Missed Armageddon Pt. 5- Twisted Divinity

I'm Raleigh Epps, and I'm depressed.

So what? What happened? Drugs happened; LSD specifically.

I don't know what Lysergic acid does, metaphysically speaking. Granted, I'm probably the guy to ask. I've been observing the relationship between drugs and the spirit for years. I'm a little afraid of dropping acid though, so I've never done it. This has mainly to do with what happened in real life with Hendrix and Manson.

Jimi Hendrix died in late 1970. He took a shitload of sleeping pills then drown on dry land; fluid in his lungs- red wine, specifically.

What about Charles Manson?

Weird little Charlie Manson's trial wrapped up January of 1971. Odd that the two events were so close? Only on the surface. The trial started in June of 1970, months before Hendrix OD'd. Manson was apprehended before that.

I don't think it would have made much of a difference though, if Hendrix hadn't have died. He would have gotten off or busted out or something else, but to do a scene you need all the players. With Hendrix out of the picture, Manson had no need to be the Antichrist.

So, you might ask, why was Hendrix allowed to die? Well, like I said, he was an acid freak and acid screws things up. In addition though, Manson showed his hand too early. I attribute this to LSD as well. He fancied himself a guru and used to "lead" his family on trips.

If nothing else, the acid made him impatient. Charlie's original plan for Helter Skelter was to produce an album that would call his troops to him and catalyze the blacks. At various times he thought either Dennis Wilson, the drummer from the Beach Boys, or a producer named Terry Melcher would facilitate the record. When neither of these prospects panned out, Manson jumped the gun. He set his family to hacking up innocent white people and trying to blame it on the black population of LA.

Without his music to act as a banner, this was nothing more than a streak of sadism- a streak that got him locked up. Because Hell's champion's brain had turned into a nest of baby snakes and his leadership ability had become questionable at best, the good guys' hero became a little redundant. And he kind withered away as well.

Wasted potentiality.

Missed Armageddon Pt. 4- Jimi's World

My name's Raliegh Epps, and I watched as the trumpets were blown.

The real hero of the Manson Family murders was a guy named Al Springer, a member of the Straight Satans motorcycle club. He answered the questions that finally led the LAPD to Spahn Ranch, the home of Manson and his girls. On one occasion Manson offered him all the underage girls he could want, a new motorcycle and a seat at his table after the coming race war; a chance to be the devil's right hand.

Time reset to this point after I watched Manson take over the world. The utter perversity of Manson, the devil-made-flesh, trying to tempt a Satan, and the biker rallying his morals and refusing, that sent out some sort of cosmic ripple. It spread out from California, grabbing hold of something small inside the hearts of good men, gaining momentum with each soul touched.

And for a moment, I got to watch him play, Jimi Hendrix, a legend in his own time. Time stood still for just a moment as he struck a chord in the middle of All Along the Watchtower, the tune nobody remembers Bob Dylan writing, because Hendrix took the song and gave it power. When I saw him, for the breath that paused for me like a photo, I saw him as beautiful, dressed in psychedelic hippie colors, mouth open mid-syllable, and the expression on his face one of utter, beatific care, eyebrows creased and head dipping forward. 

I watched as the ripple touched him and, for just a moment, he glowed, the bright light fading with the guitar chord. He looked up, purpose radiating from his eyes. I remember him bending toward the mic and speaking. "There's some shit going down," he said, he voice bouncing off the walls of whatever venue he was playing. The room fell instantly silent. "We gotta put and end to it. I don't know what it is, but it isn't good, and I think it's my job to put it back in its place."

I worried for a moment his words wouldn't have any effect; after all, as speeches go, it wasn't much. But then the crowd screamed. Fists flew into the air in some sort of unplanned, perfectly coordinated, salute. Hendrix descended from the stage like a god from Mount Olympus. The crowd, a numberless throng, parted perfectly down the middle.

Hendrix passed them, one hand on his guitar, now riding down on his hip. As he passed, each fan took a knee. I still get goosebumps.

The next part of the vision jumps back to the California desert, like someone bumped the record player. I see the war again, but this time something different. This time the Mansonites are riding back to LA and an army of people, black, white and in-between are marching out of the cities.

I see Henrix, Fender Strat at his side like Excalibur, flanked by members of the Black Panthers. The scene cute between the two, miles and miles apart, like a showdown scene in a bad Western. Somewhere in the middle, Barstow maybe, the two armies meet and clash. I see Black Panthers fighting Bikers, elite troops, trained in the art of brawling- deadly if informal. I see Manson's Lilim rush Hendrix, Buck knives dripping with blood.

