Part 3 - Tricky Trixie

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I wake up utterly disoriented. Nothing I see makes sense. It's as if the whole room is out of focus and tries to settle into a solid shape, but is unable to decide what that shape should be. Something is wrong with the lights. Dark red and black flash across the white. A dull pounding attacks my ears and it takes a moment before I realize there's someone at the door. I get up but the memory of my mother's deathbed still lingers vividly. It's as if I was just there instead of a memory of nearly 45 years ago. And yet… and yet something's off. The whole thing about faith. I'm not sure; was that really back then?

Still dressed in the same clothes as I lay down in, I open the door. It's Cally. She looks worried.

'Are you all right, Lennard?' she asks me. Her chest is heaving and I'm almost certain she is trying to hide that she's out of breath. Was she running to get to my room?

'We thought you might be… in trouble.'

'I'm fine,' I croak. 'Bad dream, I guess. Who's we?'

'The hotel management,' she answers. Her eyes scan the room and, when nothing seems out of the ordinary, her smile returns like a cat in the middle of the night. 'We have a knack of knowing when our guests are in need of attention. Chalk it up to many years of experience. My apologies for disturbing you. You obviously want to freshen up before the party.'

'Hold on. Party, what party? What time is it anyway?'

'It's dark outside, Lennard. You slept for a very long time. The hotel has organized a big party in the courtyard. Free entrance for all guests and trust me; you don't want to miss it. You could almost say it's compulsory attendance.'

I shake my head to get rid of the wave of dizziness I'm still riding. I can't believe what I'm hearing.

'Are you saying it's night time again? Already? You mean I slept through the whole day? Fuck, I'm supposed to perform tonight and I'm still in the middle of the desert!'

She touches my arm and my whole body goes tingly. I lose track of my thoughts, so hot and clear and urging at first, now come undone and tangle together like wet snow.

'Calm down, Lennard. It won't do anybody any good to panick right now.'

'Ok, ok. Look, I need to make a few phone calls. Where's my cell phone?'

I pat my pockets and find them empty. I stumble back into my room and look around, but it's not there either. Crap, now I remember. I got tired of JoJo calling me every five minutes, so I tossed it in my bag and threw it on the backseat. The backseat of the car which is practically out of gas.

I drop down onto the bed and run my hands through my hair. 'Christ, I'm in deep shit now. JoJo is going to kill me. Whopper is going to kill me. The whole band is going to kill me.'

Cally sits down next to me. I realize we're both sitting on the edge of my huge bed and she's wearing her flimsy red dress again. The skin of her shoulder is perfect and smooth as it disappears under a waterfall of curly black hair.

'I'm so sorry, Lennard,' Cally says. She looks genuinely worried for me. 'If I had known, I'd have arranged for a wakeup call. Is there anything I can do?'

'Can you save my ass?'

'Well, that's a tricky one' she smiles and sighs deep. The swell of her breasts takes my breath away. 'But as long as you're in trouble anyway, at least it's in a good place. I suggest you get yourself something to eat first. Then we'll sort this out. I assure you, we'll take good care of you.'

I have no counter argument. I'm still trying to get to grips with the whole mess I'm in. Not to mention the car crash the previous night. Oh God, what is happening?

'Please, take a shower and put on some clean clothes. I'll have them bring your bag to your room. I'll see you in the courtyard in half an hour and we'll put some food into you that you'll never forget. Then we'll sort you out.'

Cally squeezes my hand softly. It's warm, hot almost. She gets up and leaves me sitting on my ridiculously large bed. She enters the bathroom and soon hot steam is wafting out.

'See you soon.' She winks and disappears from my room.

Drawn in by the luring sounds of the shower, I get up, strip and step into the bathroom. I catch my reflection in the mirror and stop. That long sleep has done a world of good. It must be the lights in here or something, but it's as if that annoying paunch is almost gone and my back is more straight then it has been for over a decade. I can't help but smile as I step into the shower and let the hot water sting my skin. I wrinkle my nose as the stink hits me in the nose like a stab wound. A smell of rotten eggs coming from the water makes me gag and I slap the shower head to the side in a reflex of disgust. Then I spot the little sign on the wall. It politely states the water is coming from underground geothermic hot springs, rich in minerals which are so very good for you. Unfortunately, sulphur is one of those minerals, which manifests in a 'slight' smell of rotten eggs. The hotel management apologizes for this, but ensures the revitalizing effect of these natural waters will more than make up for it.

