Chapter 2: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bombshell.

The clouds which scudded across the sky were doing so at quite a pace, belying the calm in the city below, which seemed (to the untrained eye) to be sheltering in the lee of a strong wind. Then again, appearances can be deceiving. For example – at first glance, the moon was full. At second glance, it was waning. At third glance, those bloody afore-mentioned clouds were in the way, not to mention the looming black shadows of skyscrapers, towering silently, so far overhead that the mere concept of Higher Up seemed to dwarf the firmament.

All was quiet up there.
Bollocks...
But that's weather for you – no sense of drama.

Morgan took her eyes off the little window which was all that was visible of the starry sky (in any case obscured by the smog of the city), and sighed.

'Cheer up, Morgy!'
Said an infuriatingly cheerful voice beside her.

Morgan kept right on walking, staring straight ahead – but she did reply:
'I've just spent seven consecutive nights in the arse-hole of the city. Don't tell me to cheer up.'
'Why not? Could be worse!'

'How?'

Silence, then:

'...There could've been snakes down there?'

Morgan wasn't an extroverted enough speaker to smack herself in the face, right then (or better yet, him), but if she had been, she would have. And the noise would've reverberated down the empty street they were, even now, walking down – which was, instead, echoing to the sound of nightlife from a bordering road. This one was painted blue by starlight, in the absence of any actually still-functioning street-lights, and its alleys housed the kind of lovely people whom newcomers and tourists hope to avoid.

Well, these two weren't tourists. They went looking for the kind of people you met in dark alleyways, and then stopped them making that bump in the night.

When they weren't having one off, that is:

'Luke-'
'Or alligators!' He suggested, getting creative. 'Or- uh, Giant Sewer Rats!'
'Seriously. Stop talking-'
'Or mutant ninja turtles! Dude, that would've been awesome-!'
'Shut-up now!'
'Or that bloke who looks like Darth Vader got a Cheese-grater Hat for Christmas- what's his name?'
'"Kill me now"?'
'No-o, that wasn't it... Catchy though.'

Not for the first time, Morgan gazed at the heavens in supplication. At least when the Moon was full she didn't have to put up with Captain Wow talking about how fcking awesome everything was. All she had to do was suffer some immense physical pain, and then emerge from a storm-drain, in the morning, having spent the entire night rolling around in what could only be optimistically described as "gunk".

Easy-peasy lemon-squeezey – although she'd already seen enough pieces of discarded lemon-rind, in her life time, to last her several.

So tonight, she was off-call, and off the hook, too. The last evening of serious Lunar-Influence had been last night. So now she was (as Luke so delicately put it) house-trained again. Out of the dog-house. Allowed on the furniture again – the works. And, Luke being Luke, that meant a night on the town.

'So we're just going to one place, right?' Morgan began, in a casual, would-be stern voice.
Luke chuckled (somewhat sinisterly, she considered) and draped a friendly arm around her shoulders.
'Ah, Morgy...' He said, gazing in philosophical reflection at the distant city lights. 'Would I lie to you?'
'Y-es. Yes you would. On my deathbed.'
'Oh, well, that's all-right then! (Given the circumstances...)'

Morgan slowly turned her head, Terminator-style, to glare at the face inches away from her own.
'Yes.' She said. 'It's amusing when people die gruesomely, isn't it?'
Luke grinned to himself.
'Honestly now, Morg, I promise you! It's just the one place! A nice traditional Irish pub.'

Morgan tried to see the catch.
'...it's not St. Patrick's Day tomorrow, is it?'
'Nope.'
'...Hurley Championship finals?'
'Nope!'
'Bono's Birthday?'
'Nothin' like that!' Luke raised his hand. 'I swear!'
'So how d'you explain the guitar?'
'What guitar?' (Morgan held her hand out above Luke's head, and he choked as it caught on the object sticking up, behind him). 'Oh, this guitar?'
Luke laughed, nervously.
'That's just a... um-' (His face was contorted in an agony of invention) '-roll-bar...'
'A roll-bar?'
'...In case I want to do handstands...'
'Is that likely?'
'Think who you're talkin' to f'ra second, here, Morgy.'
'Alright... Point taken...' She shuffled his arm off her shoulders and sniffed in the cold. 'So where is this place – O'Leary's.' (Which surely had too many apostrophes to be disreputable).
'Around here, somewhere,' Luke answered, paying more attention to their surroundings. 'Just follow the trail of crack & hooker-spit. Joking!!' (He added hastily, ducking as she raised her arm again).

Morgan grumbled to herself as they exited the street, but Luke was used to that, and wouldn't let it dampen his mood as he kept pace alongside her, hands perched jauntily in his jeans-pockets. He had a nose for a good time, and he could tell it was going to be a Good Night. You could say he felt it in his water (but Luke had much more inventive names for that, and, in any case, we can't print them here... there isn't the time).