I see them.

Hendrix sees them.

I sweat.

He stays cool.

I want to do something, want to reach out with my incorporeal hands and cast the demons away from him, humanity's new savior. They close within inches and think he's going to play the martyr again, for the second time. No crucifixion this time, no rising in three days. I despair.

Then he makes a move. The Fender Stratocaster whips into playing position and his hands flick across the strings, fingers dancing like fairies. I see the sound as colored waves of light issuing forth, strong and clear and perfect, from an unplugged electric guitar. As the sound/light touches their skin, the Lilims' flesh is flayed apart.

Hendrix turns, playing something unexpected, something slow: The Wind Cries Mary. As his holy chords ring out his troops are emboldened. As they music washes over them, flagging warriors are born anew. The battle turns from a bleak stalemate to a route; a scouring of things unclean.

Later, the bloodshed done, the Enemy tries to slink back to his hole in the desert, to seek comfort in The Inferno. "Stop," a voice commands, more tender than seems possible. And he stops. "Face me." And he turns.

Hendrix hoists his guitar, grabbing it at the neck and thrusting it forward, body pointing toward the ground. He adopts the posture of every vampire hunter presenting his holy symbol, every rocker showing his finger to the man, every schoolyard kid who's finally had enough of the bully; the stance of conviction, of good fighting evil, of white over red.

And Manson blew apart. It wasn't gory or gruesome. It was as if he had been made of blocks or milk jugs and someone just won the Kewpie doll. Just...Boom.

And that was it. Humanity was saved.

We drank wine and sang. We rebuilt the world. And His was the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.

Missed Armageddon, Pt. 3- Charlie's World

My name's Raleigh Epps, and I'm a survivor.

Charlie's girls were Lilim, daughters or devotees to Adam's first wife. Yeah, Adam from the book of Genesis. Human girls are daughters of Eve. A select few are born or become Lilim. They're creatures of immense depravity who'll do things in the name of sexual pleasure that would made the Marquis De Sade blanch with indignation. A roaring good time, all told.

I'd read somewhere about Helter Skelter, Charles Manson's planned race war/Armageddon Scenario. I knew objectively what he thought would happen, but it wasn't until I saw it, in that fucked-up Ayawaska vision, that it really hit me.

I saw Manson, in the studio, recording his album. I heard the music. I heard the words. It was all shit, Manson not having the musical talent of your average high school band geek, but I watched as the studio people did their magic. They worked his subtle, almost sublime, hate into passable music.

I watched as people, kids mostly, bought the tripe and put it on their record players. I watched as most people bopped their heads, but didn't give it too much thought. I saw others get it. I saw their latent evil waken as they beast roared in their ears and they went to Spahn Ranch in search of their false messiah.

I walked with Charlie as he lead his host into the desert, to Death Valley and revealed to them that he did indeed know the location of a mythical hole, an entrance to a magical land where they could wait out the coming race-war in peace. Of course, it wasn't a hole or a pit at all, more of a cave, the mouth flush with the surrounding ground. A dirt track extended deep, deep inside into a darkness that repulsed me, even as a fleshless, floating consciousness. I think I'm the only one who saw the inscription arching along the cave's open mouth: All hope abandon ye who enter here.

I saw lawmakers go crazy as their daughters disappeared, lured to Manson's clarion call. You have to understand, this was the age of hippies, and the Flower-Children had real power. Their connection to the Archangel of Flowers spread peace and calm over a powder-keg era ready to explode at the slightest spark.

Times were hard for everyone. People lost their jobs or just quit going to work. Blacks, already disenfranchised began to riot, first in places like Watts and then in places like Bel Aire and Hollywood. It should have reminded me of the Watts riots of 1965, since it was nearly the same era. Instead, I recalled the the Riots of '92. I remembered watching them on TV, not understanding. I saw the National Guardsmen called in, citizens defending themselves. I watched white men kill black men. I watched militant black men fight back.

I watched the violence spread like cancer across the United States and then the world.

Then I saw Charlie Manson stick his head out of his hole and hop on his Dune Buggy. It had some kind of weird-ass metal tube welded to its frame, the handle of a saber or cutlass sticking from it, which he drew, after donning his goggles, and pointed as if leading a charge.

