Dangerous legs

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I woke up feeling like shit expelled from the tightest asshole. The sky glowed amber like the tip of a cigarette, minus the ashes. Throwing the duvet aside, I rolled my brown 87kg body out of bed and landed on the floor. A bit of brown liquid floated in the black labelled bottle of Johnnie Walker, standing upright in front of me. I took a swig and got up, finding my balance. Upon entering the lounge, I  heard a crumpling sound underneath my right foot. Had I just crushed someones bones? No, it was just an empty beer can. There was a note lying on the table that read “Come watch me tonight. C” marked with cherry red lipstick underneath the words.

    I slept as most of the day passed by. Listening to the sounds of hooters, bumper to bumper traffic and road rage all in the beautiful name of capitalism, the thing that fucked us over after democracy. I got a white shirt, blue jeans and black shoes out of the cupboard, got dressed and sprayed on some generic cologne. The lights in the club were dim, except in the center of the stage where the band played. They looked like penguins in their tuxedos. The double bass player plucked on his strings vigorously. I ordered a whiskey from the bar man who was dressed like the band and didn’t make the cut. It was only after taking a sip of whiskey that I found her amongst thr identically dressed cabaret girls, swinging their legs high up in the air and she had the best pair of legs on stage. The men jeered as soon as the legs went up, hoping to something magical up there. Chelsea’s show ended after my second whiskey. She approached me with arms spread out, wearinga black fur coat, white tank top and black booty shorts hidden behind all the fur.

    “Hey, you came” she said, her smile wide and her arms around me.

    “Of course. I couldn’t miss those legs. They got everybody excited” I replied.

    She was beautiful with those full Angelina Jolie lips of hers. I kept that to myself. Compliments sent a chill of discomfort throughout her body and made her anus clench up tight.
    We walked down the crowded street. The dry pavement quenched of its thirst as neon lights reflected off of it, rippling in the puddles.

    “Let’s get something to eat” I said after five minutes down the road.

    We headed inside an old diner that looked like a recycled prop out of the film Grease. The neon sign flickered outside from “open 24 hours” to “open 2 hours”. We ordered waffles. Hers with ice-cream, mine with whipped cream and maple syrup. Suddenly two men came bursting through the door, each with his own pistol. “Do as we say and nobody gets hurt” said the short one. Everybody froze and I wondered if waffles would be my last meal. They took everyone’s wallets, cleaned out the cash register and left the same way they came in. They didn’t bother with the bum in the corner who came in every night for a free cup of coffee. He still had his foam cup full of coins. The waffles were free and Chelsea’s legs were safe. Everything seemed alright.

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