Just around the corner from the Enfields, a limo full of African-American women pulled up on the curb.

This is only a rough description, though, and not technically true, because one of them was only black because she was still covered in un-scourable grime from her job in the sewers. It was also a fact that most, if not all, of these women were, in fact, men. The sewer-worker (now known as Francesca) was just catching forty in the corner of her seat, because she'd been working over-time all day to compensate for the raft of missing workers, lately.

Lola (who was nearly six and a half foot tall and took size fourteen heels, but only from specialist retailers) was behind the wheel. She was smoking one of her own-rolled herbal cigarettes, (mostly cinnamon, sweetie), to make up for the ever-present smell of fish, which haunted her from her job as a fishmonger, down near the docks.

She and they were just distinguishable as human, amongst the thick choking clouds of smoke... which spilled out, damningly, into the night, as the Cop (who was the reason they had pulled over) pounded on the window, already being rolled down. He took in the diva who was staring at him, wild-eyed, from the driver side, and then let his eyes wander, coldly, to the sight of the sewer-worker – apparently passed-out in the passenger seat.

Acting on a crazy hunch, he took a wordless step to the side and hammered on the door to the back.

More smoke spilled out, and the sound of a breathy, soft voice saying "This is the one, girls, this time it's gunna work!" was cut off in mid-sentence. The cop stooped, and gave the passengers inside his best thousand-yard stare of generalized, undiscriminating dislike. He couldn't entirely tell where one body began and the next one ended, in the back. It was more like looking at one big, hairy, many-limbe'd black octopus, covered in sequins, glitter, fake-eyelashes, ridiculously high-heeled shoes and a mystery white powder. Probably talc – or maybe snow, from the Ice in Hell.

It seemed to be involved, somewhere, with a kind of strange street graffiti they'd been working out on the floor – big X marks with circles at the end of each arm, and over the cross-sections. There were low-burning tea candles strewn on the floor, quivering to the rumble of the engine. Little perfume-sized, brightly-painted bottles (of what he fully suspected to be PCP) were lying everywhere, and the place stank of "insense" – harhar. There was a big sheet of tin-foil laid out, too – and covered in that same "unidentified" powder (which someone was sneezing over).

(It was actually a mix of red chili pepper, Goofer dust and all other juicy stuff, but the cop wasn't to know that.)

The sneezer in question was the only one conscious or stupid enough to look directly at him (and who was doing so brazenly). It was a 6-foot "man", his large 'fro tinted a deep electric blue at the tips, to match his unusual pale-blue eyes.

He was wearing a plum-purple basque, made of diamanté-studded velvet, and the silver-sheened stockings peeping out, from the top of his knee-high (viciously-pointed) platform stiletto-boots, were attached to a similarly diamond-strung garter belt. As it happened, his birth-name was James – although, among this particular group of friends, he went by the name Jazz (which, but for a small typographical error, would've suited him on all levels).

Like I said: Looks can deceive.

The Cop had found his citizen, and stepped back from the door.

'Sir,' he drawled, in a bored voice. 'Step outta the vehicle.'

The afro-haired apparition emerged from the limousine in a shower of glitter, like the gayest butterfly you've ever seen from the chrysalis.

'Spread your legs and grab your sack,' the Cop droned.
'I can rub my head and pat mah stomach, at the same tahm, too, if you like?' Jazz suggested.
'...Hands on the vehicle, sir.'
'What, you want me to move It with mah mind?'

Bang! He hit the side of the "vee-hicle" with force – this one had clearly had his sense of humor removed (probably via the stick in his rectum) – and, against his will, Jazz did as he was told.

He wasn't cowed, nor was he concerned – but it was best to stay quiet at a time like this. He'd been found in possession of curly hair, a great tan, and thick rubbery lips. It was an open n' shut case, Y'Honor. So Jazz spread his fabulous hands on top of the limo roof, and prepared himself for the all-too-familiar indignity of having some random white-dude's hand rammed up his neighborhood.

...He wouldn't have minded if the guy had just had the common decency to buy him a drink first!
I mean, my gosh!

People were walking by, either hurrying their step as they went on to the noisier, funner streets, or slowing down to cat-call and poke fun at him (in which case they at least brought one more thing to the proceedings than Mr. Cold-Finger).

What Jazz didn't notice (as his mind was on lower things) was the gorgeous couple who appeared on the street corner – among the millers and lookers-on – and paused as they took in the scene. He didn't see that the male of the pair darted forwards, ducked to the side, and then sneaked along the procession of cars parked behind the limo (in a bus-stop at the end of a long line), hidden from the Cop's view.

