Down in the Trenches with Blessed Contessa II

Out in the Trenches with Blessed Contessa PART II
As if fairy’s dripping nectar to the eyes, relieveing the grips of time, so the chicken man had whispered puffs of magical confusion and wonder into my pate. A show was pending, and I didn’t fully digest the happenings of that peculiar morning. None the less the five of us thrust to another night of raucous confinement.

Being guided once more to the rodent on wheels, we all fell into place in our padded dark box. Captain Maggots lays flat across the padded seat and EA, Veronica, Aprella and I perch all atop. Our knees hugged to our chest, leaning into one another as the rodent twists and turns along the blustery coastal road toward the venue. I’ve luckily struck a deal with EA, that I may nibble her finger tips as long as I don’t break the skin. Slowly this privilege has pressed on to the other girls as well. We’ve all made small concessions for one another in order to keep the peace. Veronica requires at least one of us every half hour, to escort her to the facilities and stand guard against ghosts and goblins that might catch her soul while sitting on the loo. Aprella is allotted death metal to blast so that she may fall fast asleep and run far away on pointed toes. Captain is allowed to bark orders and set up daily rules that must be followed. EA is privy to tattooing ideas on all of our flesh while we sleep, so to never never forget.

There was hardly time to get bored and today was no different. We screeched to a halt and Herman the German, Asylum prince, swept back the curtain letting us know he was going down for a nap.

Aprella was the first to escape the bus and brave the new venue. As if she were avoiding huge water puddles, she bounds in on her tippy toes barely touching the pavement below. Veronica, armored in her large rounded sunglasses is ready to see the light of day and cautiously as a hunted cat slides into the venue. Maggots, having cocooned herself in a bolt of cloth, pours off the bus with a soggy tassel from her scarf embedded in her mouth. She hasn’t eaten, and she is tracking her way to the nearest food supply. EA left on the bus hand stitching little morsels of herself that have been used for my snacking on the long tedious rides. She says she likes to sew, so I believe I’m just keeping her in daily practice.

The nights venue is a dream from a blustery romantic novel. Ocean water is crashing on the sea side wall of the building, and the grey undertones of weather only compliment the bold colors of surrounding tugboats.

Time to delve for liquids. We’ve resorted to storing any water we find secretly under our thin mattresses. Nobody mentions this squirrel like behavior because we’re scared we’ll be ransacked. Five delicate ladies sleep atop bumpy mounds of plastic water bottles.

As we move toward the evening it becomes imperative to convince the impeccably tall, striking viking, running the venue to allow dancing with fire as we grace the stage. Normally it is entertaining enough just to set certain things on fire, but for the sake of art we care to embellish. Normally I don’t need permission to set things on fire at all. Previously, setting things on fire really turns out for the best. Despite having to reside in an asylum, everything else has fallen into it’s rightful place. My indecent husband only now owns my burnt to the ground chateau over some rather crusty land. Unfortunately, not everyone realizes the potential of a women taking things into her own hands.

At this particular venue I struggled for more than six hours convincing the hypnotizing long dreaded viking that I would not burn down his entire establishment. It’s quite an insult I would say when one questions my flammability. My reassurances and solid arguments were received with handsome cold grey eyes that lay unconvinced. What is art if we can’t take risks!

Minutes before curtain I was informed that there was to be strictly no fire, in our fire proof asylum. Earlier in negotiations I was gruffly reassured that even the theatre stage was fire proofed to the max. In it’s insanity, I had to adhere to this slander.

Although our fire torches were put out, my anger is not so easily squashed. What was to come was such sweet revenge I could not of imagined it up myself. Puck, and his flock must have lived in my restained torches, and came out for a little play.

As the show came to it’s none existent intermission, the smell of toxic burning substances came wafting across the stage. Asylum meal time? Crispy speaker wires? It wasn’t until the Captain and I exited back to our holding cells, that the snarl of burning chemicals became to great for inhalation. Sniffing and tracking until our nose hairs were bleeding, we found the culprit.

Using every ounce of high heel fuel I had, I sauntered high speed up to my silvery stallion with stormy grey eyes. I hissed to get his gaze away from the stage. I couldn’t believe the pleasure that bubbled inside waiting to reveal sweet sweet irony.

“Sir, YOUR spotlight has set YOUR entrance curtain on fire.” “Perhaps I can escort you to the YOUR fire site!”

Was is just sweet luscious luck, instantaneous karma swing, Finnish faeries, successful telekinetics? Being the in-house arsonist, it was hard to believe that I hadn’t actually committed this act of spontaneous spark. Was I framed? A trick to make an already life sentence extend into future realms?

I never saw those steely eyes again for the rest of the night. I was probably to busy replaying the deliciousness of the story over and over again in my head. But, this story does not end. I await patiently the day when the viking and Contessa meet again on even ground. Is it fate? Is it the insanity? To think it beautiful to fall in love with another arsonist? Or could it be my way out…..


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