I sat as a hopeless derelict sipping my thirty-seventh mug of Samuel Adams Boston Lager – swilling frothy brew from the bottom of my life barrel. I was a classless, bourgeoisie, and drunken vandal of rough-cut peasantry. It was a lonely night in Frank’s lounge – just Frank and I in his local rat-hole of a bar. It was 2:30 am and I had hoped for hours just one partially human form of female persuasion would walk in. Frank was the owner and bartender here for over fifty-one years.

“Where’s all the women at Frank?”

“The women?” he replied, “probably at home, living glorious lives – flourishing in pretentious coxcombs of magnificent vanity with their rich husbands – most of which just got home from a late night romp of prostitutes and gambling. If it gets too late, I’ll shave my beard and wear a platinum blond wig for you.”

I gagged a little and said, “I’ll pass on that Frank.”

An uppity, high class couple burst through the front door as frigid wind gusted in behind them – the thunderstorm unleashing armies of rain, blasting across the pool tables in maddening sheets. Frank rolled his eyes in dissent and said, “Close the damn door you insolent elitists.”

The couple closed the door and stood with disgust in their eyes. The man a tall duke of richness, sporting a handmade Giorgio Armani suit and Berluti shoes. He noted my observation and mentally compared them to my dirt encrusted K-mart sneakers. He said, “These shoes are the Berluti Ultima series. The tag line is ‘a shoe of conquest’ – check out the write up in this month’s GQ. I normally don’t wear them off the rack, so excuse me for wearing such scrubs, my shoe designer is busy in Ireland buying a $250,000.00 bottle of Irish whiskey. I am Lord Robillard Rockshire, noble and exalted patrician. My lady and I broke down a mile down the street, my Lamborghini 400GT stalled out. The light was on, and we need shelter from the storm – only for a short while mind you. This is my date, the delicious Alexandria Leopold, princess of sheik grandeur.”

Alexandra Leopold

Alexandra Leopold - Dream Date From Hell

She was so intensely beautiful – emanating a distinguished aroma of posh elegance. Drool drizzled from my widely opened jowls, onto my Fruit of the Loom wifebeater tank top. Frank said, “You wanted a woman Bobby…here’s your chance hehe.”

The rich man held a roll of French paper towels and began shrouding the bar stool for Alexandria to seat her perfectly voluptuous derrière – surprisingly, right next to me. I said while taking her sweet hand, “Alexandria, you are a goddess – do you plan to marry Mr. Jerkoff?”

Robillard cocked his finely styled brow in disesteemed aversion, “Remove your morbid paw from her hand you plebeian ragamuffin – no filthy vagabond shall touch the hand of a princess. She is far too well-born to associate with a commoner.

I refused his command and kissed her hand – hypnotically luring her in. I groaned, “Beauty is not on the surface – it is inside you my love.”

Goosebumps arose, cascading across her forearm as she wickedly smiled in lustful abandon. She wore a gorgeous black dress – it whispered superbly from her statuesque body in a waterfall of darkish delight. While Robillard struggled for the strength to fight me to the death, I leaned in closely to her and said, “I’m Bobby. What a scrumptious scent you have – crisp watermelon and tangerine?”

In angelic amplitudes she voiced, “I misted fresh fruit all over my body…taste my sticky lobe Bobby.”

I leaned in and gently tongued her neck and nibbled stickiness from her ear lobe, “Oh my…how splendid! All over your entire body? That dress. Don’t tell me, it was handmade by famed New York fashion designer Vera Wang – personally for you.”

She snickered in a lilting fashion, “What a sophisticated eye you have Sir Bobby.”

Robillard steamed in viciousness – anger painted his face in agonized misery as he noticed an imperfection in Alexandra’s evening purse. “This is not a real Louis Vuitton! The metallic trim is painted Japanese pot metal,” he said while scraping a chip from its false shimmer with his manicured thumbnail, “you disgusting liar. How dare your prance around like you’re royalty…as if! Alexandra…you can have this guttersnipe piece of street trash. Bobby…what kind of muckworm name is that? You vulgar piece of unlicked barbarian tripe.”