I watches a scene from Mad Max as a legion of depraved weirdos followed their leader, also riding dune buggies. Flanking the dune buggies, in tight formation, were an army of bikers. No more were they Straight Satans or Hell's Angels or Mongols or Pagans or Iron Horsemen. There were only, and I swear to this, Charlie's Angels. Each wore leathers, despite the heat of the valley. Each wore their club colors and tattoos.

I saw Manson and his horde ride through the desert at night, killing what cops there were- brave one, trying to keep order in the face of world-ending chaos. I watched, after all the cops were gone and whites were dead, Manson meet with a former Black Panther. I saw Manson pull out his Buntline Special, his Dirty Hairy gun, and blow a hole in the black man's chest.

Because the world had shifted to savage time, remember I was a spirit and this all could have taken years, or because he was the Antichrist, the one-proud black men bowed to him, as did their remaining white slaves. Charlie bid them rise and took them for his own, then surveyed the Black Man as he rebuilt the world in Charlie Manson's image. For the first time, Charles Manson declared himself Messiah. Manson. Man's Son. Batshit Crazy Charlie Manson, Son of Man, Broken Jesus.

As the coin of perception turned in the air, I saw something else. something a little more hopeful.

Missed Armageddon Pt. 1- Broken Jesus

My name's Raleigh Epps, and I saw God.

Charles Manson is the Antichrist, or was the Antichrist. I'm not sure of his current status. I can tell you the story though, how Humanity as a whole was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun and didn't even know it. I can tell you exactly what was supposed to happen and I can tell you exactly what brought the whole cocking thing to an abrupt and immediate end.

Here's the short answer; I'll expound on the finer points later-

In brief: the world was supposed be destroyed in fire, cleansed, purified, and rebuilt as Paradise, or a brand new level of Hell, depending on who won.

Leaders of this revolution? For the red team, none other than Charlie Manson, the aforementioned Antichrist. Hairy little guy never really knew who his father was. In his heart of hearts I'm sure he was afraid his dad was black. Truth is, his dad was Satan. Creepy little racist would have preferred it that way too.

Read up on his plans; Charles Manson envisioned a world where, after using the militant black population of America to kill off all the white people, he, his family, the Beatles and a host of bikers would ride around Death Valley in dune buggies. Charlie and the Mansonites would live primarily in a hole underground until the world was ready to be rebuilt. At such time, the black men would recognize Manson as their rightful leader, hand him the reins to the world and follow him, devout disciples.

What about the blue team? The goodguys? None other than Jimi Hendrix. Wait. What?

You heard me.

What about all that stuff about being in the line of David and riding in on an ass and all that? That's for Jesus, the original Christ figure. Such qualifications don't exactly apply to the second coming.

Calling people to his banner with the wail of an electric guitar, Jimi Hendrix was going to lead the faithful against the Beast. You know Jimi Hendrix was in the Army? He wasn't the best soldier, but he had the training and, infused with holy power, he would have been incredible.

So what went wrong? Drugs. Acid specifically.

Manson's mind was so whacked out on LSD he started the wheels in motion too early early. Hendrix got hooked so bad on women and acid that all the latent divinity inside him manifested itself as incredible, I'd say Godlike, talent and nothing more- a tragedy of missed potential.

Missed Armageddon, Pt. 2- The Knowing

My name's Raleigh Epps, and sometimes I see things. 


I wasn't around when Charles Manson was in the headlines. Jimi Hendrix died before I was born. So how do I know Manson was the Antichrist, Hendrix was in line to be the second coming and they both got so high that they threw Armageddon off kilter? Drugs. Duh.


Do you know what Ayawaska is? Look it up. It's a drink, kind of like a tea, that contains a healthy (unhealthy?) dose of DMT. DMT is dimethyltryptamine, the chemical which humans, and other things, produce a surge of at their moment of death. A mild hallucinogen, it's probably what makes people think they see heaven when they have near-death experiences. Because Ayawaska and dying produce the same effects, its name literally means "spirit vine".


When I left (fled) Louisiana, I spent some time in Peru, where I met an Australian expat named Paul. Paul learned how to make the drink from a bunch of the natives and, when he found out my proclivity for mescaline, he gave me a bottle for my birthday.


I didn't touch the stuff for months. It scared me. Don't get me wrong. I love drugs, hallucinogenics in particular, but I read Carlos Castaneda. Even before all my experiences in New Orleans I realized drugs had a heavy spiritual component that I could only scratch the surface of, and which could fuck you up of provoked.


One day, not quite by accident, I found my Ayawaska guru. Jorge Cápac told me he was one hundred and six. While he looked every day of it, I didn't believe he was a any age over seventy. He let me call him George instead of Hor-Hay, though, so I never called him on his bullshit. 


