crépuscule

The place where flawless girls, who are pure as the driven snow, lose their chastity was called the paradise of violet skies where lilies garnish the thrones of lost guys. In the heart of the bustling Funky Town, hidden among the neon-lit streets, lies an upscale Ice Club where a waving energy engulfed its visitors. The Ice Club with its rush of frosty air sent chills down the spines of those who entered it. Its dimly lit room was bathed in hues of blue and purple, emanating from the ice sculptures that adorned its walls. The polished ice bar top glistened under the glittering lights, reflecting the mood of the night. And it was a stormy night that raged on their senses, evaporating the pace of their days.

The seats were worn and creaked with every move of the invitees and the air was heavy with a musty smell a lost breath from their Cuban cigars. The rows were filled with mismatched chairs, some with torn upholstery and others with broken armrests. The walls were adorned with old exotic dancers’ posters, with a fading color of decay. The flickering lights from the chandelier casted shadows on the walls that danced across mirrored surfaces, casting an ethereal glow.

Bartenders whose faces were adorned with glamour crafted exquisite cocktails with precision with moves like a choreographed dance, weaving through the sea of patrons. Drinks were passed from hand to hand, shimmering liquid in ornate glasses, displaying a visual feast. Loud whispers echoes through the air, mingling with the rhythm of the pulsing music. Groups of priests gathered around high tables, engaging in animated conversations, occasionally punctuated by bursts of laughter.

The music box organized beats vibrating through the room, drawing the priests to the dance floor. Bodies swayed and twisted synchronizing with the rhythm. But, beneath the surface of apparent revelry, a subtle sense of lack and boredom permeates the air with the occasional glance toward the backstage as if longing for something more. Amidst their synchronized dance moves and energetic gyrations, an uncanny feeling of sameness lingered. The atmosphere resonated with an unfulfilled desire for something more with an intangible sense of lack and ennui hanging in the air.

As the night wears on, the priests attempted to fill the void of their souls by sipping drinks and their taste buds was momentarily tickled by exotic flavors. They engaged in conversations, their words becoming a symphony of empty phrases and hungry smiles.

“ There was another custody last night,” one of the regular attendees called Tito whispered to his twin brother Tino sitting to his left side.

" let’s blame every star for not shinning bright,” he responded with a sign of excitement.

" Oh! if you stab me with a knife, I won’t mind,” then they both giggled and it was confused by the men sitting behind them for a sign of boredom.

" Don’t you dare yawn at the front row!” they shouted at them.

For Tino to look back and say with an ironic tone, “... what about the backseats though?“.

Just another comic scene attended by the priests of the Funky Town, but they were blessed to occupy a seat in the exotic dancers’ hearts. In the crowded Ice Bar, hidden behind layers of glitz and glamor, the thin veneer of excitement unraveled as the dancers arrived. It became apparent that despite the outward appearance of joy, the priests had a collective craving for a genuine connection and amusing experiences that opposed their beliefs.

The night grew darker with the sound of music and gossip filling the air. Among the crowd, Stanley found himself lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces since it is his first night. The dimly lit room of the club seemed to spin around him as he stumbled toward the bar, desperately seeking refuge from his lonely thoughts. Throngs of priests danced rhythmically on the icy floor, with their smoky breath forming little clouds in the chilly air. The vintage music box played upbeat tracks of Funky House that kept everyone moving and grooving, creating an electric atmosphere.

The bartenders, dressed in sleek black uniforms, skillfully juggled bottles and mixed exotic drinks, their hands a blur of activity. He made his way to the bar, feeling a sudden need to warm up with a well-crafted drink. He took a seat on a cushioned ice stool, appreciating the intricacy of the ice-carved designs that adorned its backrest. The bartender noticed his presence and approached him with a smile spreading across his tinted face.

“Buona notte!” he said with a chilling smile, and Stanley shook his head so the bartender assumed he understood, “Quid possum te nocte venire?”, he preceded to say.

Stanley knew few words in Latin, and the feeling of an uncontainable thirst was throwing him on the edge of insanity.

“Parla inglese?“, he, impatiently, said to the bartender.

“Si Si Si,” he notified Stan who was sweating as if it was Mars, but not sure if it wasn’t really.

“ something to warm me up.. what have you got?”

The bartender rummaged through a collection of bottles, while Stanley marveled at the variety of spirits lining the shelves. Each bottle seemed to have its own story and each label seemed to convey a different adventure waiting to be tasted. Raging from a bottle named Mystic Moonshine Madness, whose description stated ” a combination of smoky flavors of aged bourbon with a touch of mystical essence,“. There was another bottle named Nebula Nectar whose description stated, ” prepare to be transported to the outer reaches of the galaxy with a vibrant and visually captivating drink,” that the bartender reached for, but Stanley was discouraged to drink from.

The bartender mumbled Latin words that he did not understand but his facial gestures seemed to express disapproval. Then he continued to search among the bottles as he came across a bottle named Enigmatic Elixir whose caption stated ” a true enigma, a potion shrouded in mystery,” that the bartender ignored as well as the bottle under it named Venomous Vortex with a caption saying ” Brace yourself for a dangerously delicious combination of flavors,“. Then he finally chose a syrup bottle from the back of the rows. He returned to the table with a glass filled with a shimmering tortilla-colored liquid, topped with a delicate ice sculpture in the shape of a flower.

" a Spiced Hot Cider?” he asked and Stanley shook his head again since obedience is the club’s address.

The bartender was skillfully preparing the drink using gleaming silverware as he took the jigger in his white-gloved hand and started preparing it with an allspice, orange, and a cinnamon stick.

" Poco or Molto?“, the bartender asked before pouring the drink in the glass in front of Stanley who looked at him blankly.

Suddenly, the music box started to play the tune of the song “Don’t Call Me Baby” and the bartender looked electrified as well as all the invitees. Stanley heard them talking behind him as he stood in the bar. Although he did not comprehend their language, they seemed to be overjoyed with an upcoming arrival. They left the exotic dancers and rushed to sit next to the other priests. The bartender forgot about Stanley, threw the jigger on the table, and abandoned the bar to sit in the front row of the crowd. His glass was half filled so he took a sip and the warm liquid soothed his throat. A gentle warmth spread throughout his body as he looked away, or was it her eyes?