I replied, “Unlicked? Perhaps Alexandra can change that for me.”

Frank giggled with a gleam in his cloudy, cataract infested eye. Robillard, incredibly pissed, stormed out the front door. Before making it out, a flash of searing lightning exploded through his chest – his body shattered in bloody vapor – blood sodden bone, meat and Armani shredded into ribbons – voltage shattering through the screaming wind. The bar was permeated with the smell of charred steak as if prepared by Emeril Lagasse for a Hollywood gala.

Alexandra uttered, “I like what you said about beauty being on the inside,” and pulled an Olympus brand medical endoscope from her counterfeit purse – along with surgical blades, syringes and other assorted implements.

Endoscope

Endoscope

“Robillard was just killed by lightning! You seem unflinching Alexandra.”

She placed a pill in my mouth, tucking it beneath my tongue and said, “An aphrodisiac for our night together, let this chemistry dissolve in your mouth, Its substrates shall diffuse through your buccal cavity and boil your blood. Now lie down on the pool table for me.”

I sprawled across the green felt top -  on my back, outstretching my limbs as the administered drug began gnawing on my medulla oblongata. I felt limp and paralyzed – my mind foggy, my inhibitions quelled. Frank locked the front door and approached with an evil scowl on his face. He placed a video camera near my unmoving head. He and Alexandra removed my clothes – feverishly giggling all the while. Frank began filming and said, “You stupid man. We’ve been plotting this for months Bobby. Alexandra is my daughter and you are just another victim in a long line of victims. I will sell this delectable snuff flick to investors in Ecuador for a million dollars.”

Alexandra stripped bare – her body so impeccable – a lustful thoroughbred of perplexing female beauty. She leaned in, running her icy tongue down my lifeless cheek – I remained silent, unable to speak or move. Though afraid, I was turned on like an up-flicked light switch. She ran the flexible camera end of her endoscope deeply into my left nostril and clicked the switch on. She connected a usb cable from the endoscope to another specially designed medical camera to film my inner cavities.

Endoscopic Sinus Voyage

Endoscopic Sinus Voyage

She linguistically parted, ” I love this gargantuan tweety-bird tattoo on your belly Bobby – what an enigmatic choice. Check it out Frank, what lovely mucosa he has in his nasal cavities”

Frank replied, “Shove it in deeper, let’s have a look in his maxillary sinus cavities – the ones beneath his cheek bones…and draw some blood when you’re done.”

She hammered the endoscopic tip into my sinus until I heard a horrific crunch – fire hot pain blistered my skull, yet flinch I could not. Her supple breasts spasmodically jiggled – I thought to myself, “Damn…all that jelly and no toast.”

With a large syringe in her hand she inserted its hypodermic needle into my jugular vein – extracting intensely dark blood. She pulled it out and squirted its contents into a beautiful white porcelain bowl – a rare artifact of the Ming dynasty – to contrast the crimson shade against snow white.

“You were so right Bobby, beauty does come from within. Your blood is spectacularly refined – what shimmering splendor,” said the evil Alexandra as she held two razor sharp scalpels in her hands. Frank’s hands trembled while sickening immorality scribed his face in sadistic morbidity. The light began to dim as my vision dwindled into narrowing tunnels of fractured light. I remember the sounds of metallic instruments and giggling – endlessly unclean and inauspicious laughter…fading into blackness.

I awakened behind some garbage cans in an alley behind Walmart, seven miles away from Frank’s Lounge. I had no scars and was wearing a black dress – my body scrawled in satanic symbolism and hieroglyphic phonetics – images from a bizarre night in my past. I walked home in the dress – intensely embarrassed as passing school children laughed at me. I never ventured into Frank’s Lounge again and fear a strange video lurks somewhere in the nightmarish bowels of the Internet. If you’ve seen that video, please let me know the url. I know not what really happened to me that fateful night, but the deep scars of terror still haunt me to this day.

*The medical diagram is from Dr. Hazenfield
*The endoscope pic is from Larbert Highschool