Noir City Cigarette Diaries

Lee Harold Trombone enjoyed the night, it had an anonymous affinity for the lethal days, men like himself could peruse the cool hectic evening streets, watching passing un touched, un disturbed and un noticed. Standing in the bleak shadow of an alley way he calmly placed a cigarette in his tired mouth, the ignition sequence kicked in as he was about to retrieve his lighter from a hidden pocket in his large grey trench coat, he smiled the smile of a man who did out of habit what technology made obsolete. A drunken sailor and a giggling red dress with long legs and sad eyes whistled past him without a second glance, it was better for everybody that way. Trombone watched as the sailor gripped her buttocks greedily telling her the promises she had heard a thousand times before. The sailor was whistling the tune from Stella Doll’s favourite show tune ‘The Ballad of a Quiet Man’ a verse made itself comfortable in Trombones mind.

She dances like a headache
She sings like a broken phone
She bites your lip with her hips
She hates to be sober when alone!

Trombone watched sadly as the two broken bodies were swept up efficiently and quietly by the ‘refuse collection droidals’ their large shovels scooping first Dr Henrick Campbell then Stella Doll, her limp bloodied body seemingly weightless as the RCD’s trundled along vacuuming the shiny pavements up main street. Lee Harold Trombone finished his cigarette and tossed it into the gutter, a wind picked up suddenly and his unfastened trench coat flapped like drunken birds wings about his body; he repositioned his hat at what he considered a jaunty angle made his way toward the bars of Sailor Town.

It was not the howling wind that woke her, nor the clanking of the in bound shuttles from the fat freighters in high to mid orbit. But the rich aroma of fresh coffee, the air bristled with its steam, caressing her thigh like a sleepy lover, too tired to give too greedy to leave you alone. Smiling she turned in the sheets to see the hairy buttocks of the man she had met the night before; his lean scarred body reminded her frozen meat, compact tough and strangely compelling, like an itch you can’t ignore like that strip of paper you have to tug at, a cigarette you don’t have but need.

-Hey got a cigarette sailor? She asked playfully. She began searching the bed for her underwear.

-I told you, I’m not a sailor! He growled as a cigarette flew lazily through the air. She grinned and put it in her mouth after an undetermined amount of time, the stupid bemused look on her face became too much for the non-sailor.

-Hey, it’s a not a self light, you’ll need to flame it honey!

-Oh! She replied with a hint of irritation. Her gentle hands began burying themselves into a grey trench coat draped over a chair. Suddenly the non-sailor was on her. His massive bulk blotched and bitten by a thousand bad nights spent doing what he shouldn’t, that’s what she liked about him that was what distinguished him from the crowd; that and the fact he had broken the arm of a ‘Carousel officer’. His hand gripped hers tightly his eyes pinned her to nothing, where could you go with a man like that.

-Don’t dig honey! Finding things is the worst kind of thing to find! For a big man with evident strength he delicately gently removed her hand form his coat and placed it softly on her thigh. A few moments later he flicked the lid of a small silver case and a flame erupted between them, a shimmering visage of blue and yellow, the serene mesmerising curvature of primordial technology. She grinned and sucked in the heat, he smiled and let her do it.

-You said your name was Klee Shay, I saw different! Her eyes flickered, his I.D card rested on the floor beside the mattress.

-You said you were a virgin, whose the more disappointed? He quickly picked up his I.D and returned it to his trench coat pocket.

-You remind me of one of those tough cops from the old viewies, what’cha call em?

-Films baby, films! (He grunted heavily, like a boulder dropped into a swamp, the noise hung around in the air for an indecent period of time like a fat insect with time on its hands.) for your information I’m not a ‘Carousel Officer’ or a sailor or a whatever! As far as you were concerned I was just some lucky guy in an unlucky bar with too much time to drink things over! He smiled softly and she stroked his chin, he felt that old familiar feeling in his groin and instinctively moved in for the kill but she wiggled playfully underneath him and slipped off the mattress.

-Sure sailor what ever you say! If you want to be Mr Mysterious go to the library and start eating flies!

-Baby that makes no sense! He said whilst searching his pockets for a cigarette, he rested his back against the window and for a moment glanced up through the opaque jelly that formed the window. It was supposed to be as clear as water and soundproof, like most modern technological favours, it did you none! The grey mashed sky was awash with a myriad of vehicles, freighters, Carousel Vans, private transport in so many different chaotic styles it was impossible to name four model types, ‘Precipitation Pads’ squelched overhead, like wriggling grotesque jelly fish watering the grassless streets and the flowerless homes, a Carousal Van boomed through a lane of traffic wailing all the while its self importance. ‘A good day for bad intentions’ he thought. A slow rhythmic thud began in the adjoining apartment, a female groan then another female groan different this time, he smiled knowingly, the thudding became faster as a man whimpered exhaustedly. He heard the crack of a whip and the yelp of a man 'sure ain't church sunday anymore' he thought to himself as licked his lips, he wanted a cigarette.

-Sailor nor do you! (She tossed him a cigarette from her own packet, he caught it happily) that’s a self-light sailor, give it a second and it’ll do all the hard work for you! She winked playfully then flirted her backside for a tantalising second before disappearing into the sonic shower. The sudden choking wheezing clank from the walls told everyone on the floor somebody somewhere was getting clean, a nice idea if that’s what you had in mind. She began singing a song he had never heard before, through the noise of the generator and the heat mist one line through itself out, like a drunk with better things to do but nowhere to do them, he caught it and bent it over a few times in his mind.

…She dances like a headache…