Saturday and they thee wed

In the back garden the air hung golden. Blue skys vault the swaying trees, butterflys glide around the crowd. On the stage, the reverend waits. He looks like a cross between a 19th century circus strongman & a Shao-Lin monk. He is framed by an arch of flowers and holding his holy book, the encylopedia: M for marriage of course. The ceremony is running late, which is fitting given the groom, who we all know will somehow manage to be late for his own funeral. I adjust my tie and pick imaginary pieces of lint off my lapel. Two hours ago I stood in front of my mirror. I wonder, not for the first time, when I turned into Lex Luthor. I always feel that way when I dress up. Not the Superfriends pink & green Lex(tres butch for a criminal mastermind btw), but rather the 80's evil yuppy multibillionaire Lex. The little lady assures me I look fine, and before I step out, I see my
"Mercury" pin and carefully fasten it to my jacket. A small sigil of my affection. I hear applause and see the Big Guy come down the aisle. I take another sip of strange rooster wine that someone bought and join in. He looks dapper in his pin stripe suit, a happy go lucky drug dealer or a Hollywood agent at a funeral. And actually by some subconscious wavelength sent through the pyschic ether all the guys who wore suits seem to be wearing pin stripes. Half the guys look like low level mafiaoso and the other half look like the eternal Slacker archetype of the mid 90's. The women all look beautiful but thats just the poet in me probably, if not then definetly the sunshine & wine talking. The Big Guy reaches the stage joined by his younger brother. Now it's time for the Missus to make her grand entrance. She looks stunning with her hair up and wearing some kind of corset(?) gown in red. The dress makes it look like shes gliding down the stone pathway and all the women present give a little excited gasp. As she reaches the stage the Big Guy helps her up. She is accompanied by her brother. I contemplate how funny it would be if these two didn't get married then both their brothers would have to take the vows instead. The Reverend smiles and opens the book. The crowd goes silent. This is their moment, their ceremony and their little corner of loves eternity, none of which could be sullied by words either terse or flowerly so i'll leave them to adorn the gallerys of each of our memorys. Unique, golden & beautiful just like the two of them together.

White Trash- Black Magick

The temple of the High Priestess has a stack of dirty dishes that form a ziggurat up out of the sink. The cupboards have broken handles on the doors or no doors at all. Chipped bone plates gather dust next to white plastic "super-size" cups that have long had their logos scrubbed off. All around him the cockroaches crawl in and out of the fast food trash stacked on what archeologists will one day discover is a coffee table. There's a bookshelf held together on faith alone, filled with the collective works of Zen masters, sex magickians, conspiracy theorists, new age con-men & all the usual suspects. There's a Frankenstein TV set, gutted, spray painted and bleeding wires badly from the back. It's squatting on four cinder blocks like a wounded animal ready to pounce. The ceiling fan creaks above him and the windows are covered with black sheets with dayglow alchemical symbols dripped across them. He watches the Priestess attempt to tidy up. Picking up piles of dirty clothes and throwing them on top of other piles of dirty clothes, emptying an ashtray and jabbing two sticks of Sandalwood incense into the soil of a dead potted plant.
"Adam, right?" She says quick on the drawl.
"Yep" He says mesmerized by the black velvet painting spread over the couch. It's the last supper only Elvis has replaced Jesus. The other apostles seem to include Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Aleister Crowley, Charles Atlas (or Tarzan maybe) & a very fucked up looking Mick Jones amongst the faithful that he can recognize off hand.
"You like that? It was my ex boyfriends... the motherfucker... didn't leave me much but a $200 dollar phone sex bill, a Pabs in the fridge, a turd in the bowl & this... his masterpiece" She says proudly.
"It's alright" he shrugs
"ALRIGHT! It's a goddam masterpiece...whaddya a snob?"
"Yep" He says dropping onto the couch, which releases a fat black cat out from the caverns of pillows that line the cushions.
"That's jes Tubby. He's my bah-bay"
Tubby hisses a loud deaththreat at Adam before leaping to the safety of the recliner that doubles as his scratching post.
Adam lights himself up two smokes and gives her one. When he looks up at her, he digs that her skin is shifting colors with the flickering of the Christmas lights that line the walls of her efficency. She smiles and the act cracks the white make up masking a lack of sleep and habits he doesn't want to know about. She's got strong legs, must be all that dancing she does at the bar, she's a bit on the heavy side but it helps her fill a mean sweater, and then there's that ass. An ass doing overtime to make up for the face. But for Adam it's the attitude. The perpetual Fuck-You in the eyes, the voice scented with potentail orgasms, the way she wears those red shoes makes this entire shit hole look like a palace.
"Well you ain't much of a talker are you?"
"Nope. My boys do my talking for me" Adam pulls out a wad of bills from his leather. Peels off three Franklins and lays them down on a book that's doubling as a beer coaster.
"You got somethin' in mind?"
Adam puts back the wad and replaces it with a single polaroid that he places across the bills. She arches a painted eyebrow at him and steps over to the table and leans over flashing Adam her double barrled chest that smells of bubblegum and rainy days.
"You sure about this now? I pick up that money and sure as shit the man in that picture is as good as dead!"
"That's the idea" Adam says. She plucks the polaroid and the three bills in one hawk swoop of her taloned hands. She stuffs the bills in her front pocket and holds the polaroid up to the lights, scrutinizing it. She stuffs the picture down the front of her pants.
"Well... guess we best get started"
Adam suddenly kicks the coffee table over from between them. He pulls his jacket off and reaches out and hooks his fingers into the padlock necklace wrapped around her throat. He pulls her into his kiss and they both collapse back to the couch. She straddles him, pressing her weight into him and pinning his wrists to the wall behind him. Black Velvet Jesus Elvis smiles down from above them.
"I'll need something from you. Three liquids..." and she bites him suddenly on the lip drawing blood. Adam yipes more from the shock than the hurt. She giggles "Now thas one...". Adam looks her in the eyes and spits right in her mouth.
"Two!" he says still pissy with pain. She licks the spit off her lips with a tongue that's almost obscenely large. She releases his wrists and begins unbuckling his belt.
"Now what say we get started on 'three'!"
Adam smiles as she slides off his lap and kneels before him. There's a thousand ways in this town to have some asshole taken care of. Not a one of them are anywhere near this fun. But somewhere in the back of his head he knows one day it'll be his photo tucked in those panties and another man(woman?) sitting here on her throne, waiting to exchange one little death for another.