Caravan & The Guillotine

The Guillotine:
She was a Soviet model; all leggy and bobbed in blonde licks a steal for the senses you might reckon. She was tall and far more fun loving than you might think coz she pouted and smoked and she did drugs and maybe other things that you shouldn’t find cool, you might even love her if she wasn’t so impossible, so distant- Even if I’d had the inclination I could never have reached her I woulda just dreamt and, y’ know I think that’s better anyway,
…I’d of still liked her as a friend but…
[So just on the now of this lit-up-disco-spree for three bits of loving and some shrapnel fee comes the part I was really wanting to say, the story if you like.]
…
So she was just writhing, I mean, really out of it- her head was all over and she was just jerking from side to side, frenzied. She was wearing sunglasses; it was definitely night-time though and she started spilling her drink on those lighting-up-tiles, it’s a wonder there wasn’t an accident. By now there was no glitter of control: it was terrifying her sunglasses fell to the ground and you could see her eyes, they weren’t red but they weren’t the right colour. She was flinging her arms about and people were stepping out of the way of them until she was alone in the middle of a circle of faces. Then she threw her arms back and,
I couldn’t believe it…
her left arm just flew… flew across the room,
then the right arm. You could see the faintest hint of trapped panic in her eyes especially when her left leg fell away.
Christ!
She lost her balance then,, as you might,, and toppled to the floor, still writhing, mind.


Caravan:
One left on written invitation, many followed.
(Every now and again they’d stop for a greasy breakfast at the roadside caravanserai where very few questions were asked.)
A trick: Diurnal wolves with stationery ate them one night.