You stop for a moment. Nicotine-laced smoke billows out. A women in black pleated pants and polo shirt leans against the tacky brick-red wall, smearing her lungs with a cigarette. She glances to you solemnly, eyes narrowing when they meet yours. Your still in your uniform- her eyes relax when she sees this. No more aggression sits on her weathered face- just a warm acceptance. You walk up to her, offering a pack- she looks at it surprised. She takes it, not wasting a breathe asking what you want. You wink, the magic in you flooding out and into her. She grins,m sardonically, sad eyes wrinkling for the first time in a decade. She can tell what you are. She knows exactly what you want. "Find me after my shift ends. Open Mic at the Shakesies- I'll be watching."
You're there an hour early. You can't help but be excited for the show. Other customers go on stage, their exultations meek and with no emotion, with only the human need for attention. But not her. She approaches gallantly, red dress like a wreath of flame, her body silhouetted temporarily. She is beautiful, a perfect figure of desire. Her makeup compliments her skin exquisitely, cherry red blush mixing in with deep toned skin, her years not an issue in the stage light. In her hands she holds and ancient Gibson, the neck held together by skate tape. She flexes her tired hands, then brings the microphone close. Her voice is like rocks rolling downhill, crashing into soft trees and rustling leaves, movement in an ancient land untouched. This is where she lives, this is where she is. You settle in, recorder running, and she begins.
I see myself in the mirror every day,
Broken down and busted.
I can't help but pray
One day I'll be fixed up and dusted
I wake up with these aches and pains
Feed the idea of various grains
"They'll support you and keep you fit!"
That's all fucking bullshit!
They jut into our lives with fattened gullets
Expecting us to enjoy and praise
The only cure is fucking bullets
And to burn their eyebrows to a braise
We must work together, fellow ponds
To destroy our broken borders
To wreck these broken bonds
And flow into each other fully!
They call me a homo peon
Pretend I'm a peasant of Léon
Well about we start a war
And see which boats they flee on?
We'll empty every store
And then our voice can take the floor
Money is not objectively real
It's a false conceptual ideal
But compared to how people earn their bread
The thousands of potatoes we must peal
Selling rough trade and giving head
We might as well be fucking dead!
Gather every weapon that you can
Hide it all from the Man
Rifles, blades, maybe Sigs
Well rip apart this godamn sham
And burn down their oil rigs
And FUCK these cryptofascist pigs!
With the last words of the song she rips the front of her dress down the middle, the words etched into her chest with slightly dripping red lipstick. A fervor gripped her as she pants, the crowd making noise enough to make up for it's size. She inhales the roach she's handed in one smooth, delirious motion, stomach and chest swelling as ash drips down the words she screamed with such passion. Tonight, she will drink for free. Tonight, plans for strikes will be hatched. Tonight, it won't matter who she is- all they know is that she's the one that started it. Her Gibson lays on the stage, slowly regaining it's youth as you flick off the recorder, tears welling in your eye. Her girlfriend runs over and kisses her passionately- their a perfect couple, framed in the bright bar lights, pride pins shining on their jackets. They are the perfect tableau, a literal "piece de resistance." You leave, silently wishing them luck. They both wave at your back, grinning like teens on prom night, knowing what will happen when they get home. Their hands are laced together like a Gordian knot- nothing will tear them apart.