Jazz did think he registered the sound of a door clicking open, though – but only realized what was going on when a stranger emerged from the limo on this side of the road, straightening up to regard the police-man amiably. He had climbed in, from the sidewalk-side, and was now pretending to have been in there the whole time.

'Something wrong, officer?' He asked, in an extremely cultured English accent.

Jazz was just grateful the guy'd already removed his hand, that was all – the amount he jumped? There could've been serious kidney-damage done, back there. The cop stared at the blond man, and then goggled as a beautiful black-haired woman appeared, beside him, from inside the limousine. No, she wasn't beautiful, she was ridiculous.

'You're with these people?!' The Cop squeaked, sounding close to break-down. Why, it wasn't fair, springing a genuine-woman on a man!
'We certainly are,' said Blond-guy, waving a hand. 'Look, my guitar's in there with us and everything.'
'Suh- sorry sir, ma'am!'
'That's alright,' she was saying, in a naturally deep, modulated voice. She folded her arms. 'What seems to be the problem?'
'You- uh... your vee-hicle was weaving, miss!'
'Was it? I thought the ride felt a bit bumpy.'
'Didn't I say that, Camilla!' the blond-man nodded, enthusiastically.
'Well, the driver's from an agency. We'll make a complaint and get him-' she glanced at the driver-side window '-her, suspended.'
Morgan gave the Cop a look which, she was unaware, had once reduced Luke's school-friends to putty.
'Was there anything else?'
'You...you...' If the man had bust out crying, it wouldn't have surprised anyone. 'You sure are smoking a lot in there, miss.'
'And? That's legal in Britain.'
'Well... it... ain't here, miss.'
'Sorry officer! I didn't know we couldn't do that!' Blond-guy chimed in, his face creased with honestly perplexed concern.
'Y- that's alright, sir. I'll let you go, this time.'
'Oh, thanks, officer!'
Devil-eyed woman nodded, tilting her head graciously. 'Thank you.'
'You're welcome!'

The Cop, wilting under her unwavering gaze, turned robotically on the spot, and jerked off back to his bike, where he paused to sit, for a moment, with his helmet over his lap. Then he rode off, and it was only then that Jazz removed his eyes from the view over the roof, and unfroze enough to thank his rescuers.

He took in, first, the black-haired woman – whose elegance vanished, instantly and unwomanly, in favour of a kind of tense, coiled poise, like a puma about to pounce. Jazz enveloped her in a wave of glittery arms.

'Girl, I could kiss you all over the face right now!' he cried, in that breathy, silken voice of his.
But he soon let her go. Despite her looks, the woman was evidently one of those un-emancipated types, who could drink any man under the table but broke into a cold sweat when it came to laying one (a table, that is).
'No problem.' She said, shortly, and cut her eyes at the man beside her, clearly expecting some kind of reaction.

Which was when Jazz turned his eyes, too, on the blond-man, and almost laughed out loud at how utterly and completely the sight knocked the wind out of him. He was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing Jazz had ever seen, outside of Fifth Avenue.

'And you are...?'
'Luke Enfield!' He smiled, and it was painful. 'This is Morgan.'
'Great to meetcha, Morgan,' Jazz murmured, weakly, not even looking at her. '...And you, Luke.'
'Sorry to butt-in, there, mate,' Luke was saying. 'I saw the pig, and I couldn't resist havin' chops for dinner – y'know what I mean?'
'Yeah... yeah I really think I do.' Jazz's Luke-stunned gaze drifted sideways to Morgan, who was eying him with a distinctly knowing look in her eyes. If he doesn't know by now, it said, I'm not going to tell him.
'And you two super-heroes... you're really British?' Jazz breathed.
'Yes.' Said Morgan, carrying the conversation.
'Thank God for that!' Luke echoed her, sounding relieved. 'If you'd said "English" I'd have had to smack you.'

'Five seconds,' Jazz thought. 'And he's all-ready offering to smack me. Can I get a Hallelujah/A-Men'

'Baby, you can smack whatever you want,' Jazz replied, a wide white smile spreading across his face, as his blue eyes sparkled charismatically. 'After that rescue? Mmm-mmm!'

'Hmm. Got any bitches?' Luke asked, in a voice of mock-concern. 'I hear it's the done-thing.'
Morgan sighed and rolled her eyes, but looked privately amused by the back-and-forth.
'Shall we get on then?' She addressed her brother, nodding as if towards their exit – and found herself instantly enveloped, again.
'Oh, hell no, baby!' Jazz breathed, voice breaking on the higher pitches. 'You comin' with us!' And before they knew what was happening, the Enfields were being spooned into the back of a large shiny limousine full of Hoodoo-fixin' Drag-Queens.

Things like this happen all the time to Rockstars...