Chapter 5
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Daybreak - 6am. The smell of faeces and cigarette butts filled the air, like fairy floss and corn dogs at the carnival of lost souls. Pounding headache, trundle beds squeaking with disrepair infused with the sound of anaemic Russian murmuring filled the halls, you know a shithole when you’re in one.273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMYFWeD8DAi
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A voice broke into English briefly in the adjoining room, heard in a soft but assertive tone.273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWl5yYoLG5x
“Make my fuckhole suffer you reticent piece of shit..”273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt3SZ6zInFR
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Frankie lay staring at the cracked ceiling pondering the worth of extracting meaning from the excrementitious goings on around her. Surely there was something of emotional value to be learned from the black mould infested rooming house she’d found herself crawling back to time and time again. Freaks always find their way home it seems..273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHlQ0r9SzW5
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She recalled a quote from poet Phillip Larkin on the worth of poetry.273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeSJCNyr0yP
“A poem is like a slot machine, the reader puts the penny of his attention in the slot and pulls the handle and gets a feeling out.”273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXuinVf0hSh
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The quote wasn’t really applicable to her current situation, aside from the fact an apparently ‘redicent’ male suitor's cock was being pulled like a slot machine handle in the next room, ‘feelings’ spewing forth from it like a putrid poetry pistol.273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs2xAuT7q6C
There weren't many other meaningful parallels to draw.273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWpw9NMKvH4
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Frankie pulled a morphine syrette from her bag and jabbed it into her leg with a natural junkie fervour. Numb. So quickly numb. No more need to think. Russian voices and penile slot machine nonsense fading away. Eyes starting to slowly close, the smell of shit becoming somewhat more bearable. She let out a low energy laugh, more like a whimper, and passed out. An unconscious passenger on the train of life. Destination Pooville.
Frankie awoke after an hours worth of interrupted sleep leaning against a bird bath in Tuileries Garden, a lush green, ornate statue studded public park. Her stomach seared with the absence of food and abundance of semen, or glú as she had affectionately renamed it. 273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnIP6unX9l8
It was time to get back work, to jump back on that perpetual and ever replenishable putrid pogo stick and see the Franc’s fly.273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB6OZGfFx1W
She splashed the fetid bird bath water trying against her vulva, in a feeble and desperate attempt to clean the hole that had helped put food on the table many a hungry night past.273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxDgPBqGtfk
“The world never permits a good looking woman to starve.” She muttered under her breath, as if to instil herself with some skerrick of hope.273Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz8Ia20trJV
The discoloured bird water rolled down her legs like a grey landslide of avian secretion, she felt cleansed.
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