The Man Who Loved Fire
The stilted notes that I found in the arsonists desk drawer – of course, they are badly burnt and even more wretchedly difficult to decipher because of this pyrophiliac and his breeding spree that took down four city blocks and got a whole bunch of efreet pregnant.
Cabaret marionet. Pull strings. Final burlesque basement sale. They will ENTER from stage LEFT.
Hell is the first step. Don’t tell them that. Opening night until the party goes stale.
Wooden boys. Glow worms. Spotlight attraction? Three field system for the worms and are the UV lights helping as an erotic aid?
Silence booming through the hall in scattered warm spectrum, actors quail first, then blacken and blaze, the dance of London Bridge. Then umbral shades flitting in the back draft as he makes his getaway, incandescent.
Varnished bodies and painted on clothes. Dripping oil and grease paint piss. Wood smoke perverted.
“He set fire to the star in the bathroom!”The ushers have all been strung up with white hot chords of silk and steel, the worms are descending already.
Ticket stubs flutter down from the rafters, noting time, date and seating arrangements. Memory moths.
“Please, less volume on the street theatre gun fights!”The gas tanks keel over and give up, rupture/rapture/repose. My embalming fluid is really starting to heat up. I begin to split at the seams.
The After party:
“How debonair!”The worms are crawling all over her cloven hooves and the men have gathered round the base of here monumental spine, throwing climbing hooks and digging in with spike and crampon.
The smallest of the men shoves a long syringe into her immense varicose vein.
“For later testing.”
She bellows: WE WILL HAVE OUR REVENGE.