Aloysius looked like Brando looked in Apocalypse Now. 

His hands looked like three pounds of ground beef.  Each.  His eyes were a sharp Cobalt blue and when he set his gaze on you, well, you knew you were Proper fucked.  Not in a menacing way, mind you.  It was more a feeling of calm.  A sort of peace that you hear about in articles or stories of hypothermia.  The body just gives in, and then, it's time to shake hands with the Devil.  Sweet euphoria.  Any port in a motherfucking storm.

"So, den.  Dis de guy dat you tell me about?"  His voice sounded like angels harps.  And used motor oil.  Viscous and ink black and filling all voids.  He was most certainly where the rubber hit the Road.

"Yea.  Aint he pretty.  I keep telling him he looks fantastic in Red, Al."  Euri.  Amateur night ant the Improv.

"Al?"  His own name rolled of his tongue like a mouthful of pea gravel as the man-giant lumbered from behind the Mechanics table. "I have asked many times dat you refer to me as Aloysius.  My mammochka give me dat name.  It is belong to my Father and my father's father.  Who are you to...I have told you about dis, Euri.  Do not make me tell you again."

The silence from Euri was his reverent proclamation.

There was some more bad noise between the two men.  Then laughter.  Laughter that made you feel like you were chewing on tin foil.  And carpet tacks.  The last thing Slick heard before he lost consciousness again was the angel harp/motor oil sound.  His voice.  Unmistakable yet fragmented to Slick due to the mass amount of blood loss.

"It is time dat we end dis detente."  *blackout*  "Bring de car."  *black out*  "Roman."  *blackout*  "The girl."  My girl, Slick swallowed his words and chased them with the blood in his mouth.  My girl you freakishly intimidating, fucking Bear-man motherfucker!  *blackout*

When he woke - consciousness aided by one of Euri's amyl nitrates- the pain was absolute zero.  Past the point of unbearable.  Now, the pain was completely rotational.  And, in the midst of it all, the one thing occupying Slick's mind was.......

Shit, man.  She used to dance there.  Right fucking there.

  

 

Comments

[TwoBusy]

"His hands looked like three pounds of ground beef. Each."

That's one for the ages, right there.

[ms picket to you]

see? it's a love story after all.