Dante's Heart
Bitch
We joined the dance, twirling past ecstatic drummers, dancers. We drank
new wine from goatskins, ate what we were offered, breads, sweets, fresh
fruits. We talked, and laughed, and danced. Soon, we found ourselves
invited to meet Marker, our host, the ersatz ruler of the Shambles.
Marker sat at the party’s edge, in a gaudy wooden throne mounted to the
bed of a massive, rusted pickup truck. He was dressed like a fool, in motley,
like in a medieval mystery play. Tribal tattoos covered his face, huge rings
hung from his earlobes. As he talked, tiny bells attached to the points of his
cap jingled. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, bowing in his throne.
“Welcome to New Gomorrah, home to sodomites, screw-ups, and all-
around low-lifes.”
Megan curtseyed, like a princess, my princess, and I followed suit. “You
didn’t need to go through all this trouble just to impress us,” she said with a
wink.
“You’re just along for the ride, ladies,” said Marker, affecting an aw-shucks
drawl. He pointed to the sky. “She’s the real guest of honor. She’s the
one we’re hoping to impress.”
We followed his finger upward, to where the shining moon nestled among
silver-limned clouds. “Full moon,” said Megan.
Marker shook his head. “There you’re wrong. Full moon plus one.” He
drew a one in the air with his index finger. “Long before the Book, there
was the moon. She’s waning, and when she’s waning, we throw a party. We
ask her to draw down the power of Jerico, yon city.” He waved his hand in
a generally eastward direction. “We ask her to knock down its walls so that
we, the Free People of New Gomorrah can come and go as we please. So
that we can reclaim our birthright.”
“Bitchin’,” said Megan. “Where do we sign up?”
Marker stroked his tattooed chin. “Well let’s see, are you sodomites, screw-
ups, or low-lifes?”
“Do we have to pick?” asked Megan. “Or can we claim all three?”
Marker laughed, and with that, we became part of his crew. We moved into a
squat closer to the heart of the action, a wrecked hotel with beds and
everything. We still spent our days scavenging, but the goal was now
different. Instead of food, since Marker’s crew grew their own, he had us
look around for old electronics, CD players, iPods, computer bits, and
media, too, CDs, tapes, records. We’d bring home weapons when we
found them, and books, so that Megan and I could set up a library in the
hotel’s lobby.
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We joined the dance, twirling past ecstatic drummers, dancers. We drank
new wine from goatskins, ate what we were offered, breads, sweets, fresh
fruits. We talked, and laughed, and danced. Soon, we found ourselves
invited to meet Marker, our host, the ersatz ruler of the Shambles.
Marker sat at the party’s edge, in a gaudy wooden throne mounted to the
bed of a massive, rusted pickup truck. He was dressed like a fool, in motley,
like in a medieval mystery play. Tribal tattoos covered his face, huge rings
hung from his earlobes. As he talked, tiny bells attached to the points of his
cap jingled. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, bowing in his throne.
“Welcome to New Gomorrah, home to sodomites, screw-ups, and all-
around low-lifes.”
Megan curtseyed, like a princess, my princess, and I followed suit. “You
didn’t need to go through all this trouble just to impress us,” she said with a
wink.
“You’re just along for the ride, ladies,” said Marker, affecting an aw-shucks
drawl. He pointed to the sky. “She’s the real guest of honor. She’s the
one we’re hoping to impress.”
We followed his finger upward, to where the shining moon nestled among
silver-limned clouds. “Full moon,” said Megan.
Marker shook his head. “There you’re wrong. Full moon plus one.” He
drew a one in the air with his index finger. “Long before the Book, there
was the moon. She’s waning, and when she’s waning, we throw a party. We
ask her to draw down the power of Jerico, yon city.” He waved his hand in
a generally eastward direction. “We ask her to knock down its walls so that
we, the Free People of New Gomorrah can come and go as we please. So
that we can reclaim our birthright.”
“Bitchin’,” said Megan. “Where do we sign up?”
Marker stroked his tattooed chin. “Well let’s see, are you sodomites, screw-
ups, or low-lifes?”
“Do we have to pick?” asked Megan. “Or can we claim all three?”
Marker laughed, and with that, we became part of his crew. We moved into a
squat closer to the heart of the action, a wrecked hotel with beds and
everything. We still spent our days scavenging, but the goal was now
different. Instead of food, since Marker’s crew grew their own, he had us
look around for old electronics, CD players, iPods, computer bits, and
media, too, CDs, tapes, records. We’d bring home weapons when we
found them, and books, so that Megan and I could set up a library in the
hotel’s lobby.
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