The Penis Killers: Un Drame Noir

Biló Kretin is a medium sized heap of clothing with a smell irrepressible. Lounging beside an iron post with a lamp atop, he’s observing the Los Angeles trams groaning up the hill to let passengers off in the dusk and the twilight while he waits to cross the street and go over to his favorite bar, Chopheads, where Sequined Ineffability, his girl, will be waiting. She gets off the tram, tall, be-booted in heels, and wearing a leather jack with a bag matching the lacquered extremism of the bonged blue color scheme of Jean’s and dope. It’s Biló’s girl, Sequined Ineffability, and he hugs closer to the iron support of the lamp as it becomes suddenly even brighter to illuminate the buttsky maiden as she prongs on beside the tram pulling away clanging its bell and discharging its Battery Park power workers with concertina-like collapsings and retractings of its hinged folded metal entranceways that gives visible substance to the sauce of the alarums.