Monday, September 03, 2007

Mistress of Dreams

I was the Mistress of Discipline, the devilish maven of ceremonial procession. I was the Mistress of Ceremonies. I was the Question Bitch Goddess. I dared anyone to cross me. I walked in light mist to the Lonely Hearts club wearing purple velvet and carrying a riding crop. The night was deep dark, the dark that comes when the sky is full of clouds and the lights can't break through the fogs. It was beautiful and wet, and humid. I arrived at the bar, slapped the crop down on the table and asked for a drink.

The quiz is loaded on the projector for the bar rats and I wait for the barman to come in and provide last minute instructions. There is no answer sheet. We fiddle together for ten minutes and create and approximation that will confuse the drunks. My phone rattles against the bar. It's the Polynesian Love Slave. I'd decked her out in a wrap around sarong that fell to her waist, she was to come braless to entice the barflies with her nubile back, long hair up in a bun, and breasts dangling free and wild. She called in suck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I needed the Polynesian Love Slave to change the slides. This was all figured out.

Fuck.

The barman says he will do it but that won't do. Tonight there is the Pixie Angel of Desire, Gun she is called, like the shot she fired into my heart. She sees me and hugs me and gives me a kiss. She whispers in my ear "Pakistan Girl is coming back to Korea. She wants to see you." My mind does back flips as I try to sort it all out, no Polynesian love slave, but the pistol whip and the Pakistan girl.

I call the Lone Wolf. Monolycus to my rescue. I promise a favor.

"You know you owe me?"

"Yeah, I know."

"I'm not going to forget."

"I don't expect you will."

Monolycus is taught to run the game on the fly. He strips down to a baseball jersey and long flowing blonde hair. He smokes behind the bar so the barman and the gun can serve the drunks while we serve the game.

I shout from the microphone for the needy to line up, the greedy to fork over money, and the teams to get the answer sheets we created on the fly. We get eight teams in all, a prize fit for the winner take all game, and we are off.

I start the game in my purple velvet calling the questions, directing the drunks. I banter with the hecklers.

"Please come to the front and get your answers sheets."
"Maybe if you go down first!"
"You can go down first but I don't come that easily."

"What should you cut off if it offends you? Your hand, your foot, or your penis."
"Shouldn't you say cock."
"There were at least three cocks in the Bible?"
"How many are in you?"
"Only the dick at the table, and his reach isn't that good."

The bar laughs and we continue in a bawdy repartee and I run the show. Korean girls line up in front of the screen and the crowd screams. I catch the girls with a look and shake my crop at them.

"If you don't move I will smack you!"
"Holy Shit, she has a real riding crop!"

The bar goes still the Korean girls run away, and a troupe lines up to get whacked for impetuousness. I call the game and collect the answers and go to score the round.

Mono and I talk as we score.

"Let me call the answers this time."

"Fine, fine, they are getting on my nerves anyway."

Mono grabs the microphone and is silky and smooth and handles the drunks with the hard won ease of the professional who might have played to a crowd of rambunctious Rocky rebels on a decades worth of Saturday evenings. He is impressive. I'm impressed and shocked to laughter. He rolls the crowd and the beg for more.

We switch off through the evening and he plays the finale and brings the house down.

The winners are called and they get their bounty. "Tradition," he says "dictates that I buy you and your assistant a drink." Mono bulks at being an assistant quickly. I get more tequila and he gets a shot and a beer. We drink with the winners. Leader of the Troupe exclaims "I have a third nipple!" and whips off his shirt. We stare at a mole in the middle of his chest and he says "go on, touch it."

I drink my drink and stumble into the foggy mist and fall into home. Mistress of Somnambulation, Mistress of dreams.

No comments: