The Parapraxis of Mrs. Titswarren

Slap und Happy are on the skids once again. For far too long, they've run afoul of the rigid plastic agendas dictated by The Man. They're aggrieved, argumentative, antsy. Hitting the streets, the soles of their shoes strike the pavement with machine-like precision; the one certainty about where they're headed would make spinsters weep. They happen upon a district which used to be full of warehouses and working stiffs, but now is aflutter with the startling plumage of boozy city nightlife. They plunge into a crowd of dandies and hipsters, but their senses are dazzled by the rainbow array of Birds: the Chick, the Dame, the Skirt, the Tomato, the Floozy, the Doll, the Bimbo... Each has a name both speakable and unsayable, each has distinctive allure but is achingly untouchable. The painted faces flash as they pass like vignettes as sordid and tragic as nickel comic books. Attracted but unattached, The Captains stand transfixed, transformed. In their gritty, roiling, workaday world, is there a slot for ruffles and curls, hot dish and the sweetly spoken word? They turn their backs to the feverish flock.

The darkened alley down which they now amble is void except for the smack of the moths against the neon light above the saloon door, and the electrifying promise of secrets to be revealed.