WEEK 4 AT MADAME LA'S

The wind blew hard. His hair was starting to annoy him. He knew he should cut it, but didn't think it'd make any difference. The crows would still know him. He walked a few blocks further and entered the tiny room he liked to call Madame La's. The truth is never as golden as Madame La's. A robotic mannequin brought him a chair, so he sat on it. A speechless parrot spat out a whiskey chaser and the party began. Turntables turned and honky tunes started to fill the room. He didn't like to dance, but he sure does now! The room begins to fill with happening young girls and malchicks. Russian porters carry large fish through the dancefloor into the kitchen. He follows and examines a mackerel being deboned. A large, lusty woman grabs him by the arm and begins to kiss him. The rest is all a blur.

Week 2 at Madame La's wasn't so good. The robots were malfunctioning, the parrots were squawking and the large, lustful women were getting violent. He removed his head with an axe and put it in the chef's hands. Monsieur Valtong wasn't accustomed to cooking the heads of young English alpha males, let alone those of pale, malnourished, suit-wearing believers. The head was back in the hands of its owner. He didn't much fancy putting it back on, so instead threw it towards the dance floor. Tony, malfunctioning robot number three, flicked it up with his left foot and spun it over to the DJ. Fat beats jumped from the stacks and the crowd was pumping. Shame a disembodied head was floating around. Its owner was missing all the fun.

Week 3 at Madame La's started with a bang. He wanted his head back and wasn't going to squabble over details. A cute devotchka had become quite taken with it and had even chosen a name. This would not stand too well with the true owner's mother. She created that face, gave it a name, brushed its hair and loved it with all her heart. He knew she was looking down and wanted him to stick up for himself. The bullet exited through the left breast and left the head thief gasping for more. The second punctured her cheek, whilst the third was merely a flesh wound to the right buttock. The walk home was uncomfortable. The wind was blowing, but no longer was he worried about his hair. He removed his tie and secured the scabby neck to its meaty shoulders. A robot skipped along behind, ready to catch the lovely head should it fall.

Week 4 at Madame La's was sure to be fun. All the gang were going to show for his birthday and dance till the sun came up. Luckily for them, something happened to him on the way home that morning. He stopped believing, a sin more fatal than three, four or five bullet wounds. Back home in his bed, he let the ceiling fall down on him. Malfunctioning robots poured water in his grave and watched him slowly float to the bottom of a milky abyss. They'd have cried if they could, but robots never shed tears for strangers. If only they knew what he knew. The secret he carried with him to his watery resting place; Madame La's just lost the best customer it ever had.