The Lusty City Chronicles Read online

THE LUSTY CITY CHRONICLES

  By

  Romeo D. Matshaba

  Copyright 2013 Romeo D. Matshaba

  All rights reserved.

  Lusty City, why do they call it Lusty City you may well wonder? Some say there is an all-embracing fumy cloud of lust that surrounds the entirety of the city, causing the exquisiteness of the women to approach infinity while at the same time devaluing their morals to the number zero. Because here mini-skirts should be called midget-skirts and Bra’s should be called strips of leather. At first, a distant observer might be fooled into believing that the men are, shall I say different – that their internal moral and ethical compasses were still functioning. Nevertheless, they like their significant counterparts, as Darwin so elegantly put it: have and are being evolved. They had nicely sculptured abs and large masculine muscles with red veins running on their arms. Here they go again, taking off their shirts: we are having a conversation about politics, politics! Still they take off their shirts, bloody show-offs.

  If you are wondering, I’m not a doctor or a lawyer. I’m a taxi-driver, yes, I know – it’s a terrible job. Like a prostitute, for very little money, I take people to where they want to go: what a low ethical job – but I hear everything, see everything; I am the ears and eyes of the city. What happened to my dreams? I always wanted to do something important with my life, maybe write a book or go to space. Is it true that you cannot have sex in space? What a bummer, I guess I’ll just settle for the book. I wish I could tell you that I am different and make you like me, that the all-embracing cloud of lustiness that surrounds the corners of the city has not already infected the flow in my bloodstream, but just like everybody else, my mind is heavily filled lust.

  Like any other, Lusty City has its fair share of homeless people and common prostitutes, they say their working on fixing this but I don’t believe them. Unlike the crappy cities, you might have heard off, here 40% of all the women are proudly hookers. The rest of the women are generally good. Their lungs are not too dark from the smoke and all their teeth are still in place, some of them even have jobs and own a bible. So yes, 60% of the women are of great quality and stature, by that I mean they only sell their body when they have to.

  In other parts of the world, homeless people are generally kind and polite, always apologetic and receptive to rejection. But not the hobo’s of Lusty City, these guys are just bastards, bastards who could pull the gold out of your teeth with pliers. But I loved this city; I loved it like I loved a woman.

  It was not always like this, I remember back in the day when words such as honest and faithfulness were not just words we happened to find in the dictionary: these days we look at each other, confused at their elusive meaning. Where did things take a sharp turn and change for the worst? Did we just gradually loose our humanity, or was it a biological disease, that infected all of us with sexual lust? It really doesn’t matter; this is who we are now. If only if there were old people, I heard old people over 35 are virtuous: possessing a certain amount of wisdom, but the only person over 35 whom I last saw was a hooker with only two teeth left in her mouth.

  In a short while, my days of being a simple cab driver were reaching their expiry date and my days of bravery and gallantry steadily approached in the horizon. The day which changed the course of my life was a Friday, yes it was a Friday night; in Lusty City Friday nights are the worst. Men are looking for women, women are preying for men, most of the times gender is not central, and you have better chances of finding someone getting a blowjob then a handshake.

  I heard there was a serial killer in town “5 MURDERS, BY THE LUSTY KILLER” the daily newspaper wrote. But everybody knows there’s no such thing as a serial killer, if I believed in serial killers, then what would be next? Santa Clause and the tooth fairy, those Hollywood figments made to intimidate the meek. Not here, nobody gets murdered here – people just slowly waste away.

  Jacky, texted “on my way, before this night ends, one of us will be the other one’s bitch”. A sense of excitement fell over me. Its all right, she is permitted to articulate in this manner. Jacky is a proud enforcer of the law. By that, I mean she constantly bamboozles hookers into giving her a share when she is low on cash. It’s in the middle of the month, I was broke and so was she. I guess Jacky and I will do what we do best; harvest money from that immeasurable quantity of hookers. I am not proud of this, in fact sometimes I wish I could be a better man: go to school, treat women better… even wear a suite (just kidding), a suite in Lusty City. That would make the roots unearth and laugh at my corpse.

  Why am I wearing a wristwatch? Nobody wears a wristwatch anymore; this thing makes me feel like a dinosaur living among humans. However, looking at these two sticks on the clock moving so gradually, like lovers on a park I start envisioning my Jacky’s long hair that falls like a waterfall on her shoulders, and moves with the breeze when she tilts her head. Her nice and thin long legs that never touch: unless I make them touch. She used to rattle and make me nervous with those beautiful intimidating brown eyes. How could you not be rattled at the sight of a woman who could model and go to war at the same time? She was gentle: Jacky was strong, crazy and sexy; I loved her.

  She looked stunning by my door; so devilishly sexy in that blue uniform. She Undressed subsequently after the echo of the door shutting reached her ears from behind: thereafter I made her scream, vibrate and moan (not necessarily in that order). In the car when we were patrolling the city, she had a distant guise as if her eyes were temporarily disabled.

  “There is a serial killer in my city,” she mumbled while looking out into the dark and empty street.

  “Wait… I thought that was a myth, are you telling me that there is actually some psychopath killing people out there. How come, I mean, besides the daily paper –which is bullshit - I’ve never witnessed or heard of someone murdered?”

  “It’s a myth because that’s what we make you believe. We found another body yesterday… she was so young and pretty. Her name was Angelique: one of the good ones, putting her self through law school. The bloody bastard stabbed her five times.” Jacky was always tough, it was rare to see her in this emotional state.

  After collecting some sinful money, we passed by the freeway it was distinctively rough and broad and dry in comparison with her legs that were soft, smooth and thin when I touched them. Wet when like the piano I played with their sounds – my heart was pounding and her chest rising outwards. We owned the night, her flashing police lights made us invisible to the spying cops. Finally we came to a very sharp and rough halt, as she moved up and down uncontrollably in the back seat of the car making moaning noises like a loving cat: there was strangeness, the kind you cannot explain, but yet, feel that something or someone is out there: peeping, watching, maybe being turned on by all this. Then a flash of light illuminated in the dark, like a ringing cell phone.

  “There’s someone out there, the light confirmed it… someone is watching us” Jacky reached for her gun,

  “Wait… what are you-doing?”

  “These bastards never learn” as she roughly opened the door,

  “Jacky lets just go –” I yelled out to the Jacky who was pointing a gun and striding towards the trivial illumination of light.

  “Stay in the car, I will deal with this fucker” without warning or a wave of her badge, she fired a few shots and a few shots were fired upon her. Like a relentless soldier of fortune, she headed straight to the belly of the beast without a moment’s hesitation. I have to get out of here, what if they kill her and come back for me?

  I did not have a choice I thought, it was a cowardice act, but what the songs of heroes forget to mention is that no tears are shed at a coward’s home. It was d
ark and fearsome in the street; it was as if you could meet a headless ghost or a smiling demon. I should have taken the car. The walk is long and with each step I take the more terrified I became. Especially with those hobos lurking, like rats, the city infested with them. I once saw them ripping the clothes of a passing family in broad daylight: leaving them broken, bruised, and naked in the street – the bloodthirsty hyenas of Lusty City.

  There was no soul in all corners of directions, but I felt that feeling clench on me once more, the feeling of an eye watching in the dark. Footsteps came ringing from behind the pitch increasing every second. Just as my feet were about to sprint and scamper on the pavement for dear life. A voice came with the wind from my back and said “It’s a dark night for a lone traveler” slowly turning to see the fountain of this deep voice my