I met him at an Arepas stand trying to con the vendor out of a silver dollar-sized sandwich. Three hours later, we were in my shitty little white apartment with the bottle and two bowl-sized teacups. 


I remember, at first, the only difference was clarity. I could see all the cracks in my walls as if they'd gone into high-def. A minute later, my consciousness fixated on places where the cracks ran into the baseboard and I knew, for a fact, that those were where all the damn insects came from. Colors came after that, a symphony of them, streaming off anything that moved. Waving my hand in front of my face created a cascading rainbow; startling and trance-inducing.The colors took me for a while, absorbing my attention the way psilocybin mushrooms do when you don't take many. 

And then the ghosts came.

That's not true. It was just one ghost, but he did come and he took me on a very Christmas Carroll-esque trip into a hypothetical 1970s. The Ghost of Armageddon Past? The Ghost of Armageddon S'posed-to-be? I don't know, but I came away from the experience with Ebeneezer Scrooge's absolute certainty that what I saw was a solid possibility- one of history's great near-misses.

The kind we're all thankful for but don't know it.

My First Girlfriend- Pt. 3

My name's Raleigh Epps, and I am a sex addict.

Mary, a badass Mambo, hand to God a Voodoo queen, couldn't tell the future, and I think that's what made me fall in love with her. I didn't know it on a conscious level at the time, but whatever was in the weed I'd smoked, essence of ancestor spirit or roach killer or whatever, I think it was giving me access to future memories; making time into some sort of whirlpool loop instead of a straight line.

She told my fortune, but I didn't listen to her words, only the sound of her voice. It mixed with the incense smoke, becoming almost tangible. Her fake creole accent, like slow-burning silk, smooth and somehow alarming, conveyed promises of happiness and vague admonitions to stay away from- something- I don't remember.

What I do remember is, it was all bullshit. Very clearly, I remember thinking, this is a play. She's acting. So, eyes watering from smoke, jeans straining from the pressure just beneath them, mind reeling from bad drugs, I decided to speak, cut her off mid-sentence. "Bullshit," I said. Then asked, "Can I kiss you?"

She looked at the bead curtain. She looked at me. Looking back, I can only imagine what she saw: a skinny white kid, average height, blonde hair turned to gold ringlets in the hot, humid air that threatens to choke the whole state for a good portion of the year. I looked young back then. I mean, I was young back then, but that's not what I mean. I looked green in the way only people of privilege can; soft. I didn't even work out back then. Begging for a kiss, with my bloodshot eyes and braces-straight teeth and mouth hanging open a little like an idiot, I must have looked like a baby begging for a suck at its mother's tit; pathetic but in the kind of way you can't say no to.

And she did it.

She rose out of her chair with animal grace; the kind of motion only cats can pull of, lazy and deliberate. She came down out of the incense smoke and my own head-fog like Jack's giant coming out of the clouds. Her plump, soft lips hit mine and I felt pinpricks all over my body, like breaking out in a sweat when you're running.

She pinched a gold curl between her fingers, slowly pulling outward, straightening it. "You have girl's hair," she informed me, all traces of creole accent gone.

"I do," I agreed, because it sounded like she was stating a fact, rather than giving commentary. "I need to know your name," stating a fact of my own now.

She pointed at a hand-carved wood plaque reading: Madame St. Claire, but I shook my head. I kept up my despondent child look then, finally, "Mary."

"I love you," I said, not the first time I'd said it to a girl, especially not while alcohol and smoke had a hand in the dialogue. It might have been the first time I'd meant it though and, even if it wasn't, it was the first time a reflection on the experience would prove the statement accurate.

She didn't respond, but I saw a flicker of smile she quickly tried to hide.

I remember, we walked out of the little Voodoo shop, she made her own hours there, and went to a little pirate-themed bar featuring a man paying killer blues on an acoustic guitar. We talked all night and ended up crashing at her place, too drunk to have sex but not so much that we forgot the night before.

She took three days off work and showed me what it meant to be with a woman. With her, I made love for the first time; tender, slow, full of emotion. We fucked, fast and hard with screams on both our parts that sounded almost like crying. We had sex. We explored depths of intimacy that I hadn't known existed. She showed me all the benefits that come from opening up and letting someone into your soul.

She ruined me.

