“Where am I?” I caressed my sore wrist.
“The Locomotion, gal,” the bartender sang.
“What is that awful smell?”
“Oh, that? Ahhh. That’s the smell of soul leaving a body,” he slid me a Bloody Mary, whiffing the air.
“Hey! Gimme my sex on the beach, you Beelzebub!” a nude woman snapped, sitting on a beach chair tanning under a faux sun.
“Wh-what is this place?”
“I told you. The Locomotion.”
“Yes, but where is…the Locomotion?”
“Definitely not in Kansas, Dorothy. Do you believe in time travel?”
“No, not really.”
“You might wanna start. Welcome to the Abyss, #R218.”
copyright 2021
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