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Deadlier Than The Male Issue 2013:
“Ladies’ Night. Damn, the most dangerous night of the week. Plum scented banshees screech and groove all serpentine across the floor. Murderous long-lashed glances in alcoves. I’ll be lucky to get out alive. Shit, damn and The Virgin in a wheelchair, here comes another one …”
SCRATCHED AND SILKY VOICES IN THE FEVERED MINDS OF MEN:
I sidle into the bar with cat-like grace and ninja-stealth, apologising to the man whose foot I crush and setting up right once more the lamp I’ve knocked over.
“A dirty martini, straight up, olives on the side,” I say with cool aplomb, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply.
“Olives take up too much room in such a small glass,” I mutter to the man next to me as he pats desperately at the smoke billowing from his hair. I throw the match into the bin behind the bar but the napkins catch fire and the sprinklers turn on. Down the road I can hear the sound of sirens.
“Is it always like this around here?” There wasn’t a solo whisper in the saloon. This evening was more a cacophony where whispers pause to drink at the end of a day which has made all the difference. An opus perhaps.
“My usual, Joe?” I requested, turning to scope the action. God, it was colourful tonight alright.”