Every time I've had sex, from that day to right now, I've been looking for that feeling. I'm not talking about physical sensation. I'm talking about the feeling inside that only happens when part of your glowing, perfect soul touches someone else's. I could get flowery and esoteric, calling it some sort of celestial dance. Or I could get vulgar and call it a really good fuck. Semantics aside though, as far as I'm concerned, it's the only feeling that matters in the whole repertoire of human experience.

I didn't have a job. I gambled; sometimes in back alleys, sometimes on paddle boats, sometimes in little Indian casinos. This was pretty easy to pull off in the days before facial recognition software and eye-in-the-sky security cameras. Win big, but not grossly so, then go home for a few weeks and hit the next spot. It could be half a year before you win twice in the same building and even then, you don't win at the same game. Moral of the story, I was home a lot, and she wasn't.

I found out about her propensity for magic within the first few days of us being together. There weren't any secrets between us, not just then, and I was open-minded. Granted, I drank more alcohol than water in those days and smoked joints like Marlboros; being open-minded came dangerously easy. So, when she was home, I watched. I learned. Her rituals, to me, seemed incredibly simple. Draw this circle in this way, light this candle and speak this name, then BAM! you've got an ancient spirit of greed in your living room.

I read a lot and, like I said, I'm a whiz kid when it comes to magic. It's just intuitive for me. Some people "get" science, others "get" math. I "get" magic. I grock it, in the words of batshit crazy Robert Heinlein.

We lived together for years. They went by like minutes and nothing seemed to change. I gambled. She ran a tourist magic shop and read fake fortunes. We both smoked pot. Sometimes we were a little more adventurous: peyote, tea made from mushrooms, mescaline, but only rarely and never anything designer. And that was life.

It was Katrina that screwed everything up. Well, no, it was me that screwed everything up, but Katrina precipitated it.

Mary has a big heart. She has a capacity to care more than anyone else I've ever met. Katrina was hell for a lot of people. I know. I was there when it hit. I wasn't in any of the of the war-zone places you see on TV, but something that big? Nobody in the state got away unscathed. I might talk about that some time, but not now. This isn't a sob story, it's a story about how I'm a bastard.

Without Mary and her friends, things would have been a lot worse. Yeah, they worked magic to ease some of the worst of it, but more than that, they just helped. They made food, they helped with temporary housing. Without volunteers, shit, Louisiana would have collapsed completely.

I helped sometimes too, but mostly I didn't. Why not? I'm kind of a self absorbed asshole. Also, it just didn't wound me like it did her. She, Mary, grew up in Now Orleans. On top of that, she had a deep and abiding connection with nature; most magic people do. So, to see her home ripped apart by something she felt like she understood and trusted, well, that was big.

She lost interest in sex. She lost interest in a lot, actually. Anything that wasn't somehow related to fixing the disaster just wasn't on her radar. Don't get me wrong. She still loved me, she told me every night as we laid together in bed. She told me if I weren't there she didn't know what she would do. Then, more nights than not, she would go to bed crying on my arm.

I felt her slipping away from me, into a dark place. I felt our connection, the connection I'd felt with her and her alone, corroding away, the connection I'd first forged when she and I made love. Yeah, I equate sex with love. I'm a guy. Why are you surprised?

I was reading about sex magic at the time, just by chance. I was feeling horny, sure, but I was also feeling intensely alone as the sun started going down in New Orleans and my girl still hadn't come home. She was doing good works, I knew and she'd continue doing them until she'd reached the point of physical exhaustion. So, because of my penis and because of my slowly aching heart, I summoned a spirit.

No, I'm not talking about a ghost. I summoned the embodiment of a concept, specifically, a spirit of lust.

It was the first time I'd ever done magic myself. As I said, I had an intuitive grasp of the subject, but that's the difference between reading the chapter in Chemistry class and actually having a lab day. I remember the ritual clearly, it wasn't that complex, but the thing that stands out most in my mind is that my palms kept sweating. I was nervous and excited. I had to keep wiping them on my jeans so they didn't smear the chalk I used to draw the summoning circle.

I remember the surge of electric energy and the smell of body heat and sex. I remember a rush of hot, bedroom wind that carried with it the sounds of female orgasm.

She looked exactly like you'd want her to look. Whatever type of girl brings out that want, that desire to just take and have and use, to disrespect and trespass. For me, she was white and gothy, with an upturned nose and tattoos and lots of piercings, the kind that advertise: I hate myself.

I took her hard. I don't even know where my clothes went. We fucked for I don't know how long maybe only minutes, but it was enough to hammer the frustration out of me and make me feel sore afterward. I know I had time to shower and make instant macaroni and cheese before Mary got home. And it was a testament to how exhausted she was that she didn't sense my guilt or the latent charge of magic.

