Dead White Russians

[jack_babalon]

'This man,' Faggot pointed at Bengalsky, ' is starting to bore me. He sticks his nose in everywhere without being asked and ruins the whole act. What shall we do with him? '
'Cut off his head! ' said a stern voice.
'What did you say, sir? ' was Faggot's instant response to this savage
proposal. ' Cut off his head? That's an idea! Behemoth! ' he shouted to the
cat. 'Do your stuff! Eins, zvei, drei!! '
Then the most incredible thing happened. The cat's fur stood on end and
it uttered a harrowing ' miaaow! ' It crouched, then leaped like a panther
straight for Bengalsky's chest and from there to his head. Growling, the cat
dug its claws into the compere's glossy hair and with a wild screech it
twisted the head clean off the neck in two turns. Two and a half thousand
people screamed as one. Fountains of blood from the severed arteries in the
neck spurted up and drenched the man's shirtfront and tails. The headless
body waved its legs stupidly and sat on the ground. Hysterical shrieks rang
out through the auditorium. The cat handed the head to Faggot who picked it
up by the hair and showed it to the audience. The head moaned desperately :
'Fetch a doctor!'
'Will you go on talking so much rubbish?' said Faggot threateningly to
the weeping head.
'No, I promise I won't! 'croaked the head.
The Master & Margarita
Chapter 12: Black Magic Revealed
Mikhail Bulgakov




Well I'll try and do something more Journal-y rather than my normal prose posing

I'm drinking Jacks with a friend down in Midtown at some frou-frou eurocafe. It's Tuesday and that means it's Salsa night at the cafe. Mambo & Chachachá beats,Clave rhytms and stray trumpets, guitars and even cowbells echo over the crowd sounds of dozens of metrosexuals & upscale bohemia. A mob of couples fill the room in front of me, swaying and turning to the 4/4 meter with a 8 beat pattern, twirling and swirling with a forward break, forward break, side break, side break, back break. The sensual proximity of the dancers unleashes a raw heat that radiates out the door and washes over me even all the way out here on the patio.
My friend's got an idea he wants to tell me, but right now one of the waitresses seems to hold the strings of his attention. She's sitting there at our table, talking about the various problems her boyfriend, one of the chefs at this cafe, is going through.A familiar dance: She talks, he listens. I keep quiet and try to stay inviisible, lest my very presence alone screws up a potential 'love connection'. She's right up his alley though, a Nordic blond, thin but with a decent chest. Stone eyes framed with thick glasses, giving her that bad girl librarian look that's all the rage in some circles. It doesn't do much for me really. I've never dug the Nordic flavors. I chalk it up to some accident of imprinting and go on nursing my drink, watching the shadows of the dancers strobe across the orange walls as my buzz grows warm in my skull.Finally one of her coworkers shows up to drop hints heavy enough to stagger Atlas, that maybe, just maybe she should get back to work. My friend orders us another round and watches with obvious delight the pendelum swing of her ass vanishing into the sea of dancers in the other room.
'Well?' I ask.
'Well, nothing. She's got a boyfriend..'
'Your idea man'
'Ohhh yeah' he says, his eyes widening behind his own thick black glasses, that give him that bad boy librarian look that's all the rage in some circles 'Have you ever read Bulgakov's Master& Magarita?'
'Yeah. L___ gave it to me to read when we started dating. Why?'
'Well your doing this Dostoyevsky thing and that got me thinking...'
'You wanna do 'Master & Margarita'I interupt,as is my habit sadly, with an exuberant squeel.
'Oh yeah...'
'It's too long...'
'Lemme finish...'
I sip my drink, one part sullen little boy, two parts curious little monkey. He goes on to explain his long held passion for the work, which he thinks would translate(even if only a chapter or two)magnificently on stage. I let my mind roll back, and immediately the one chapter that comes to my mind, is the 'Magic Show' Mssr.Woland and his demonic assistants perform. Images of the cat headed Behemoth pouncing on some poor mounteback and tearing his head off in one brutal blur of motion, and then said decapitated head begins to beg for his live like a vaudville Baphomet.
'It could work...' he tells me, his excitement infectious, and I notice that he's not noticing the uber-cute waitress with the locks of crimson hair cleaning the table next to us.
'Maybe...' I say downing the last drops of bourbon clinging to the ice cubes. I won't betray my growing intrest in the idea, not yet. I nod at him and motion my head towards our waitress who is coming out of the crowd, like Moses parting the Red, heading towards us as flowing couples fill the void in the wake of her steps. So a few hours later, tipsy,
staggering my own Salsa into my room, I find on instinct my copy of the 'Master' and flip through it. Instinct- and I find the exact scene I was looking for. Luck Magick and strange tricks of coincidence. Chapter 12- Black Magic Revealed- I pass out on my bed without even getting undressed and come to around four in the morning to turn off the light and click on the alarm clock. Thoughts swimming of dead white Russians.

Comments

[retrofatale.livejournal.com]

Though I love your prose, it's nice to hear about things actually going on in your life. Keeps some of us from worrying too much if we know you're okay.

[jackbabalon23.livejournal.com]

It's nice of you to worry, and your saying so has been the sweetest thing i've heard all day :)

I hope you have a safe trip up in Boston.
Ciao dahling!