Chapter Twenty Seven
VEGAS, off of MLK, near the freeway underpasses, staked over a cardboard box world, black alleyways, a dying, dead universe, the red fluid pumping from severed arteries, urine and semen, white powder sizzling on a silver-plated-spoon. Blood neon splintering off of the chrome of a needle point and desperate people, lost within an illusion, a lie, drug addicts, homeless, hopeless, it’s the new America, a tragic world, my world, Vegas Jane PI’s world.
Dusk, onyx clouds, color of cordite, gun powder grey, last lightning strikes of the storm, mimicking flames fluming out of the tip of a hand gun barrel.
I see the Vegas neon, a carrousel of colors off there, on the Strip, not far from King’s house now. I always make the cruise past the destruction of the human soul. It’s