I felt guilty like you can't know unless you've cheated on a faithful lover and gotten away with it.It's this empty, hollow feeling that acts as an echo chamber every time something reminds you how shitty of a person you are. I'd try to be a good boyfriend for a few days. I'd say the right things, I'd help out with the shelters and the mission. I'd even help with the magic when her and her friends decided the supernatural could aid some relief effort or another.

She taught me, pleased with how well I'd do.

And then I'd fuck another demon-slut. Or sometimes a ghost-slut. Once in a while I would even fuck a fairy- like whimsical little Irish bits of folklore. I wouldn't go down to the gay bar or anything. Not that I'm homophobic. Demon chicks have all kinds of parts you wouldn't expect. I just wouldn't touch anyone who was, you know, real. In my mind, if it was something supernatural, it wasn't cheating.

Addicts are all about the justification.

My First Girlfriend- Pt. 2

My name's Raleigh Epps and I smoke drugs.

There aren't a lot of black girls named Mary. When I tell you that she was a Voodoo priestess, a Mambo, even a Voodoo queen, you're going to think I'm making her up and that I'm unoriginal; that I'm romanticizing some story about Marie Laveau. I'm not though. She's a real girl. I swear it. She's the reason I'm living here in LA. She wants me dead. She'll kill me if I ever set foot in Now Orleans again, I'm fairly certain.

I wish I could tell you an Indiana Jones tale where Yours Truly steals some magnificent Voodoo artifact, Baron Samedi's cane or something, but all I did was cheat on her; broke her little Voodoo heart. I'm kind of an ass.

I'd had sex twice before I'd gotten to New Orleans. I wasn't old enough for the whole Hippie/Free-Love thing and too old to be part of the sexually-desensitized generation that realized oral sex is the best kind of recreation by the time they hit middle school. And, yeah, I'm a little bitter about that.

It's not just the victim-of-circumstance thing. My parents are high class and prudish. They're also stellar when it comes to parenting. They were loving, firm when I needed it and held on just tight enough when I tried to spread my wings. When I say I had a good childhood, that's no fucking lie. Because they were so damn good, a lot of their sensibilities rubbed off on me. Thus, I was fairly prudish when I left home without even knowing it. To compound the problem, when I did have sex for the first time, it wasn't very good. I won't tell you that story but it was with a married woman in Boston and I felt dirty afterwards; not dirty enough to refuse a second time when she offered, but enough to make me wonder what all the hype was about.

I met Mary on my first night in New Orleans. I was on my own and more than a little high. Within a half hour of arriving in the French Quarter, I scored a half ounce of weed from tall, European-looking dude, rolled myself a joint in the bathroom of an old slave auction-house-turned-bar and smoked it. It was powerful shit, laced with something, and the buzz had me worried for long stretches of the night.

I passed a magic shop for tourists advertising a free gris-gris bag with every tarot card reading. I had zero interest in fortune telling at the time, but I'd bought an alarming amount of kitschy, tourist nick-knacks and thought one of these gris-gris bags sounded handy. The poison-laden smoke told me that by getting my fortune told I would somehow be beating the system.

Still in a cloud, I walked in and demanded the fat college kid behind the counter tell me my future. Not looking up from his computer, he pointed to a bead curtain. I stared at him for a moment, at the beads for another.

Pushing the curtain aside in a clacking, rattling mass, I stepped through into a world of candlelight and incense and magic-gone-airborne, though I didn't know exactly what that felt like at the time. I realized, as I dropped into a padded, throne of a chair, that a single woman populated this strange, behind-the-bead-curtain world.

Insanely beautiful.

I couldn't guess how tall she might be, but her legs seemed to go on forever, draped over the arm of her chair and flowing down the side of the chair like a waterfall. Her waist seemed thin, but only in comparison, set between her hips and breasts. If mammoth or gargantuan or were pretty words, I'd use them in relation to her chest, but they imply something bestial. Her's were both large and delicate; pillows, ocean waves, entire cloudscapes- a perverse imagining brought to life.

I couldn't take in her face, not all at once. Even now I can't think of it as a whole. There was too much perfection there, too many details to let the eye pull back its focus: white, straight teeth, made all the whiter set against her milk chocolate skin and slightly darker lips, her eyes light green, almost grey, hard and deep and soft all at the same time like worked jade, cheeks round with a perpetual smile, nose perky but not pointy- cute.

All right, all right. You get it, she's luscious. Damn.