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Roar
of the Giraffe The
dank heat of a monsoon night pushes itself through the doorway along with
a slim figure dressed almost entirely in black who feels his way to a seat
on one of the empty bar stools. He
is wearing white cotton gloves and his face is painted white except for
the red dot at the tip of his nose. With
one hand he flags the girl tending bar and with the other he points to the
beer tap. The mini skirt
sitting beside him can’t stop staring. “What’s
up with you, Dark Bozo?” she shouts over Smashing Pumpkins.
Her breasts are spilling out of her blouse. The
man in black pantomimes thirst by grabbing his throat and sticking his
tongue out. “No.
The makeup, the gloves. What
a freak show!” He
shrugs his shoulders and then primps himself in an invisible mirror. “Don’t
do your act with me, clown. All
I have to do is shove my tits in your face and you’ll sing Glory
Hallelullia.” Whereupon,
the painted man stands on his stool and sings silent opera.
She yanks him down, out the door of the bar and pushes him into her
Celica. “Talk!
Damn it, talk!” she screams pumping furiously on the lump in his
trousers. In
Room 328, their clothing flies to the ceiling.
They are grizzlies smacking salmon on rocks.
Picture frames fall from the walls.
The
tempest abates and the mime slowly replaces his outfit.
Over his shoulder, the naked accomplice snores and he wonders if
she will keep the secret of their evening together.
His discretion is sure. He
would never say a word.
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