When I step out of the shower I do feel like I'm twenty years younger. Whatever they put into the water here, it's definitely good for you. I check my reflection again and notice how the flabby skin under my arms seems less and - though I've never had any reason to complain - even my dick looks bigger. Hot springs, who knew, right? My bag is waiting for me on the bed. First I check my phone, but the battery is dead. Shit, I can't even get to the phone numbers stored in the overpriced high-tech little fucker, so I guess I'll have to wait until it's charged again. At least I still have a clean white shirt and a pair of white cotton pants in my bag. I tie my trademark scarf around my neck in front of the dressing mirror which shows I'm having a good hair day as well. 'Watch out ladies,' I wink to my reflection, 'Lead Lowestone is looking good.'

The screen on my cell phone is still black, so I might as well step outside and find my way to the courtyard.

It's not very difficult. All I have to do is follow the music. Somebody is a master of drums. Not like my own drummer, more like those African hand drums. The beat is hypnotic and leads me along. Yesterday it seemed like it took forever to reach my room from the then dark and empty courtyard and now I turn two corners and find it alive with colourful lanterns, torches and rhythmical music. One half of the courtyard holds tables for guests to drink and eat; the other half is taken up by the band and the dance floor. It's the first time I get to see the other guests. It's packed with the most beautiful people I've ever seen. Now, this is the kind of crowd everybody wants to hang out with! Everybody is dressed in white and looks their best and pretty much all the women I pass on my way to the only empty table, I wouldn't mind waking up with tomorrow.

Just after I sit down, I spot Cally sitting at a table in the middle. She's not alone. Three other guys are sitting at her table and at least twice as many are hovering around her. All are vying for her attention. A vile spike of anger shoots out of my gut and spreads through my body. For a second I see myself going over there and fight them off just to have her for my own. I visualize myself hitting and kicking each of them in the face, blood spurting out, splotching across the white table linen. I feel an intense pleasure as I see myself grabbing them by the hair and smashing their face onto the edge of the back of the seats, not just breaking their noses, but crushing them until they choke in their own blood.

I recoil. Where the hell did that come from? I've never picked a fight in my whole life. Sure, I've fantasized about kicking somebody's ass everyone once in a while, who hasn't? But this was just... I don't know what this was, but I feel like I shouldn't enjoy the kind of thoughts as much as I did just a second ago. I may be an asshole when it comes to ditching women, but I'm not the aggressive type.

I sit down, confused, and spot Cally looking at me. She sips from something blood red and licks her lips approvingly. Again, I get the eerie feeling she can read my mind. God, if she wasn't so painstakingly beautiful and sensual, that chick would seriously freak me out. Even though, or perhaps rather because of it, the creepier she gets, the more I long to have her and explore every square inch of that lithe body of hers

My view gets cut off unexpectedly. A young woman has seated herself across the white table linen and hides Cally from my sight. I blink and focus on her. She's young and vaguely familiar with a 'don't I know you from somewhere' kind of face. She's pretty enough, big eyes and slender figure. With her right hand, she pushes a drink with a little paper umbrella towards me.

'I thought you could use something to drink; you've been sitting here for hours with nothing to eat or drink.'

'What do you mean I've been sitting here for hours?' I snap at her, although I do pick up the pink fizzy drink. When you're thirsty, a cocktail will do fine, although I prefer a good red wine while having dinner, which I plan to do as soon as I rid of her. 'I've barely sat down five minutes ago.'

'Sorry baby, I guess one of us lost track of time. You like?'

She sips her own drink sensually. Or tries to in any case. Compared to Cally she looks as seductive as a drunken prom date. I've seen her type too often. Not too smart. All big eyes, easily hurt, needing attention or approving from the wrong kind of guys. Disposable fucks, I'm used to call them. That, at least, explains the vague feeling of familiarity.

'It's a start.'

