Gum-on-My-Shoe During a Dark and Stormy Night

The Laffing Dragon was more or less empty. A couple of regulars bickering about politics and sports. One of Larry's girls working a couple of school boys who had wandered into the armpit of town. A local artist sitting at a corner table with his face in a plate of Al-Kazak's teriyaki potatoes (whether he was passed out again or just practicing his "performance art" was beyond my ken.) I was thirsty, like a dying lizard on the not-so-dark side of the moon, and so I made my way to where that rat-faced ex-mage Kaz poured the best Irish coffee this side of Amber. That's when I first saw her.

She was sitting at the bar, slightly slouched over an untouched drink, an angel meditating on the holy grail. As I slipped onto the stool next to her, I smelled the cheap vodka in the glass and more than a hint of ammonia (whether from the angel or the bar, I couldn't tell, and at that point, I didn't really care.) I noticed that she was picking her teeth with a straightened-out paper clip. She was a looker alright, from her shoulder-length greasy pink hair (with that wild, beckoning stripe of purple over her left ear) to her mud-caked Army boots (artificial dirt on designer-label ankle huggers, I have an eye for exotic footwear.) The smeared theatrical blood that framed her own deep brown cave-like eyes complimented the red fur-lined tank top she wore over her slight torso. Her spindly legs were covered in cream-colored thermal underwear, at least two sizes too big, and artfully ripped at the knees and calves. Over these she wore a red and white checkered tablecloth (Pizza Hut, unless I was mistaken), tied at her waist with a severed length of orange extension cord (the grounded plug hanging tantalizingly over her left knee.) Oh yeah, she was all that and more. Everything I had never realized I was looking for in a woman. The instant she turned toward me and our eyes met, I knew my heart was destined to be broken, even before she opened her mouth and began screaming.