The black Lexus sleekly not to say incongruously purred up the sodden lane, coming to rest outside the nastiest, dirtiest terrace in the nasty dirty street. The machine emitting its orange-turbanned Charon, that gentleman vey promptly sprang to and op’ed the rear door, from which aperture now stepped forth - ‘clambered’ does not do justice to her daintiness - that vision of loveliness the Lockleaze Persephone. The car she’d sat in, with its polished chrome, gleamed on the kerbside and its plush bestowed upon the world a sigh as though it grieved the loss of that peach-like posterior from whose g-strung cleft breathed zephyrs of drains Damascene. And she was veiled in rayon puce and girdled about her oil-anointed loins in camisole most cunningly of silk effect, reaching to within a handspan of her navel whence peeped out that rarest gem, cubic zirconia yclept. Over her lissome form was draped a cloak of fur, convincing all saving the most exacting fashion ponce that it was skin of pard or even ocelot and not contrived of basest polymer. Nor did that queen neglect her offices olfactory, for she had sprayed her skin most liberally and was yet wreathed about with odours redolent of Boots the Chemist perfume aisle bootlegged and imitated by the kasbah fraud, so that the passing loiterer or citizen encountering her loveliness must press his kerchief up against his hooter lest he choke upon the superfluity thereof. —
The orange turban, The terrace
She tarried not, but straightaway herself betook through wicket gate and through the garden all festooned with long brennt tyres and merds of hound and eke of lotophagoi who do choose to do their business under privet hedge amidst the mulch of cardboard packaging and magazines depicting well-waxed odalisques in congress with their ’roidal swains. The door yielded to the key which she retained. Within, all was as before: velour, ruched and of a beigeness unsurpassed, and filthy oxblood naugahyde, the linoleum underfoot paving the vestibule was prone to stick to shoes, and audible just then was the drone of Mr Roger Buggery rehearsing his abortion of a speech. —
The vestibule, Gamina Dročerpyatova-Buggery, The garden, Mr Roger Buggery
“Schto!” said again Ms. Gamina Dročerpyatova, “dirty English homosex who is not husband, you go to see Tory Chew who is in gulag, yes?” —
The gulag
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