Chapter 5
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Daybreak - 6am. The smell of faeces and cigarette butts filled the air, like fairy floss and corn dogs at the carnival of lost souls. Pounding headache, trundle beds squeaking with disrepair infused with the sound of anaemic Russian murmuring filled the halls, you know a shithole when you’re in one.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2LNShYFbw5
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A voice broke into English briefly in the adjoining room, heard in a soft but assertive tone.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVaQEPKZu80
“Make my fuckhole suffer you reticent piece of shit..”254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmXxPpT70aN
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Frankie lay staring at the cracked ceiling pondering the worth of extracting meaning from the excrementitious goings on around her. Surely there was something of emotional value to be learned from the black mould infested rooming house she’d found herself crawling back to time and time again. Freaks always find their way home it seems..254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzIpr9QsQ57
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She recalled a quote from poet Phillip Larkin on the worth of poetry.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTq5u3cmOHn
“A poem is like a slot machine, the reader puts the penny of his attention in the slot and pulls the handle and gets a feeling out.”254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ66bsresfhk
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The quote wasn’t really applicable to her current situation, aside from the fact an apparently ‘redicent’ male suitor's cock was being pulled like a slot machine handle in the next room, ‘feelings’ spewing forth from it like a putrid poetry pistol.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwGMGMhZU7b
There weren't many other meaningful parallels to draw.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIeVWX2tRaW
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Frankie pulled a morphine syrette from her bag and jabbed it into her leg with a natural junkie fervour. Numb. So quickly numb. No more need to think. Russian voices and penile slot machine nonsense fading away. Eyes starting to slowly close, the smell of shit becoming somewhat more bearable. She let out a low energy laugh, more like a whimper, and passed out. An unconscious passenger on the train of life. Destination Pooville.
Frankie awoke after an hours worth of interrupted sleep leaning against a bird bath in Tuileries Garden, a lush green, ornate statue studded public park. Her stomach seared with the absence of food and abundance of semen, or glú as she had affectionately renamed it. 254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtxZSXv7N0J
It was time to get back work, to jump back on that perpetual and ever replenishable putrid pogo stick and see the Franc’s fly.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ70xw49kCpB
She splashed the fetid bird bath water trying against her vulva, in a feeble and desperate attempt to clean the hole that had helped put food on the table many a hungry night past.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAQbkJsbyGd
“The world never permits a good looking woman to starve.” She muttered under her breath, as if to instil herself with some skerrick of hope.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHcItzLH6xG
The discoloured bird water rolled down her legs like a grey landslide of avian secretion, she felt cleansed.
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