debutantes and bachelorettes, oblivious to the magnificent jewels and marital prospects that surrounded them were swept up into a frenzy of dancing. Like dervishes learning to whirl for the first time, they spun, hopped, and jerked until faint from exhaustion and from loosing 10 pounds in the last week, and then they staggered to the side lines to take a quick smoke and adjust their bras and under garments. All except those few, to whom so many owed so much, who knew nothing of bras and undergarments.
Chris saw the drum corps assembling in back of the balcony. Gonna be one hell of a finish he thought. The evening was electric and the music was primal. Even old Philpot Onus had taken to the dance floor, gripping tightly the slender form of Melody Panscake-Fernmot. A task made easy by his odd hands, reminiscent of Mofo the Brave and Very Dead. Chris noticed a bandage around one of Onus hands.
To his delight, surprise, and concern there was Admiral Bobby Fisher dancing with Sister Curis Quris, and Sister Neco. For a man long dead he could really step a jig, and the Sisters could barely keep up with the old man.
After some delay, so the stunned paparazzi could finally focus their brownies and return their tongues to their rightful repositories. Sindy reached the top of the stairs. She glanced into the ceiling high mirrors lining the entrance to the grand Stairway to Heaven. She nudged the Crown of Empress Marie Louise, a little to the left to give it a more jaunty look. She grasped her breasts, Elmo and Waldo, and gave them a nice lift up, then to poke a tiny bit of tissue deeper into her bosom thereby more fully emphasizing the gleaming emerald broche of the Worm Oboros. She turned to the pair of goons and lightly straitened the cummerbund of one. Show time she thought.
She turned and advanced.
She handed her modified invitation to Rod Black together with a folded note.
“Ah, Miss Sindy, said Black, “I’m so glad to see you and the smiling Governor’s face.” Referring to the 10 linden note in his hand.
“Yes,” Sindy replied. “It must feel good being Major Domo with your re-election so close and so certain.”
Rod smiled the vacuous smile of a Major Domo, combined with the greasy smile of a politician, now assured that he had the endorsement of The Times.
The Major Domo stepped forward with the little squeezy bottle in his hand.
Sindy nodded to Lilith who immediately stopped the band.
The sudden cessation of music struck the dancing throng like a ton of angel food cake dropped on them from a great height. The previously loud talking gaggles of gossips, wags, small-talkers, and scuttlebutt slingers, suddenly found the ‘private’ conversations far too loud and they paused to adjust the decibel level to a more intimate level. Even the couples smooching loudly behind the curtains were embarrassed and the fell silent.
A loud drum roll began, sounding nothing less than as if the bowling league of the gods gone insane with drink and lust. A dozen trumpets sounded out in a piercing flourish, and then fell silent
.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Madams et Monsieur’s!”
The drum roll began again.
The Major Domo pulled himself up to his full height and all eyes in the hall lifted to the top of the Stairway to Heaven.
Then the Major Domo spoke in a clear, soft tone, loud not in decibels but in drama.
“Miss Sindy Blazer, Queen of the Night”
Chris looked up and was, as they say 'blown away.' by what he saw. There stood Sindy Blazer, hardly recognizable in a spectacular black velvet gown that sucked the light from the spotlights, except for the stunning brilliant sparkle and reflected glory of diamonds, and emeralds, which virtually screamed power and regal virtue. From around her throat blazed a fire storm of emeralds. Her glories and “knock em out” appearance was crowned with a blaze of light, fire, and ice. A tiara that screamed “down on your knees naves”
Flanked on either side were scarlet matching goons.. The contrast of the red and black was amazingly dramatic thought Chris. Stunning simply stunning.
Then a most remarkable, unprecedented, and amazing thing happened. Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian, and Head of Anti-Monarchist Party, rose from his porti-throne, paused, and bowed stiffly toward Sindy.
Sindy descended the stairs slowly. No one breathed. An then as she raised her hand in a backhanded wave of superiority, the room echoed to a thud, as Prissy Plumblossom fainted and fell to the floor. No one moved to help Prissy as they all stood transfixed by the vision of the Queen of the Night.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment