Leo Shifted His Eyes From The Glass Momentarily.

Who Is She?

The Girl Who Came To This Bar Twice A Day, Dressed In
Unseasonable, Mismatched Clothes; Who Spoke Loudly And
Who's Merry Laugh Sang Disregard For Anyone In The Room,
Who Always, Though Never To Turn Her Head At Anyone Else,
Seemed To Glow With An Aura That Captivated The Audience She
Made For Herself Wherever She Went…

Who Is She?

Leo Mason Was The Charismatic Counter Boy At "Cliff's Adult Bar", Had Been Since
He Was 17 Years Old. He Lead A Life As A Sad-Eyed City Boy, Having Grown Up
In The Snowy City Of Rochester, New York, All His Life. His Mother, A Devout
Drug Addict And Child Abuser, Was Committed To Asylum When Leo Was
Just Sixteen, And Ever Since Has Had No Contact With Her Son- Not That
She Had Much Incentive To Keep Him Other Than Molestation. Leo
Found Refuge In The Abandoned Apartment Buildings A Few
Blocks From Cliff's Place, And Decided To Take Up
Lodgings There After His Mom Left. Soon
After, He Found A Job At The
Bar, Took A Liking
To The Work,
And Has

The Latest Going-On In Rochester Are The Series Of October Riots.
The Town Suffers Plague After Plague Of These, And The Latest Fad
Is That Led By The Feminist Regime. Day In, Day Out, They March To
And Fro Along The Slushy Streets, Yelling This And That About Equality
And Other Nonsense. No One Pays The Riots Any Heed, But Instead Waits
For Them To Dissipate Into The Snow. That Is The Way Things Go Here In
Rochester. Things Have Their Heyday, They Last For A Week, And Then Die,
As Disregarded And Trampled On As The Litter In The Streets. That Is The All
-Encompassing Cycle:




Kittridge Webb Sat At The Restaurant Table, Stared At His Silver Watch
For The Second Time In The Same Minute. He Never Got Nervous, But
He Knew A Good Controversy When He Had One In His Hands. And
No More Than He Would Drop His Ever Present Microphone And
Tape Recorder Than The Prospect Of A Juicy Controversy...

Mr. WebbWas TheTop ReporterOf News York, A Company Proud
For Its Legacy OfSmash-Hit Stories And Local News. The Unique
Thing About Them, In Mr. Webb's Mind, Was That Unlike Every
Other Publication In This Miserable Metropolis, Theirs Was A
Foundation Of Fundamental Honesty And Respectability,
The Very Things He Stood For In His Own Life. Not
For Him Were The Gossip Columns Of His Less-
Renowned Competitors; He Was A Master Of
The News, Knowing How To Catch The
Public's Unpredictable Attention By
Use Of Sheer, Glaring Honesty.

Never Ignoble Were His Writings (At Least In Portrayal), And The Sensation
They Caused Was Indebted To This Fact; The Very Thing That Made Them
Stand Out Was That They Were Not Terribly Incredible. No Bright, Neon
Lights, No Orange-Pinstriped Bubble Letters, No Showgirls In Sequined
Underwear. They Were Decent, Sincere, Well-Written Findings…

And This Finding Was Going To Be An Exciting One.

It Seemed That A Local Girl, Who's Name Wasn't Even Known, Had
Been Stirring Up Quite A To Do Over The October Feminist Riots.
There Had, Of Course, Been Protestors Before, But Her Very
Description Had Gone Against Everything One Rationally
Would Expect. She Was Young (Only 19), Unemployed,
Living Alone, Unschooled… Seemingly Unbiased In
Every Way. She Belonged To No One, And This
(In Hand With Her Almost Barbie-Doll Looks)
Made Her Popular Among The Young. Her
Maturity, Rank Individuality, Wit, And
Unconventional Nature Spread An
Interest (Of A Taboo Variety)
Among The Older City
Dwellers… And On
Top Of All That,
She Was A

A Woman Against The Feminists.
A Living, Breathing, Anti-Feminist
Female, Young, Single, Beautiful…

Whether Or Not They Wanted To, Everyone Was Shifting Their Attention Her Way.


Kataya Ross Hated Bars. She Hated Drinking,
Hated Cigarette Smoke, Hated Dancing, Hated
Karaoke, ...And Most Of All, Hated MEN.

(…All The Staples Of A Sleazy Bar.)

She Had To Stick Around For A While, Though… She
Had Reason To Believe That That GIRL Was Going To Be
Here Soon, And That Girl Needed A Talking To. And Who
Better To Do It Than Miss Ross? She Was Princess Among
The Young, Unhappy Generation Of Women. She Loved The
Riots, And Found A Place Among Them Every Day. She Loved
Knowing That Her Place Among Those Strong-Willed Women Was
Always There; No One Else Could Fill Her Position, And She Knew
Very Well Her Duties In Standing At This Post: That Girl Had To Be
Stopped. If They Were Lucky, She Could Even Be Won Over.

Just Maybe.

Anyway, The Sooner The Better. Miss Deleware Was Counting
On Her, And Kataya Could Not Let Her Down For More Reasons Than
One. She Shared An Apartment (And Bed) With Mrs. Delaware's Son, Jesse.

"Can I Help You, Miss?"

A Bird-Faced, Fifty-Something
Man Croaked From Behind Her Seat.
Kataya Paused, Debated Giving This Man
Her Attention, And Decided It May Prove To Be
Of Use. Speaking In The Poised, Smoky Voice She Used
So Well, She Asked Him, "Is That Girl Coming Here Tonight?"
He Gave A Knowing Look. "You Are The 5th Person To Have Asked
Me That So Far… But The First Woman!" At This He Let Loose A Half-Stifled
Laugh, Left Unfinished Because Of The Bleak, Unsmiling Face She Turned To Face Him
With. "You Know, I Am Not Really Sure. She Said Something About An Interview."
Upon Making This Statement, He Scurried Away Back Behind The Counter.

An Interview? …Kataya Considered This. She Was Probably Getting
More Attention Than The Riots Themselves. This Thought Sent
A Quiet, Red-Hot Bubble Of Rage Up Through Her Body,
Manifest Subtly In How She Curled Her Violet-Painted
Fingernails Around Her Napkin: Slowly, And Tensely.

…An Interview Meant Kittridge Webb. And His Favorite Spot
Was The Rochester Hotel Restaurant, Ten Minutes Away.

Something She Hated To Do, Kataya Stood Up To Allow Her Leave.
Not That She Minded Going, But The Stares Were Unbearable. Kataya
Ross Was A Gorgeous Woman- Not Yet Twenty Years Old. Sitting At A
Table, Her Exquisitely Contoured Head Was Flattering Enough, But Her Legs,
Her Tanned Arms And Svelte, Cat-Like Body, Now In Full Glory- They Were The
Star Show For The Next, Painful 15 Seconds. Whistles And Barking Showed Her Out.



Clarisse Charmande Had Lived In North New York Since She Was Abandoned As A
Baby. Growing Up In An Adoption Center, She Had Been Offered A Position As
Child Prostitute At Seven, And Naively Accepted. Ever Since, She Had Spent
Life Gutter To Gutter, Money Being Squandered On The Drugs That Held
Her Emotions Always At Bay. She Found Herself Now Slumped Limp
In The Hugging Angle Between Dumpster And Stone Wall. Often
She Asked Why Life Selected This Role For Her, But Declined
Whenever Presented With Something Else. She Felt Some
Way Comfortable With The Lifestyle Of An Object
For The Satisfaction Of Others. Acquiescence
Was Her Defining Characteristic…One
Might Say That Her Personality
Was Defined By Her Lack
Of Personality. And
It Suited Her

At The
Hovering In
The Hazy-Pink
World That Cocaine
Always Left Her Dangling
In When Almost Dissipated From
Her System. She Knew When It Was Gone
That All She Would Be Left With Was Melancholy,
Brought On By The Termination Of Her First 'Relationship'. No,
She Never Had Acknowledged The Truth Behind Words Like "Love", "God",
And "Bliss", But If Ever There Were A Person To Whom Their Created Meanings Could Cling,

...It Was Him.

It Was Leo,
The Dear Lion.
He Seemed Always
To Understand Her; Even
The Things She Never Could Grasp
About Herself Were Plainly Sighted To Him.
He Was Brilliant, Passionate, Noble, Beautiful, Heroic.
And She Felt The Gnawing Pain Of Knowledge: He Could
Never Be Hers; Their Lives Were So Different. But For A Few
Wonderful Days, She Thought It Possible. Her Life Was Not That
Kind, Though. Perfection Was Meant For The Girls Like The Rebel.
Clarisse, The Slave, Was Meant For The Sole Purpose Of Admiring
Those Who Would Attain Perfection. Like The Rebel, And The Lion.


Fingered The
Soft, Heavy Fabric
Of His Shirt Once Again.
It Was An Unusual Shirt
No Sleeves, Toga-Like Drapes
Of Cloth Down The Front And Back.
His Long Limbs Were Swallowed Up In The
Sea Of White Cloth, And Only His Right Hand, In
The Act Of Stroking His Sternum, Showed Above The
Mass. The Hand Itself Was Ugly; Sickly White, Spatulate
Palms With Feminine Shanks For Fingers. Each Finger Was
Curtailed To A Sharp End With Fingernails Filed To Their
Middle. Far-Slung Legs Were Tightly Wrapped In A Black
Pair Of Vinyl Pants, And Feet Tucked Away In High-Heeled
Boots Of The Same Ebony Polish. Sparse Jewelry- Occasion
Saw Him In A Black, Leather Necklace, But The Only Piece
Permanently Worn Was The Silver-Red Earring In His Right
Ear. Strange That He Wore So Little, For A Person Decked
Out In Such Exotic Clothing. He Dressed Like One Of The
Pretentious 'Gothic' Atelier That Secretly Admired Him In
His Sordid, Blackened Ways. There Was One Exception
In His Ways However- He Was Genuine. Vice Came
Naturally To Him, And Without Explanation. He
Felt No Aversion To It, But Bathed Himself
In The Talent For Sin Bestowed On Him.
His Physical Attributes Were Just A
Coating To The Monster That
Lurked Underneath. Not
So Much In Action
As One Might
Realm Of
Thought, He Was
Satan. And He Knew That
Realization Was Only A Matter Of
Time. Opportunity To Prove What Evil Was
Festering Inside Him Would Be Made Accessible
Soon Enough- He Felt It. A Smile Twisted His Livid
Lips Into A Seamed Smile, The Beckoning Was As Full
Of Strength As It Was Tantalizing… What Was In Store?


With A Name Like Schitzgersby,
You Knew You Were In The
Presence Of Pizzaz. And
What Better Way For
The Pizzaz To Be In
Obvious Display
Than Deciding
On Clifford's
Face To Make
Its Headquarters?
His Face Was Sloped
Inward Toward The Chin,
So That There Was Hardly A
Discernable Place Where His Jaw
Stopped And His Neck Began. Up
From There, His Mouth Was Long,
Skewed Into A Curly Smile At All
Times. The Nose Was A Toucan's
Beak, Tapering To A Cone At The
End And Hoisting Up The Very
Prominent Brow Ridge At It's
Top. On Said Brow Ridge,
An Almost Uninterrupted
Snake Of Shaggy Hair
Loomed Over Two
Sagging, Bright
Eyes. A Long
Swath Of
In A
Be Vanquished
Smear On His Tan
Skin, And Met The Low
Sideburns That Exploded Into
A Bouncy Frieze Of Gray-Black
Hair Above His Large Forehead. It
Was This Man Who Owned The Bar
"Cliff's", And More Than His Very
Interesting Physical Appearance
Warranted Him For The Job.
He Was Also A Very


