The thug raises his fist for round two and is startled to see his fingers—still encased in brass knuckles—fall to the pier with a clank. Looks up and sees Missy of the Spire’s Samurai Suite, using her silken sleeve to wipe a thin streak of blood from her katana. And here’s Fiona of the Sherwood Forest Experience, bowstring cocked. And Miki of the Igloo Room, whaling harpoon at the ready. And Emmerline of the Old Operating Theatre, scalpels tucked between each finger of her left hand, a hypodermic needle already stabbed into the neck of another heavy, and she is hissing in his ear, she is just waiting for him to give her an excuse to press the plunger, just give her one valid excuse. And behind her is Dana of Apollo 69, and Miss Hawtin, Headmistress of Discipline, and Belinda of the JFK Encounter, and Kimiko posing in her SS uniform.
// Sometimes I read over something I wrote and realize it reveals way too much about my secret proclivities. Look at this paragraph, for example: If there were a whore barge where each cabin had a different theme, à la The Madonna Inn, I would prefer if its themes included samurais, Robin Hood, eskimos, 19th Century surgeons, early NASA missions, straight-up BDSM, the JFK assassination, and Nazis. Ladies..?