1: South Scargo.
The background behind him an out-of-focus blue and green...
...impossibly blood-stained bricks, balustrades with holographic crawling Lacertilia lizards and nanomite-veined spider-ivies hanging down and over the Taiwanese Hu San trashy café on Ash Street. Prince Javanshir, face painted the colour of the night's obscure blue, dressed in black clothes with a long, Emporio Armani trench coat.
Beat-up black Nephilim hat. Well worn designer shoes just a bit too clean. His silver lip-ring reflected the city's neon in strange, twisted shapes almost like sound.
His eyes thin with a piercing stare and deep red, straight shoulder length matted ash-grey hair. He almost looks as if he walked out of a Darkfaery subculture magazine, or some kind of Goth-cowboy out of Sergio Leone's iconic Spaghetti Western "The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly." The air even has the feel to the music of Ennio Morricone. Prince Javanshir had two cultural heroes: Clint Eastwood and Carl McCoy.
He had a six-shooter and a fairly decent singing voice.
He often said in a raspy, well acted voice, "There's money to be made in a place like this," with a thin brown cigarette in his mouth. Followed by laughter. Tonight he wasn't laughing.
Image after image had bounced around his head.
Night sounds explode like bullets... Night sounds explode like bullets in a neon splash of green, red and icy blue brushing off intricate bass-lines and aluminum curves. Night sounds explode like bullets brushing off bruised bass-lines... There is a saxophone slowly moaning its melancholy hollow and sullen as if it were the metaphor of the city reverberating beneath, between and behind everything that should not be happening... notes squeeze out from hard-candy cracked windows with the damp scent of darkness. An old, flickering image of a raw-red holographed woman's hands claw and crawl down the side of a porno-house entrance. Open. Close. Open and close. Open and...
For a second the street is empty with the sound of damp dust. Silhouettes and disjointed shapes, night glitter. The rhythms flick and twist, tangle and separate.
Javanshir's heart is beating wildly from the recent memory of gunshots fired his way - a rip in the jacket's left arm bore the horrible truth. He, Prince of Unsbourne, was hunted. A Doppler effect of passing cars, footsteps and the blur of bullets fired all around him in the downpour of the dead blue rain. Having been doped up on ketamine and too much java, Prince Javan was himself out-of-focus when he grabbed the wrong jacket from the Germanus Industrial-cum-Discotheque, Der Zoomorphic owned by the hermaphrodite vampire Volga. Javan was drinking with his friend Andreas Eschbach of East Unterungsland.
Harsh black-and-white images of Claudia Schiffer, Marlene Dietrich kissing Edith Piaf, Goethe, Hitler, "Lola rennt," "Metropolis" and a few Wim Wenders' films plagued the stone white walls in a strange synchronicity to the music of Daft Punkt, Die Radio, Beggars Banquet and electronica era David Bowie.