NANCY COLLINS

The night was hot and humid - a common thing for summer New Orleans.

Varley stopped to look at his reflection in the window. Well, in any nightclub, he will be accepted as his own. Placed shoulders of a jacket, narrow lapels, Chinese silk tie with dozens of hand-embroidered Siamese kittens, dark gray flared pants, two-tone leather shoes.

However, one had to pay for fashion dedication: from sweat, the shirt was already stuck to his back, his shoes were squeezing, and his carefully styled hair turned into a shapeless shock.

Thank God, it was not long to suffer. From the bar, located in a couple of quarters, came the coveted heavy metal. He put his foot on the bumper of the car to tie the lace, and caught a black ink on the wall of the bank building out of the corner of his eye:

RULE OF VARGROV

In this part of the city, there were plenty of similar inscriptions, but the word "Vargrs" came to him for the first time. It is as if one or two vowels were missed. Varley walked on, throwing the word out of his head.

The bar was located in a shopping area, not far from university campuses. With the onset of darkness, the flow of customers faded away, and the streets remained at the disposal of students. The building adjoining the bar on the right has long been demolished, the wasteland has become an improvised parking lot, the wall is a canvas for graffiti. Over the past ten years, the bar has changed its name and owners several times, but it still sounded live music.

The evening has long begun. Students in jeans by Calvin Klein and shirts looked at the broken-looking girls, heap on the corner. Varley glanced at the wall, more automatically than with interest. Twice a year the owner of the building whitewashed it, thereby opening new opportunities for amateur vandal artists.

It seems that new masterpieces in the gallery did not appear: expressions of youthful love, “class slogans”, names and logos of favorite groups, some demands, curses ... but no, on top of everything, the color of scarlet blood - “RULE OF VARGROV”.

The jamb of an entrance door was propped up by two strong young guys, one is shorter, the second one is taller. In leather jackets with chewed sleeves and ripped jeans, short-haired, with cobras and spikes of roses, tattooed on muscular arms. The one below was resting his palm on Varley’s shoulder, stopping him. Three fingers, similar to Viennese sausages, appeared in front of Varley's nose.

- What would it mean, Sinter? - asked a rhetorical question high. - Does this type already want to go for free?

“No, Hugh,” the little one chuckled. “He doesn’t have the courage for that,” and his black eyes stared at Varley defiantly.

Varley blushed, drawing a sweaty five. Sinter blurted out something, took the money, handed over to Hugh, who was holding a pack of crumpled paper notes in the second paw. He pulled out of a pack of two dollar bills, thrust Varley. Sinter stepped aside, freeing the passage. Varley felt them follow him with his looks.

The club was dark. Only beer ads in the bar and half a dozen spotlights aimed at the stage shone. But according to the manager, the air-conditioning system worked, but the multitude of sweaty bodies and the open door reduced its impact to zero.

Thundered music. From the rumble of drums and howling bass guitars vibrated fillings in his teeth. Eardrum almost burst.

Three musicians with leather sleeveless jackets resembled guys standing at the entrance: a lead guitar, a tall, very thin, also short-haired blond albino, a beaded pigtail adorned with a belt, a bass guitar, a young Latin with black-haired hair, and a drummer, almost a boy, but Varley understood that he was no less than eighteen, otherwise he would not have been allowed into the bar where they sell alcohol. His shaved head gave him a likeness to a baby, even if a cigarette was sticking out of the corner of his mouth.The bald drummer pounced on his drums with the fury of a male feline who was beating his wife. The largest one was decorated with the image of a wolf's head with a gaping maw and glittering red eyes: someone stuck bicycle reflectors in their place. Under the lower jaw of the wolf, the word ran: VARGRY.

Varley became sad. He hoped that the word could be deciphered, but in fact it turned out that this name was not known to anyone.

He went to the bar: I wanted to take a glass of beer, get settled at the counter and wait for the appearance of a suitable partner.

The bar was crowded with people, so Varley had to work with his elbows to win his beer. At the very moment when he brought the glass to his mouth, he was pushed hard in the back and the beer splashed onto his shirt. He turned to bark at the insolent and stared at his own physiognomy.

A moment of confusion was enough for the girl in mirrored glasses and a leather jacket, whose sleeves were chewed up and eaten by some big, but good (hands remained) beast, squeezed past him to the bar. Varley no longer objected to the fact that she took his place. Even huge glasses could not hide the beauty of the girl: he had met such a charming girl for the first time.

Light, almost colorless hair, on the left temple braided in a braid, decorated with beads, going down to the bust. Somehow she reminded him of Yul Brynner in The Ten Commandments. Lips and nails the color of red blood. T-shirt with low neckline with leopard coloring, leather trousers, dotted with zippers. And scarlet high-heeled shoes.

With a glass of beer in her hand, a graceful gait, she paved the way between wriggling dancers to her table.

Varley forgot about the beer. Forgot about his place at the counter. The world around him narrowed down to this girl in a leopard t-shirt. She, he must spend this night with her. About someone else did not want to think.

Varley used to fuck New Wave whores. Despite their ostentatious decadence, in their souls they remained schoolgirls who received Catholic education.

The girl reached the corner table, sat on a chair covered in red leatherette. Saw beer, turning her head to the side of the scene. His eyes were still hidden behind mirrored glasses.

Varley crept up to her, leaned over her ear. He was her female spirit. He felt his genital organ come alive.

“Hey, baby ... how about some privacy?” I have something to please you ...

She turned, and he was already looking into his two lustful faces. Her lips parted at the smile. Varley could not understand, she laughs at him or agrees to his proposal. Then the girl raised her hand to stroke his cheek. The index finger walked over the jaw. Still smiling, the girl tapped a finger on the hollow of her chin, as if knocking points over i. In perplexity, Varley raised his hand to his face. And jerking his hand, he saw that she was in blood. * * *

Standing over the sink, Varley peered at the dim mirror, rubbing his chin with toilet paper soaked in water.

Usually he struck out from the circle of his acquaintances anyone who clawed himself to the blood, believing that this was overkill, and switched his attention to another, more predictable girl. But in this case, he could not bring himself to forget this beauty. And he knew that he would make another attempt.

The rock band was still playing, but the closed door was muffled by a crash. The conch, however, vibrated to the beat of the music. The situation was slowly but surely getting out of control. And Varley’s control of his own life was always considered a plus. He could not imagine a situation where events would have gone so far that he could not direct them in the direction he needed. He had no doubt that the beauty in the mirror glasses would be his. Only one moment remained unclear: when? He saw himself as a hunter, tracking down a cunning and cautious beast, and he liked this role. For a long time he no longer had to make at least some effort to achieve his goal. He has almost forgotten what it is to conquer a woman. Varley smiled at his muddy reflection ....