At this point in my life, I had never heard of Erwin Schrodinger; nor his philosophical hypothesis regarding cats locked in boxes, so it would have come as a surprise to find I was away to replicate the experiment with a potentially pissed off Manticore.
In keeping with the aesthetic appeal of ‘Den of depravity and sin’, Bugsy’s offered a more traditional experience for the less discerning customer, replete with quintessential features such as; thick velvet drapes, nicotine smoked windows, sultry lighting and an atmosphere thick with mood too make even the most angst-ridden Will-o-the-wisp choke under the oppressive ambience of the club.
Chasity concentrated as much as her inebriation would allow, which was roughly that of a hyperactive Were-rabbit bouncing off the walls after mistaking a horseradish for her carrot-shaped dildo. Never questioning why she kept her sex toys in the basket beside less forgiving root vegetables. Chasity could feel the soul of the lounge pounding in sync with her heartbeat, accompanied by the rhythm of heavy footsteps on the slick yet sticky floor. Laughter thrummed through the melodic clink and tinkle of glasses and optics, its sour breath the very essence of desperation. Dank air dripped with personality, a miasma of testosterone, alcohol-laden sweat, stale nicotine and cheap aftershave in eye-watering abundance, bringing with it an unwelcome wave of nausea. Happily oblivious to the fact she was part of the cloying stench.
Pleading, tear-filled eyes gazed up at Chasity, cowering within the darkness of her imposing presence as oppressive red light cast a sinister shadow upon Chasity’s sickening grin. Closing his eyes, humiliation ran down Fat Neck’s face, cheeks puffy and damp from the abuse suffered at the paws of the vindictive Manticore. Face pulling into a grimace, he forced himself to swallow, almost gagging as the sickening liquid slid across his tongue and burned down his gullet.
