“You know, I was a virgin when we made love.”
“My father died saving me from a charging hippopotamus…”
A small, dented globe of puke-green fire wobbles to life in the centre of the room. “Sorry, I’m a bit…” Bulumko doesn’t finish what he’s going to say: the ‘something’ he stumbled over is a corpse.
It turns out that Leticia, a childhood play-mate of his, who lived with her dad, just a few streets down from his mom’s house, has been disembowelled. She is not dead yet: head cradled in the night-watchman’s arms, she lingers.
Besides him, Shikara deftly slips off her kurti, revealing her breasts, ripe and exquisite. “Don’t be afraid. I won't hurt you.” She continues stripping, peeling back her jeans, exposing lush thighs.
Looming over Bulumko, the serpent crackles with power, filaments of flame spawning from its front – drifting, sizzling. Undaunted, Bulumko pulls up an abandoned cocktail table, climbs onto it, shoves his face towards the electric conflagration.
On the podium, lead singer, Giant Wolfman James, stomps and hoots like a runaway locomotive, relying on the wooden pulpit canopy behind him to project his already monstrous voice.
He gestures, and a stream of sparks condenses in mid-air, chases into a rotating ring that drifts away from them, pulsing through the colour spectrum from violet to red and back. “Wow!” breathes Shikara.
A young woman walks out of the ocean. Coffee complexion, with straight waist-length black hair. Sleek. Busty. Her clothes are not wet.