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Noir Fiction is a literary style distinguished by an unsentimental portrayal of crime, violence, sex, or some other unsavory underbelly of mainstream society.
"So what do you wanna do?"
"Well, I was figuring we could just go to a diner and talk for a bit."
"Talk?"
"Yes, if that's alright with you."
"I guess so but I just assumed you'd rather fuck me."
"What makes you say that?"
"Considering I'm a prostitute I would say that it just comes with the territory."
"I'm just looking for some companionship, that's all."
To get this bad must take a serious imbalance of the humors: I find myself in Mission Beach- like literally in Mission Beach- waking up with half my face in the sand, a gnarly gash on my knee, dry, caked blood all down my shin, missing a flip-flop and old burrito contents all over my shirt and in my beard. How many days have I been on this bender? I know it all started Friday at the Coaster with their $2 drafts. That's it.
He booked a one-way flight to the Neon City. He told his old lady he might not be back. There were no guarantees, he said. He had a reservation at the Gold Bullion hotel, and it was as plush as they came, downtown. After he checked in, he found the craps pit, and got over on a $5 pass line bet. Twice more he laid odds with the shooter, and twice more the shooter made point. It’d been fifteen minutes since he walked through the double doors, and he was already ahead. He thought about calling her; he looked at his cell phone, only one bar, so he collapsed it, and shoved it back into his pocket.
He spied a girl at the bar, and she warmed his mug with a smile. He was dressed to kill, and so it figured. He made his way to the bar, and struck up a conversation. She was in room 328, and asked him if he’d join her for a drink at ten.
She sat across the desk from me and said, in her nasaly-Minnesota-meloncholy tone of voice, "I'm not a very happy-dappy person, ya know."
This statement might normally have sparked several sarcastic responses to run across my consciousness, but I was too busy trying to avoid looking at her D-sized breasts, which were lying comfortably, just on top of her belly button. In dressing herself this morning, she apparently decided NOT to scoop them into a bra and instead, opted to just let them hang out and stare with their 'eyes' through her tank top at whomever she encountered. They were right in my line of sight when I looked down at the paperwork on my desk.
Although it is already clear from her accent, she says "I'm not from here, ya know." I know, I tell her, and before I can gather my usual opening statement and spitit out, she says "I just want you to know that I don't look at nudey videos, ok?".
This message is my map, and this map is my message.
The earth here is thin. I move about it so freely, and the ease of it is a delicious thing, but it is also frightful. I dig my inscriptions by feel and touch, and because I know the earth, I know that this will be massive for your senses.
Here in this layer of the planet, I am in between my people and your people. I float about in this soft soil like a drifting bubble, weightless and yet handled so delicately within my surroundings that my fragile dome will never burst. I am fit to drift along in euphoria. I would do this forever, if granted the chance, but I have responsibilities to my people, and to our Mother.
