SNUFF (h.s.)

Chapter 14

Ouroboros

A heartless motherfucker holding an LV duffle bag filled with rolled Franklins. He had Cain's scar.

His thin necklace with Alexander the Great shone on his skivvy. He straightened his hair and smacked the door. He dumped his Caddy with the windows open and the key in the lock. What cocksucker had the grit to snatch it now? He'd better hit the road soon and forget all about Lady Marina's room like the one Jimmy had in Come Live with Me.

He jumped into "The Olympians" like a locust. The heel of his leather loafers clicked in the tune of the eight hundred he'd stumped up for them. He stood at the hall looking at the arched entrance with the tied curtains. He took the cigarillo from his ear, bit it and lit it with a silver lighter. He smoked like a hairy-ass parvenu who spits on the high society's coat of arms.

His lids had a dark shade, a dim haze. His smug gleamed of aversion and rage. He'd spritzed his hair with jasmine, his hands were holy. He tightened his grip and stared at the empty disco with the lavish, hand-sculpted tables from the very same hand. The stage was tucked to the wall round like the moon's shadow and in front of it was the dance floor.

This place would be worthless compared to his gin joint. "The Olympians" and "Macomba" would be history once Nora cut the ribbon at the opening of his little diamond. The hell with it, there comes a time for everyone when we cannot become better than what we've believed. Sergio would grow tired, Harry had noticed how his eye blurred. Yet, he didn't bother.

He smoked the cigarillo in an empty discothèque. Even though its melancholy seemed like the distant echo of the songs "The Rat-Pack" was playing every night, Harry had a gloating gaze and never did he sense his heart abandoning him. As long as his contemplations were devoted to a highest ideal and a rare eager made his spirit tremble, nothing could deceive him.

The Ouroboros had appeared to him. He was in his irises. No grief would nest in his chest, his soul wouldn't give in and seek it, desire it. He had to take care of himself and his gal. Sergio's porno was great, that he didn't deny, but the stuff Nora could shoot on her own would be the real deal. It was about time Harry makes up his own mind.

He had a face made of pearls and shells, rough and hopeful like amber. He wouldn't waste more time. Sergio had taken his share. He'd deformed him alright. Harry mourned as the dawn shone upon him that day and thought: "Is there anything pure left in me?". He was thankful now. He didn't regret stabbing Sandro. Easy digging a corpse, easy carving a chest up. Oh! The silver blade belongs to the pale, crimson heart! The most overwhelming heartbeat is our last.

Across the round wall were painted women you don't come across at a disco. Harry walked towards Calypso. There were Circe, Salome, Judith. Every curve crafted from his divine fingers. A bunch of sensual girls coming from peculiar ages he'd never dreamed of standing and watching him. They were watching the world pass by, a world they knew so little, never understood and loved. They were still searching for it.

He opened the door and walked in. He dropped his cigarillo on the mosaic and pressed the tip of his shoe as if he was smashing a disgusting bug. His silver hoops swirled once he smiled. He was staring at the table, the paper chips, the buffet, the rolling table with the carafe and club soda. A cigarette girl was resting on a stool with a tired rascal.

"Harry!", a guy fatter than Sandro cried with a full plate in his hand. He seemed to fit better in an evening reception rather than a poker gathering.

"Sharky...", he went close to hug him, he smelled of smoked salami.

"I hope you came with an empty stomach", he bent his head back to take a look at his Paul Newman Daytona. A lady behind didn't bother to fill a plate but ate straight from the buffet instead.