Bellace Morrigan
Was The Name
Of The Leader
Of The Riots.
She Rejected
Her Husband's
Last Name, Though,
So Everyone Knew Her
As Bellace Deleware. She Had
Also Made Sure Her Son Followed
Suit; The Birth Certificate Read That
His Name Was Jesse DELEWARE.
Unhappy With This (And A
Long Series Of Other
Tortures), Mr.
Been A
Long Time
Away From The
Both Of Them… And
It Was The Better For Her;
Now She Could Be Queen Over
The Operations Of Not Only All Her
Feminist Underlings, But Her Estranged
Son, As Well. Now, She Was Supreme In The
Reign She Had So Long Craved For. She Kept A
Sphere Of Influence Over Him, Too. It Was She Who
Arranged The Liaison Between Jesse And Kataya Ross.
…Not That He Felt He Would Object; Kataya Was That
Prized Gem Of Wild Sex Appeal That Every Eligible Man
Would Have Died To Be Taken To Bed With. It Was This
Very Appeal That Kept Him Always Within Her Control,
And One Day Would Make Him The Instrument Of Her
Gospel; He Must Become The Drone To Her Female
Force. Through His Influence, She Could Have
Rule Over Both Male And Female, Over
Young And Old Of Both Sexes. It
Was Her Plan To Enslave Him
To Miss Ross, And Through
Them Entangle The World
In Her Glory. And She
Could Then Attain A
Dictatorship Deeply
Rooted In Her Desire.

…MS. Bellace Deleware.


The Sign Read:

No Sooner Had The Loveliest Pair Of Jade-Green
Eyes Settled On These Words Than A Long Arm
Arced Up To Tear The Pink Plastic Down From It's
Taped-On Location In The Middle Of The Apartment
Doors. Two Hands, Normally Concealed Under A Veil
Of Attractive Grace, Seized Upon Their Newfound Prey
And Remained Unrelenting Until The Rectangle Of Rosy
Propaganda Had Been Crumpled Into An Indistinguishable
Ball. Upon Satiating Their Hunger, These Same Hands Then
Saw The Wad Of Paper Over To A Green Oil Barrel Used For
A Garbage Can. A Sigh Accompanied It On The Journey Down
Into The Blackness, Where It Bounced Around For A Moment On
The Bottom. One Of The Hands Then Searched Into A Small Pocket,
Where It Fished Out The Apartment Key. After Fidgeting It Around In
The Lock For A Moment, It Saw This Key Onto The Top Of A Doorside
Table And Swung Loose Next To Its Counterpart. The Pair Of Hands Was
Attached To A Lovely Girl; She Stood About 6 Feet High (More If Including
The Shoes She Loved To Wear Around) With Blonde, Mid-Back Length Hair,
A Creamy Complexion Painted Onto Doll-Like Features, And A Flawless Figure.
3 Pairs Of Earrings Were Privileged Enough To Accompany Her On Their Days, A
Couple Of Hooped Red Ones Being Favored Above Their Pearl Cousins. The Outfits
She Dressed Herself In Were Based On No Particular System; No Rotation, No Thought
Given To Fashion, Not Even Regard For Comfort. This Was A Genuinely Unique Girl
…And She Was Out To Show The World Just HOW Unique.

It Seemed That These
Riots Going On In Her
Neighborhood Were Not
To Her Liking. As With A
Person So Deeply Founded
In Originality, She Had Little
Sense For What Others Had To
Say About Her Opinions; Anyone
Who Stood Against Her Stood On
The Ground Of A Completely Separate
Planet. She Was A Woman Alone, And How.

…Ladies and Gentlemen: TRIESTE!