'I'm Trixie, by the way. Tricky Trixie, but you can call me Trixie. I guess I don't have to ask who you are.' She winks and traces the edge of her glass with her index finger. The rough sugar frosting doesn't cooperate. I find her annoying and try to ignore her. I down the sickeningly sweet drink in one gulp and smack it down a little too hard.

'No offense, love, but Trixie sounds like a cheap whore's name.'

Usually that would blow them off good, but Tricky Trixie, it seems, is not to be put off now that she has found something to latch on to.

'Of course, it's not my real name, silly. But you won't remember that either, so what's the point? I was just wondering if you were having a good time, like me. You look a little out of place and I've been here for a long time. At least, I think I have.'

She giggles and sips from her straw. 'Like I said, it's kind of hard to keep track of time around here.'

A waiter puts another alcoholic sugar bomb in front of me. His ridiculous uniform makes him look like a cruise ship captain with an apron. I yell after him I want my wine, damn it, but the captain's gone already. Glaring after him, I notice that Trixie keeps on talking. I decide to ignore her and scan the crowd, both sitting and dancing. My breath stops short in my throat as I see Cally dancing.

She's moving rhythmically to the music, her body impossibly flexible and her moves as smooth as running water. Her breasts and hips pulse and turn. Her black hair seems to move on its own accord. It's like looking at something so singular beautiful and delicate as a marble statue of a Greek Goddess and at the same time as sexual as the best fucking porn I've ever seen. She is surrounded by a clique of very handsome men, who are dancing around her as if they're caught in a slow motion tornado with this tall, dark haired nymph in the middle.

'Like moths drawn to a candle flame,' says Trixie. 'You have good taste! That's Cally, but you already know her, of course. Then again, do you really?'

I stare at her blankly, the image of a dancing Cally still burned into my retinas.

'She's something special, isn't she? All the boys want her, all the girls are jealous. And most want her too, in the same way.'

Trixie is now sitting next to me, her shoulder pressing into mine as she whispers in my ear. I can smell the alcohol on her sickeningly sweet breath. Suddenly she is making me very uncomfortable. She gently takes my chin in her hand. At her touch the strange feeling of familiarity is stronger, but I can't focus because she redirects my gaze back to Cally's writhing and pulsating figure. Trixie's touch is gentle and soft and it need not be anything else because I want to look at Cally so very much, but underneath her touch I feel it is impossibly strong, like a vise wrapped in silk.

'Don't you think she's pretty? Don't you want her? She comes at a price, honey. What are you going to do for her? Will you buy her presents? Would be tricky, baby. Her mind is Tiffany twisted, all colourful little pieces of pretty glass, but sharp and edgy and very expensive. She's got the Mercedes Benz out in the parking lot. Got it from one of the boys out there dancing and romancing her right now. Are you going to beat that? That's just one of them. And she's got a lot of pretty pretty boys she calls friends, but I call them for what they are. Entourage. Accessories. Nothing but some pretty things to surround herself for the occasion and dismissed just as easily. Will you be her earring? Her purse maybe? Will you be part of her vanity and hope that in return she will be part of yours? And what will you do then, baby? Will you go to her and dance with her on this endless night? That is what you are thinking about, right?'

It is. Even though I'm utterly freaked out by Trixie still holding my chin like a medieval torture device, I'm looking at Cally and her admirers. How they dance in the courtyard. I see her sweet summer sweat forming on her golden skin. I want her so bad. So desperately. At this point I would do anything to have her in my bed and rip that dress off her breasts and bite her small dark nipples. My erection is painful in my sitting position, but I dare not move. I'm so scared and turned on at the same time.

'Oh, I know what you're thinking. You want to dance too. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget. All of them dance to be with her and you are no exception. I know, because if I let go of you, you will be there too. Wooing her. Presenting yourself to her, while you cling to a last string of delusion, thin as a spider's web, that she will acknowledge you and take you to be with her.'

The waiter materializes at the next table, inquiring if our neighbours require more drinks. The vise suddenly releases my head. Trixie leans back and giggles with her hand in front of her mouth. Her eyes are just the tiniest bit crossed. If I didn't know any better, she looks as drunk as a skunk and totally harmless.

I desperately try to get to grips with the situation, but nothing makes sense. At least the waiter in his pompous uniform reminds me how much I need a drink. Something to wash down this freak show and numb my senses A.S.A.P. So I call up the captain.

