1 A Mystery of the Night
The night was cool, windy, lots of warmth but full of bloody night. Sidewalks empty. Parties, bars and clubs were full of celebrating but only the silences wasn't. Street lamps came on as soon as someone walked passed. From Region to Region women were slaves, the singles ones that were young, and the married women that loved their husbands dearly would do anything for their mates but of course it was not vice versed. Selling their bodies to other pimps. That night something different happened when a woman in a black carriage arrived in the downtown center of England. Black horse with a black patch over it's eye. An overly elderly man, disciplined in the tracks he laid on. That "I am a man" ego spirit.
Women had on corsets, lingering around the men, trying to get a payout or a payment paid. Having sex in public or in hiding spots. Women bouncing the men's bare cocks while facing the walls with bloody backs and cut legs. The Coachmen opened the Phaeton door slowly. Two pair of French black golden heels stepped out the carriage, with an all-black corset with a garden black hat and a black lace scarf that covered her whole face but her eyes. Those eyes were deadly, black widow certainly. Men glanced at her passing by her closely to bump into her, staring to see who she was but there was a mysterious effect that took them by surprised. A Crow, a black crow circled around the moon as she walked passed the street lamps, and the black clouds covered the moon.
"Here comes the black -voodoo widow witch" Said a homeless man with wooden chipped teeth and heavy whiskey on his breathe with a urine smell on his clothes. The black voodoo witch that he preferred glanced at him, with both raising eyebrows. Eyes still cold, detached and dangerous. The man passed by her, shaking his head continuously.
Women running nude across the street. Yelling for help, telling their pimps "No" trying to fight back but too weak to stand. Men grabbing her, pulling her hair, some grabbed her legs, fucking her into the street but since she kept resisting, they killed her. Left her coldly into the street, naked, blood everywhere. The woman continued to walk forward. Passing the foolishness that stood before her. Walking another stop to her house, facing the door that was closed, standing there, glancing towards the dead harlot that was laying in the middle of the street. Then glanced back to the closed door before walking in, her half-cut undertaker's gloves touched the doorknob, dramatically the door opens. The woman walks in stepping two of her heels forward as she walks slowly in the hallways of the walkthrough. The coachmen Italian shoes touched the wooden shoes, dropping the bags down aggressively, takes off hat. The mystery of the night was just that a mystery.
