Wearing Donald Trump mask in a Strip Club in New Orleans
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Authors note:
The main character, high school librarian, Stephen Cubick seeks to write the all time best seller. In order to accomplish this goal he seeks council from one of his coworkers, Mr. Thomas aka honea byrne. Honea has published a book titled "...Instruction Guide On How to be a Superhero"click here to purchase Fearless which led to him being incriminated and fired from his teaching job. Stephen visits Thomas in the state psyche ward Whitmore.
Stephen also gets inspiration from 12 step recovery meetings (Sexaholics, Narcotics Anonymous, and Alcoholics Anonymous.
It doesn't take long for Stephen to realize that there are certain prices to be paid for writing.
One of these prices is his sanity.
In the following excerpt he is doing personal research in the streets of New Orleans.
She wasn’t there. I keep thinking about what he saw at New Orleans. I decided to skip work and take that trip to New Orleans. First place I come to is Reverend Zombies. I see the altars inside dedicated to the Voodoo Gods. I pick up a book from there about making my own alter.
On my way to ‘The Sex Acts’ strip club I see a mask of Donald Trump in a store window. I go inside and purchase it. The cashier looks at me sort of funny when I tear the tag of and put it on my head. It covers my face and part of my head. I can feel the insanity of the tyrant begin to fill me. I laugh like a maniac as I walk out of the store. I turn around at the door and see the look of fear on the woman’s face behind the cash register. I wonder what it would be like to plunge a knife into her chest and twist. Ah the coupe de gra. I turn back around and walk through the door onto the streets of the french quarter.
My pockets are full of cash. I have prepared well for this foray into the depravity of New Orleans. It is like a homecoming to me where evil meets evil. I embrace the gritty smells of the quarter; it reminds me of biscuits and gravy. My mouth begins to water as I stop at the entrance of the strip club. The door man gives me a thumbs up when he sees me. Apparently he is one of Trump’s legions of followers. I reflect on this modern day Hitler whose image I wear as my disguise. I am a wolf in wolves clothing indeed. The cover charge is waived for my unsolicited endorsement of the Antichrist. There is plenty of action on the stage, two strippers doing the dirty dance of ages. I am ushered to prime seating on the front row for the show. The unclad women go down to the floor and began to scissor. This is more than a mere strip show. There is an exchange of body fluids going on in front of me. I pull out a wad of one dollar bills and throw the whole thing out onto the stage and yell: “Let’s Make America Great Again!” The whole room erupts into laughter. I have become part of the show. Not in my wildest wet dreams would I have imagined what happened next. The two strippers, roused from their scissoring, pounce upon me and drag me onto the stage. They walk me to the stripper pole, pinning my arms behind me. I hear the clink of handcuffs. I feel the metal restraints binding my wrists to the pole. The two women empty my pockets of the rest of my cash as they bump and grind against me. The dance is well orchestrated. I am amazed with their fluid contortions. It is like they are made of rubber, no bones inside. It is like Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries. When the last of the money has been removed from the various hiding places on my person, the handcuffs disappear. I know the score here. I leap off the stage and propel myself like a torpedo through the darkened establishment. As I make my exit through the doors, I make a tactical mistake. My foot slides on a used condom on the pavement and I land on my ass, good thing there is plenty of padding back there. The fall knocks the wind out of me. I would have screamed, but I had lost my ability to use my lungs. I sit there on the flagstones for a moment. People are giving me a wide berth as they walk around me. I am like a traffic accident that people slow down to stare at. They don’t care to get involved with the tragedy that they see, but are powerless to look away.
Authors note:
The main character, high school librarian, Stephen Cubick seeks to write the all time best seller. In order to accomplish this goal he seeks council from one of his coworkers, Mr. Thomas aka honea byrne. Honea has published a book titled "...Instruction Guide On How to be a Superhero"click here to purchase Fearless which led to him being incriminated and fired from his teaching job. Stephen visits Thomas in the state psyche ward Whitmore.
Stephen also gets inspiration from 12 step recovery meetings (Sexaholics, Narcotics Anonymous, and Alcoholics Anonymous.
It doesn't take long for Stephen to realize that there are certain prices to be paid for writing.
One of these prices is his sanity.
In the following excerpt he is doing personal research in the streets of New Orleans.
She wasn’t there. I keep thinking about what he saw at New Orleans. I decided to skip work and take that trip to New Orleans. First place I come to is Reverend Zombies. I see the altars inside dedicated to the Voodoo Gods. I pick up a book from there about making my own alter.
On my way to ‘The Sex Acts’ strip club I see a mask of Donald Trump in a store window. I go inside and purchase it. The cashier looks at me sort of funny when I tear the tag of and put it on my head. It covers my face and part of my head. I can feel the insanity of the tyrant begin to fill me. I laugh like a maniac as I walk out of the store. I turn around at the door and see the look of fear on the woman’s face behind the cash register. I wonder what it would be like to plunge a knife into her chest and twist. Ah the coupe de gra. I turn back around and walk through the door onto the streets of the french quarter.
My pockets are full of cash. I have prepared well for this foray into the depravity of New Orleans. It is like a homecoming to me where evil meets evil. I embrace the gritty smells of the quarter; it reminds me of biscuits and gravy. My mouth begins to water as I stop at the entrance of the strip club. The door man gives me a thumbs up when he sees me. Apparently he is one of Trump’s legions of followers. I reflect on this modern day Hitler whose image I wear as my disguise. I am a wolf in wolves clothing indeed. The cover charge is waived for my unsolicited endorsement of the Antichrist. There is plenty of action on the stage, two strippers doing the dirty dance of ages. I am ushered to prime seating on the front row for the show. The unclad women go down to the floor and began to scissor. This is more than a mere strip show. There is an exchange of body fluids going on in front of me. I pull out a wad of one dollar bills and throw the whole thing out onto the stage and yell: “Let’s Make America Great Again!” The whole room erupts into laughter. I have become part of the show. Not in my wildest wet dreams would I have imagined what happened next. The two strippers, roused from their scissoring, pounce upon me and drag me onto the stage. They walk me to the stripper pole, pinning my arms behind me. I hear the clink of handcuffs. I feel the metal restraints binding my wrists to the pole. The two women empty my pockets of the rest of my cash as they bump and grind against me. The dance is well orchestrated. I am amazed with their fluid contortions. It is like they are made of rubber, no bones inside. It is like Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries. When the last of the money has been removed from the various hiding places on my person, the handcuffs disappear. I know the score here. I leap off the stage and propel myself like a torpedo through the darkened establishment. As I make my exit through the doors, I make a tactical mistake. My foot slides on a used condom on the pavement and I land on my ass, good thing there is plenty of padding back there. The fall knocks the wind out of me. I would have screamed, but I had lost my ability to use my lungs. I sit there on the flagstones for a moment. People are giving me a wide berth as they walk around me. I am like a traffic accident that people slow down to stare at. They don’t care to get involved with the tragedy that they see, but are powerless to look away.
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