'Look, I can't take this sweet stuff anymore,' I tell him. 'Please bring me my wine. Give me a Merlot quick and make it a good one, got it?'

'I'm sorry sir,' he says, 'we haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty nine. I can get you a nice Cherub's Cup. It has strawberries in it, among other things.'

'Strawberries? You pulling my leg? Know what, forget it. Get lost. I'm going to my room and figure out how to get the fuck back to LA.'

The waiter vanishes in the crowd and I move to stand up, but Trixie lays her hand on my leg. As fast a striking snake and she damn near crushes my thigh bone pushing it back down.

'Sit down, baby,' she hisses. 'You're drawing attention to us.'

I don't resist. Something is going on here and it sure as hell is not agreeing with me. But for now, I need to figure out my next move.

'I'll give you something to look at, baby,' Trixie says. 'All you need to do is open your eyes. Look at me, Lennard.'

I look. I look at her bland pretty-ish face. She's looking into my eyes. I look into hers. Big, round, somehow still full of the innocent surprise little kids have. Set in a pretty face, white as a sheet while bright red streams of blood run down from her nose and mouth. They are staring back at me. Back down from the ceiling mirror. I am looking into the eyes of the dead chick that OD'd on bad coke in my LA hotel bed while I was fucking her. And yet, they are also staring at me here at this damn party in middle of the California desert. She is also a pretty young thing looking way better than she ever did alive. Our eyes are locked, they meet, they mesh, they reverse somehow. Something is happening and now I'm looking at myself from across the same table. Looking at Lead Lowestone, looking better than he ever did. Mature and still full of youthful life. My hair is thick and dark again, my shoulders square and straight. There are no old man's wrinkles circling those eyes, those terrified eyes which are unable to move. Trixie stands up and moves away from the table and so I must look away too. We are moving towards the dance floor. I'm seeing things through Trixie's eyes now and things are changing.

It comes in flashes, like lightning. And like lightning, it leaves the same disorienting after images. The first flash shows the people dancing, but they are not dancing. They are fucking and fighting and both at the same time. Men and women thrown together in an orgy of sex and violence. The floor is slick with blood and semen. They are screaming at each other to die, for more, to hurt them or give it to them as hard as they can. I see a giant of a man. His back is ablaze with fire and the smell of burning flesh is overwhelming. He is raping a tiny woman from behind while smashing her face repeatedly into a nearby table. Her destroyed face is leaving more and more bloodstains on the once pristine white linen. There are other people sitting at the same table, laughing hysterically, their white clothes equally spattered red. Then it's gone and comes the disorientation.

We wander around and halt at a table where two couples are enjoying a good humoured conversation. Everything is back to normal until the next flash. Now I see the men fighting each other, punching, clawing, biting like wild rabid dogs. Each has his woman wrapped around him, their thin white dresses hitched up to reveal their bare asses. They cling with one arm around their man and fight each other with their free arm, as savagely as their partners do. One of them has her hand torn in two, straight down the middle.

Suddenly everything is back to normal, but the images linger, superimposing themselves on the scene of the groovy party in the middle of the warm night air. Finally we come back to our table, where I still sit, unmoving. The next flash shows, for an infinitely short amount of time, me. Not as I am, but as a wrinkled old man with dark hollow eyes, bruised and bloodied. The trademark scarf is still there, but it's soaked with blood still oozing from a horrible head wound that runs across my forehead and into thinning hair. Off-white bone is visible beneath the red mess. Soft grey matter beneath that is the last I see before I pass out.

I'm stuck somewhere in that half way state between waking and dreaming where your emotions have full reign over you, but you have no control or rational thought. Memories are playing peek-a-boo in my semi-conscious mind, popping up and disappearing before I can make sense of them. Visions of pure horror, the wild, manic music of drums, the sensation of falling and falling and falling. Something snarling in blood curdling fury and clawing its way towards me. And finally a dozen hands lifting me up and carrying me through the twisting innards of hotel corridors. Hallway after hallway, corridor after corridor, an infinite maze. I hear it again, echoed voices in the night, like the first time I got here. And still those voices are calling from far away. Like ghosts.